Authors: Robert B. Parker
”You probably wonder why I wanted to have dinner with you alone,“ he said.
I nodded.
”Well, first, what did you learn about the two men that molested my young campaign workers?“
”I learned they had reached their limits with the kids,“ I said. ”With me they were in over their heads.“
”I heard you had a fight with them.“
”Fight is too strong a word. I breathed heavily on them and they fell down.“
”Even so,“ Alexander said. ”I would have preferred another approach.“
I shrugged. ”Made me mad, slapping a couple of kids around.“
Alexander nodded. ”Did you learn why they did that?“
”They told me a man they didn’t know gave them two hundred dollars to harass the kids. Said that he told them there might be more to come if they showed him they could handle it.“
”A strange man just approached them on the street?“
I shook my head. ”No, not quite. I called the Springfield cops, these guys have a modest reputation in what you might call paralegal circles. If you were from Boston or Worcester or Hartford and you wanted to hire a cheap small-time arm twister, the grapevine would lead you to these guys.“
”Will the two young people press charges?“
”They said they would.“
”What if these two men harm them, threaten them to make them withdraw the charge?“
”No,“ I said. ”They won’t. I told them not to.“
Alexander looked up from his still unsipped beer. He studied me for a minute. ”And they’re afraid of you?“
”Um-hmm.“
”Well, you are physically imposing, but there must be a savagery in you that doesn’t show normally.“
”Um-hmm.“
Our waitress went by, and paused, and looked at my yearning eyes and empty glass.
”Would you like another beer, sir?“ she said.
I nodded and she took my stein away and brought it back full very promptly. Alexander hadn’t touched his yet. How could you respect a man like that?
Alexander looked at me some more. Probably checking for hidden savagery. ”And there’s no way to trace back who hired them?“
”I wouldn’t say no way.“ I paused, sampled the second beer. It was in no way inferior to the first. ”It could be investigated; the two sluggers could be pressed more vigorously. Maybe they’d remember more. Maybe not.“
Alexander clasped his hands together and pressed his lips against the knuckles of his thumbs.
”What I am going to tell you, Spenser, is absolutely private. It is something that you must tell no one at all. No one.“
I waited.
He looked back down at his beer some more.
”I have to confide in someone. I need help. I have to be able to trust you.“
I waited some more. He looked up at me again. Piercing. ”Can I trust you?“
”Sure,“ I said. ”But the foreplay is getting tiresome.“
He kept his piercing look on me. Must have spent hours getting it right. Probably a real purse-loosener at fund-raising speeches. Then he tightened the corners of his mouth, relaxed them, and said, ”Yes. I will have to trust you. I must.“
He waited for relief to sweep over me.
Then he said, ”I’m being blackmailed. Now you see why I wondered who sent those thugs. I don’t know who is doing the blackmail, but they wish me to drop out of the Senate race and throw support to my opponent.“
”Browne,“ I said.
”Yes.“
”You think he may be personally involved?“
”I don’t know,“ Alexander said. ”Obviously he’s the one to benefit if I do as I’m asked.“
I nodded.
”I don’t know what to do,“ Alexander said.
I nodded again.
”Do you have any thoughts on the matter?“ Alexander said.
”Not yet,“ I said.
We sat and looked at each other. Our waitress returned with dinner. We were silent while she set it before us, took my glass, went away, and brought it back full, and asked if we needed anything else.
Alexander said, ”No thank you,“ in his Westbrook van Voorhees voice. The waitress departed. I took a bite of Wiener schnitzel. ”Yum, yum,“ I said. I washed it down with a sip of beer. There were fried potatoes, and applesauce, and dark bread in a basket. I thought about the proper sequence for them. Maybe a rotating basis, a bite of schnitzel, a bite of potato, a taste of applesauce, some bread, a sip of beer. Then start over. Yes. That was the best approach, though one needn’t be rigid. I had another bite of Wiener schnitzel. Drank some beer. Alexander was still looking at me. Didn’t drink any beer, now he wasn’t eating any sauerbraten. The man was mad.
”I will have to tell you, won’t I.“
”If I’m going to help you, you probably will,“ I said.
He looked down, took in a long breath, and closed his mouth and held it, and then let the breath out through his nose. He placed both hands, palms down, on the table and tapped his spread fingers once on the tabletop. Then he looked back up at me.
