Desperate Measures

by David R. Morrell

  “In that case…”

  “I’ll need your address.”

  “But I already told you where my father lived.”

  “No, I need your address, so the Chronicle can send you a statement for printing the obituary.”

  “Statement?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You mean a bill?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The newspaper doesn’t print obituaries as a community service?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Shit.”

  3

  It had been a mistake, Pittman realized. He hadn’t imagined the intense effort that it would take for him to go through the motions, to pretend to be committed to his job. Even the simplest gestures, picking up his phone, writing notes, required an exertion of will that left him as exhausted as the marathons he used to run before Jeremy became ill.

  He took four more calls, each requiring a greater effort, each more draining. Death by car accident, drowning, hanging, and old age. Hanging had been a method Pittman had considered. When he’d been a reporter, research on one of his stories had taught him that in males, hanging was rumored to have erotic side effects, its victims producing erections. Hanging also had the advantage of being less messy than a death by gunshot. But the trouble was, it wasn’t instantaneous. It didn’t guarantee results. The rope might slip, or someone might find you in time to resuscitate you. Then you’d have to go through the pain all over again.

  Someone coughed.

  Glancing up, Pittman saw a stocky, craggy-faced man in his fifties with a brush cut and bushy eyebrows. The man had his navy blazer draped over his shoulder, his muscular upper arms bulging against his rolled-up shirt sleeves. His striped tie was loosened and the top shirt button was open, exposing his bull-like neck. He gave the impression that he was out of uniform, that he belonged in the military. But like Pittman, Burt Forsyth had never been in the military. Burt had worked for the Chronicle since he’d gotten out of college, eventually becoming its editor.

  “Glad you could make it.” Burt’s voice was even more gravelly than it had sounded last night.

  Pittman shrugged.

  “You look beat.”

  “So people keep telling me,” Pittman said.

  “I’d have thought your day off would have made you look rested.”

  “Well, I had a lot of things to do.”

  “I bet.” Burt’s gaze was piercingly direct.

  Does he suspect? Pittman wondered.

  “Considering how busy you are, I appreciate your making time for the Chronicle.”

  “For you,” Pittman said.

  “The same thing.”

  When Jeremy had gotten sick, when Jeremy had died, when Pittman had collapsed, Burt Forsyth had always been there to provide reinforcement. “Need to go to the hospital to see your boy? Take all the time you need. Need to stay with him in intensive care? As long as you want. Your job? Don’t worry about it. Your desk will be waiting for you.” Burt had visited Jeremy in the hospital. Burt had arranged for the most valuable National Football League player to phone Jeremy. Burt had escorted Pittman to and from the mortuary. Burt had gotten drunk with Pittman. Although Pittman had tried to convince himself that he had paid back every debt, the truth was that Burt could never be repaid. Of all those who might have called last night, Burt was the one person Pittman could not refuse.

  Burt studied him. “Got a minute?”

  “My time is yours.”

  “In my office.”

  What now? Pittman thought. Is this where I get the lecture?

  4

  The Chronicle had a no smoking policy. Pittman could never understand how Burt managed constantly to have the recent smell of cigarette smoke on him. His office reeked of it, but there weren’t any ashtrays, and there weren’t any cigarette butts in the wastebasket. Besides, Burt’s office had glass walls. If he was breaking the rule and smoking in here, the reporters at the desks outside would have seen him.

  A big man, Burt eased himself into the swivel chair behind his desk. Wood creaked.

  Pittman took a chair opposite the desk.

  Burt studied him. “Been drinking too much?”

  Pittman glanced away.

  “I asked you a question,” Burt said.

  “If you were anybody else…”

  “You’d tell me it was none of my business. But since I’m the one asking… Have you been drinking too much?”

  “Depends,” Pittman said.

  “On?”

  “What you call too much.”

  Burt sighed. “I can tell this isn’t going to be a productive conversation.”

  “Look, you asked for nine days. I’m giving them to you. But that doesn’t mean you can run my life.”

  “What’s left of it. You keep drinking as much as I think you have and you’ll kill yourself.”

  “Now that’s a thought,” Pittman said.

  “Drinking won’t bring back Jeremy.”

  “That’s another thought.”

  “And killing yourself won’t bring him back, either.”

  Pittman looked away again.

  “Besides, I’m not trying to run your life,” Burt said. “It’s your job I’m trying to run. I’ve got something different I want you to do, a special kind of obituary, and I want to make sure you’re up to doing it. If you’re not, just say so. I’ll keep you on the desk, answering obit calls and filling out forms.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I came back to work because you asked. If there’s something you need, I can do it. What kind of special obituary?”

  “The subject isn’t dead yet.”

