by Alan Glynn
Sweeney doesn’t answer. He is staring out the window now, any shred of attention he has left consumed by the hypnotic pull of the city’s lights as they flicker past.
2
“You really couldn’t make any of this up.” Congresswoman Stephanie Proctor flicks the newspaper in her lap with the back of her hand. “Am I right?”
“That’s sort of the whole point, isn’t it, Congresswoman? Now you can. Because it all is. Made up, I mean.”
“Oh, come on, Ray.”
“This is what it’s come to.” I lean forward. “And it’s going to put everyone out of business. Those guys.” I point at the newspaper in her lap. “Guys like me. What’s the point of being a fact-checker if what you find out, if the facts you check, no longer have any value? If they’re disposable?”
She shakes her head and sits back in the chair, her drink—a glass of Sancerre—left untouched.
We’re in the Waldorf Astoria. The congresswoman has a dinner scheduled for nine with some big donors in a place across the street, but she wanted to run something by me first. Her assistant is hovering in the background, phone in hand. This person doesn’t like me. She thinks I’m a bad influence on the congresswoman. She may well be right.
Proctor folds the newspaper and places it on the coffee table between us. A story from this morning’s edition, clearly fake, has been burning a hole in the internet all day. Last night, Supreme Court Justice Darius Wilbur is supposed to have left a FedEx package in the backseat of a town car that was taking him to a D.C hotel—a FedEx package containing five hundred OxyContin pills and three blank prescription pads. In normal times, in the old days, in the real world—however you want to characterize it—a story like that wouldn’t have made it into print that fast. A proper journalist, or someone who does what I do, would have chased it down, made a few calls, tracked some paperwork, and pretty quickly realized there was nothing there, and that would have been the end of it.
But not anymore. Now it gets published, regardless of how implausible or even preposterous it might seem, because people are going to read it anyway on their phones.
“I’d like your opinion on something, Ray.”
I roll my eyes.
She widens hers. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know I don’t do opinions, Congresswoman. Maybe that makes me a dinosaur, but what can I tell you?”
“You’re a bit young to be a dinosaur. What are you, thirty-five?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Pffh. I’m nearly sixty. In case you hadn’t noticed. So what does that make me?”
I shrug. I know a conversational dead end when I meet one.
“You may not value your opinion, Ray, but I do.” She stares at her untouched glass of wine. “They want me to bring in the old man.”
I give this some thought. “They” means her team—the young woman standing behind us, and various advisors. The “old man” is her father, Clay Proctor. And by “bring in,” I’m guessing she means haul in front of the cameras for an endorsement.
“Is that wise?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“How would I know? I’ve never met him.”
“No, but you could still form an opinion. Besides, I want you to meet him. There’s a thing tomorrow night, he’ll be at it, a book launch. Let me introduce you—five minutes, that’s all. See what you think.”
I don’t know about this. Clay Proctor was defense secretary under Nixon. Later, he was an advisor to Reagan and the first Bush. He must be ninety years old, at least. So why do they want to use him? I’d have to look into it a bit before I could even guess what they’re thinking.
But only if I cared, which I don’t, not really.
I do like Stephanie Proctor, though. She’s not insane. I remember once I found a box of LPs that belonged to my dad in the basement of the house I grew up in out in Westchester. One of them was by Lenny Bruce and was called I Am Not A Nut, Elect Me! That’s Stephanie Proctor.
But without the Dilaudid and the jokes.
I shrug again. “I’m not sure I see the point, but … I’ll check him out.”
It’s what I do. I screen people, usually election candidates. I dig into their backgrounds, trawl through their shit, my antennae up for anything that might derail a campaign. Opposition research is a neutral-sounding name for an essentially mean-spirited enterprise—get the other poor bastard before he gets you—but it’s an inevitable part of the process and as old as the hills. I first did some work for Stephanie Proctor about a year and a half ago. I found out that one of her political opponents had serious gambling debts. These were subsequently dressed up as “ties to Chechen mobsters,” and that was pretty much the end of that. I didn’t make anything up, though. I didn’t shape the “narrative.” I simply uncovered some relevant facts.
A candidate wouldn’t usually have direct contact with someone doing oppo, but before allowing her team to release the information I had provided, the congresswoman insisted on talking to me in person. We met in a coffee shop for fifteen minutes and hit it off. I had an angle on things that she liked, which basically meant I was nonpartisan. I’ve done other work for her since, mostly background searches, voting-record sweeps, that kind of thing, and we’ve talked a few times on the phone—which she always insists I bill her for. Now, with the midterms looming, the pace is stepping up.
“Thanks, Ray,” she says, reaching for her phone. “I’ll have Molly send you the details.”
I knock back what’s left of my own drink, a seltzer water, then get up and leave.
* * *
Walking along Park Avenue, I call one of my research analysts and ask him to put together a short book on Clay Proctor—what he’s been up to since he retired, board appointments, recent investments, public appearances, whatever.
“I assume this is urgent, Ray.”
