Da Vinci was a relic of Old Albany, a downtown red sauce joint with frayed white linen and potted ferns where pols and judges once rubbed elbows with gangsters. The thugs had long since been replaced with the paid representatives of business and professional organizations who brandished not gats but checkbooks. A doddering maitre d' led me past the scattering of occupied tables and through a doorway in the rear of the restaurant. Then he went out again, shutting the door behind him.
'Don Strachey, I've heard so much about you! We meet at last. What a pleasure.'
Dunphy added, 'Senator McCloskey has met private investigators before. But none, he was just telling me, with such a colorful history as yours, Don.'
'Snoops all tend to be corporate types now,' McCloskey said. 'Not the racy independent operators that make up such an irresistible slice of bygone Americana.'
'I'm pleased to meet you, Senator. I'm one anachronistic PI who's at your service.'
McCloskey had risen as I entered the room and shook my hand. It may have been the ten millionth hand he had shaken, but his grip was confident and lingering. He was a good six-three with a comfortable paunch, a big mobile face and a stubble of late-day beard. He hadn't removed his jacket or loosened his necktie, and he projected both dignity and an easy camaraderie.
'You know, I've met Barney Frank,' McCloskey said. 'A bit cranky-doesn't suffer fools-but brilliant, brilliant. We've come a long way in this country since Walter Jenkins was forced to slink out of the LBJ White House for being gay. Not that Kenyon Louderbush isn't a very different sort of animal from people like you and the congressman from the Gay Peoples Republic of Massachusetts. But we'll get to that. What are you drinking, Don?'
We settled in, and Dunphy and McCloskey exchanged some gossip about their gubernatorial campaign as well as the two others. A waiter materialized with antipasti and soon was back with a Sam Adams for me and refills for McCloskey's and Dunphy's bourbons. McCloskey ordered a Caesar salad and a bowl of minestrone. Dunphy and I both put in for the linguini with clam sauce and the hemisphere of iceberg lettuce with blue cheese dressing.
'Normally,' McCloskey said after the salads arrived and the door to our small room had been closed again, 'anything as momentous as urging a political opponent to withdraw from a race would not be carried out by hired help such as yourself, Don. Matters this weighty-and this delicate-would be handled by senior staff or, failing that, if it came to it, via selected leaks to the Times and the Post.'
'Or,' Dunphy said, 'via an anonymous bundle of photographic horrors somebody receives in the mail. Don't forget that time-honored variety of political malpractice.'
McCloskey chuckled. 'It's been known to happen. But this business with Kenyon,' he went on, 'is a whole 'nuther matter. It calls not just for the right balance of toughness and discretion. It requires a nuanced understanding of the special circumstances we're dealing with-the gay thing as well as the pathology. You're up to this, Don? Tom promises me you are.'
'I'm not a psychologist, but I'm not sure that's necessary.
I get the basics, and anyway what's called for here is mainly a healthy sense of outrage along with a working bullshit detector.'
'Tom tells me Kenyon contacted you, and he thinks he can convince you that this whole investigation of ours is a load of crap.'
'He did, and he does.'
'How can he be so naive? You're convinced it's not crap, I take it.'
'Oh, yes. I believe it. I'm still in the process of locating witnesses who are actually willing to testify to Louderbush's exploitive abusive practices. But as for myself, I'm more than convinced.'
'What have you gotten in writing or on tape?'
'Nothing actually in affidavit form so far. One witness, a young man in Vermont who was also abused by Louderbush, won't help out; he's too much of a psychological mess himself. A young woman who Greg Stiver confided in works for a company where controversy is verboten, so she's reluctant to go public with what she knows. But a former boyfriend of the woman friend, Virgil Jackman, will testify.
He's solid and he's credible.'
'Tom tells me Jackman is the son of a former IUE shop steward?'
'He is.'
'Okay. What else have we got?'
'Lots of circumstantial evidence. The police report on the Stiver suicide was doctored, apparently to delete references to inquiries by Louderbush's office. Unfortunately, the susceptible cop in charge is no longer with us.'
'Retired to Sarasota?'
'Dead.'
'Oh boy.'
'But there's evidence at SUNY that Louderbush was making odd inquiries about the death. What was his interest?
A former Louderbush staffer says the assemblyman was a quote-unquote mentor to Stiver. But Louderbush's snooping seemed to go beyond mere sadness and loss. He seemed 184
Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson intent on finding out if his name came up in any context and if there was any doubt about the verdict of suicide.'
'Jesus. Is it possible Louderbush actually pushed Stiver off the roof at SUNY? That this was a homicide?'
'Why do you ask?'
'That would be a good deal tidier than what you've told me so far. Make great headlines in the Post and the Daily News.'
'Well, it's not out of the question. One witness thinks she saw two people on the roof of the building before Stiver fell.'
'One witness thinks… Not much there, I guess. But what about this violence against yourself, Don? Your head injury there. Tom says you're convinced that Kenyon is responsible, although I take it that so far you have no direct evidence of that. Jesus, I knew they played hardball in Kurtzburg, but this would be way out of bounds.'
'Tom may also have mentioned that for the first several days of my investigation I was under close surveillance, possibly electronic, by unknown persons. I could barely scratch my ass without somebody noting the gesture for posterity. Also, some real or fake Capitol cop preceded me asking pointed questions out in Hall Creek, where Louderbush had gotten Stiver a job at the community college.'
McCloskey screwed up his face. 'Peculiar. Very peculiar. It sounds downright sinister. Though if Kenyon is behind any of that type of thing, I'd be surprised. His organizational skills have always been limited.'
'Be assured, Senator, that I'll be bringing all this up tomorrow when I meet with Louderbush. I'll be gauging his reactions, and more importantly I'll be wearing a wire.'
McCloskey all but fell off his chair. He raised both hands as if to ward off any more flying information. 'Oh, no. I don't need to know that.'
Dunphy said, 'For chrissakes, Don, we'll work out the details of your meeting on our own. Shy just needs framework.'
'It sounds,' McCloskey said, 'as if Kenyon is going to throw himself at our feet and beg for mercy and forgiveness.
I'd almost like to be present, but my stomach isn't as strong as it once was. He's bringing his wife along?'
'That's what he told me. She's involved, he says.'
'I'm sure she is. Tom, if you were going to discuss your most sordid affairs with a private investigator, would you bring Doreen along?'
'Oh sure.'
'Joyce would rather stay home, would be my guess. But this is the age of the political wife who can't tell the difference between loyalty and masochism. You saw Silda Spitzer standing there next to her no-goodnik hubby taking it on the kisser in front of Gabe Pressman and the rest of the known media world. And what's-his-name from Jersey, the guv with the Israeli butt boy boyfriend. Hava Nagila! The man's poor wife stood there next to him grinning like she was at their little girl's ballet debut, and her husband is telling the cameras he prefers sucking dick to eating pussy. No offense intended, Don.'
