he hadn’t missed anything.
Robinson smiled faintly. “I think I can give you a synopsis. Big Daddy told you that you had been bad, and would be punished. Exiled to the Bureau of Fisheries and Hatcheries, to think about proper spawning conditions for salmon.” His tone said that he half-expected it to happen.
“That’s fairly close.” I was coming down fast; my voice seemed to arrive at my ears from some great distance.
“And you told him to stick it.”
I nodded.
Robinson’s face sobered. “That was a pretty amazing performance. The first time I’ve actually seen you do something stupid.”
“You just haven’t been looking. How do you read Lasko?”
“I think Lasko wanted you to know that he killed Lehman. He wanted you to get the sweats at night, thinking about it. And Catlow will be trying to put the fix in.”
“I don’t think I’m the next pedestrian fatality. Too messy, and unnecessary. I don’t know anything.” I spoke with more conviction than I felt.
“Lasko can’t be sure of that. Let me tell you what I think.” His voice turned firm and authoritative. “Even granting your assumption, you don’t have long on this case. About once every five years, we get into something that stands to hurt someone really powerful. It usually works out about the same. There are ways of pressuring this place through the people who run it, the ones who want to get what politicians or maybe someone with money can give. This is that kind of case, and you’re in the middle. But this one is worse-somebody’s gotten killed.”
“So what would you do?”
Robinson looked down at his desk. “I’d leave it alone.” He spoke quickly, as if anticipating an argument. “Look, I’m not defending any of this. But I think this place does some good, and it’s not a perfect world. Realistically, your chances of getting anywhere with this-except hurt-are about zero. Let the police do it.”
I shook my head. “It’s too late for that.”
“Damn it, Chris, it’s too late for this. It’s too late for Lehman.”
“Lehman’s death wasn’t where it ended. It was where it began.”
He paused, as if weighing the finality in my voice. “All right,” he said at length, “if Lehman makes this one worth the risk, OK, although I can’t see why. But you need another friend to help-Woods, McGuire, I don’t care who. Otherwise, you won’t have authority to spit. Catlow will cut your nuts off. If Lasko doesn’t do worse.”
I shifted in my chair. “I guess it has to be Woods.”
“Whoever, Chris, you’d better get on it. And no more going off on a tangent, investigating your own agency.”
I stood. Robinson’s round worried face belied his sharp tone. “Good luck,” he added mildly. “You’ve always shown a genius for making friends in high places.”
I left and went looking for Woods.
The tranquility of the Chairman’s suite was unnerving. Up here, my meeting with Lasko seemed unreal. I asked the receptionist for Woods, and sank to a soft chair. Woods was out. But Mary was in. She peered around her office door.
“Good afternoon, Chris.” She didn’t smile, but the words carried a faint, wry allusion to the morning. The receptionist sensed it somehow, and squinted, as if she were picking up distant signals on a crystal set. It would have all been very funny, some other day.
“Are you free?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said crisply. “Come in.”
I sat across from her. Her navy silk blouse made her tan rich brown. Her hair was pulled back.
She saw my eyes and smiled pointedly. “I didn’t have time to wash my hair this morning.
I grinned. “It looks fine.” But I had to get to it. “I’ve got a problem for Chairman Woods.”
“What is it?” Her wispy smile vanished.
“McGuire set up a meeting this afternoon between me, Lasko, and his lawyer, a man named Robert Catlow. No stenographer. Lasko wanted to pick my brains. I wouldn’t play. It’s fair to say that I did not leave them laughing.”
Her face went glacial; right then, we could have fooled the receptionist, or anyone else. “Why didn’t you tell us before the meeting?”
Because I’d rather do it myself, I thought. “I don’t know.”
“And now you want Jack Woods to clean up after you.”
“I want his help.” I hesitated. “And yours.”
Her voice was cool and distant. “Just how much help do you expect, Chris? You’re not a day ahead of me anymore. I’ve caught up.” Not quite. I remembered the dead man’s memo, hidden in my desk drawer. “You used me to backdoor McGuire on the Lasko subpoena. You didn’t tell us that you were going to meet a witness. You tried not to tell me that you were going to Boston at all.” Her recitation was dispassionate, as if she were introducing exhibits. “You’ve been acting as if you were an independent contractor.”
“I do better on my own,” I said.
She looked at me as if to learn where my words began and ended. “So far, you’ve done brilliantly. You’ve got no facts and a dead witness. All that you’ve managed is to make trouble for your own commission.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
A thin line of annoyance furrowed her forehead. “You had better decide who you work for, Chris.”
I told myself that I had done as well as I could. I had taken five days’ free ride: sneaked out the second subpoena, gotten to Lehman’s memo, and sent Lasko away with nothing. “When can I talk to Woods?”
“He’ll be in Monday morning.”
“OK, I’d like to see him at nine.”
She inspected me evenly. “Don’t expect applause.”
I stood, suddenly angry. “Look, the last three days I’ve seen someone killed, been threatened by a pig and his tight-assed lawyer, and been screwed by my own boss. So I don’t give a shit what you think.”
Her eyes widened. I looked back, knowing how little of that had been meant for her, and realizing that I could still feel her. I felt schizoid. Some other day, I’d have taken her home. Instead, I turned and left.
It was five o’clock. From my window I could see the street in front of the building. It suddenly teemed with cars and bodies. As if on cue, an army of civil servants scrambled out the doors and into the streets. I turned away and glanced at my desk. Someone had thoughtfully clipped an article on Lehman from the Boston Globe. The cops were still calling it a hit-skip. I picked up the phone and called Greenfeld.
Sixteen
Greenfeld was already at the Madison when I arrived, sitting at a table near the bar. He saw me and grinned. “You look like hell, Chris,” he said in greeting.
I sat down. “That’s funny, I feel terrific. After I leave here I’m planning to practice my kung fu, make love to the wife of the Brazilian ambassador, and write the first two chapters of the Great American Novel.” His grin broadened. “What are you so cheerful about?” I asked.
We ordered two martinis. “You too would be cheerful,” he explained, “if you’d just gotten rid of one of the great American boors.”
“Who’s that?”
“My brother-in-law. Living proof of the remarkable survival powers of the upper-middle class. Took five years to get through prep school. Basic intellectual deficiencies, stemming from a weak gene pool. So his father hunts up an eastern school which needs a library. Takes him another five years to get a C average in history. He’s still unemployable, so then his father finds a suitably mediocre law school. It’s a three-year program, but it takes him four, mostly because he spends his time drinking beer and playing the bowling machine at the student union. So Dad gets him a job with a friend. Now he lounges at the country club, drinking gin coolers and bitching that ‘the blacks’ don’t work hard enough.”
