“That’s the problem.”
“Bullshit, Lane. Do I know all there is to know about the Post? Do your readers know all there is to know about the news?”
He didn’t pursue that, and neither did I. I still wanted to pump him. It was reflex, mainly; the ECC had just closed the case. But it wasn’t that easy for me. I kept looking for answers. “Just out of useless curiosity,” I tried, “what is Justice doing about the antitrust case? Settling like us?”
“Why should I tell you?” he jibed, not joking.
“Because I beat you at squash.”
He smiled slightly. “The honest answer is I don’t know. One lawyer at Justice has been slipping me bits sub rosa. He says they were poised to prosecute. Then your friend Catlow stepped in to negotiate for Lasko. In July sometime the word seeped down that the case was going to be settled. Just like that. My source thought that was pretty solid. Then this month he heard maybe the settlement was off, that something was holding it up. I figure maybe the something was your investigation.” He paused and looked at me quizzically. “Just what have you got?”
“I just wish they’d let me find out.”
“So why hold out?” It wasn’t pressure now, but real curiosity.
“All I can say is that you would, too.”
“Thanks.” The crack needled both of us.
“You’re welcome.”
The taxi got to the Hill and dropped us off. We walked together. The wet sun steamed our foreheads. We loosened our ties and slung our jackets over our shoulders. Greenfeld looked over at me. “I picked up a rumor the other day from a guy who writes one of our financial columns. He says Lasko’s in a cash squeeze, something about the plants they’ve built to handle the defense stuff costing a lot of money. Is that what you’re into?”
I shook my head. “No. I haven’t seen any sign, but then I haven’t been looking. I suppose it’s possible-if they’ve dressed up their financials some.”
He considered that and so did I. But I didn’t want to talk it over then. “Whatever happened with the pretty girl and your Bogart film?” I asked.
He smiled thinly. “The girl palled. The film held up nicely, though.” His words held a note of irony, as if he were tired of himself. I didn’t pursue it. I was tired of myself too-and the strange and treacherous world in which I worked.
We walked across the Capitol grounds toward the Senate wing, moving from shade tree to shade tree. We stopped in the parking lot. The sun baked it, soaking the asphalt and glazing windshields. Greenfeld stood sideways, still holding his coat. “You know, Chris,” he said, “something hit me the other day.”
“What’s that?”
“That at our age, Mozart was dead.”
“That’s just great, Lane.”
“You’re welcome,” he said dryly, and strolled off toward the Senate.
I walked back to the agency wishing I were somewhere else. The lobbies looked deserted, and the elevators seemed sluggish. Debbie was out. I gazed past her desk, feeling as empty as my office. No one at home in there. Martinson had to wait till Monday, and Lehman haunted me. I picked up the phone and called Mary.
Twenty-Five
Mary showed up at my place about eight that evening, in a working girl’s Volkswagen. She wore blue jeans, a leather belt, and a quiet, expensive crepe blouse. “Hi,” she said in a soft, direct voice. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
I thanked her and led her into the living room. “You know,” I admitted, “I haven’t thought about what we’re doing tonight.”
“It doesn’t really matter. Whatever.” That was companionable, I thought. I glanced over at her. She had turned to the wall and was silently appraising the print next to the fireplace.
“That’s a Vasarely,” I explained.
She nodded, not turning. “I like it.” I couldn’t have guessed how much she knew about art. I didn’t care really, except that she was always that way.
Her eyes had moved on, scanning the room with a careful gaze which seemed somehow proprietary. “You’re certainly neat for a bachelor.”
“Yes,” I smiled, “I’m almost totally housebroken.”
She grinned back in real amusement. “I guess that was fairly condescending.”
“Fairly. Care for some wine?”
“What is it?”
I went to the refrigerator and reported back over my shoulder. “A California Riesling, cheap but drinkable. At least I drink it.”
“That sounds fine.”
I poured two glasses and bore them carefully into the living room. She was sitting on the couch across from the fireplace. I gave her a glass and sat.
She took a sip. “I hear you’re settling the Lasko case.”
“They did that,” I said pointedly.
“And you’re unhappy?” she asked, looking over at me.
“It leaves a corpse unaccounted for, and a husband missing.”
“I’m sorry, Chris.” She sounded sympathetic enough. “What are you going to do?”
I realized that I was holding up my left hand as if to deflect her questions. “The Lasko case is not for tonight. Really.”
“OK.” She was certainly agreeable, as if her edginess were melting with the case. Maybe that made some sense. But the Lasko thing was something we weren’t discussing. Not tonight, and not ever.
I had a wooden backgammon set on the glass coffee table in front of the couch. She opted for that. I put Melissa Manchester on the stereo while she set up the board. Night was coming fast, staining the corners with darkness. I turned up the dimmer on the living room chandelier and came back to the couch.
I won the first move, a six-five combination. I cleared my end point and watched her. She played with fierce concentration. I freed the other end point, then got great rolls, and strung together some points. The play moved fast. She showed me a wicked end game, smart and decisive. But I beat her, finally. This seemed to be my day for winning games. Except the one that mattered.
We talked quietly, finishing our second glass of wine while Melissa sang “New Beginnings.” I had some joints rolled in the cigarette case I kept in a bedroom drawer. I offered one to Mary. She nodded her interest.
I went to the bedroom and brought back two, turning down the dimmer on the way. We both sat cross- legged on the couch, facing each other, with an ashtray in between and the half-dead wine bottle still on the table.
I lit one. Mary leaned back and took a hit. “What kind is that?”
“Something called Meshpecon. They grow it in Mexico, or Peru, or some such place.” I pulled on it and passed it back. She took another hit, a good one.
“You know, I never asked where you took that vacation. The one”-she picked for a frame of reference other than Lasko-“a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh that,” I said. It seemed years ago, and maybe someone else’s vacation. “New Hampshire.”
“Why New Hampshire?”
“My family owns a place up there, near the Maine border. If I schedule right, I can get it to myself.”
“You always go alone?”
“Usually.” Except for the girl in Boston, who had belonged there. I wondered if Brett went anymore. Of course she still lived there, in a way. Every so often I’d find a trace of her in the old house, like an artifact in someone else’s ruins.
