Many things had smitten Terry, beginning with her offer to light his cigarette. She snapped open a lighter. It was gold, expensive. In that moment of his leaning over it, the lighter seemed to be engraved with the words This Is Her.
"Nice lighter," he said.
"Thanks. My first husband gave it to me." He jolted upward with surprise. She said, "We were married for three months. The Love Boat meets the Lusitania."
"Your first?"
"I call him that, assuming there will be a second. My second will be my last."
Terry loved her refusal to be twittery as they circled each other, her unmistakable air of having fled a past, the defiant elegance with which she'd licked sour cream from her two fingertips, her hard-ass sexual interest.
He'd tested her, because of the South in her voice, by asking about this Jimmy Carter fellow. She lectured him that southern liberals are the only liberals whose politics came at a cost.
"Except the Kennedys," she added. "Theirs have cost them."
"Do you know I work for Ted?"
"Yes, sugar. I know everything about you."
"What about you?" he replied. "I know nothing about you except what's engraved on your lighter."
"Nothing's engraved on my lighter."
"That's what piqued my interest Tell me what you care about."
"Really? Not what I do?"
"I hope it's the same thing."
She laughed. "Jesus, sugar, where did you come from?"
"So tell me."
She shifted, suddenly serious. "I care about the moral delicacy of an artist named Masaccio, whose work changed Leonardo's life, and Michelangelo's, and also mine."
"I know nothing about that Nothing."
"Don't you have some way to fake me?"
"I wish I even knew what to ask."
"Think of something."
He looked at her, saying nothing.
"No wisecrack? You could ask to see my engravings."
"Actually, I'd love to learn about Masaccio. 'Moral delicacy,' you said. What a thing to say about a painter."
And it struck her then that, of course, she'd used that exact phrase sensing the thing in him.
***
It was busing that worried Kennedy, and it would be Terry's first test. No one needed to spell out the importance of not repeating the events of the previous September. Images of the rowdy Irish holding signs and spouting racist epithets on the nightly news across America were bad for Boston, for civil rights, and, not incidentally, for the senior senator. But as Terry settled into his job in August and began throwing the legendary levers of Kennedy power, he found that, in this instance, they were connected to nothing. As the first day of school approached, children may have been sharpening their pencils, and worried parents may have been attending ad hoc meetings, but Boston's leading citizens were in their holes, and nothing Doyle did, even as the senator's proxy, could get them out.
One afternoon he went up to the cardinal's residence in Brighton. Cushing had been replaced by Umberto Madeiros, a pious, soft-mannered Portuguese-American. His circle of monsignori no longer included Loughlin or Collins, but it was a good bet that the new lineup knew very well who Terence Doyle had been.
When, upon his arrival, Terry was shown into the assistant chancellor's office, he got the picture quickly. The man was about sixty. His name was Morello. Terry came immediately to the point "If the cardinal's unavailability is personal to me, let's arrange a meeting with my deputy. Senator Kennedy is counting on the cardinal to pick up the flag. We have to get the priests into the streets if—"
"You do not understand the situation His Eminence finds himself in on the busing matter." The monsignor spoke in the measured, stately way of a Vatican functionary. His English seemed acquired. "There is nothing His Eminence can do."
Terry remembered being in this very room years before: Honesty in the Church. He stifled a wave of repugnance and launched into a passionate explanation, not of the Church's moral authority or the needs of vulnerable black children, but of Kennedy's personal commitment to a collaboration with Boston's new archbishop.
When Doyle had finished, the monsignor leaned across the polished table and removed his spectacles. "You were not here last year," he said. "You have not been in Boston at all." And Terry wondered, Are they still spying on me?
The monsignor's voice strained with an anger Terry realized only then had nothing to do with him. "You know nothing of what it was like, or will be again. His Eminence went to Gate of Heaven himself. He went to St. Mary's. The people of South Boston and Charlestown cursed him to his face." The monsignor paused. Terry was certain he would say, This is where it ends, what you began. But instead be said, "His Eminence is dark-complected, as you know. They called him 'nigger.' Tell that to Senator Kennedy, what his people in this city have become."