”It’s Mrs. Alexander.“
I nodded.
”She has, I’m afraid, been indiscreet.“
I nodded some more.
”She has… they have…“ His voice started to clog, and tears began to form in his eyes. He looked down again and breathed in several times, letting the breath out sharply, almost like a sprinter, trying to blow a little extra into his kick. Then he looked up again with his wet eyes and said quite steadily, ”There are pictures.“
”Oh, shit,“ I said. ”I’m sorry.“
He began to rock slightly in his chair, his hands still on the tabletop. ”Videotape,“ he said. His voice was choked again. ”Color.“ He stood up suddenly and walked away from the table toward the men’s room. I sat and stared at the food. I didn’t feel so much like eating anymore either.
The waitress came over and said, ”Is anything wrong, sir?“
”Not with the meal,“ I said, ”but my friend is ill. I think we’d better have the check.“
”Yes, sir,“ she said. ”I’m very sorry.“
She was prompt with the check. I paid it. She went away and brought back the change. I tipped her.
”Thank you, sir,“ she said. ”I hope that your friend feels better soon.“
I shrugged. ”The ways of the Lord,“ I said, ”are often dark, but never pleasant.“
She frowned slightly, and took her tip and went away.
When Alexander came out of the men’s room he looked very pale but his eyes were dry for the moment and he seemed back under control.
I said, ”Let’s take a walk.“
He nodded. We walked up Fort Street. It was dark out and rainy now, but not very cold. I had on my leather trench coat and Alexander was wearing a poplin raincoat. The rain was light and not bothersome. Under other circumstances, in fact, it would have been good rain to walk in. Romantic. There were construction and demolition projects all around the lower Main Street area. Silent construction equipment gleamed in the rain, but not many people walked around. We turned up Main Street toward the Civic Center. Alexander had his hands in his pockets, his head bent, looking at the sidewalk as he walked. He wore a checked hat like Bear Bryant.
I said, ”This is awful. I understand that. But I didn’t bring it up. If I’m going to help you with this, we have to talk about it.“
Alexander said, ”I know.“
We passed Bay State West. There were a lot of people in the mall buying things. Recreational shopping.
I said, ”I can fix this for you. Not all of it. Not what it feels like, but the other part. I can take care of the blackmail.“
Alexander nodded. We passed Johnson’s, its facade a dark green, the name in gold letters. A municipal bus stopped, let some people off, and moved on downtown.
”It was mailed to my home,“ Alexander said. ”In Fitchburg. A videotape. VHS format. No return address, Boston postmark.“ We turned into Court Square, walking past the City Hall complex with its tower. There was a small park in the middle of the square. I was quiet. He had started. I knew he’d finish.
”I have a recorder, VHS. I played it one night while Ronni was out.“
We turned left at the far end of the square. The closed end. Beyond was expressway. Beyond the expressway, the river, adding its damp smell to the rainy night.
”The film showed Ronni having sex with a young man in what appeared to be an apartment. It was apparent that she didn’t know of the taping.“
At the open end of Court Square, across Main Street, the Civic Center was glowing and bright. Its lights glistened off the wet buildings. The right kind of rain makes everything look good. Even the color-coded parking garage seemed attractive in the soft autumn rain.
”It was also apparent that it was Ronni. No possible mistake. I did not recognize the young man.“
We turned right again, back onto Main Street, and kept walking, away from the hotel. I wasn’t wearing a hat. My hair was wet. Reflections of the traffic lights shimmered on the wet pavement. ”Have you discussed this with her?“ I said.
”No. She doesn’t know. She’s not to know. Ever. It would break her heart if she knew.“
”I can’t be delicate about this,“ I said. ”The whole thing is indelicate. There’s no way around it. I have to ask questions.“
”Yes,“ he said. ”Go ahead.“
”You’re persuaded that this is not a porno film, that is, something she posed for?“
”I’m sure that it is not deliberately posed.“
”People don’t just stroll around with videotape cameras,“ I said. ”Someone set this up.“
Alexander nodded.
”The room had to have enough light,“ I said.
