The Incumbent

by Brian McGrory

  The bartender-Gerry, he had introduced himself as-cheerily allowed me the use of his telephone to send my story east. A few of the customers appeared riveted by my actions. Once it was gone, at 6:00 P.m. local time, I had some time to waste before my flight, so I ordered another Bud and took a seat at the bar. A rather large man in a leather biker jacket came over and asked how much memory I had in my machine.

  "Can't remember," I said.

  He laughed. The bartender laughed. With something of a beer glow from lack of food, I took it another step. I asked, more loudly this time,

  "What, you some kind of computer nerd?"

  There was a long moment of absolute silence as the biker processed this question. I caught Gerry out of the corner of my eye, put a couple of glasses down on top of the dishwasher and draw a little closer, in case there was trouble. At last, the biker burst out laughing and clubbed me on my back with his hand.

  "Computer nerd-ha," he said, quaking in delight. All the other customers were laughing. Gerry was laughing. I was laughing. My pager sounded, and I took a quick look at it. "Great show. Peter," it said, his signal that he was done editing. I thought for a second about how Peter would do in this bar, and that made me wonder whether the nice clientele here would start with sodomy or would gnaw his legs off first for kicks, pardon the pun. Didn't really matter, I concluded. Another trip, another success. This one seemed so easy.

  But life tends to throw you little curve balls when you least expect them, and one came at me at that moment in the form of the pimply guard from Nathaniel's compound, walking through the tired wooden door of the Dew Drop Inn. He spotted me at about the same time I spotted him, which is to say, immediately. I saw him reach instinctively inside his coat to make sure he was still packing his gun. I also saw no obvious look of worry on his face, which meant he was.

  He came walking right over and took the bar stool right next to mine without actually looking at me and ordered a rum and Coke. I didn't think people drank those anymore. I was packing my computer away in its case when I heard him say, without ever turning toward me, "The little faggot's going to run right on out of here, huh? Scared?"

  "Faggot's not exactly scared," I explained to him as I zipped up the case and put my arms through my coat. "Got a plane to catch." I turned to him and smiled what I thought was a pretty winning smile.

  He apparently didn't think so. As my arms were just going into the sleeves of my coat, his left hand shot out, grabbed the back of my head by my neck, and tried slamming it down into the bar. Luckily, I was able to shoot my own left arm across the bar so my face collided only with my coat and my forearm, rather than the particleboard. When I pulled my head up, in a something of a daze, he kneed me in the crotch, causing me to double over in pain toward the dusty floor.

  I'd been a reporter all my life, and the most violent situation I'd been involved in up until recently was when a pen once broke in my jacket pocket on the way to cover the statewide finals of a national spelling bee. But in the last week, I'd had bullets come at me twice, and now fists and knees. Time for a raise, or at least a clause in my union contract that would provide for hazard pay.

  As I gasped for air, I could see and hear all the other nice patrons push their bar stools out and surround us in a state of collective surprise. He was one of them, a homeboy. I was the guy who no more than an hour ago had bought everyone a round of beer. There's no doubt they were shocked that the two of us would have any reason to fight.

  I calculated in those briefest of moments that this situation could unfold in a couple of different ways. One, the entire bar could fall in line behind their own and kick the living Christ out of me, if not outright kill me. Two, they could recall that I had bought them the aforementioned round and side with me over some punkish kid who no one had ever particularly liked. Or three, they could stay neutral, which is exactly what they appeared to be doing. The group encircled us, but no one stepped in. One guy even called out, "Don't go too hard on him, Bo." Gee, thanks for the good wishes.

  Bo didn't actually adhere to what I thought was reasoned, and reasonable, counsel. As I remained crunched down, trying to collect myself and protect my sore ribs from his onslaught, he took a roundhouse swing at the side of my face. I flinched back, and his fist grazed my cheek and kept going. That's when he glared at me and said something I thought to be quite interesting, even in my current state.

  He said, "I should have kicked the crap out of the last fed who came here, too."