  5

  Pittman changed positions in the chair. Of course, it wasn’t any surprise to him, although it generally was to what Pittman called “civilians,” that some obituaries were written before the subject’s death. Aging movie stars, for example. Celebrities of one sort or another who were mortally ailing or in extremely advanced years. Common sense dictated that since they were going to die soon and since they were famous, why not prepare the obituary sooner rather than later? On occasion, the subjects were remarkably resilient. Pittman knew of one case where a lengthy obituary had been written for an elderly comedian—twenty years earlier—and the comedian in his nineties was still going strong.

  But Pittman judged from Burt’s somber expression that he hadn’t been summoned here just to write something as ephemeral as an obituary for a not-yet-dead movie star. Burt’s brows were so thick, they made his eyes seem hooded—dark, intense.

  “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.

  Matthew Pittman, 38, West 12th St., died Wednesday evening from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

  A memorial service will begin at noon on Saturday at Donovan’s Tavern, West 10th St. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made to the children’s cancer fund at Sloan-Kettering in the name of Jeremy Pittman.

  “It was all I could think of.”

  “Brevity’s a virtue.” Burt tapped the sheet of paper. “But so is thoroughness. You didn’t mention that you worked for the Chronicle.”

  “I didn’t want to embarrass the newspaper.”

  “And you didn’t mention that you were survived by your ex-wife, Ellen.”

  Pittman shrugged.

  “You didn’t want to embarrass her, either?” Burt asked.

  Pittman shrugged again. “I got writer’s block when it came to calling Ellen by her new last name. I finally decided to hell with it.”

  “I wish you could ignore your other problems as conveniently. Eight more days, Matt. You promised me eight more days.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You owe me,” Burt said.

  “I know,” Pittman said with force. “I haven’t forgotten what you did for—” To interrupt the confrontation, he glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon. I’ll get started on Millgate’s obituary after lunch.”

  8

  The tavern had three things to recommend it: It was out of the way, it didn’t do much business, and the little business it did wasn’t from staff members of the Chronicle. Pittman could drink in peace, knowing that he wouldn’t be interrupted—not in this place. Its only reason for existing was for the coming and going of numbers runners. When Pittman had come in and asked for a drink, the bartender had looked shocked to be having a legitimate customer.

  Pittman nursed two Jack Daniel’s on the rocks while he did his newspaper’s crossword puzzle. Anything to occupy his mind. Burt had been trying to do that, as well: to distract him. And Burt’s tactic had been effective. Because the crossword puzzle wasn’t effective. The only words that kept coming into Pittman’s mind were Jonathan Mitigate.

  Pittman had once worked on a story about Millgate, back when he had been at the national affairs desk. Before Jeremy’s death. Before… Seven years ago, Jonathan Millgate had been rumored to be involved as a middleman in a covert White House operation whereby munitions were illegally supplied to right-wing governments in South America in exchange for the cooperation of those governments in fighting the
war against drugs. It was further rumored that Millgate had received substantial fees from those South American governments and certain weapons manufacturers in exchange for acting as a go-between in the secret exchange.

  But Pittman had found it impossible to substantiate those rumors. For a man who had once been so much in the public eye, Millgate had become a remarkably private, guarded person. The last interview he’d given had been in 1968 after the Tet offensive against American forces in Vietnam. Millgate had spoken to a senior reporter for the Washington Post, expressing strong sympathy with the Nixon administration’s policy of sending considerably more U.S. soldiers to Vietnam. Because Millgate was respected so much, his statement was interpreted to represent the opinion of other conservative political theorists, especially Millgate’s fellow grand counselors. Indeed, the implication was that Millgate was endorsing a policy that he and the other four grand counselors had themselves formulated and privately urged the Nixon White House to adopt: heightening America’s involvement in the Vietnam War.

  By the time Pittman became interested in Millgate because of the possible munitions scandal, Millgate’s effect on presidential attitudes was so discreet and yet powerful that his reputation for diplomacy had achieved mythic status. But no government source could or would say anything about him. As a consequence, Pittman (full of energy, motivated, in his prime) had gone to Burt Forsyth and requested permission to investigate Millgate’s legend.

  Pittman’s telephone log eventually recorded one hundred attempts to call Millgate’s business and government associates. Each executive had declined to be interviewed. Pittman had also contacted Millgate’s law office in an attempt to make an appointment to interview him. Pittman was put on hold. He was switched from secretary to secretary. He was told to call numbers that were no longer in service. Pittman had phoned the Justice Department, hoping that the team investigating Millgate would give Pittman an idea of how they stayed in contact with him. He was told that the Justice Department had no need to remain in contact with Millgate, that the rumors about his receiving kickbacks because of his alleged involvement in a munitions scandal had been proven to lack substance, and that the investigation had been concluded in its early stages.