Stranglehold

by Ed Gorman

  “Somebody sure as hell was,” Ben said, heading for the coffee himself. “Crushed her skull.”

  “The police are questioning Larson,” Kristin said. She stayed at her desk. “The tabloids are going to go crazy.”

  “I wonder if they’ll start looking into all the rumors about those two,” Ben said. “You know, that Georgia congressman they worked for that time basically said they were blackmailing him. But then he shut up all of a sudden.”

  “He shut up because the party got to him,” I said. “The same way we’ve gotten to a few of our boys sometimes. Nobody wants the kind of investigation that would lead to. The congressman got elected, his kid got a cushy lobbying job in Washington, and for dropping his charges they helped him set up one of those nonprofit foundations where a good ole boy can get rich if he’s careful.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said, “standard operating procedure in Washington.”

  “Including a lot of our own people.”

  Ben laughed. “You know, sometimes I swear you’re a spy working for the other side.”

  “I just want to keep reminding myself that we’re just about as dirty as they are.”

  “Just about. But not quite.”

  “We’ve sure had our moments, Ben.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, but we don’t talk about them.”

  Kristin was putting on her coat. Her red hair was more vivid than ever. She had a hard time not looking glamorous.

  “We’ll see you in a while,” Susan said, still treating me to that bullshit smile. She had to be wondering how long she could elude me. I was starting to wonder the same thing.

  When they were gone I asked Ben, “You ever meet a friend of Susan’s named Jane Clarke?”

  “Oh, yeah. Couple times. Very nice woman. Why?”

  “I think I’ll go see her.”

  “Susan said she took back her own name after she got divorced. She should be in the phone book.” He picked up the local one and handed it to me. “I should tell you, I had a crush on her for about three hours one night when we all went out to get pizza.”

  “Three hours,” I said. “That’s a record for you, isn’t it?”

  Ben laughed. “Almost.”

  The area the Google map directed me to had the look of a movie set. The McMansions were set against a couple of miles of autumn trees, blazing with the ironic beauty of death. Behind them ran the river and on the far side of the water there were hills packed tight with more trees. The pretentiousness of the houses intruded on the natural splendor. The streets and the false fronts could deceive the movie cameras but not the closer scrutiny of a passerby. I had the same feeling here, the stagey boastful way these homes presented themselves suggesting an emptiness inside.

  Jane Clarke’s house was either a Spanish-themed Tudor or a Tudor-themed Spanish hacienda. Both styles fought for dominance. The long rolling lawn was mostly topsoil, and the few trees looked as if they wouldn’t be mature even by the end-time, when God or George W. Bush came back to take care of us once and for all. I thought of a story about some rich Southerner who’d built a huge McMansion that closely resembled the White House. It even had an oval office. I assumed Jane Clarke’s house would have at least six bathrooms, with plasma TVs in at least two of them.

  The doorbell resonated throughout the house. It was a full minute before I heard footsteps, tiny ones, working their way to the door. I wasn’t sure why she looked familiar, but she did. She was attractive, dark-haired, and shiny with sweat. She was Susan’s age, no doubt, early forties. Her white T-shirt and red shorts looked damp. They also were filled out so well, I’d doubtless be thinking of her throughout the day. “Oh, great. A good-looking guy finally comes here and I’m all sweaty from the stationary bike.” She had a nice big inviting smile. “Hi, Dev. I saw you at the fund-raiser. Susan pointed you out.”

  “That’s right. That’s why you look familiar. I saw you with her.”

  She opened the door wider. “I’ve got coffee on in the kitchen. Go pour yourself a cup. I’ll take a quick shower and then we can talk.” As I stepped into the vestibule, she said, “You’re worried about Susan and I’m worried about Susan. But I won’t tell you anything that will hurt her.”

  The kitchen was big enough for a small restaurant: hardwood flooring like the entire downstairs, two refrigerators, a butcher-block table that could have accommodated a cow, two sinks, two stoves, and an espresso machine. There was a built-in coffeemaker for those pedestrian thinkers who didn’t want espresso and the inevitable wine storage units. I got myself some coffee and sat in one of the chairs by the huge window that overlooked the russet-and-gold hills behind the house. Spread across the table in front of me were pages of houses that some Realtor had provided. The houses were the kind I liked, old-fashioned with porches and venerable trees and sidewalks, homes likely built in the boom after the big war.

  She burst into the kitchen saying, “Sorry I took so long.”

  “I watched the clock. Less than ten minutes.”

  “That’s why my hair’s still wet.”

  I watched the way her backside moved when she poured coffee. She had a sweet little bottom and short but graceful legs. I liked her a ridiculous amount.

  When she sat down across from me, she said, “Is it all right if I take this towel off my head?”

  “Sure.”

  She patted the towel on her hair one last time and then swept it away. In the light now I could see the wrinkles around her mouth and hazel eyes and the tiny point where her nose had probably been broken a long time ago. But to me she was all the more appealing for the wrinkles. I was at the age when I wanted women who were at least as road-tested as I was. She took a sip from her coffee and sat back and smiled. She’d changed into a pink top and jeans, and somehow the pink made her smile even more fetching.