  Kicked the crap out of the last fed. We had someone who was confused, but potentially helpful, if I could just put him in a situation where he might find it in his best interest to provide that help. I didn't know what he meant, but I had a nagging, if unformed, suspicion. All the while, the crowd surrounding us continued to watch in confusion that now seemed to be transforming to glee. In retrospect, one more round of beers, and I think I would have had them on my side.

  In an instant, I rose up out of my pain-induced crouch and faked a punch to Bo's greasy face. In a typical trait of youth, he overreacted, bringing both his arms up toward his head, exposing his entire midsection. I zeroed in with a ferocious punch to his stomach, so hard it virtually lifted him up off his feet and landed him on his ass, where he rolled into a ball.

  Young Bo didn't seem to have a warrior's instinct. He stayed down, groaning. Pain shot through my ribs, but I had neither the time nor inclination to be burdened by it. No one in the circle of spectators made any move toward me, so I approached Bo, grabbing him by his stringy hair, pushing his face into the dirty floor, and asking, "What fed, Bo? What fed?"

  He was actually crying now. Crying. I forced his head around in the grit, and he barely resisted. I also reached into his coat, felt around for a moment, and grabbed his gun. I put it on the floor and slid it far away from the two of us. No one else bothered to pick it up, which was a good sign.

  "What fed?"

  He continued to whimper and took a flailing shot at my face with his right fist. He missed. I pulled my left arm back, then rabbit-punched him in the nose, breaking it, I think, because blood came spurting out.

  The Columbia Journalism Review might not deem this the best way for a reporter to seek information, but fuck the Columbia Journalism Review.

  All their writers sit in offices in Manhattan thinking their big fucking thoughts without a rat's ass of an idea what it's like out here in the real world of daily reporting.

  Young Bo yelped. I pushed his face around on the dirty floor again.

  "Tell me about the fucking fed before I break your fucking neck," I said, surprising even myself with the primitive tone of voice.

  I pulled my fist back again, prompting Bo to squeal, "Stop. Stop.

  I'll tell you."

  "Tell me."

  Bo tried collecting himself. It wasn't a pretty scene. He was on the floor, facedown. I was on top of him, holding him by the scruff of the neck. A crowd of about twenty gawkers stood around us at a respectable distance. I tightened my grip.

  "He was here last week," Bo said softly, through his whimpering. "No, two weeks ago. Guy wouldn't tell us his name or who he was with, but he had an appointment and we were told to show him right in. Someone said he was an FBI guy, named Kent, I think. Met with the commander at headquarters for about two hours, then left. Never seen a fed at the compound before. First him, now's you. I'd like to know what's going on."

  "I'll tell you over tea sometime," I said to him, loud enough for others to hear, mostly because I thought it was a pretty good line.

  Then I whispered into his ear, "Until then, don't move a fucking muscle or I'll kick your fucking brains out." I got up, straightened out my clothes, pulled a $20 and a $10 out of my pocket and put them on the bar in front of Gerry, and said, "Set Bo up with his next couple of drinks, and buy the rest of the boys a round."

  I gathered up my stuff and was off into the night with one immediate, crucial piece of business ahead of me. Hurtling down that two-lane road, I called Pet
er Martin's condominium in Arlington, Virginia. He answered on the first ring. Best I could tell, when he wasn't at the office, he was always home, though I'll be damned if I knew what he did there. Like everyone else in the newspaper business, he was divorced.

  I always figured he was just watching TV, probably CNN or C-Span.

  "Flynn here," I said. "Kill that story in the second edition."

  "What?"

  "Something's going on with it, and I'm not sure what it is. But I think maybe we've been had. I just found out that Drinker might have been out here a couple of weeks ago, must have been before the assassination attempt. I don't know why, but I don't like it."

  "We kill that story," Martin said, "and we look ridiculous."

  "We leave it in for the full run, and we look even worse. We look negligent."

  I explained my half-formed fears to him in greater detail.

  There was a silence before Martin said, "I'll do what I can."

