by Warren Adler
They slept, then awoke, drank more Champagne, made love. She set the pace, slowly this time around, although when the ecstatic moment came, she heard the sound of her voice. A cry of joy. A shout. In a metaphysical sense, she was certain it was a welcoming celebration of creation.
“Got a real screamer on my hands,” he told her when they had quieted, resting like two spoons, he in back with his hard arm around her, his hand fitted to her breast.
“That ain’t the half of it,” she sighed, dying to tell him what she had experienced, what she was absolutely certain had occurred. She wrestled with the guilt of it for a time, then slipped into sleep.
When she awoke at first light, he was still in a dead sleep. She let him. He deserved the rest. Instead, she inspected him with the care of someone who had a vested interest. She noted how well-made his hands and feet were, the fingers long and tapering, the legs curved and shapely. His hair, too, was shiny and healthy, his chin strong, his arms hard and powerful. She imagined genetic combinations, a girl with his eyes and hair and straight strong body with her high-pitched breasts and smooth white Irish coleen unfreckled skin and straight nose, slightly elongated like his. She imagined a boy made just like him with her eyes and well-shaped ears and her fine hair and good cheekbones, not that his weren’t gorgeous on their own. She hoped, too, that, if it was a boy, Greg’s male parts would be replicated.
After awhile, she began working out practical, but necessary, scenarios. She would have to break up with him at some point, long before her time, and she would take her maternity leave somewhere far from Washington, some place difficult to find in case he ever wanted to work out an exact birthdate. Alright, there was a degree of dissimulation here, but we were playing with a child’s life. Not that he would ever acknowledge that he was the father. The point was that even if he did not know, she would not let him down. Above all, she vowed, she would be a good and loving mother.
He was still sleeping when she left the suite. She kissed him gently and left a note in lipstick on the bathroom mirror.
“More later. Rest up.”
11
South Boston was Paddy Pig Irish, an expression her father used whenever he referred to his own Brooklyn neighborhood. Driving through in her rented car, she noted the same familiar reminders, the false shingle facades on the two-story houses, the bars on every corner proclaiming their territorial imperative, O’Neill’s, O’Hara’s, McCarthy’s, The Shamrock, Paddy’s, the profusion of Catholic churches, the parade of Irish faces. Since it was Sunday, the streets were sprinkled with spruced up family groups coming and going to Sunday mass.
It was, of course, a place of pride and roots, an embattled ethnic island fortress, tough and cantankerous, a bastion for the sons and daughters of the shanty Irish and the mock shanty politicos who lived there for their own reasons.
My crazy people, Fiona thought, feeling a strange rush of nostalgia and loss as she threaded her way through the streets, following a map opened on the seat beside her. She found the storefront headquarters she was looking for. Above it a shiny new banner proclaimed it as “Grady for Congress” headquarters. Quick work, but then politics was based upon opportunism.
She knew he’d be there.
“He’ll be interviewing volunteers there all of Sunday morning,” a voice on Grady’s home telephone had told her, sounding like someone who had just gotten off the boat from the old sod.
It was still early, although some potential volunteers, mostly teenagers and ladies of uncertain age with blue hair had already gathered inside, where young men and women sitting at battered second-hand desks were doing the interviewing.
As she entered, a smiling young woman holding a clipboard made eye contact and held out her hand.
“I’m Peggy Smith,” the woman said. After a very firm handshake, she peeled off a paper from the clipboard and handed it to Fiona. “Just fill this out and someone will be with you in a moment.”
“I’m here to see Mr. Grady,” Fiona said politely.
“Of course. But we have this routine. We have to sort of get acquainted. Jack is here, of course. But he sees you after the initial interview.” Peggy Smith had rolled her eyes to a partitioned area in the back of the store. Fiona nodded, took the paper and moved to a shelf along the side of the wall on which there hung pencils connected by string.
