Desperate Measures

“All right.” Pittman gestured. “The subject isn’t dead yet.”

Burt nodded.

“But evidently you’re convinced that he or she will be dead within nine days.”

Burt’s expression didn’t change.

“Otherwise, the obituary won’t be any good,” Pittman said, “because the Chronicle will be dead a week from tomorrow, and I never heard of other newspapers buying freelance obituaries.”

“It’s my gift to you.”

“Gosh. I don’t know what to say. How generous.”

“You’re not fooling anybody,” Burt said. “You think I haven’t figured out what you’re planning to do?”

Pittman showed no reaction.

“Ellen phoned yesterday,” Burt said.

Pittman felt sudden heat in his stomach, but he didn’t allow himself to show any reaction to that either, to the mention of his ex-wife.

“She says you’ve been acting strangely,” Burt said. “Not that I need her to tell me. I’ve got eyes. In fact, anybody who thinks of you as a friend has noticed. You’ve been going around making a point of paying back favors, money you borrowed, whatever. You’ve been apologizing for any harm you caused, and I know it’s not because you’re cleaning house as part of joining AA, not the way you’ve been drinking. That car accident three weeks ago. Three A.M. A deserted road in Jersey. A bridge abutment. What the hell were you doing out driving at that hour? And even as drunk as you were, I don’t see how you couldn’t have avoided that big an obstacle. You meant to hit it, and the only reason you didn’t die is that your body was so loose from the booze, you bounced like a rag doll when you were thrown from the car.”

Pittman touched a still-healing gash on the back of his hand but didn’t say anything.

“Don’t you want to know what Ellen wanted?” Burt asked.

Pittman stared at the floor.

“Come on,” Burt demanded. “Quit acting like you’re already dead.”

“I made a mistake.”

“What?”

“Coming back to work. I made a mistake.” Pittman stood.

“Don’t,” Burt said. “Let me finish.”

A reporter appeared in the doorway.

“In a minute,” Burt said.

The reporter assessed the two men, nodded somberly, and went away. Other reporters, seated at their desks, were glancing toward the glass walls of Burt’s office. Phones rang.

“What Ellen wanted was to tell you she was sorry,” Burt said. “She wants you to call her.”

“Tell me about this obituary.”

“Give her a chance.”

“Our son died. Then our marriage died. There’s plenty to be sorry about. But I don’t want to talk about it. I’m through talking about it. Nine-correction: Since I promised last night, if we count today, it’s eight more days, Burt. That’s all the time I’m willing to give you. Then we’re even. Tell me about the obituary.”

6

Assessing Pittman, Burt didn’t blink for quite a while. At once he shrugged, sighed, then picked up a folder on his desk. “Jonathan Millgate.”

Pittman felt a spark speed along his nerves.

“That name ought to sound familiar from when you were working on the national affairs desk, before…” Self- conscious, Burt let the sentence dangle.

“Before I cracked up, you mean? Or fell to pieces, or… What’s the euphemism these days?”

“Needed a rest.”

“I’m not so fuzzy-minded that I wouldn’t remember the name of one of the grand counselors.”

Burt raised his thick eyebrows.

From the forties, from the beginning of the Cold War onward, a group of five East Coast patricians had exerted a continuous influence on American government policy by acting as major advisers to various Presidents. At first they had been cabinet members and ambassadors, later private consultants, mostly to Republican Presidents, but not exclusively. During the Democratic administration in the late seventies, Carter was supposed to have consulted with them about the Iran hostage situation. It was rumored that on their advice he authorized the failed hostage-rescue attempt and in effect opened the way for Ronald Reagan to get into the White House. Eventually, as they aged, they acquired the status of legends and became known as the grand counselors.

“Jonathan Millgate would be about eighty now,” Pittman said. “Mother a society maven in Boston. Father a billionaire from investments in railroads and communications systems. Millgate graduated at the top of his class, with a law degree from Yale. Nineteen thirty-eight. Specialty: international law, which came in handy during the Second World War. Went to work for the State Department. Moved upward rapidly. Named ambassador to the USSR. Named ambassador to the United Nations. Named secretary of state. Named national security adviser. Tight with Truman. Jumped parties to become a Republican and made himself indispensable to Eisenhower. Not close to Kennedy. But despite the party differences, Johnson certainly relied on Millgate to help formulate policy about Vietnam. When the Republicans came back into office, Nixon relied on him even more. Then Millgate suddenly dropped out of public view. He retreated to his mansion in Massachusetts. Interestingly, despite his seclusion, he continued to have as much influence as a high-level elected or appointed official.

“He had a heart attack this morning.”

Pittman waited.

“Here in town,” Burt said.

“But apparently not a fatal attack, because you said the subject of the obituary wasn’t dead yet.”

“Since the Chronicle’s dying anyhow, we can afford to experiment. I want the obit long, and I want it dense. With facts, with intelligence, with style. A cross between the front page and the editorial page. That used to be your specialty.”

“You’re gambling he won’t last until a week from tomorrow, that he’ll die before the Chronicle does.”

“What I’m really gambling,” Burt said, “is that you’ll find the assignment interesting enough to make you want to do others like it, that you’ll get committed to something besides grief, that you and the Chronicle won’t die together.”

“Gambling’s for suckers.”

“And working on obituaries too long can make a person morbid.”

“Right,” Pittman said dryly. “It’s not like reporting on national affairs can make you morbid.” He turned to leave.

“Wait, Matt. There’s one other thing.”

7

Pittman glanced back and saw the envelope Burt was holding. His chest felt cold.

“The guy who subbed for you yesterday found this in your desk drawer.” Burt opened the envelope. “It’s addressed to me, so he figured he’d better deliver it.” Burt set a sheet of paper on the desk. “I guess I got it earlier than you wanted. Pretty impersonal, don’t you think, given all we’ve been through?”

Pittman didn’t need to read the typed note to know what it said.