”It was daylight mostly,“ Alexander said. ”One wall of the room was glass and it was bright daylight. The drapes were open.“
”Do you… has she… is there a way to narrow this down?“ I said.
Alexander said, ”I don’t understand.“
I took a deep breath. ”Can we try to track down her partner or could it be any one of a number?“
Alexander stopped and squeezed his eyes shut and then turned his head away from me and down, almost the way a dog will cower. He tried to say something and couldn’t. He tried again and still couldn’t. His hands were deep in his raincoat pockets, his shoulders were hunched, and he rocked a little, as if a gentle wind were making him sway.
Finally he said, ”I don’t know,“ in a barely human voice.
”Can you ask her?“ I said.
He shook his head.
The wind picked up a little and the rain, while it was still fine, was beginning to slant a bit as it came down, and drive in our faces. I turned my back to it. Alexander still stood swaying, facedown, unaware.
”If it came down to it,“ I said, ”would you drop out of the race?“
Without looking up he nodded again.
”And never tell her why?“ I said.
Nod.
”And throw your support to Browne?“
Nod.
”I’ve heard Browne is mob-connected.“
Nod.
”And you’d support him?“
Alexander’s shoulders were beginning to shake. He raised his face. Tears were squeezing out of his squinted eyes and running down his face.
”Yes,“ he said. His voice shook, but there was an energy in it I had never heard before. He straightened a little and stopped swaying. The rain came harder and the wind intensified. It was no longer a good rain to walk in. Even under other circumstances. It had gotten cold, as if November had reasserted itself. We were alone on the street, with the wind driving the rain before it.
Blow, winds, and crack your cheek!
”I would support Satan to spare her,“ Alexander said.
I nodded. ”So would I,“ I said.
It was nearly midnight when we got back to the Marriott and went up with the water dripping off us and making small puddles on the elevator floor. Outside the door to his suite Alexander paused and looked at me. His eyes were a little red, but other than that he had it back together.
”We’ll be returning to Washington through the holidays. I don’t use Christmas to campaign,“ Alexander said.
I nodded.
”I want her free of this,“ he said. ”Remember that priority. It is the only absolute you have. She is to be free of this.“
I nodded.
”And she’s not to know.“
I nodded.
Alexander put out his hand. I took it. We shook hands. Alexander stood a minute holding on to my hand after we’d finished shaking. He started to speak, stopped, started again, and then shook his head and released my hand. I nodded.
”I have to trust you,“ he said. ”I’ve no other hope.“
Then he went into the suite and I went next door to the room shared by Cambell and Fraser. I knocked on the door. When Fraser opened it I said, ”Alexander’s back. I’m going to bed.“
Fraser nodded, closed the door, and I went to my room on the other side of Alexander’s.
In the morning Alexander told Cambell and Fraser that I was doing a special assignment for him and that they’d have the full security responsibility henceforth. I rented a car and drove ninety miles back to Boston and straight to Morrisey Boulevard. It was twenty of eleven when I pulled into the visitors’ parking space in front of the Globe. It was ten of eleven when I was sitting in the straight chair beside Wayne Cosgrove’s desk in the newsroom.
”This a social call,“ Cosgrove said, ”or are you undercover for the Columbia Journalism Review?“
”No, I came in to lodge a complaint about the Globe’s white-collar liberal stance and they directed me to you.“
Cosgrove nodded. ”Yes,“ he said. ”I handle those complaints.“
”Well, what have you to say?“
”Fuck you.“
”Gee,“ I said, ”words must be your business.“
He grinned. ”Now that we’re through playing, you gonna tell me what you want?“
”I want everything you have on Robert Browne.“
Cosgrove was tall and narrow with curly hair and glasses and a blond beard. He wore a three-piece suit of dark brown tweed, and a dark green shirt and a black knit tie. The vest gapped maybe three inches at his waistline and his green shirt hung loosely out over his belt buckle. ”The congressman?“
”Yes.“
”Why?“
”None of your business.“
”Christ, how can I resist?“ Cosgrove said. ”You’re so charming when you need something.“
”Can you dig it out for me? You’re computerized. How long could it take?“
”Yeah, sure, I can get it up for you, but being as how I’m in the news business, I can’t help wondering if there might not be something, you know, newsy, about a guy like you wanting everything we have on a U.S. congressman.“