The Pariot GAme

by George V. Higgins

  “I was with the Eighty-second,” Fahey said. “That’s all I told Phillip.”

  “That may be all you told him, in so many words,” Bishop Doherty said, “but that was not all that Phillip clearly took away from your tales of cameraderie and derring-do among the stalwart warriors of the paratroopers. Nor was it all that you meant Phillip to take away from your narratives. I’m sure, for example, that Phillip would be quite astonished to learn that your service with the Airborne was exclusively during peacetime, and that your closest brush with combat service occurred when you resigned your commission just in time’s nick, thus missing the Korean conflict. You never left Fort Bragg. Perfectly named. How do you think your Phillip would react to that information, eh, Vincent? Think he might be a little taken aback by it? That he might possibly conclude, after some reflection, that good old Vin Fahey is a bit of a fake? Think he might? And is he really that bright, that he can’t tell from your age that you couldn’t’ve been there?”

  “I don’t have to take this from you,” Fahey said. “I don’t have to tolerate this. You’ve got no power over me. Not anymore. Not since your patron there, old Gargle-throat himself, died and left his favorites like you scattered to the four winds. You’ve got no more clout with the Fall River Fishmonger’n I have. I don’t have to take your crap.”

  “Yes, Vincent,” Bishop Doherty said, “as a matter of fact, you do. For one thing, I’m not the first person who’s heard you call the Cardinal Archbishop the Fall River Fishmonger, but if you provoke me, I might be the first to curry a little favor by being the first to report your filial affection to him. Think you could keep the parish school open without a few bucks now and then from the Cardinal Archbishop? What would you do then, Vincent, with no school over which to reign, to show off in each morning? Try to bamboozle the youth of the parish one night a week at Christian Doctrine classes? Hard to do, Vincent. Too much opportunity for them to come in contact with sinister outside forces.”

  “Ass,” Fahey said.

  “And in the second place,” Bishop Doherty said, “you have to put up with me because I might take it into my head to start chatting with Phillip about how he gained admission to the Cross, and how he got this job, and carelessly let it drop in the course of that conversation that you mentioned to me that it was all your doing. Think that might surprise Phillip’s parents? Think that might be a greater weight of deception than they’d be willing to carry around the parish?” Fahey did not say anything. “Well,” Bishop Doherty said, “I think so, and my guess is that you think so, too. You know what we used to call you in the sem, Vincent? We used to call you Trimmer, because you had such a fine hand in fitting the truth to your purposes.”

  The waiter returned. “Joseph, my man,” Bishop Doherty said, “I believe we are ready to order.”

  “I don’t want anything,” Fahey said. He did not look up.

  “Very well, Monsignor,” he said. “Your Eminence, the special today is baked stuffed lobster.”

  “Lobster,” Bishop Doherty said. “Excellent. But the crumbs bother me. Might I have one, simply steamed, and removed from the shell, with some melted butter and some lemon wedges?”

  “Well, uh, Your Eminence,” the waiter said, “we can do that. But it’s not on the special, and …”

  “Perfectly all right,” Bishop Doherty said. “Do one up for me like that. No salad, potato, or anything. Would you like some wine, Vincent? I’m thinking of white, myself.”

  “I don’t want anything,” Fahey said. He poured off his second martini.

  “Just another drink for Monsignor then,” Bishop Doherty said. “I’ll have a half-bottle of your Graves. That will be all.” The waiter left again.

  “I didn’t want another drink,” Fahey said.

  “Don’t drink it, then,” Bishop Doherty said. “But you’re going to stay here until you tell me the entire truth about your relationship with Ticker Greenan and Michael Magro, and no bullshit about housekeepers, either. The entire truth. Not just selected portions of it. And you’re going to have something in front of you while I eat and we talk. I am going to take my time eating and you are going to give me every shred of information that you possess. We will sit here all afternoon until you get so looped you can’t see, if that proves necessary, until I get what I came for. And if you do stall me that long, I will leave you here like a drunken sot to make your own explanations to the members of your private club who arrive for cocktails and squash after work. Your choice. Make it.”