It probably wouldn’t take me more than an hour to do the job myself, but I’m really tired, having just come off a two-day trawl through some financial-disclosure forms for an anxious client.
“Well, I…”
“Okay, don’t worry, I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Jerry.”
I get dinner at a Korean place I like, after which I head home to my apartment on Sixty-Fourth for an early night. I flick through the channels for something to watch, but nothing takes. I could watch news, but that’d be too much like work. Plus, the idea of staying informed these days is an illusion—you pick whichever version of events you’re going to believe and then block out anything that contradicts or undermines that view. Balanced reporting has gone the way of lunch. It’s for wimps. What would you do with it, in any case? Yes, this, but on the other hand, that.
Fuck off. The real question is whose side are you on.
I get up off the couch and catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Shit.
I look away. My phone and laptop are over there on the counter, either one ready to devour me whole if I let it. When I’m at the office I can concentrate for hours on end, but lately, outside of work, my attention span seems to atomize within seconds—like now—and usually what I’m left with, all I’m left with, is an anxious thrumming in the pit of my stomach. How am I supposed to quell that? Gin or vodka tends to put a stop to it almost immediately—in seconds, like magic. But that only lasts about fifteen minutes. Then I’m in trouble again.
A few years ago, I had a bit of a heroin thing going on. It didn’t last, but I skated on some very thin ice there for a while. I guess I got lucky in the end, if that’s what you want to call it. The point is, though, heroin was made for the state of mind I’m currently in. Restive, fidgety, no off switch. I could go over to the counter right now, pick up the phone, call my dealer.
Or I could scale it back and just order some pills. It’s a thought. It’s always a thought.
Instead, I stick to my original plan. I have an early night. I go to bed.
* * *
Next morni
ng, at the office, I have some calls and emails to get through before I can look at what Jerry sent me on Clay Proctor. But when I finally get to it, the file is a quick read. Nothing in it surprises me. After he retired, Proctor sat on the boards of ExxonMobil, American Express, the Uranium Mining Consortium, and Eiben-Chemcorp. He was named an emeritus member of the University of North Carolina’s Kaplan Institute for Public Policy and set up the Clay Proctor Endowed Scholarship. He used to be an occasional guest on the Sunday morning talk shows, but not in the last couple of years. His most recent public sighting was about six months ago at a fund-raiser for the governor of Connecticut.
It’s not clear to me why Stephanie Proctor’s advisors would want her father to get involved in the campaign, or why she herself would want me to vet him. The old man is a revered Beltway veteran, without a hint of impropriety in his long career, so why hasn’t the congresswoman pulled him out of the hat before, in her previous campaigns? I’d always assumed it was because Proctor was either too old or too sick. Maybe she just wants an independent assessment. Is the old man compos mentis? Would he be a liability? Maybe she thinks so, but is under a lot of pressure from her team, and is looking for a way to close this down, a second opinion. She knows I won’t bullshit her, and I won’t, but I’m also not happy about being put in the middle like this.
The launch is at 7:00 p.m. at an independent bookstore on Madison Avenue. Before then I have a ton of work to get through—a digitized archive of municipal records going back thirty years. I come up for air at about five, go home, take a shower, and change. The store isn’t that far from where I live, so I decide to walk. The book being launched is a biography of Dr. Raoul Fursten, someone I’ve never heard of. As I wait for a light to change at Lexington Avenue, I do a quick search on my phone. Apparently, Fursten was an eminent scientist in the fifties and sixties, a chemist and later a clinical psychologist. He led various studies and has things named after him, but nothing that rings any bells. He died in 1973. I’m assuming that Fursten and Clay Proctor were contemporaries.
When I get to the bookstore, the event is already in full swing—if that’s the right word, seeing as how, at a guess, the average age of attendees has to be north of seventy. I take a glass of water and scan the room for the congresswoman. I spot her in a corner with Molly and someone else who works on her team, a communications guy. My preference would be to avoid these two and to speak with the congresswoman alone, but that might not be possible.
I look around to see if I can identify the old man. Aside from a few overworked publishing and PR people, the room is mainly populated with old guys in tweeds and bow ties. For the most part, they’re animated, shouting one another down, as if this might be their last outing, their final opportunity to catch up and reminisce about the old (now very old) days, when they all presumably ran things, institutions, departments, faculties, programs, who even knows what. But a smaller group of three, standing together, are quieter, meeker, as if the old days might just be too old, and what’s actually interesting to them is yesterday, or this morning—what that dope on TV said, a ball game, the texture of the pastry in those croissants they serve at that place, where is it, you know, the one next to the other place.
In the middle of this group—I’m pretty sure—stands ninety-two-year-old Clay Proctor. He’s especially small and frail looking, like a bird, with downy white hair and mottled skin, his frame stooped, his suit a size too big for him. He has what looks like a glass of wine in his hand and he seems pretty alert.
I glance over at the congresswoman. She hasn’t seen me yet. She’s still busy, switching her attention rapidly between a now stressed-looking Molly and her phone. At the top of the room, there is a podium and next to it a poster display of the book with an accompanying photo of the author. I turn back and walk toward Clay Proctor. His radar beeps at about ten feet and he looks up.
