The Nomination

by William G. Tapply

  Kissing her off. Telling her she was dead.

  That awful smile still haunted her dreams.

  So she quit the cops, packed her stuff, which wasn’t much, into her Civic, and headed west. She left no forwarding address. Couldn’t, since she didn’t know where she was going.

  She ended up in San Francisco and presented herself to Del Robbins, the president of Bay Security and Investigations in Oakland. Del talked with her for about ten minutes, made one phone call, and hired her on the spot.

  Perfect, Jessie had thought at the time. For an ex-cop there was no more anonymous, behind-the-scenes job than private investigating. The whole job was about not being noticed or recognized.

  Unless you save a public figure from being assassinated in front of a mob of people and reporters, that is. And unless some lucky cameraman is there to shoot you kneeling beside the creep with one hand squeezing his balls and the other arm raised and a look of triumph on your face, and the photo is so good that it gets reprinted in newspapers across the country and makes the rounds on the Internet.

  So now Jessie Church was looking over her shoulder again. Some Cohen friend or relative or business associate or customer was bound to spot that newspaper photo and recognize her, phony name notwithstanding. Sooner or later, inevitably, Howie Cohen would send somebody to track her down and kill her.

  So far, it hadn’t happened. Not yet. Nobody could tail Jessie Church without her knowing it.

  But it would happen soon.

  She guessed it was about time to think about loading up her Civic again. Time to change her name again, change her habits, change her look. Get a job in an office somewhere. Couldn’t be worse than sitting in a car waiting for Anthony Moreno to make a mistake.

  JUDGE THOMAS LARRIGAN hung up his robe, slumped into his desk chair, and sighed. Another long, tense day on the bench. He rubbed his good eye, stretched his arms, then quickly jotted some notes on a yellow legal pad. He had to hand down an admissibility ruling when court convened the next morning. It raised a couple of tricky questions, and Larrigan didn’t want to blow it. Not now. Not with a Supreme Court nomination on the horizon. It wouldn’t look good if an appeal was granted because Judge Larrigan had misapplied the law.

  But if he erred, he knew enough to err on the side of the victim; in this case, a two-year-old girl whose skull had been fractured by an unemployed pipefitter while her mother lounged on the sofa in the same room watching the Home Shopping Network. The search of the apartment had turned up a stash of marijuana, an assortment of barbiturates, and two grams of cocaine. The problem was, the warrant had neglected to mention drugs, and they hadn’t been in plain sight when the police entered the apartment.

  Larrigan would, of course, rule the drugs admissible. His problem was to justify that ruling with case law. Then, even if he were overturned on appeal, his reputation would not be tarnished. These days, a jurist’s reputation hinged less on his even-handed application of the law than on what he seemed to believe.

  Larrigan believed in the fair application of the law. He believed justice should be blind.

  But he also believed that the war on drugs should be fought aggressively and that criminals should be punished. He had the reputation of being a tough judge. He’d nurtured that reputation. He’d earned it. That reputation had put him on the president’s short list for a seat on the Supreme Court.

  It had been a week since Pat Brody had come to Boston. Larrigan wondered what would happen next.

  Nothing, probably. As Brody had told him, there were hundreds of names, hundreds of top-notch judges and lawyers. Even if he was on what Brody called the president’s “personal list,” even if he’d played golf with the president a couple times, Larrigan knew he was still a long shot.

  Still, he couldn’t help wanting it, tasting it . . .

  He swiveled around in his chair to stare out his office window. Black roiling thunderheads were building out over the harbor. They’d burst open any minute, he figured. Just in time to rain out his late-afternoon golf match in Belmont with Jonah Wright, which was disappointing. Larrigan enjoyed golf, and he liked playing with Jonah. The man had a flamboyant, erratic game. He hit the ball a mile, usually into the rough, which set up both his occasionally spectacular recoveries over, around, and under trees and his more frequent double bogies. Wright tended to sink long serpentine putts and miss two-footers.