  “How do you know about Magro?” Fahey said. He looked up as he said it.

  “God works in mysterious ways,” Bishop Doherty said. “He has your mind tapped, Trimmer, and He is copying your Bishop in on the tapes. Not that there’s that much material to read in the transcripts. Never more than one thought a day, and that one banal. No wonder people complain about your sermons. But, we must make do, Vincent, make the best pots we can from the poor clay the Lord sends us. So, as John Kennedy said, let us begin.”

  BY NINE-FIFTEEN, the last stragglers of the midweek traffic jam, brought on by the rain, had escaped from the city. Pete Riordan, his white shirt wilted and his trousers rumpled from the day, removed his booted feet from the top of the desk in his office in Government Center. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, and rubbed his eyes. He looked at his watch, sighed, and reached for the red telephone on the left side of the desk. He picked it up and began punching numbers. A man answered, his voice eager. “Rampart,” he said.

  “Rampart,” Riordan said, “this is Rocket.” His voice was weary.

  “Rocket,” the man said, “what developments?”

  “Nothing new,” Riordan said. “It’s the same old thing. I keep telling you guys down there: I’m not going to get anywhere chasing a man I can’t recognize, whose name I don’t know, and whose whereabouts are just as unknown to us now as they were when I went galloping off to California there. I can’t get probable cause to arrest somebody until I know what crime’s been committed.”

  “Rocket,” the man said, “we do know what crime’s been committed. It’s gunrunning, to an all-out terrorist organization with definite Marxist connections and a strong and sympathetic underground in place in this country. If they can achieve their objectives in Ulster, they’ll attack Dublin the same way, and if they win there, they’ll be poised to begin activities in the United States with the complete cooperation and encouragement of Moscow. This is a real potential and serious threat to our national security, Rocket, and you’re the only one who’s in an immediate position to do anything about it.”

  “Chuck, for Christ sake,” Riordan said.

  “Code, Rocket,” the man said.

  “Code, my ass,” Riordan said. “This phone’s as secure as anything the Joint Chiefs’ve got to talk to NORAD, for the luvva Mike. You think with all the scramblers you’ve got on this thing that any illiterate Mick from Ulster’s going to be able to tap it? Be serious, Chuck.”

  “Those Ulster kids,” the man said, “have access to sophisticated KGB training and technology. If the Soviets can do it, we have to assume that the Provos can do it. Whatever it happens to be. Remember, Rocket, this is a top national security assignment you’re ordered to perform. I’m ordering you to use the code, as well, and I expect you to do it.”

  “Suppose I don’t?” Riordan said.

  “You’ll be reassigned,” the man said. “You’ll go back to your old desk tomorrow and await reassignment. Given your specialty, we can both guess what your next duty will be.”

  “Something involving a jungle, no doubt,” Riordan said.

  “Or Beirut,” the man said. “Maybe only as a stopover to someplace else. You could wind up doing a lot of traveling, Rocket. You think you’d like that better than following your present orders?”

  “Negative, Rampart,” Riordan said.

  “Roger, Rocket,” the man said. “Glad we’ve got that solved. You knew your obligations when you signed your contract and took your oat
h. We expect you to live up to them.”

  “We haven’t got anything solved, Rampart,” Riordan said. “My God, doesn’t anybody listen to what the cop on the beat says is going on? I’ve been trying to tell you this for weeks.”

  “What is the precise status of the case now?” the man said.

  “I’ve got a glimmer of a chance of finding him,” Riordan said. “I think he’s somewhere around Boston. I still don’t know what name he’s using. I don’t know where he’s been. If he’s doing what we think, we haven’t caught him at it. I doubt any of his helpers will be eager to tell us about it. Therefore I have no probable cause to arrest him or them. I can’t get a warrant, and I can’t arrest him without one.”

