by James Mills
The room was windowed but soundproof. The guard outside sat placidly absorbed in a magazine.
While Harrington’s shocked eyes remained fixed on the arm that had struck the table, Vicaro’s other hand swung out of nowhere and slapped him across the face with the newspaper.
Harrington, swatted like a puppy who’d just wee-weed on the carpet, felt tears of humiliation and fury fill his eyes. Before he could speak, Vicaro reached across the table and put a hand on his sleeve. In a voice suddenly as calm as the eye of a cyclone, he said, “You don’t understand, Johnny. What do I have to do to make you understand? I don’t care about media campaigns and the polls look good. I care about Parham can’t win. You understand? Can’t win. You understand can’t? You know what can’t means?”
He took his hand back.
“I know what can’t means.”
Harrington, breathing hard, struggled for control.
Vicaro lifted his arm from the table and rested it on his knee. “So she never had the abortion.”
“It seems that way.”
“Seems that way? Why do we have so much trouble understanding each other? Five hundred an hour, I’d think you’d make more of an effort.”
“What I meant,” Harrington said with caution, “was that I agree that she never had the abortion.”
“So you guys blew it. You said she had it. Now they parade out the kid, ‘Here’s the abortion.’ You look pretty stupid.”
Harrington was too frightened to speak. It was true that the previous night Helen Bondell had told Larry King on CNN that the supposedly aborted child, “a thirteen-year-old named Samantha,” had been put up for adoption by the eventually-to-be Mrs. Parham. “The girl’s in Washington now,” Helen had said, “under lock and key.”
Harrington had seen the broadcast in his living room, having a Chivas Regal with his wife, and if the word betrayal had still been part of his vocabulary he’d have used it. When he’d told Helen about Samantha, that Warren Gier had seen her in Saint-Tropez and that she was now in Washington, she had promised to keep it to herself.
“This is big news,” King had exclaimed. “How do you know this?”
Helen smiled sweetly. “Sources.”
King said, “You sure it’s true?”
“Oh, it’s true. Everyone’s been saying Parham encouraged his wife to have an abortion, and now here’s this beautiful, innocent, decidedly unaborted child—I assume she’s beautiful and innocent, I haven’t seen her.”
“Egg on your face?”
“My face? I didn’t have anything to do with any of this. I’m just a bystander. Like you, Larry.”
This morning, every paper Harrington could find had the story on page one, expanded with speculations, exaggerations. “No Abortion—She’s a Beauty.” “Mystery Girl Is No Abortion.” “Gus’s Abortion Comes Alive.”
Harrington finally had to admit it—it was a clever move. Not only had Helen isolated the Freedom Federation from any White House wrath the disclosure might provoke, she had destroyed the White House’s ability to choose for itself when to reveal Samantha’s existence.
“Ernie,” Harrington said, “they have not paraded out the kid, and probably never will. If there’s one thing they do not want, it’s to pour fuel on the abortion issue. What they’d like most is to have everyone forget all about this girl. So far, no one’s even seen her. The White House’ll do everything they can to make the whole issue go away. Including the girl.”
“I’d like to see Papa go away.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Vicaro shouted. “Papa! Papa Parham! Go away!”
Harrington felt as if he’d spent an hour locked in a sauna with an angry lion. Did Vicaro expect Harrington to make Parham “go away”? To have him killed? Did he intend to do it himself? How far was Vicaro really willing to go to keep Parham off the Supreme Court? Well, certainly he’d love to see Parham dead. Parham was the one who’d locked him up.
Harrington waited to catch the eye of the guard, then cautiously pushed back his chair until he was safely out of range of Vicaro’s hands. He didn’t want to say anything—even in a soundproof room—that might suggest he had a suspicion of the mayhem that was on Vicaro’s mind. But for his own sake he did want to discourage Vicaro from doing anything terminally stupid.
He stood and said, “Gus Parham cannot win. Even if his nomination gets to the Senate, the Senate will never confirm him. Never.”