A few days later, Terry went up to the State House, heading for one of the broad, opulent offices under the golden dome itself. He was confident that this meeting would be different Joe Malioy, the Speaker of the House, had been elected rep from West Roxbury in 1960 as one of Jack's guys. Four years ago, when he'd made his move on the gavel, Terry himself had made some of Ted's calls in Joe's behalf, and Malloy knew it Malloy was wholly owned.
"Hey, Terry," he said, coming out from the small rear office behind his huge desk, his hand extended. "Good to see you, guy."
Malloy was short and overweight. One of the most powerful pols on Beacon Hill, he still impressed as the high school football coach he'd started as. His tie was loose at his throat The blues of his suit coat and trousers were slightly off.
"Mr. Speaker," Terry said. They shook hands in the middle of the room. Three tall windows offered a view of Boston Common, the shimmering afternoon. On the opposite wall hung oil portraits of a pair of Malloy's bewhiskered predecessors. A glass and mahogany case against another wall held a large model of a China clipper. Malloy eased Doyle toward a leather couch. "Cut the Mr. Speaker crap, Terry. You make me feel like a stranger."
Doyle laughed, having long since learned how this game was played. "Okay, Joe. It's just that you look so good I didn't recognize you."
They sat, Terry on the couch, Joe in a nubby wing chair facing him. A brass-trimmed butler's table stood between them. "Nice suit," Terry said, but Malloy missed the jibe. Terry picked up a strong cigar odor, and then noticed a thin stream of fading smoke that trailed back to the corner room from which Malloy had just come. The door to that room was open. He'd left his cigar behind.
"I'm glad you came by, Terry." Malloy shifted gears, leaning forward, abruptly serious. "Because I can feel the swamp starting to bubble again. We need Ted—"
"No, Joe. No."
"You're going to have to—"
"Hold on, Joe. I came by because the senator expects you to be his number one."
"Not on this, Terry. It's going to be just as bad this year. I'm not going to be out front."
"Nobody's talking 'out front'"
"Here's the thing you got to tell him, Terry. Ted has to call Garrity. That fucking Clover Club judge has pushed too far this rime."
"You know the senator can't do that I already told you what we need, Joe. Your hacks on the street. Holding the line. Your reps all pull in their organizations. Flynn and Butler taking a walk. We're counting on the governor—"
"I can give you the governor. The street is something else."
"We have the governor. Ted knows your people won't ride the buses. We just don't want them on the sidewalk. No mobs. No thugs humping bananas at black kids, Joe. We can't have a rehash of last year."
"Walter Cronkite on A Street?"
"It's not Walter Cronkite we're worried about It's the kids. We want the kids in school, safe and sound. We want the judge's order carried out."
Malloy sat back shaking his head. "If I was the senator, I'd think about calling the judge. He could—"
"The senator told me I could count on you, Joe."
"You can." Malloy looked weari
ly toward the nearby window. "I was just, you know ... But, what the hell, okay. Behind the scenes, right? I'm not out front on this. But I got a guy who will be."
"Who?"
"To help with the streets. Keep the bad actors off the yams, Southie, the Town. The two hills. Just the fucking guy, Terry."
"Who?"
From the far side of the room, from within the rear office, a voice said, "Me."
A familiar voice, the most familiar voice there was.
Terry looked across as Nick appeared in the doorway behind the Speaker's desk, smiling that smile of his, as if they were easing down the court after a score. He was dressed in his trademark dark clothing, a loose-fitting cardigan, a polo shirt, and well-cut baggy trousers. His hair was long. He looked like a rough-hewn movie actor. He put a cigar to his mouth and drew deeply as he crossed toward them. It was his brother's nonchalance, more than anything, that made Terry angry.
He looked coldly at Malloy. "You've got my brother in your office, Joe? I ask you to call in markers for the senator, and you bring my brother in?"
"Terry, cool it Squire can—"
"No, Squire can't What, he'll send his runners around the Town and Southie breaking knees? Saying the senator sent them?"