  He was a challenging opponent but, of course, no match for Larrigan’s steady, methodical game, and even giving three shots a side, Larrigan rarely lost to him. For that matter, Larrigan rarely lost to anybody. When he played the president, he beat him, too. Larrigan believed that the president admired the fact that the judge didn’t hold back, that he was a competitor, that he refused to lose.

  But that’s not why Larrigan didn’t want to miss his weekly match with Jonah Wright. Jonah was a well-positioned State Street investment banker, a Boston power broker, an ally. Larrigan hadn’t figured out how yet. But sooner or later Jonah Wright would be able to do him a favor.

  Of course, when the Supreme Court appointment went through, Larrigan wouldn’t need any Jonah Wrights ever again.

  Meanwhile, he did not intend to burn his bridges.

  He glanced at his watch. Four o’clock. They’d planned to tee off at five. Nine quick holes, just the two of them sharing a cart, and back in the clubhouse before seven. Gin-and-tonics for Jonah, iced tea for Larrigan, then a Bibb lettuce salad, club steak, and baked potato. Coffee on the veranda, a chance to catch up, see who was who and what was what these days in Massachusetts politics, and home by eight-thirty or nine, in time to tuck the kids in before holing up in his office to write up his ruling on the admissibility of those drugs.

  No way it wasn’t going to rain. No golf today.

  Amy would get flustered if he showed up before nine. Amy didn’t care what he did or who he did it with as long as he gave her his schedule and stuck to it. Amy didn’t do well with surprises. Maybe he’d drive out to the club anyway, sit in for a rubber or two of bridge, have supper with Jonah.

  The intercom buzzed. He turned back to his desk and pressed the connecting button. “What’s up, Arlene?” he said.

  “Mr. Brody’s on line one,” came Arlene’s voice.

  “Brody? The—”

  “He’s calling from the White House, Tom. I’m sitting here trying not to wet my pants.”

  Larrigan smiled at the image of Arlene Bennett, his plump white-haired secretary who’d become a grandmother for the second time back in January, wetting her pants. “Nothing to get worked up about,” he said. “It’s probably just the president again. You know how he keeps pestering me.”

  “Yes, that man is a nuisance, isn’t he?” Arlene chuckled. “Want me to get rid of him?”

  “I’ll handle it, thanks.” Larrigan disconnected from Arlene, took a deep breath, picked up his telephone, and pressed the blinking button on the console. “This is Judge Larrigan,” he said.

  “It’s Pat Brody, Judge. How are you?”

  “Just fine, Mr. Brody.” Larrigan paused. He wasn’t going to let Brody hear his eagerness. “How can I help you?”

  “You can help me by saying hello to the president. Is this a convenient time?”

  “Sure. Of course.” Damn, thought Larrigan. That definitely sounded eager.

  A moment later he heard: “Tom?” It was that familiar raspy voice.

  “Hello, Mr. President.”

  “I just wanted to say hello, Tom, and to tell you that I’m hearing nothing but good things about you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m deeply honored.”

  “I expect we’ll be talking again soon,” said the president. “Things are moving pretty fast down here. You’re still good with this?”

  “Yes, I am. Of course.”

  “That’s fine, Tom. Great. We’ll have to get out, play some golf one of these days. Okay, then. Pat Brody needs to speak to you again.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Larrigan. “I—
”

  But the president was no longer on the line.

  Brody talked to the judge for nearly fifteen minutes, and by the time he finished, Larrigan realized that receiving a phone call from the president still left him a long way from donning the robes of a Supreme Court Associate Justice.

  As Brody put it, he’d leaped the first hurdle. The list of possible nominees had grown significantly shorter.

  First, the FBI would intensify its “background check.” If they found anything in Larrigan’s personal or professional history that might embarrass the president or raise eyebrows on the Senate Judiciary Committee, his name would be eliminated from consideration. Assuming he passed muster with the FBI and became the president’s nominee, Larrigan would be formally presented to the Washington press corps at a Rose Garden ceremony as soon as Justice Crenshaw made his official retirement announcement, whenever that happened to occur.

  Then would come the press, digging and prying and nosing around for a story, an angle, a hint of scandal. And the president’s opposition in the Senate would unleash their own hounds.