There was always a police advantage to the shock value of surprise. But she wasn’t on her own turf and, above all, she had to avoid stirring up problems for the Eggplant. He had sent her there with the understanding that she play the guerilla. If push came to shove, he would probably deny the instructions. Normal procedure would have been to check in with the Boston Police Department, but this case, as the Eggplant knew, was different. Too political. She would have been sidetracked, “Handled”. Police brass and local pols were protective of each other. More than likely partners in corruption.
The procedure here was simple. The screening process was merely an eyeball look at the prospective volunteer, a brief conversation to determine whether the person was of reasonable intelligence and sound mind, then shunted off for the inspirational kicker, an equally brief meeting with the candidate.
She went through the process with agility, having used her own name and social security number, but making up an address. This nearly blew the scam. The interviewer, a male student at Harvard, had not heard of the street.
“Only a half a block long,” Fiona countered. “Nobody knows it’s there.”
This seemed to satisfy him and soon, making no waves at all, she found herself seated next to Jack Grady. She recognized him at once as the man who was seated next to May Carter.
He was the image of an Irish pol. Central Casting could not have done better. Beefy ruddy face, a mop of curly white hair with eyebrows to match and sky blue eyes that peered out of crinkly laugh pockets. His style was hug and smile, a real hearty hail fellow well met. He greeted her with klieg light brightness.
“Welcome aboard, Miss FitzGerald,” he said taking her hand in a double shake, one hand on the forearm, slightly awkward for him since he had to partially rise from his chair to perform it.
“I’m not who I seem, Mr. Grady,” Fiona said.
He sat squarely back on his chair, his smile gone, not quite knowing how to handle it.
“You media people never let a man rest,” he sighed, slapping the table, the smile restored. He had the knack of puffing himself up with charm.
Fiona opened her pocketbook and pulled out her badge.
“I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Grady,” she said lifting the badge for him to see, “but I wouldn’t have come this far if it wasn’t essential.”
Again the smile disappeared. He shook his head.
“I really resent this, ah . . .”
“FitzGerald. Sergeant. Metropolitan Washington Police.”
“In the flesh now is it? It’s a lousy tactic. Worse, you know damned well that you have no jurisdiction here.” He picked up the phone at his elbow. “Do I have to zap you out of town or will you go peacefully?”
“I won’t go peacefully, Mr. Grady.” He started to push buttons. “And you won’t be able to visit my turf without a hassle from us. That’s Washington, remember. If I’m not mistaken, the place where you want to go.”
“Dammit, I got rights.” He still held the telephone, his fingers still poised for action.
“So did Frankie,” she said with determination.
“Are you saying what I think I’m hearing?” he said.
“I know what I’m saying. I don’t know what you’re hearing.”
“That you think I have something to do with Frankie’s death?”
“You don’t think she was a suicide?”
He bit his lip, shook his head, and put down the phone.
“What is it with you people? You think I murdered her to get a shot at her seat. We were buddies, for chrissakes. Jack and I were choir boys together. I’ve known both of them all my life.”
&nbs
p; “Did I mention murder?”
He struck her as all puffed up ham, the Jack of Clubs. She could actually see the gears of his mind grind, figuring out the best approach.
“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think so,” he said. She could tell he had reconciled himself.
The truth is, Mr. Grady, we’re not sure whether it was suicide or murder. But we’ve got to wrap it up one way or another. The woman was in Congress. She, left no note. The best thing for you and for us, Mr. Grady, is to tie up all the loose ends and file it away once and for all.”
He looked relieved at what seemed like her frankness. But he still wasn’t relaxed.
“I’m a politician, FitzGerald. I ducked you because there’s a downside on this for me. I started out as a cop. I understand the problem and I know this much. If there’s any hint of a homicide, which I doubt, everybody knows that suspicion always hangs on the question of “Who benefits?” I know you don’t know much about politics, lady, but it’s all perception, all done with mirrors. It gets out that I’m even remotely considered as a factor in this, in any way, then I hang up my jockstrap.”
