Timmy chortled. "Well, if you really need to know..."
"Know what?"
"This guy, Frogman Ying, was famous for his incredibly long tongue. He was a Taiwanese Chinese-American who sort of got passed around among Ann and her gang for a year or so."
"Frogman?"
"His real name was Alex."
"You think he's still in Albany?"
"I've seen him around. He works for the taxation committee as I recall. He could work magic with numbers, Ann said. But not just numbers."
I said, "Do straight women confide these sorts of things to their straight male friends or just their gay male friends?"
"Oh, I think you know the answer to that one. It's one of the ten reasons we were invented."
"What are the other nine?"
Timmy said he'd have to consult Walter Scott's Personality Parade for the answer to that, and meanwhile he'd try to track down the gifted Mr. Ying.
I decided that Louderbush had concluded that he didn't need the Serbians harassing me anymore and I could safely return home. Crow Street did feel cozy and secure when I found a parking spot with inches to spare and maneuvered deftly into it. One of the few useful things I had learned in high school was parallel parking—algebra is overrated as a 156
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key to the good life—and I never failed to whisper thanks to my old driver ed teacher, Mr. Galitsky, whenever I practiced this essential urban skill.
Timmy wasn't home. He phoned and said he was having brunch with his old friend Ann Holmes, and he had a call in to Alex Ying. Timmy was going to feel out Ying on his current opinions on Assemblyman Louderbush. If they were negative, he'd level with Ying about the physical abuse charges and ask about the Louderbush staff inquiries into the Stiver suicide. If Louderbush was one of Ying's political heroes, I said the story might be that Stiver's family was setting up a memorial scholarship in his name, and did Ying recall if Assemblyman Louderbush was acquainted with the late young conservative stalwart? If Ying said why not just call the office, Timmy would say it's Saturday and the office is closed and Ann Hoolmes suggested Timmy call Ying.
I checked my e-mails—nothing from Bud Giannopolous—
and ate a bowl of Bola granola and put some coffee on.
My cell phone went off, and there it was again, Louderbush's number.
"This is Strachey."
"Yes. Mr. Strachey."
"I missed you last night. That Motel 6 set me back fifty-nine ninety-five. But let's try it again. I know you think this is as important as I do."
"Yes, I apologize. Anyone can tell you, missing appointments is out of character for me. But I had to deal with a situation before I spoke with you. I dealt with that situation, and now I'm clear going forward."
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"Okay."
"I want to sit down with you and with one other person who is deeply affected by all this."
"All right."
"That other person is my wife."
What was this? "That sounds awkward."
He breathed heavily. "You have no idea."
"So she knows? About you and Greg Stiver?"
Another long pause. "Is this call being recorded?"
"No. If it was, I would be legally required to inform you of that fact."
I could all but see him rolling his eyes. "Yes, and I'm sure you're a law-abiding investigator, Mr. Strachey. Just like the law-abiding investigators who followed Eliot Spitzer into post offices and hotels."
"Yes, and I'm sure you're a law-abiding public official. Oh, thanks, by the way, for calling off the Serbians. They nearly ripped my ear off the first time I ran into them."
"I have no idea what you're referring to, and I have no need to know what your private eye snooping-into-people's-privacy type of life must be like. What I'm telling you is, I'm willing to meet with you, and when I told my wife, Deidre, what I was planning to do, she insisted on being there, too. I find this all just excruciating, and so does she. But she says rightly, I think, that her being there might help convince you and the people you are working with that what you are embarked on is just terribly wrong and unfair. And if you have any sense of justice—and of Christian charity, if I may say what's in my heart—then you and Tom Dunphy and Shy 158
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McCloskey will drop this entire wrongheaded line of investigation, and find something better to do with your time and your bushels of money."
"Wrongheaded in what way?"
"You'll see. Can you meet Tuesday morning? I'm at home in Kurtzburg now and won't be back in Albany until Monday night. I have a friend who maintains a suite at the Crowne Plaza. Could you meet there?"
"I could drive out to where you are today or tomorrow.
You're what, just west of Rochester?"
"No, don't come here. If you come here, it's no deal. I can't have someone like you being seen with me in my district. I'm sure you get that."
"Someone like me? Mr. Louderbush, can you hear yourself talking? If you did, you'd have to wonder."
More breathing. "I know what you think of me. And I admit some of it's deserved. But you don't know the whole story.
Far from it. That's what you're going to hear on Tuesday, the whole story. And then you're going to think better of me. I promise you that you will think better of me."
It sounded like a con to me, and what I was mostly thinking about was the wire I'd wear and the additional evidence I'd end up with it that further revealed Louderbush's irredeemably rotten character.
We set the time and place for the Tuesday morning meeting, and I immediately called Timmy to update him on Louderbush's brazen gamesmanship. He was in the midst of his brunch with Ann Holmes and couldn't stay on the phone, but he said Frogman Ying had gotten back to him and was 159
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willing to meet me later that afternoon. Ying had told Timmy that Kenyon Louderbush was a great man who would make a great governor, and Ying was happy to hear that the Stiver family was setting up a memorial scholarship in Greg's name.