He looked at Vicaro and tried to bore a hole into the black eyes.
“You pay a lot of money for my opinion and advice. So please believe this. Gus Parham will never be confirmed.”
And don’t try to kill the guy, okay?
Vicaro’s silent gaze was more foul and evil-filled than the hot, stinking room.
The guard came in.
Harrington said, “I’ll be in touch.”
Candles, dim lights, red velvet chairs, a dining room filled with young women and middle-aged men. Helen thought, We’re the only ones here not committing adultery.
She said, “How do you like it? A friend told me the food’s great, and so’s the privacy.”
She meant Warren Gier, and when it came to darkness and deceit, he should know. Helen needed a long talk with Harrington, and she did not want to worry about the ears of waiters and neighboring diners.
Harrington said, “I’m always happy to meet with you anywhere, Helen.”
They were in rural Virginia, a forty-minute drive from the capital.
“Don’t get smooth, Harrington. There’s too much of that here already.”
They ordered roast duck. Helen didn’t like duck, but Harrington wanted it, and it was available only for two. So she ordered the duck. She had more important things on her mind than what to eat for dinner.
She said, “A cop visited me the other day.”
Harrington, bent over his duck, gave her an up-from-under look through the eyebrows.
“What’d he want?”
“Who knows? What he said he wanted was to let me know that an attorney named John Harrington represents something called TransInter, which is controlled by an evil cocaine dealer named Ernesto Vicaro, who does not want Gus Parham on the Supreme Court.”
“He used my name?”
“Actually spoke the sacred words.”
“He’s trying to intimidate you, throw you off your stride.”
“He said you tried to bribe a federal agent.”
“Tried to …”
“… bribe a federal agent.”
“When?”
“How many times have you done it?”
“Very funny. What did he say, exactly?”
“He said it was part of your lobbying duties for TransInter.”
Helen studied him. She wished she could see his eyes.
Harrington nodded, took a bite of duck. “Did you lie to him?”
“Why would I lie?”
“We don’t have time. But don’t lie to him. Lying to a federal agent’s a felony.”
“What’s happening with Ernesto Vicaro?”
“Saw him yesterday. I’ve had six baths since and I still feel dirty. He really hates Parham.”
“He told you that?”
“Parham’s the one who put him where he is. And everything he wants, Parham hates. He said he wants him out of the picture.”
“Well, so do we. That’s not—”
“Helen, he doesn’t mean what you mean. When Ernesto Vicaro says he wants someone out of the picture, he means he wants him out of the picture.”
Helen didn’t feel well. The restaurant was too warm. And too dim. She could hardly see her duck. The slices were rare, bloody. This was just the kind of place Warren Gier would like. Creepy. Gloomy. Why’d she come here?
She said, “How’s your duck?”
“Fine. You can’t imagine the evil that radiates from that guy.”
She hated the sound of Harrington’s voice.
“Then why do you talk about him?” Har
rington was giving off a little radiation himself. “If he’s so awful, makes you feel dirty, why do you even think about him?”
“I get paid five hundred dollars an hour to think about him.”
“It’s not enough.”
“I agree. What should I charge, in your opinion?”
Helen wanted to get out. When she’d asked Harrington to have dinner, she’d wanted to know what Vicaro was telling him, but now she didn’t. Better not to know anything. Harrington talking to Vicaro, plotting with Vicaro—how responsible was she for that? Harrington helped the Freedom Federation, he was on their side, but he worked for Vicaro. How responsible was she for encouragement Harrington gave Vicaro, and for what Vicaro did as a result?
She said, “Does Vicaro scare you, John?”
“Yeah, he scares me.”
“What if he threatened you?”
He glanced up from his plate. “Threatened me—what do you mean threatened me?”
“Threatened you. Like to do something illegal.”
He put his fork down and stared at her. Then he picked up the fork and went on eating.
She said, “The question makes you uncomfortable?”
“What question?”