  “And in the meantime, Rocket,” the man said, “he continues to operate as a threat to national security.”

  “Who, if he’s arrested and convicted,” Riordan said, “will probably only be deported as an undesirable alien, or else released to the custody of the British, assuming they can pin something on him, and we’ll have six more just like him coming into the country within a week.”

  “Correct,” the man said. “Is it necessary for me to tell you what to do then, when, as and if you do locate him?”

  “Go on, Rampart,” Riordan said. “I’ve known for some time that this was what you had in mind all along. But you’re going to have to say it. I’m too old for the jungles, and I’m not interested in the Middle East. But you’ve got to say it, out loud, because what you guys want done is quite illegal now. And some day, Rampart, somebody’s going to check those credentials and find out there ain’t no such agency in Justice. Which will get me in the shit for fair. I know what you want. Say it.”

  “Thank you, Rocket,” the man said. “Good night and good luck. This is Rampart off and clear.”

  Riordan got up and raised the Venetian blind on the window nearest his chair. He satisfied himself that the gridlocked traffic around the Quincy Market, City Hall, the JFK Federal Buildings and the municipal garage to his left had cleared up. The streets were wet and the street lights and occasional automobile lights made them shine. Across the street, the lights were off in the Bell In Hand Tavern, relocated from the old newspaper row on Washington Street to the low brick building next to the parking lot. The Union Oyster House was still open, the red neon sign in its window beneath the ivory wood façade and the brick upper stories glowing red, trolling for stray tourists. The surface of the streets steamed.

  Riordan picked up his white phone. He punched out numbers and held the receiver to his left ear. He waited for several rings.

  “Did I get you out of the tub?” he said. “Sorry. It’s not the clumsiest thing I’ve done today, but at least the rest of them were things that screwed up other people.… No, people I didn’t really care about in the first place, before I screwed them up.… Yeah, Freudian. Actually, you know, you’re probably right. I didn’t want anything to do with the bastards in the first place, but they would’ve fucked me up first chance they got if I didn’t let them play pretend with me and bore the ass off me. I knew they’d be fundamentally useless to me, but I had to talk to them so I got even by screwing them up.… You’re awful smart, you know that? I wished I had a college education.… Oh, yeah, you’re right. I did have a college education. I must not’ve been paying full attention. Well, look, get back in the tub, and if you use my razor, for the luvva Christ put a new blade in it. At least take the old one out. And at very least, if you don’t do either one of those things, remind me in the morning so I don’t get up and remove half my face with the first slice.… No, I don’t know why broads’ legs ruin men’s razors.… Yeah, I’m bushed. I’m heading for the barn. Pick anything up?… Good. See you.”

  Riordan lifted his sports coat from the back of his chair, reached across the desk and shut off the white cylindrical Braun fan that had been blowing on his legs, went to the door, opened it, took one last look around at the cluttered desk, the banker’s boxes stacked waist high on the brown vinyl tile floor, the gray metal filing cabinets with the supplementary steel-barred locks down the front, said “Shit,” and turned off the lights. In the corridor outside, he shut the door and tested it against the snap lock in the knob. He put on his jacket and buttoned it over the gun. Then he got his key ring out of his jacket pocket and locked the cylindrical lock just below the knob, and the cylindrical lock just over the knob. He used a third key to slam the bolt lock at the top of the door frame, and he selected a fourth key as he crouched to drop the bolt at the bottom of the door into the hole drilled in the vinyl tile and the concrete under it. “There,” he muttered, straightening up slowly against the sound of the shrapnel, “safe and secure at beddy-bye, everybody. Take a man who knew his business a good fifty, fifty-five seconds to get through all that protection. Shit.”