He remembered Greg as one of a number of bright, promising young conservatives who had supported Assemblyman Louderbush and whose careers, academic and otherwise, had been boosted by the assemblyman. Greg was one of several college students who had been mentored by Louderbush.
Greg was a particular favorite, but there had been others.
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Chapter Eighteen
"Who were the other college students Assemblyman Louderbush took an interest in?" I asked Ying. "Maybe some of them knew Greg and would like to participate in organizing the Stiver family's memorial scholarship?"
"I'm sure the assemblyman's office could give you a list.
Why not just wait until Monday?"
"The family is interested in young conservatives who actually knew Greg. They'll be looking for donations, of course, but from people of your generation it's predominantly testimonials they're gathering. And doing it through you and others like you gives it all the personal touch the family yearns for."
Ying nodded and seemed to swallow this hooey. He was a slender Chinese-American youth of thirty or so with close-cropped hair and a single silver earring. Not your average Federalist Society Scalia-phile. Ying was just back from the gym when I met him in a coffee shop on Lark Street, so his tank top gave me a partial view of the fiery-tongued dragon tattoo that looped over a satiny beige shoulder and onto his right pectoral. He spoke with no discernible accent, and I wasn't surprised by his distinct enunciation. I caught myself watching his mouth opening and closing. Might I catch a glimpse of it?
He said, "I don't know that Greg had much con
tact with the other students the assemblyman mentored. They lived out in his district for the most part. In any case, Greg's 161
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situation was different. The assemblyman assisted Greg with his master's thesis, as I recall. That's what he told me after Greg died, and Mr. Louderbush asked me and another staffer to get hold of the SUNY report on the suicide. The assemblyman wanted to make sure the investigation was thorough and that the death was actually a suicide and not some sort of absurd accident the university was covering up."
"What did you find out?"
"That it was in fact a suicide. There was a note that the police found, and they notified the university."
"How well did you know Greg? His death must have come as a terrible shock. Or did it?"
"I liked him, but I didn't know him terribly well. He came into the office once for a tour, and I saw him occasionally at SUNY Federalist Society get-togethers. Have you talked to his rugby buddies? I don't know who they were, but I'm sure they'd be interested in the memorial."
"No, I haven't talked to them. I'd love to locate some of them."
"Ask the assemblyman. It's one of the interests he and Greg shared. It's a rough sport, too messy for a gym addict like me. But I know Mr. Louderbush played sometimes. Even at his age. He'd come into the office with scrapes and bruises.
But he always said he found it invigorating."
"I know all about that."
"You play, too? Is that what happened to your ear?"
"Yep."
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"Softball is rough enough for me. I grew up in Taipei and played Little League. My family moved to the US when I was twelve. Rugby was a bit exotic for me and my brothers."
"What's your favorite sport now?"
He laughed. "I'm tempted to say muff-diving, but I guess that's not what you were thinking about when you asked the question."
"Ha ha."
"Anyway, are you Timothy Callahan's friend? Why is a raving progressive like Timothy interested in a memorial for someone like Greg Stiver? Or is he a friend of the Stiver family? Or are you?"
"I am. Greg's sister, Jennifer, asked me to help out. This all goes beyond politics."
"Oh sure. It's one of the reasons I love this country. You can hold the most passionate ideological beliefs and still be friends with the opposition. It's one of the ways I disagree with the Tea Party types. They make it all too vehement and too personal. On the Supreme Court, Justice Scalia and Justice Ginsberg tear each other to pieces on the bench, and yet off the bench they're the best of friends. Take you and Timothy. You can disagree with Assemblyman Louderbush's positions, and yet you still respect him enough to want to memorialize an unfortunate young man who meant so much to him and to the conservative youth movement in Albany.
What you're doing just serves to reaffirm my faith in my adopted country."
"Great."
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"So are you supporting Shy McCloskey for governor? I gather you are."
"Timmy works for Myron Lipschutz. So, sure."
"It's not Shy's year. Four years ago maybe. But Kenyon Louderbush's time has come. He'll be a great governor. At a minimum, he'll keep New York State from turning into a basket case like California. Overspending, fiscal paralysis, government by the special interests—that's all over."
"You think Louderbush can really beat Merle Ostwind? New York has never elected anybody as far right as your former boss. Anyway, you don't go for the Tea Partiers' extreme partisanship. And yet they're Louderbush's main supporters."
"The assemblyman won't be dictated to by anybody. He's his own man. He's going to do what's right. He's not interested in Obama-hating and all that craziness—birthers and deathers and that crap. He simply wants to support and enable the capitalists that built this magnificent country and to let them work their magic the way they once did."
"Like in 1890? Before child-labor laws and food safety and minimum wage and any clean air or water laws at all?"
He smiled. "I'd go back even further than that. 1870?"