Helen liked what she did at the Freedom Federation, she liked the political pushing and shoving, good guys versus bad guys. She liked the trenches, hated the boardroom, hated being with guys like Harrington. And she didn’t even want to be on the same planet with Ernesto Vicaro. She’d worked with dirty people—Warren Gier came quickly to mind—but never before had she felt unclean.
She said, “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Fine with me.”
After a minute of silence Harrington said, “You okay? You look funny.”
“I’m fine. But I’ve spent all day dealing with all this crap, and I’d like just to have a nice, normal conversation, if you don’t mind.”
“Hey, all right. What is this, a date? You said you wanted to talk about Parham. I don’t care. If you want to hold hands, I’m ready.”
The head was raised, eyes gazing out warmly beneath the eyebrows, giving her a wonderfully sincere, Warren Gier grin. Oh, help.
She looked into her plate, fixed on the slices of bloody duck, and felt like throwing up. She wished she were home in bed. And suddenly the bottom line hit. Forget Harrington. Forget Vicaro. How far was she willing to go? How badly did she want Parham’s nomination defeated? If everything she and all the others had been saying about Parham was true—if he was anti-abortion, anti—women’s rights, anti—affirmative action, pro—capital punishment, pro—judicial restraint—where was the balance between all that and what Ernesto Vicaro wanted? Did she agree with Vicaro? Did Harrington? Better Gus Parham “out of the picture” than Gus Parham on the Supreme Court? Was that what she thought? Of course not. So what was she doing talking to Harrington, talking through Harrington to Vicaro? This is hardball, honey. What’s it worth? Make up your mind.
They finished dinner and she drove home, but the thoughts wouldn’t leave her. How important was it, keeping Parham off the Supreme Court? What was it worth?
Ten days after meeting Helen, Carl was on the way out of his office when the phone rang. He took another step, then something made him go back. He picked it up.
“Falco.”
“Is this Carl Falco?”
He recognized the voice.
“Yes, it is.”
He sat down.
“It’s Helen Bondell. Could we meet, just for a second? I know you’re busy, but—”
“I’m not busy at all. I’d be happy to. Where and when?”
“Right now? My office?”
Carl didn’t want a prearranged meeting in a room she controlled. Last time she hadn’t known he was coming.
“I think there’s a coffee shop across the street from you, right? I haven’t had breakfast.”
“Twenty minutes?”
He was there in ten, ahead of her, looking over the other customers, picking a booth in the back.
All she wanted to do was just say the name Ernesto Vicaro, just let Falco know that since they’d met, something had happened to increase her concern. Then it’d be up to him. She’d be off the hook. She’d have let him know. Why did she feel so nervous? She wasn’t doing anything wrong, not breaking a law, not betraying anyone, just mentioning a name.
Carl was in one of the red plastic booths drinking cof fee. She slid in across from him, ordered tea, and said, “I’m terribly sorry for asking you to do this.”
“No problem at all. I was headed in this direction anyway.”
He sat there, quiet, looking at her, waiting. She wasn’t quite so relaxed this time. Must be feeling a little pressure.
He said, “What’s up?”
For a moment she almost forgot why she’d come. Nothing about Carl resembled her late husband—different tone of voice, different face, different body, background, education, personality—but when he spoke, What’s up?, she had the most vivid recollection of her husband she’d had since he died. Something in Carl, something coming from him across the table, a detachment from the immediate environment, from the things of this world, was just like her husband.
“I wanted to ask you something. Okay?”
“Sure.”
It was as if she’d been injected with something. Her breathing accelerated. She felt faint.
Carl said, “You okay?”
“Yes. I’m just a little tired. I was up late.”
“A woman’s work is never done.”
He sipped his coffee, but the eyes never left her face.
She took a drink of her tea, swallowed, and said, “Last time we met, you said Ernesto Vicaro would do anything to keep Parham off the Supreme Court.”
“Right.”
“What exactly did you mean?”