  It was a long ride down to the airport, and an even longer walk to my room in the miserable airport hotel where I was forced to spend the night because I had missed the last flight. It all gave me just enough time to convince myself that by completely fucking up, perhaps I learned something about this story far more valuable than anything I previously had.

  Tuesday, October 31

  When I awoke the next morning, Tuesday morning, I was a jumble of uncharacteristic nerves. In reporting, rare were the times I screwed up, and rare were the stories when I was so dependent on any one person. But here, all my actions were geared toward getting a call from an elderly gentleman who was out of my control. I couldn't help but wonder if he read the version of the Boston Record with my story or without it.

  For these reasons, the flight back to Washington seemed arduously long, even with another soft leather seat up in first class. From the airport, as they announced the final boarding, I called my message services at home and work for the third time of the morning, and it wasn't yet 9:00 A.m. Nothing. My pager sounded, and I fairly jumped through the ceiling of the USAIRWAYS Club. "Jack," the message scrolled across my Skytel. "Have important new information. Need to discuss tonight. University Club at eight? I'll buy. Steve."

  I shook my head. It's 6:00 A.m. in DC, and Havlicek was already working the story. Maybe the source called him because he couldn't reach me. I picked up a telephone and belted out Havlicek's number at the bureau, but got no answer, so I left a message saying eight was fine. What could he have?

  My only other wish of the morning came true: the seat beside me was vacant, meaning I was at no risk of having a chatterbox salesman spend the next six hours discussing the critical advantages of spreadsheet software for personal accounting. I admit, I'm not much of a good sport on airplanes. I don't make small talk with seatmates, and I don't encourage those who do. Only once do I remember really liking someone I met on a plane. He was an airport fireman, and taking off from Logan in Boston on a late-night flight to Las Vegas, he pointed out for me all the different spots on and around the runways where there had been, in his words, "aviation mishaps." "Look over there,"

  he said, pointing his finger against the dark windows at something I couldn't see. "World Airways jet overshot the runway and slammed into a stone wall. Two dead, father and son. They were sitting in the front of the plane, just like we are. Assume their bodies fell into the harbor, and they probably were carried out to sea." Absolutely riveting.

  I ordered the Sonoma chicken, having absolutely no idea what it would be, and opted for water instead of wine, assuming there might well be work to be done when the plane landed on the other end. Try as I might, with a book, computer hearts, the new November issue of Attach'e magazine, I couldn't shake the questions: Had he called? Would he call? Was he real? What did he have? Is this, I wondered, what it is like to be a woman?

  Ends up, the chicken was a smart move. Everyone who ordered the fish seemed to be sick as a dog, and I don't mean a nice purebred dog, like Baker, but some mangy thing with matted-down fur and funny ears, constantly picking up ticks.

  A doctor came wandering up from coach to first class to make the rounds. He announced that they had apparently contracted a minor case of food poisoning and that life would go on, just not as well as if they had ordered the chicken. None of this seemed to alleviate any of the pain. The guy in front of me was groaning and moving about in his seat. I had to just get up and get out of there. Mother Teresa I am not. So I headed for the back of the plane on my usual walk. When I pushed through the curtain, everyone seemed so calm, so fresh. They had eaten these meager little boxed lunches-salads with three pieces of lettuce and a chunk of a tomato, a microscopic sliver of cheese lasagna, a hard chocolate chip cookie-and now they were fine. I wondered if this might all be the start of the revolution, right here on US Airways Flight 906. No time, though, for a revolution. I had a story to break.

  I dawdled. I chatted with the stewardesses back in the galley, wondering if I sounded like the moronic middle-aged executives who always seem to get such a charge out of engaging the flight attendants.

  I probably did, but they didn't seem to mind. We traded hotel stories from Seattle.

  "My fucking toilet wouldn't flush at two this morning," the blonde said.

  My goodness. Such a pretty woman; such a tart mouth. I found myself pleasantly aroused as I made my way back up the aisle toward our mile-high version of Chicago Hope.