I hold out my hand. “Mr. Secretary.”
He smiles. “No one’s called me that in a while.”
We shake, and he looks at me inquiringly.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” I say, quickly making eye contact with each of the other two men, then returning to Proctor. “I’m a research analyst. I do some work with your daughter, who I admire greatly, by the way.” I pause. “I just wanted to say hi.”
“Well, what do you know?” Proctor says, addressing his compadres. “The kid’s got manners. He’s paying his respects. I like that.” He looks at my glass. “What’s that you’re drinking? Water?”
“Yes.”
He holds up his own glass. “It’s probably better than this stuff.”
“I know. The wine at these things is usually more trouble than it’s worth.”
“You’re a practical man, too, I see.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about practical, not really, but—”
“Ray?”
I feel a hand on my arm and turn around. “Congresswoman!”
“You snuck in!”
I hold up my free hand. “That’s not how I’d describe it. You looked pretty busy over there on your phone.”
Clay Proctor laughs at this.
“Don’t encourage him, Dad.” She sighs. “Anyway, I see you two have met.”
“Yes, Stephanie, and we’re having a perfectly nice time, so why don’t you just skip back on over there with your phone.”
“Very well.”
As she glides away, the congresswoman catches my eye and emits a signal. But it’s a bit crackly. I’m not sure if I’m being admonished or if she’s telling me to be careful. She might have wanted to brief me on something before I met the old man, but if so, she should have done it last night. Anyway, I’m in control this way, and my impression of Proctor will be unfiltered—though I have to say I already like him.
“So … Ray? Is that what she called you?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Of course. It’s Ray … Ray Sweeney.”
Proctor takes this in, as if it’s something worth reflecting on. The other two old guys have broken away and are talking to a server holding a tray of canapés. “So tell me, did Stephanie put you up to this?”
I look back at him. No point in lying. Proctor is ninety-two years old, and what are the stakes here anyway? “Yes.”
“It figures.”
“I don’t think it’s anything nefarious.”
He snorts. “I’ll be the judge of that. So, are you supposed to try and rope me into attending some campaign event or something, is that it?”
“No, no, not at all. I don’t work for your daughter, not in an official capacity.” I am acutely uncomfortable now. In a couple of deft moves, he’s made me show my hand. Because what do I say to that? I’m not sure. One thing I am sure of, though—there’s no issue here with mental acuity. “She…”
“She asked you to check me out, right?”
I laugh, conceding defeat. “So I guess my work here is done. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, Ray. Maybe you can relax now and have a proper drink.”
At this point, chewed up and spat out, I expect to be dismissed, so Proctor can go back to jabbering with his cronies. But he stays where he is, and if his tone shifts at all I can’t detect it.
“It’s funny,” he says, “I don’t miss it.”
“What, politics?”
“Yes, and you know, I was only what you’d call a politician for a relatively brief period of time. You just don’t ever get to shake it off, no matter what else you do. Or did, beforehand.”
“This was in the early seventies?”
“Yes.”
I’m dying to ask him what it was like working for Nixon, but I don’t want to push my luck.
He takes a sip from his glass. “Dick was always a challenge to be around, of course. You never knew what mood he’d be in.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve advised other presidents, too, from the private-sector side. I’ve seen them up close, and they were all weirdos in their own way, believe me, but Dick took t
he biscuit.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised to hear it.”
“He was a Dilantin man. You know what that is?”
I make an appropriate face. “Remind me.”
“It’s an anticonvulsant, with a fairly impressive list of potential side effects, like suicidal ideation and psychosis. A couple of those bad boys, a glass of neat Scotch, and…” He shakes his head and makes a whistling sound. “It was hard on Pat, you know. She was a smart woman, and sane, too. At least at the outset.”
He drains his glass and looks around.
I stare at him. How long have I known the man—five minutes? I could be anybody. I could be with the National Enquirer or BuzzFeed. I still like him, though, and would love to press him for more details, but … I get it. Stephanie’s concern. Whether it’s the filter-free joy of just being ninety-fucking-two or that he’s on Dilantin, I don’t know, but the campaign should clearly proceed with caution—which is obviously what Stephanie thinks anyway.
Whatever. Now I just need to get out of here.
And then Proctor says it.
“You said your name was Sweeney? Did I get that right?”
“Uh, yeah … Ray Sweeney.”
“Funny.”
Is it? I peer into my glass of nonalcoholic water and wait for more.
“I once knew a fellow called Sweeney. I wonder … Where are you from?”
“Oh, I’m sure a lot Sweeneys came over on the boat after the potato famine. It’s a common enough name.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Long Island, originally. We moved up to Westchester when I was a kid.”
“Oh.” He pulls his head back a little. “Funny. The guy I knew was from Long Island.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” A pause. “His name was Ned Sweeney.”
“Huh.” I don’t know what’s going on here. I glance around for a second, wishing the congresswoman was nearby. But she’s on the other side of the room. I turn back to Proctor. “That is funny.”