  Of course, said Brody quietly—and, Larrigan thought, with a hint of ironic skepticism—he would pass with flying colors, and next thing he knew, he’d be a Justice of the Supreme Court. For life.

  The best job in the world. Respect, power, security. Immortality.

  Brody concluded: “Sit tight and don’t talk about it. No interviews, on or off the record. If you’ve got a vacation lined up, take it. Preferably someplace where the media can’t find you. And for God’s sake, don’t do anything . . . controversial.”

  “I understand,” said Larrigan. “But it sounds like you’re not—”

  “The president is not ready tell the world what he told you today, Judge. You understand.”

  In fact, Larrigan wasn’t sure what exactly the president had told him. “Sure,” he said. “Of course I understand.”

  “We’ll be in touch with you, then.” Brody hesitated. “Congratulations, Judge.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Larrigan replaced the phone on its cradle and shivered. It was happening. It was really happening.

  He swiveled around to gaze out his window again. While he’d been on the phone with the White House, the black thunderheads had rolled off to the west, and now the afternoon sun reflected in the windows of Boston’s skyscrapers. The city looked bright and clean. Just like Tom Larrigan’s future.

  He hit the button on the intercom, and Arlene’s voice said, “I want to hear all about it. Did you talk to him?”

  “I can’t tell you much, but yes, he and I had a pleasant chat. For now, I want to continue the moratorium on all interviews. And—”

  “Tom,” said Arlene, “this is me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. You can probably figure it out, but I’m sworn not to say anything to anybody.”

  “My God,” Arlene whispered.

  “Oh,” said Larrigan with a chuckle, “I’m not God yet. Not by a long shot. But maybe, one of these days.” He paused. “If you utter a peep to anybody, young lady, you’ll feel God’s wrath, I promise you.”

  “Have I ever disappointed you?”

  “Never,” he said. “Anyway, I was supposed to play golf with Jonah Wright today. Call him and tell him I’ve got to cancel, please. Then you go home.”

  “Okay. Is—?”

  “I’ve just got some things to clean up here. You have a nice evening.”

  “Yes, you too. This is very exciting.”

  “Not a peep,” said Larrigan.

  He waited until Arlene had left, then picked up his cell phone and called Eddie Moran.

  “What’s up?” said Moran.

  “I just got off the phone with the White House.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Eddie Moran pecked out the number on his cell phone, wedged it between his ear and his shoulder, and lit a cigarette. The traffic on Route 1 hummed steadily past the parking lot where he was sitting in his rented Camry, most of it heading south to Islamorada, Marathon, and Key West.

  The phone rang three times, and after the voicemail recording, Moran said, “Call me,” and disconnected.

  He put the phone on the seat beside him and waited, and before he’d finished his cigarette, it rang.

  He checked the number on the screen. Larrigan. He hit the “send” button and said, “Semper fi.”

  “You secure?”

  “Of course I’m secure.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Key Largo.” He hesitated. “In Florida.”

  “I know where Key Largo is, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Did you know they named this place after a movie? That Bogart movie? I mean, when they made the movie, there was no place called Key Largo. So they—”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Larrigan. “Did you find her?”

  “She’s working in one of these tame dolphin places. Tourists go there and pay seventy-five bucks to swim around with the fish. Can you believe it?”

  “Dolphins are mammals, Eddie.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” Moran cracked the window and flipped his cigarette butt out onto the pavement. “She gives this slide show before each swim. I caught her act. She does a nice job. It was kinda interesting. Bunny always liked animals. Had cats. I remember how her place always smelled of cat shit.” Moran blinked away a drop of sweat that had dribbled into his eye. “So, anyway, yeah, I found her. She’s looking good. So now what do you want me to do?”

  On the other end of the line, Larrigan hesitated. “I’ve got to know what she remembers, how she feels,” he said, “if there’s any chance she’ll . . .”

  “It’s gonna take a while. I can’t just walk up to her, say, Hey, it’s me, Eddie Moran. You remember old Tommy Larrigan, dontcha? Well, guess what?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Eddie, be discreet.”