Nick laughed. "We'd sure as hell never mention Kennedy. You're the only mick left, Charlie, who takes a cue from Ted." He grinned as he reached his brother, and he put his hand out with such openheartedness that Terry had no choice but to take it.
"You're my fucking shadow, Nick. Honest to God."
"I'll wait for you outside," Squire said. Then, to Malloy, "I told you." He shrugged. "You should of called somebody else, Joe."
"You fuck, there is nobody else. As you know."
Squire put the cigar in his teeth and bounced it as he turned and left.
When the door closed, Terry said, with ice in his voice, "Who are you trying to ruin, Malloy? Ted? Me? Or yourself?"
"Look, Terry, you've been in D.C. a long time. Your brother is lord of the fucking manor in the neighborhoods."
"I wanted you to pull together your reps, for Christ's sake. Priests, Joe. Social workers, tavern keepers, the local cops. Who the hell holds your posters for you when you're up for election? Instead, you give me—" Terry stopped, shocked that he'd almost put into words what he knew about his brother.
"But outside the neighborhoods, Terry, hey, that's the beauty of it He's just another flower salesman. Nobody knows Squire unless he wants them to." A sly grin overspread Malloy's face. "Like Senator Kennedy, for example. I'll lay you odds he's never heard of him. Am I right? I'll bet you've seen to that, eh?"
Terry stood up. "Thanks for nothing, Joe."
"Tell Kennedy if he wants to do something, he should call that fucking judge. Call the fucking buses off, Doyle. That's the way to keep it peaceful. That's the only way. You tell Kennedy I said so."
"Don't worry, I will." Terry crossed the room briskly. At the door he looked back. Malloy was still in the wing chair. "One other thing, Joe. Your suit coat and your pants don't match. What, you get your clothes at Goodwill? Squire doesn't pay you enough?"
Malloy looked at the mismatch of his clothing and shook his head. "Marie's always telling me I'm colorblind." He laughed. "Like the blindfolded lady, right? Like Judge Garrity. I'm colorblind." Malloy, with his half-bald, perspiring head thrown back, was still laughing when Terry went through the door.
Squire was waiting in the gleaming rotunda, leaning back on the marble balustrade, savoring his cigar. Terry went over to him, but before he could speak, Squire said, "You look like someone slapped you."
"You son of a bitch."
"Nice greeting."
"Don't you see what Malloy just did? He used you, you stupid shit, to send a tickle to Kennedy. Through me, goddamnit."
Squire nodded. "Teddy's in trouble when jerks like Malloy feel free to flip him the bird."
"But you're the bird, Nick You see what he just did, throwing you in my face. How the hell could you do that to me?"
Squire stared at his brother, not answering.
"Goddamnit, Nick."
"Where the hell have you been, Terry? Why haven't we heard from you? You've been here a month already, right?"
"Not three weeks yet."
"And your new wife. I thought you were going to bring her over. What the hell, Terry. Gramps's feelings are hurt."
"Don't put it off on Gramps."
"All right My feelings are hurt" As Squire said this, his mouth spread, but the grin was not cynical enough to fully undercut the feet that what he'd said was exactly true.
When had hurt feelings last been an issue between them? Terry felt that he'd just walked into the wall of what had first defined them: the younger brother always with an eye out for the older one's interest and approval. But Terry shook that sensation off to stay with what was real. "Malloy wanted to use you to stiff Ted, and as a side bonus, to fuck me up with him. You think Ted Kennedy can afford an association with you, even indirectly?"
"Your worst nightmare, right?"
"One of them, in point of feet."
"Which is why you've been so scarce. Chasing the dream in Washington, so far away."
"Let's put it this way, Nick. I didn't ask to be sent back here."
Squire smiled. "But suddenly Senator Kennedy needs your local connections. What is that thing Tip O'Neill says? 'All politics is criminal'?"
"'Local,' smart-ass," Terry said before realizing he'd been had. So what the hell, he asked his question. "What are you doing with that Italian?"
"Leave it alone, Terry. You fouled out of this game a long time ago. You think you know the score, but you don't have a clue."
"I don't want a clue, Nick."
"I gather that. I fucking gather it."
