“I don’t know. ‘Spoiled’ is a relative term. Anyhow, it strikes me as a little archaic, like ‘helpmate’ or ‘the little woman’-words like that.”
She smiled. “Or like ‘using your education in the home’?” She plunged into dinner with unconcealed zest. Then she rushed the beer to her lips and took a hasty sip. “You’re right. Wow. But it’s good.” She closed her eyes and moved her head from side to side. “You know, you’re great at not answering any questions,” she said when she had recovered.
“I guess you’re right. It’s my profession taking over. Ask a lot of questions and don’t give away any information.”
She shook her head. “On you it goes deeper than that,” she started, then dropped it abruptly. “How did you find this place?”
So I told her how. About my crazy friend from college who used to get stoned and come here to plot the liberation of Thailand. And a few other stories, while we finished dinner and killed the eight-pack of beer. Which got her to laughing, a good strong laugh that lit her eyes. So she broke down and told me some funny things about Frank. We solemnly agreed that they were better off divorced, and laughed about it all the way to the car. We drove back to Georgetown in a quiet mellow mood. Mary slouched in the other seat, her long legs stretched out. We chatted easily all the way.
I parked the car and walked her to her door. She opened it, then turned around and looked at me. “I’d ask you in, but it’s very late.”
I hung there in adolescent confusion. “Some other time.” I tried to think of a graceful exit line.
“Call me from Boston about that subpoena to Lasko.”
I nodded, feeling as if I had lost the mood. Then with a quick movement she slid her hand behind my neck and pulled my face down to hers. Her mouth felt strong, almost angry; her fingers played with the hair which touched my collar. Then they slid away and she backed up against the door, wearing the amused half-smile. “Good night, Christopher Kenyon,” she said, and softly shut the door behind her.
I drove home and packed for Boston.
Eight
I was in Boston the day he was murdered.
I landed at Logan Airport about a quarter to twelve, which left me almost three hours. I got off the plane and jammed some change in the phone, hoping to beat the noon hour. Mary was in her office. Yes, she said, Woods had okayed my Lasko subpoena. Could she reach me later at our Boston office if necessary. I didn’t know, I hedged. OK, she would see me when I got back. Not much inflection; no mention of the night before. All very professional. I told myself I had what I wanted, and hung up.
I called our Boston office. They would pick up the subpoena and serve it on the company this afternoon. I went toward the baggage claim, got my bag, and hailed a taxi.
Boston was unseasonably cool, grey and gloomy. It had been grey when I’d left Boston, after losing something I had wanted to keep. Since then, I’d liked myself a little less. I felt the same way about Boston.
It was only 12:15. So I checked into the Ritz-Carlton, dropped off the subpoena at the desk, and went to the men’s grill at Locke-Ober for a solitary lunch. I ate it over some solitary thoughts. They lasted me until 2:15. Then I caught another taxi, manned by a bearded Harvard dropout who earned extra cash appearing on daytime quiz shows. No, I really couldn’t blame him, I agreed. He dropped me on Arlington Avenue across from the hotel and in front of the Common.
The rolling green of the Common was surrounded by the same black iron fence. I walked through the iron gates and into the Public Garden. The asphalt path snaked aimlessly under oak trees and through grass and flower beds. I looked ahead for Gubner. But there was no one between me and the swanboats which sat on the distant pond. The swans looked as still as a painting with no heart in it. The Garden seemed lifeless, a stillborn fantasy. I turned away.
Gubner sat on a wood bench, about thirty yards to my left. He was alone. It appeared that he had been watching me, but hadn’t moved. I walked toward him. Gubner sat frozen, looking as unreal as the swans. But he rose when I reached the bench. The handshake was firm, but the smile was less jaunty than usual. He had the pale, sandbagged look of someone who had just been punched in the kidneys.
“Hello, Chris.”
“Hello, Marty.” I looked past him. “Where’s your friend?”
“Over at the Ritz.” He stood hunched against some unseen threat, his hands jammed in his pocket. “I’d like to talk with you first.” The voice was off, a tinny, shallow rasp. Someone else’s troubles were leeching Gubner like a symbiotic plant.
“This bench looks good enough.” I sat down gingerly, feeling somehow that it was an act of commitment.
It was Gubner’s turn to stare at the swanboats.
“Let’s have it,” I said.
He turned to face me. Gubner usually looked raffish; today he seemed strained.
“His name is Alexander Lehman,” he began. “He was my friend, at Brandeis, twenty years ago. My best friend. Still is. I was in his wedding, things like that. None of which you give a shit about. But he’s also the controller at Lasko Devices. It looks like he’s involved in some pretty bad things. And you’re about to help him cut his own throat.”
“How so?”
Gubner’s eyes hardened. “That subpoena your boys sent scared the piss out of him. So now he wants to spill his guts. And when you vultures are through, he’ll be out a job-with no career, and maybe no marriage.”
“I’m just doing my job. I didn’t ask your boy to do these ‘pretty bad things.’ And I didn’t ask for this little chat.”
“Fuck you, Chris,” he said without feeling.
I let it pass. “Look, Marty. I’m sorry your friend went sour. But it’s no good holding a wake. Make sure I get everything he knows, and I’ll try to help him.”
Gubner tugged at his thick black hair as if trying to find a handle on himself. “You can’t promise for McGuire.”
“Would you rather tell it to him?”
He shook his head. “No. I want you to carry the mail for him. Remind people that he helped.”
“I’ll suspend judgment until I hear his story.”
“What about immunity for testimony?” It was a gesture; his voice wasn’t hopeful.
I shook my head. “You’ve got no cards, Marty. Anything else?”
“No, I’ll let him tell it himself. I’ll be hearing most of it for the first time anyhow.”
I was surprised. “Why are you letting him talk before you know what he’s going to say?”
Gubner looked away at nothing. “Christ, I’d almost rather shoot him. But he’s got some hangup-he’d rather tell it to the government. Says he doesn’t want me in the middle. I’m just holding his hand.” Gubner’s anger mingled Lehman, himself, and me in a disillusioned mix. I wondered why Lehman inspired that much grief.
“Ready?” I asked. Gubner got up without a word. We walked with our separate thoughts out of the park and over to the Ritz. I had missed something in Gubner. He had always projected the studied cynicism of a shell-game artist who dared you to find the pea. I supposed he had his reasons. But Gubner had done himself a disservice; he was better than that. I wondered if as much could be said for Alexander Lehman.
The Ritz bar was a soft-lit room off the lobby, as understated as a grey pinstripe and as quiet as a bank vault. The marble tables focused on a large window which looked back to the Garden. Most of the tables were empty. In one corner two middle-aged gentlemen sat in quiet conversation. Both wore grey suits with handkerchiefs carefully arranged in their breast pockets, and talked with the attentive gravity of serious men discussing money. I liked the place well enough. But today it seemed funereal. I half-expected to find Lehman stretched out on a table, made up for burying.
But Lehman was alive enough. Gubner steered me toward a man who sat facing the window. I moved toward