  “Have I ever let you down?”

  “Not yet. And you better not this time.”

  EDDIE MORAN SPENT the rest of the afternoon sweltering in the rented gray Camry. Every once in a while he’d switch on the ignition and turn the air conditioning on high, let it blow out the hot air, but he couldn’t leave the motor running all day. So mostly he sat there with all the windows open, and every once in a while a puff of hot salty breeze would blow through.

  He’d parked strategically in the supermarket lot on Route 1. Every road on the island attached itself to Route 1, he’d learned. Route 1—the same Route 1 that traced the crooked coastline of New England—was the spine of the Keys. People down here oriented themselves by the mile markers along the roadside. It was, “Second left after mile marker thirty-four,” or, “You come to a Japanese restaurant on your right, then look for mile marker fifty-nine.”

  So he waited there at the corner of Route 1 and the side street that led down to the dolphin place on the ocean, close enough so he could see every face in every car that came along that side street. Sooner or later, Bunny Brubaker would have to pass directly in front of him.

  He sweated and drank orange soda and ate beer nuts and smoked cigarettes and pissed in a plastic milk jug. The Marines had taught him how to blank his mind against the passage of time, how to remain alert without thinking about anything. Boredom was a state of mind, and Eddie Moran had learned to master it. He just watched the faces go by, registering everything, thinking about nothing.

  Finally he spotted her. She was driving a maroon Volkswagen bug, braking for the stop sign right in front of him. Automatically he glanced at his wristwatch and jotted the time into the notebook on the seat beside him. 7:48 PM. The previous note read, “1:22. Called T. L.” He’d been sitting there a little more than six hours. That wasn’t bad. Plenty of times he’d sat outside an apartment building all night and nothing had even happened.

  When she pulled onto Route 1, heading south, he got a glimpse of her license plate. He hastily scratched the number into his notebook, too.

  Bunny’s old VW Beetle had a roof rack and a big plastic daisy stuc
k on top of the antenna. Considerate of her. He had no trouble hanging four cars behind her and keeping the daisy in sight.

  She was a few years younger than Eddie, which put her somewhere in her early fifties now. But she still had nice tits. He’d noticed that right away, when she was talking about how smart dolphins were and how well they were treated in their caged-in pool and how the place wasn’t a zoo but a “habitat.” Nice hair, too. Eddie Moran liked long hair, and Bunny Brubaker wore her auburn hair long and straight down her back, the same as she had in the old days. From where he’d been watching her, he couldn’t tell if she dyed it, or if there was any gray in it.

  Bunny Brubaker had been a real dazzler back then. She still looked good. If anything, a little thinner than she’d been back then.

  Thirty-five years. He wondered if she’d even remember him.

  The real question, of course, was what she remembered about Larrigan.

  Up ahead he saw the right directional begin to blink on the maroon VW. She turned off onto a narrow side road, and he followed. There were no vehicles between them now, so he crept along, keeping plenty of distance between them. When she pulled into a driveway beside a little square flat-roofed modular house pretty much like all the other little square flat-roofed modular houses on the street, he kept going. The road ended half a mile later in a turnaround by the water. He stopped there for the length of time it took him to smoke a cigarette, then turned and headed slowly back up the street.

  He took it all in as he drove back past her place: scraggly unkempt gardens, one shutter hanging loose on the front of the house, carport crammed with plastic barrels and cardboard boxes and green trash bags. An old sailboat was parked on a trailer beside the driveway, its hull green with mildew.

  Hypotheses automatically formed in Eddie Moran’s mind. The boat hadn’t been in the water for a year or more. It belonged to some guy who wasn’t around anymore. He figured Bunny wasn’t much for yard work or home repair herself and probably couldn’t afford to hire someone to do it for her. Or maybe she just didn’t give a shit how the place looked. She didn’t have her trash picked up or go to the dump very often. The house looked like it had maybe four or five small rooms—cheap and small, about right for a single woman who made a living giving the same speech about how great dolphins were over and over again.