There was an air of pleading about his justification but it did make absolute sense.
“I understand. No one but my partner and my boss knows I’m here. I can assure you, Mr. Grady, that both these men are the soul of discretion. I can be trusted and I’m not here to make any trouble for you.”
“It’s got to be confidential.”
“No notes. No tape recorder. All we need to wrap this up is reasonable justification. We’ve got to talk to everybody that’s relevant.”
“And because I choose to run, I suddenly become relevant.”
“You were a cop. I got my orders. Investigate. Talk to everybody. Look, Mr. Grady, it’s a hot potato. Nobody really wants to fool with it. All we need to do is close it out.”
On the surface, her explanation seemed very credible, even to her.
“The faster we do it, the better all around.” She felt him studying her, beginning to surrender to the idea. Keeping the case open, he must have known, wouldn’t do him a bit of good.
“Between us then. Man to man.” He showed her a smile.
“Man to man.”
He put out his hand. She took it. It was warm and clammy.
“Deal,” she said.
12
It was a kind of coffee shop, with a cracked white Formica counter, red imitation leather booths, chrome-edged brown formica tables and an old-fashioned stainless steel urn that made noise like a steam locomotive.
They sat in a booth with high sides, well out of the line of sight of anyone entering. Grady nodded to the big bellied man behind the counter.
“You want a cuppa Joe, Fitz?” Grady asked. In his mind, she could tell, the intimacy with her was sealed. She nodded and he called the order out to the man. “My regular, Sully.”
“Up front,” Grady began. She could tell he was comfortable with their so-called deal and he trusted her. “I’d say the lady died of a broken heart.”
“Now there’s a concrete idea,” she mused. Here was yet another babbling Irishman purveying mysterious sentiment and compelling charm. The type was painfully familiar. A figurative image crossed her mind, herself donning hip boots to wade through the effluvia of blarney.
Sully placed two mugs of coffee on the table, one with the distinctive odor of brandy, her father’s occasional breakfast ploy. She watched as Grady sipped through the steam and smacked his lips.
“I’m telling you why she did it. Broken heart all the way.”
His shaggy eyebrows seemed to roll down over his eyelids, hiding his eyes as he contemplated his own words. Then he nodded, agreeing fully with his assessment. She tried not to look skeptical.
“Look. Who would kill Frankie McGuire? Everybody loved Frankie. Talk to anybody in this district. Frankie McGuire was the Irish goddess. Could do no wrong. Even her enemies loved her. Hell, you should have heard what Charlie Rome said at the service in the rotunda of the Capitol of the United States.” She hadn’t told him that she was present. He took another sip and pounded his chest. “I loved her. I loved her since the first day I saw her coming down the street after church with that green hat on her red head. Maybe she was twelve. No more. Never gave me a tumble though. It was the old Jack of Diamonds from the beginning.”
Was he running something up the flagpole to test a campaign ploy? Wrapping himself around the fallen icon? Mustn’t forget he is a politician first and foremost, she warned herself, excavating a mental moat around her to protect her from gullibility. These old Irish blarney birds had the ability to reach inside of you, touch the weak spots. Even his tone and language had subtly changed to meet the requirements of persuasion. Above all, he was hustling her figurative vote.
He took another deep sip and sighed, then seemed lost in deep thought for a moment. After a long pause, he then shook himself alert, his gelatin jowls shivering like a St. Bernard.
“It was me that was going to run that first time out when old Huey gave up the ghost. Was our man in Washington for thirty years. You know how it was in the old days.” He looked at her. “Maybe not. But it was me that was groomed to take his place. I had to settle for State senator.” He put both his hands up, palms out. “I’m not complaining. Been damned good to me. Damned good.” He shrugged and she knew he was reliving it all, reaching far back in time for justification.
Hard to fathom these things, she thought. She had encountered it many times in her business. A person reluctant to talk at first suddenly vents himself and explodes with an unstoppable confession. Of course, she needed to ask questions to fill in the gaps, but she knew it would be wrong to interrupt him, break the spell. He called for a refill and Sully stopped what he was doing and eagerly brought it to their booth. He stood over them, waiting for a response from her.