"Why stop there? Why not 1840 or 1850, when the US was a virtual paradise?"
"Except for slavery and the cultural genocide of the Native Americans, sure, why not? Hey, you know what? I thought of somebody you should talk to about the scholarship fund.
Randy Spong was a SUNY student who did his master's thesis on the Missouri Compromise and other ways the South fought politically to retain slavery. I remember him because he was 164
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in the Federalist Society for a while, and he came into the office once with the assemblyman. Randy was a year or so ahead of Greg, but I'm guessing they knew each other. As I recall, Randy was a rugby player, too."
"Any idea where Randy is now?"
"I think he's teaching at UVM. He was a couple of years ago, I know."
"The University of Vermont?"
"In Burlington."
"I'll try to track him down."
"I'm sure he'd like to help remember Greg."
"I'll be sure to get in touch."
Ying checked his watch. "I have to get going. I have a date—actually two dates." He grinned. "One at two and another one tonight. I promised my parents I'd be married by the time I was thirty. I'm twenty-eight, so I'm sowing my wild oats while I still can. They have a nice Chinese girl they want me to meet, and that'll be fine when it happens. But meanwhile it's gather ye rosebuds while ye may, if you know what I mean."
I said I thought I did.
* * * *
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Chapter Nineteen
I asked Dunphy, "Does the campaign have an airplane I could use? I have to be in Hall Creek Monday morning and Burlington, Vermont Monday afternoon. I'm actually making some progress."
"We occasionally charter a plane for Shy, and we'll be doing a lot more of that as the campaign heats up. But do we have an aircraft standing by for your personal use? No, Strachey, we don't."
I told Dunphy about the possibility of other young men with whom Kenyon Louderbush had had abusive relationships and that I was trying to track down at least one of these people.
"Fantastic! That'd be the final nail in that asshole's coffin.
Great work, Strachey. This is terrific!"
"I'm not there yet, but it's looking worse and worse for the assemblyman. Though here's a new twist, Tom. Louderbush has actually contacted me, and he wants to meet with me and his wife on Tuesday. He claims this is all just a misunderstanding, and once I hear his side of the story I'll report to you and McCloskey and we'll drop this whole opposition research operation. I think it's a crock, but I'm going to go ahead and hear him out. Can you get me wired up for the meeting?"
Dunphy whooped, "Holy shit, Strachey! Louderbush just called you up? That is incredible!"
"I was surprised, too."
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"Oh my God, of course we can get you wired. Clean-Tech can probably do it. I'll check with them to see if they're equipped for that type of thing. Let me just run it by legal."
"Meanwhile, I can't be in two places at the same time.
What's the air charter service you use? I'll set it up myself and bill you."
He fumed for another minute and then gave me a name and number. "I guess," he said, "after Kenyon falls by the wayside, the serious dough will start pouring in and the campaign will be able to afford you. But fuck, this had just better work."
"My thoughts exactly."
My semidetached ear was feeling more itchy than painful by now, but I went home and changed the dressing per my i
nstructions from Albany Med. My headache was pretty much gone, and the atrocious hickey was fading away, too. My muscles were still achy, but I felt as though I could function more or less normally and would be ready to do what I had to in case the Serbians showed up again. I carried the gun in the chic shoulder bag with me at all times.
I got the air charter service on the phone and made arrangements for a Sunday night flight to the airport nearest to Hall Creek—it turned out to be Kurtzburg—and then a late-morning Monday flight up to Burlington, Vermont. Dunphy had already phoned the service and okayed the billing. I also asked for a rental car with a GPS at each location and a motel room in or near Hall Creek.
I e-mailed Bud Giannopolous and requested the name of someone in the human resources office at Hall Creek 167
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Community College. I said I also needed everything Giannapolous could come up with on a Randy Spong, who was on the faculty at UVM—or had been as recently as two years earlier.
Timmy came home, and we spent a couple of hours looking at Humpy Mat Humpers and wearing ourselves out in ways that were so much more enjoyable than my exertions on behalf of the Shy McCloskey gubernatorial campaign. I fantasized about Alex Ying's incredible long tongue and asked Timmy if he was doing the same. He said, "Eeww."
* * * *
On Sunday, I updated and went over my notes, adding the names and data Bud Giannopolous had e-mailed me overnight. At five in the afternoon I drove out to Cavenaugh Air Service at Albany airport and was soon ushered out onto the tarmac and to the conveyance Dunphy had paid for. It was a three-seat single-engine Cessna piloted by a large florid man named Walt who took up most of the front two seats. I crouched in the single seat behind him and thought about Jesus. This flying tuk-tuk soon lifted off successfully and pitched about for two hours and fifteen minutes—I could see highway traffic down below moving only a little more slowly than we were—before oofing down onto the runway at Kurtzburg Municipal Airport. It was June and still light out, and I worried about running into Louderbush. But he was nowhere in sight among the business and recreational flyers I passed as I crawled out of my saltine tin and was led out to the rental car. 168
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