A pair of nattily dressed pols drew near, engrossed in their own conversation. One, a red-faced man in a seersucker suit, carrying a boater, touched his nose as he crossed in front of Nick, who looked at him. Except for that, there was no exchange, but Terry recognized the salute.
Nick worked his cigar while the two men moved away. Then he lightly slapped his brother's arm. "So what do you say?"
"About?"
"Saturday. You and Joan. Two o'clock. We'll have a cookout."
"This Saturday? You kidding me?"
"No matter what happens Wednesday, there's no school on Saturday, no buses, no demonstrations to embarrass you."
Terry shook his head. "I don't think I made my point The busing thing is an issue, but so is your shit with Tucci. I can't have it, Nick. Games like this. I'm back in Boston. I work for Kennedy. I've got the Boston Globe tied to my neck. You can't fuck me up."
"Those wiseguys at the Globe never heard of me. They cover the Town the same way they cover Southie. No faces. No names. Just Archie, Edith, and Meathead. White racist pigs. Housewives with flabby upper arms. Kids with bad teeth. Boyos in tweed caps. All yelling 'The Town won't go!' You know, typical Irish Catholics. I'm a dumb mick florist, Terry. Relax, will you? And as for Ted, should I give him some dough? Would that help?"
"Fuck you, Nick."
"Just don't lace curtain me, okay? Not in terms of that two-toilet bastard. Who are the fucking Kennedys, Terry? Who was Joe?"
Terry turned, starting away.
But Squire grabbed him. "And I never killed anybody, okay? I never left a girl to drown."
"Oh, Jesus!" Terry pulled free and stalked away from the balustrade toward the broad stairs. But at the top step he stopped again, not knowing why. It was such an old feeling, jerking first this way, then that. When they'd played b-ball, all either ever had to do was bounce the ball away from where he was looking and the other brother was always there. Score!
Nick closed the distance between them.
Terry said, "Are we arguing about Chappaquiddick? Jesus Christ, are we really?"
"Yes. Yes we are." Squire put his hand out. "It's good to see you, brother."
And Terry took it.
***
> Even before leaving Washington, Terry and Joan had formed a habit of watching the late news together. Often it was their first chance to relax, and they sat with drinks in hand while well-coiffed newscasters mouthed their scripts.
But this was Boston, and the images they saw that Friday night silenced them.
Joan had spent all of her time so far at the museum. Her position at the Fogg included teaching a section of a Harvard art history course, and she'd been in a panic about getting ready. But increasingly, like everyone in the city, she too had registered the dark clouds to the south and the north. She'd heard the rumblings and knew vaguely of Terry's work. But she was not prepared, not at all.
They were sitting on the couch, their legs entangled. She took his ankle in her hand and squeezed hard.
The television camera moved in on black children filing off a bus between rows of helmeted, dead-eyed policemen. Under the picture, a voice could be heard: "Yuh muthafuckin' niggers!" The camera cut to a teenage white boy, his mouth twisted, and then to a pasty-faced housewife, and next to her an acne-scarred man whose neck vein could be seen throbbing dangerously: "Yuh muthafuckin' coons! Yuh jungle bunnies!"
Christ, Terry thought, they're putting this stuff on television?
Joan let go of his ankle, pulled her hand away to cover her mouth, as if she were thinking hard. A white baby's face filled the screen. The camera pulled back The baby, in the canvas throne of her umbrella stroller, was staring at a woman, apparently her mother, who was on her knees reciting the rosary. "What do they want," Joan said with icy detachment, "this Blessed Mother person to overrule Judge Garrity?"
"'This Blessed Mother person'?" Terry said, facing her.
Joan's brow registered the rebuke in his words, which stiffened her face. Her blond hair, cut in a tidy pageboy, offered an image of the perfection that enabled her to meet his stare with an even starker one of her own. "What," she said.
"You make it sound like their religion is the problem."
Joan pointed at the television. "The woman is obviously praying, Terry."
"That's not prayer. It's a crass manipulation of prayer. The fact that they are Irish Catholic is incidental."
The City Below Page 27