“I meant Ernesto Vicaro would do anything to keep Parham off the Supreme Court.”
She forced a grin. “I know. But what—exactly—did you mean by anything?”
“Mrs. Bondell—”
“Helen, please.”
“Helen, with people like Vicaro, when you say they’d do anything, what you mean is—anything. If you want a sharper point on it than that, let’s just say that if Vicaro thought Parham was a sure thing for confirmation, and if Parham was sitting where you are, Vicaro would consider it a piece of routine business to send someone in here now and just blow him away.”
Her hands gripped the teacup. She saw an image of a café in Algiers—flames, smoke, sirens, a man’s torn body.
Carl said, “And, in fact, he’d actually be delighted to do it, because Parham’s the guy who sent him to prison. Parham is the only person who ever got in Vicaro’s way and kept on breathing.”
Helen felt a chill.
Carl said, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I must have eaten something. But you’ve answered my question. Thanks.”
He nodded—a repetitive, gentle, steady nod, as if he understood perfectly what was on her mind.
She’d done enough, hadn’t she? He could read between the lines. She’d let him know she knew something, that Vicaro was an immediate threat, enough of a threat to get her to make a phone call, get her into this coffee shop, publicly face-to-face with a federal agent.
Carl said, “Is there something else you wanted to tell me?”
She wanted to tell him every word she’d ever heard from Harrington about Vicaro. But she couldn’t. Carl was the enemy. And anyway, he probably knew more than she did about what Vicaro might be up to. That was his job, after all.
She looked into his eyes. “I don’t think I have to.”
“Might be helpful.” Holding her gaze.
She didn’t trust herself. Get out of here, before you say another word.
She stood, glancing at his empty cup. “Not much of a breakfast.”
“Good talking to you.”
“Same here.”
He gave her a big smile.
“Get what you wanted?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you did.”
Why did she have the feeling he was reading her mind?
He wrote something on a scrap of notepaper and handed it to her.
“Here’s the number of a cellular phone I use sometimes. In case I’m not at the office.”
She took it. “Thanks.”
“Cheer up.” He was still smiling. “Don’t look so glum. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
It was 3 A.M., and Senator Eric Taeger had just said goodbye to Warren Gier. In a few minutes Isaac Jasper would arrive. Then John Harrington. He’d wanted the meetings late, when the building, parking lot, and street were empty. The meetings weren’t exactly secret, but the Parham struggle was getting as distasteful as politics usually got, and the fewer people who saw his visitors the better. He’d also summoned Helen Bondell of the Freedom Federation, but she had failed to return his call. Perhaps the conflict was growing too heated for Helen, though he would not have thought that possible.
When Isaac Jasper finally arrived, Taeger asked immediately what he thought was going to happen.
“Where’s this heading, Isaac? Are we going to win?”
Isaac pushed back his chair. “That depends. How far will you go? How hard will you push?”
Taeger never really knew what to make of Jasper. He was a great strategist but a disturbing thinker, and he talked in parables. You could never be sure exactly what was on his mind.
“Meaning?”
“I don’t have to tell you, Senator. Politics is like weather. Some days it’s sunny, everyone’s happy. Other times it’s a light drizzle, not unpleasant, waters the flowers. And sometimes it’s a tornado, rips up the countryside.”
“You think we’re facing bad weather?”
He shrugged. “This is not going to be a light drizzle. It’s gone past that.”
“What would you advise?”
“It’s not an ordinary, conventional struggle, is it? There’s a very high psychological element here. You’ve got an emotionally appealing nominee. I don’t care what his position is on all the political issues—the public likes him, and if they start leaning on their senators, the senators are gonna do what gets votes. But mostly I’m worried about that thirteen-year-old girl. She is dynamite, Senator. She’s just a bomb waiting to go off. If I were on the other side, I’d maneuver that girl right into the center of this whole fight, and I’d just leave her there, let her sit there. And I’d get her major exposure—TV, papers, magazines, every day all day—and I’d just blow you away.”