  As I settled back into my seat, several people around me were clutching their stomachs. The captain had come out of the cockpit and announced to them that he could land the plane in Kansas City if the passengers thought this was necessary, or he could carry on through to Philadelphia. The doctor advised them to keep going, saying that the airport wouldn't provide much more relief than this airplane, and that the sickness would pass in a short time anyway. I suspect he had a golf game back east the next morning that he didn't want to miss.

  As I leaned toward the seat pocket for a book, I felt something crinkle beneath me. I reached behind my back and pulled out a single sheet of white paper, folded three ways, with my name written across it, by hand. This had an odd feeling of deja vu, as I flashed back to that restaurant in Georgetown. I shot looks all around me to see if I could catch anyone watching me, however discreetly. Nothing. The woman across the aisle was sound asleep. All the other people within view appeared consumed by pain.

  I gingerly opened the sheet up and saw just a few lines of perfect penmanship. "Dear Mr. Flynn," it began. "You are on the right track.

  I am here to help you. I will be in touch in the next couple of days to guide you. Do not believe what they tell you. The would-be assassin is not Tony Clawson."

  Jesus mother of holy Christ. My informant was right here on the plane.

  I was within a few yards of him. Quickly I stood up and flagged a flight attendant hurrying by. I didn't have the time or inclination to be coy.

  "Ma'am, did you happen to see the person who dropped this paper on my seat?" I asked, as I held up the folded-up note.

  She couldn't have cared less. She said, "No, I'm sorry, we've been really busy," as she pushed past me. I scanned everyone's face around me, looking for some reaction. I got none. Then I stared at the sleeping woman across the aisle. Had she been there at the beginning of the flight? I couldn't be sure. Maybe she delivered the note, but wasn't the actual informant. I bore into her with my eyes, looking to see if she was faking, if this sleep was an act. But I couldn't see so much as a flutter of her eyes.

  Clutching the note, I walked down the aisle into coach, determined, hoping to spook the writer into some sort of mistake. I looked around hard at virtually everyone, focusing even harder on the few older men.

  One man sat by the window doing a crossword puzzle, still wearing a blue blazer in his cramped seat. He looked proper enough to be my voice, so I stopped and stared at him. Eventually, he looked up at me and stared back. Our eyes were locked on each other when he asked,

  "Can I help you?"
/>   It was a completely different voice than the one I had heard on the telephone. "My mistake," I said. "I thought I might know you."

  I returned to the front, slumped down into my seat, and read the note again. The writer had repeated, generally, what the voice had told me before: "Do not believe what they tell you." Far more important were the first and last parts of the message. I was on the right track, this story would get much bigger, and finally, a piece of concrete information: the assassin was not who the FBI said he was. I would be contacted in a couple of days. Obviously, this guy meant business.

  Either he was on the plane, or an emissary was, at no small expense.

  He had followed me across the country. He watched me diligently, waiting for me to get up out of my seat so he could drop this. And then he sat back, immune to my desperate, silent appeals for help. Was this some sort of game to him? Was he just having fun? What was the point of catching me midflight, of not waiting until I was on the ground? Did he just want to show me how serious he was? And had he already read the story I had in the early editions today? Did he think I had screwed up? Apparently not.

  I sat rigid in my seat for the next three hours, assuming I was being watched. As the stewardesses handed out cold compresses to the sick, the groaning all around me eventually stopped. When we landed, I carefully, self-consciously collected my carry-ons and walked off the plane.

  When I jumped into a taxicab, I said, "Downtown, please." In that sense, I knew where I was heading. In another sense, I had no idea at all.

  ten

  By the time I had made my way through the Grille Room, Lyle had already drawn me a beer, a Sam Adams OctoberFest, God love him, and God love the Boston Beer Company while we're at it. I could use whatever they had to offer tonight.

  "You've become quite the celebrity," Lyle said to me through barely pursed lips. He wasn't admiring or condescending, but matter-of-fact, as if pointing out to me, with his years of Washington wisdom, that this too shall pass, like so many other things in life. Lyle had seen it all. That's just one of the reasons I like him. The frosted pilsner glass he slid toward me was another.