  “Couple things first,” she said. “I hate this house, in case you’re wondering. This was my husband’s idea. He was in a dick-measuring contest with all the other lawyers in his firm. He left me because my warranty had expired. He met a lady lawyer at a convention in Chicago. She’s beautiful, so I can’t blame him there. But, of course, I do blame him. I used to hope there was a little gallantry left in this world, but my husband proved there wasn’t. He handled the whole thing very badly. But I got a decent settlement and I got this house. I’m trying to sell this place so I can move into a house like the one I grew up in. My father was a high-school history teacher. We weren’t used to luxuries.”

  “I was looking at some of these sheets. Looks like you wouldn’t have much trouble finding the kind of place you want.”

  “The problem is the economy. This is an expensive house. And a lot of lawyers are being laid off in most of the big firms. Even a few of the CEOs Sean knew—Sean was my husband—they don’t have the kind of money they once had, either.”

  “That doesn’t exactly break my heart.”

  “From what Susan has told me about you, I didn’t think it would. She told me you were a commie. And a very cynical man. But that she trusted your judgment and liked you very much.”

  “The only part of that I don’t agree with is the commie part. They aren’t radical enough.”

  “You and my soon-to-be ex would get along fine. He thinks everybody in your party should be put in prison.”

  “He sounds like a lot of fun.”

  “He was for a long time. But you know how marriages go.”

  “All too well. But I suppose Susan told you about that, too.”

  “She said that two of your staffers told her that you seemed lonely to them.”

  “That would be Ben and Kristin. And they both seem lonely to me, so I guess we’re even.”

  “How about some more coffee?”

  “Fine. But I can get it.”

  When I started filling my cup she said, “I like a man who knows his way around the kitchen. You know how to pour your own coffee.”

  Coming back to the table I said, “I have the home video. I studied it very hard
for a week. I made a lot of mistakes—I kept pouring it on the floor—but I finally figured it out.”

  “Smart-ass. What I meant was my soon-to-be ex assumed that since I didn’t have a job as such—not that he wanted me to have a job, by the way—I should become his personal servant. Whatever he wanted, I did. Susan saw the bind I was in a long time before I realized it myself.”

  “And speaking of Susan.”

  She sighed and shrugged slender shoulders. “You want to find out what’s upsetting her so much, but there are some things I won’t discuss. She’s been my best friend since seventh grade, when my family moved here. Even when she went away to private school we stayed in very close touch. The only time we didn’t get along was when she got into drugs and sleeping around. I did a little bit of both myself, but I pulled back while there was still something left of me. Susan seemed determined to destroy herself. I couldn’t handle watching it.”

  I meant to startle her, and I did. “And somewhere during that time she had a son. His name’s Bobby Flaherty and he’s in town now.”

  She’d been reaching for her coffee but withdrew her hand. “I can’t believe she told you that. She swore me to absolute secrecy.”

  “I figured it out for myself. She’s been avoiding me so that we won’t have to discuss it.”

  “How did you ‘figure it out’?”

  “A couple of things happened and it seemed like the only explanation. But I need you to give me your impression of her the past few weeks. She’s been missing scheduled campaign stops and she really blew off the last debate with Duffy. As a cynical commie, I’m worried about the campaign.”

  “But you’re not worried about Susan?”

  “I like Susan and I admire Susan, but I wasn’t hired to be her shrink. I was hired to get her elected. So that’s my main concern right now. And this thing with Bobby has obviously taken its toll on her.”

  She was up and crossing the hardwood floor to the coffeepot before she said, “She loves him very much.”

  “I assumed she did.”

  When she came back she said, “There’s only one thing I’ll tell you.”

  “All right.”

  “And I’ll only tell you this because the two times I’ve asked her about it she just dismisses it, tells me I’m imagining things.” She picked up her cup and blew on the coffee. “There’s a man who followed us a few times. A redheaded man. She said she’s never noticed him and therefore I’m crazy. But one night after we had dinner downtown I dropped her off at campaign headquarters. Her car was there. We said good night and I drove off. But when I got to the end of the alley I looked in my rearview mirror, and I saw him pull in right next to her. And she walked over to his car. I went around the block and got as close as I could to them without being seen. They were standing there talking. They both looked very angry. I went around again, but this time their cars were gone.”

  “Did you tell her about what you saw?”

  “I tried to last night, but she was so depressed about everything I didn’t want to push it.”

  “So she spent most of the night here?”

  “Yeah, it was like being in college again. We sat up all night and talked. It was nearly five o’clock when she left.”

  “You think she cares about the election?”

  “Very much. She’s really ambitious now. I sort of kidded her one night and said, ‘You’ve had a taste of power and you want more.’ And she said, ‘It’s terrible, Jane. But it’s true.’ ”

  I finished my coffee and said, “Well, thanks for the coffee and the company. I should have called before I came out here, but I figured you’d just stall me if I gave you a chance.”

  “I would have. But I’m glad you came.”

  She walked me to the front door. “Do you mind if I’m a little bit forward?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “If you don’t have any plans for tonight, would you consider having dinner with me somewhere?”