“I’m okay,” Fiona said.
“It was the old Jack of Diamonds. He came to Huey on his deathbed and begged him to give Frankie the Congressional spot. Huey said that if Jack Grady stepped aside he would put his blessing on it. That’s the way things are done up here. You being Irish know the drill, all dark and mystical with blood bonds, curses and promises to the death. So McGuire, he wasn’t the Jack of Diamonds then, and I wasn’t the Jack of Clubs, he comes to me and invokes everything from the Holy Mother to the pope, reminding me about us being spiritual brothers since choir boy days. Hell, we were always thick as fleas. Even now.” He lowered his voice and leaned over the table. “Used to filch nickels from the Sunday church box. Him and me were the counters. Put the foxes in with the sheep.” He chuckled. “Used to get drunk on the ceremonial wine. In the end he was on his knees begging for Frankie to get the shot and I finally said yes and he said, okay Jackie, I owe you one.”
He sucked in a deep breath, expelled it, then took a deep drag on his mug. She could fill in the gaps on that one without further questions. The subtext here was money changing hands, a transaction posing as an emotional experience.
“It wasn’t all Jack McGuire’s soft tongue though,” Grady said, after he had slapped the mug down on the table, a signal for Sully to bring another. “I told you. I loved the woman. Always did. Always will. Not something a wife likes to live with, but Patsy has been a card about it. Not that it ever meant anything more than just words. Like now. The fact is she was a hell of a congresswoman. She gave those bastards a run for their money. And I aim to follow in her footsteps, I can tell you. She’ll be running with me side by side, all the way.”
More campaign stuff, she thought. Because it seemed to be working, he ladled out some more, thick and steaming.
“Got no regrets, though,” he added quickly. “Just picking up the relay stick is all.” Sully brought another mug for Grady and refilled hers. At that point, he seemed to have gone contemplative again. He looked into the mug for a long time and when he lifted his gaze toward her she could see that his eyes were moist. “Poor Frankie. We really lost one when we lost Frank
ie.”
Not wanting him to lose the thread, she finally spoke.
“You said broken heart.”
“Had to be. I can’t think what else. Unless she was sick with some terrible disease that she might not want to face.”
“Not according to the autopsy.”
He nodded.
“Then it’s what I told you.”
“Mr. Grady, I really don’t understand. Are you saying she had a lover who threw her over?”
“Frankie?” He seemed to erupt suddenly waving a finger in her nose. “That’s a foul ball, FitzGerald, a real foul ball. Whatever old Jack McGuire did to her, finding himself a new lady, that doesn’t mean that she’d do the same to him. Frankie was a true and faithful wife down the line. Next thing you know the damned media will be dragging her hallowed memory through the slime.”
“I’m sorry,” Fiona said, peeking through the struts of his quickly circled wagon wheels. She had, indeed, offended their Irish tribal mores. Alright for the goose but never for the gander in their convoluted morality. Irish womanhood derived from the Holy Virgin. The bastards would sooner sew a big “A” on Frankie’s shroud than abominate the faithlessness of Jack McGuire. She let herself cool inside for a moment. “I’m not from around here. Just doing my job. I suppose I’ve confused your meaning.”
“Left field, FitzGerald. Frankie would never do anything like that. Not Frankie.” His look underlined his contempt for the idea. He took another long drag on his mug.
“Okay. Then educate me. I’d like to close the book on this one.” A blatant lie. This case had taken on a metaphysical importance in her life. Fate had exchanged a death for life. When a star falls another is born, her father had told her one evening long ago as they watched a glorious twinkling night sky. Swiftly, her thoughts shifted to Greg waiting for her back at the Ritz-Carlton, Greg the unwitting progenitor. With effort, she forced her concentration back to Jack Grady’s speculation.