  Swinging his right leg awkwardly, Riordan made his way down the corridors to the back door of the building. There was one short overweight man in his middle fifties in the corridor. He wore a green uniform and he was pushing a green trash canister ahead of him on wheels. It had a broom sticking out of it. Every so often he stopped and took the broom out. He made a few brief sweeps, pushing dirt against the baseboards, then put the broom back into the barrel and pushed it along another five or six feet. Riordan came up behind him, his boot heels clicking, the left cleanly, the right after the sliding sound as he swung it on the pivot in his knee and then put it down again. The man with the broom did not look up.

  When Riordan reached him, he said, “I thought you guys only worked days now. Save on energy.” The man looked up at him. Riordan noticed the hearing aid in his left ear. The man did not answer him or have any expression on his face. “Oh,” Riordan said, feeling silly, “sorry. I didn’t know you were …” The man stared at him. “Say,” Riordan said, pointing with his left index finger to his left ear, “wouldn’t that thing work better if you turned it on?” The man stared at him. “Batteries’re dead,” Riordan said to himself. “Tomorrow,” he said very loudly, “go up to Secret Service. They got loads of batteries. Get a special rate on them.” He smiled. The man stared at him. “You know,” Riordan said, “Secret Service? Guys always with the President, keep him from getting shot? Looks like they’re wearing hearing aids? Huh?” The man stared at him. Then he dropped his eyes and swept a few more times before turning his back and pushing the canister another six feet with the broom in it.

  “Right,” Riordan said. He slipped past the man and reached the back door. He opened it, went outside into the warm evening, shut the gray metal door behind him, tested the lock, and went down three concrete steps. The green Ford sedan was parked under a sign that said U.S. GOVT VEHICLES ONLY. There was an eagle on the sign. There was a blaze orange ticket on the windshield. Riordan took the ticket off the windshield, unlocked the door, threw the ticket onto the floor in the back to join several dozen others, unbuttoned the coat, and got in. He started the engine as he was shutting the door and drove up toward State Street. He took a right on State, ignoring the red light against him and the sign which advised NO TURN ON RED. State was deserted, except for a derelict asleep in his Morgan Memorial overcoat, against the grated subway entrance under the old State House. The unicorn and the lion, newly gilded and painted, were rampant in the floodlights. The plaza in front of the New England Merchants Bank buildings at One Washington Mall had a population of two, a man and a woman who were skipping, hand in hand, out of the revolving doors. “Bay Tower Room,” Riordan muttered. “Nice clothes, lovely view of the harbor and the airport, dinner for two with lots of wine and cocktails and after-dinner liqueurs: ‘We’re a little lighter, a buck and a quarter, My Dearest. But who cares when you’re having fun and stiffer’n a goat with rigor mortis on the best hooch money can buy?’ ”

  Riordan turned right into the driveway of the condo apartments at 226 Beacon Street, easing the Ford between two cars encroaching on the entrance. He passed through the wrought-iron gate, went down the ramp, rolled down the window, removed the pl
astic key card from his inside pocket, slipped it into the machine, opened the corrugated steel door into the underground garage, and drove in as the door closed behind him.

  Riordan on the third floor of the building closed the apartment door behind him. He threw the dead bolt, took off his jacket and tossed it on the beige couch, and unsnapped the magnum holster from his belt. He unsnapped the keeper strap on the holster and moved the revolver in the leather two or three times. He put the gun on top of the white bookcase along the interior wall. He hitched up his pants and for a moment stared out the picture windows onto the Charles River, broad and black in the night between the lights of Storrow Drive on the Boston side and the lights of MIT and Memorial Drive on the Cambridge side. The only light in the room was from a low white cylindrical floodlight on the floor in the corner beyond the couch. It shone upward toward the ceiling through the foliage of a large ficus in a straw basket, throwing shadows on the white walls and the beige drapes. Riordan stared at the lights. He could hear Freddie singing “Lovin’ Arms” in the bathroom. When he looked down the hall, he could see a wedge of light on the floor and the wall, from the partially opened door. There were wisps of steam drifting around the edge of the door.

  “Freddie,” he said, “I told you before and I tell you again. You can’t sing at all.”

  “Hi, honey,” she said. “You home already?”