  “You beat me to it. I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  “Dammit. So much for staying cool and mysterious. I blew my chance.”

  “I’ll call you later when I find out a little more about how the day is going to go.”

  I walked out into the smoky scent of autumn. The sky was as pure blue as a baby’s eyes. As I was opening my car door I glanced back at the house. She was in the open doorway waving to me. It felt so damned good I forgot completely about being a cynical commie.

  CHAPTER 13

  The call came when I was only a few blocks away from campaign headquarters. The plan was to use the McDonald’s drive-through and eat in the office. The call offered me a new and unwelcome alternative.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “My name’s on your screen, huh?”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I got the number from Ben. I convinced him it was important. I want us to have lunch together. Since we’re staying in the same hotel, that shouldn’t be any big hassle.”

  “The answer is no and I’m going to end this conversation.”

  In a singsong voice he said, “I know something about Susan that you don’t know.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “She’s in trouble and you know it. And I’m serious about knowing something you don’t.”

  Nobody ever accused Greg Larson of not being clever. There was no way I could hang up now. “We can talk about it right now. I don’t need to have lunch with you.”

  “Then you’re a fool, Dev. This is serious shit.”

  I saw the McDonald’s a block ahead. I didn’t want to give him the pleasure of telling him that I’d meet him.

  He did it for me. “Fifteen minutes in the Governor’s Room. You know where it is.”

  He clicked off.

  Ten minutes later I was angling my rental up into the parking garage that was attached to the hotel. From there I found an elevator that took me to the ground floor. Larson was sitting in a wing chair reading The Wall Street Journal. When he saw me, he folded the paper and stood up. He was a heavy man who somehow retained his good looks despite the whiskey flush on his face and the bulge above his belt line. Expensive and clever tailoring helped, as did the startling white hair. He had a boardroom gravitas that intimidated most people who didn’t know any of the things he’d done. He started to put out his hand but then stopped. “I don’t suppose you’d want to shake.”

  “Let’s get our food and you tell me what’s so important. I don’t want to be around you any longer than I have to.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m not sensitive. Otherwise you’d have hurt my feelings with that remark.” I knew actors who would beg for his teeth. They were bright beauties. “It’s because of Bill Potter, isn’t it?”

  “I said let’s go eat.”

  “He was a poor candidate.”

  “He was an honorable man. He lost both his legs in Iraq and he had a promising career in the Senate.”

  “His father was a leftist and his brother was a fag.”

  I took two steps toward him. I was happy to see the fear spoil his central-casting face. “Listen to me, you piece of shit. Don’t push it or I’ll take you apart right here. You understand me?”

  I’d spoken louder than I’d intended. His eyes scanned the lobby to see if anybody was aware of what was going on. I turned and walked toward the Governor’s Room, the main restaurant so named because a governor in the early part of the last century had come from Aldyne. His bearded scowl hung from every wall.

  We took a table that overlooked the river. Fishermen lined the far shore. They were likely much happier than I was at the moment.

  Larson ordered a double scotch and water. I ordered a cup of coffee.

  “Think you’ll get me drunk and I’ll tell you everything?”

  “Just tell me what you want to tell me.”

  “The ladies must really like your idea of foreplay.”

  He waited until the waitress had brought our dr
inks and taken our orders and then he said, “Monica and I were about to dissolve our partnership.” He must have expected some dramatic response from me. I just stared at him. “I found out what she’d been up to the last three or four years.” I still said nothing. “Are you interested in this or not?”

  “Not so far. Why would I care if two sleazebags didn’t want to work together anymore?”

  He sat back, folded his hands on the table, and frowned. “I have to admit I probably went a little overboard on Potter. But it was a close race, Dev. I hit him with the only thing I could.”

  “His father’s a decent man and so is his brother.”

  “I guess that’s where we differ. If the old man is so ‘decent,’ why is he such a socialist?”

  “Universal health care makes him a socialist?”

  “Hell, yes, it does. And you know what I’m talking about. Some of the op-eds he wrote against going to war in Iraq bordered on treason.”

  “You’d better look up treason, Larson. You don’t know what the word means. And all he said was that we were being lied to. That hardly qualifies as treason.”

  “And his brother—that state doesn’t want some flaming faggot to be its senator’s brother. Especially when he’s always pushing for gay marriage and gay adoption.”

  I smiled. I couldn’t help myself.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m sitting here talking to some fop with manicured fingers who’s had two or three face-lifts and two turns at liposuction. You’re the flamer, Larson. Not Dave Potter. He’s like his brother Bill. He did two tours in Iraq when it was at its worst. So knock off the phony John Wayne bullshit. And Wayne was a draft dodger, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “That was a nice little speech.”

  “Bill Potter was a good senator and a decent man. Unlike the hack you got elected. I was surprised he didn’t show up wearing his white sheet and carrying a torch.”

  “Very funny.”

  “So what the fuck do you want? I’m giving you three minutes to lay it out or you’ll be eating both of our lunches by yourself.”

  Out came the salads, came a refill of coffee for me, came the fresh hot bread.