by Mark Schorr
“Tell me more about what happened,” Hanson encouraged.
“I decided I could scare her off, wave the gun around, show her I was serious. I should have known she was tougher than me. She grabbed the gun and it went off.” He slumped lower in his chair. “One person can make a difference,” he said with a snort. “My wife keeps asking what’s wrong. I tell her to leave me alone. She’s a good woman, deserves better than a scandal. With a few pounds pressure on that trigger, I undid a life’s worth of good. I don’t know if you’ve ever had that kind of moment, where you’ve inexplicably, inexcusably, irrevocably fucked up and know your life will never be the same.” The Mayor didn’t wait for an answer. “I called Tony for help. The cover up was successful, though Tony got more controlling.
“I’m telling you this because you’re a counselor, can keep things confidential. My administration is helping people live better lives. I won’t let my personal indiscretion undo the good we have done. You can’t tell anyone. If you do, I will deny it. And use the full force of my position to make your life miserable.”
Hanson took out a cassette. “Did you know Tony had his office wired for sound? Do you recall when you told him to take care of it, any way he had to?”
“That’s out of context. She was a blackmailer.”
The Mayor could feel his career imploding. “How did you get the tape?”
Hanson shrugged. “Not important.”
“Your wife’s reputation will be ruined. You’ll be subpoenaed, investigated.”
“My wife’s reputation?” Hanson snorted. “Why would you think I give a damn about that? As far as my being investigated, you are aware of his taping system? You having a sex freak as your ranking aide won’t help your case.”
“What do you want?”
“Call the DA and say you’re feeling guilty. Confess, and let a jury decide how much responsibility you have for waving a loaded gun around and what your intentions were. The tape of you and Dorsey talking about Tammy’s death is never made public.”
“You’ll destroy it?”
“Maybe.”
For several days, Hanson had been going to the Vietnam Veteran’s Living Memorial tucked into a natural amphitheater in the hillside at Hoyt Arboretum. The low black marble walls, dated from 1959 to 1972, showed the steady increase, and then final decrease, in names of the dead. He spent hours reading the nearly eight hundred names and the recitation of concurrent events that were going on as young soldiers were dying.
He was only vaguely aware of the people who came and went as he followed the circuitous, sloping route, looking for and finding names that he knew, and the tens of thousands that he didn’t. A few other visitors tried to engage him—he was polite but perfunctory in his response.
“Hey, Mister.”
The kid, a scruffy freckled pre-teen on a skateboard, rolled up and demanded attention. Hanson figured him for a panhandler and was set to shoo him away.
“A guy told me to give you this.”
“What guy?”
The kid turned to point, then said, “He was over there. Gave me ten bucks, so here it is.” He handed Hanson a folded sheet of lined notebook paper with neat handwriting on it. “Saw the news about the Mayor’s confession and suspect you had a hand in it, you persistent sonofabitch. You never did know when to stand down. Remember there’s no problem that a drink or a drug can’t make worse. And the next time you sit on the park bench, have a popcorn and think of me.’”
“Who was he? What did he look like?” Hanson asked urgently, scanning the park for a familiar face. But the kid was already on his skateboard and speeding down the hill.
McFarlane was still watching. They shared a destiny. He was a survivor too.
Hanson walked to the memorial entrance and stared at the marble block with the words, “So long as we are not forgotten we do not die. And thus this garden is a place of life.” A few dozen yards from the memorial, he took out his cell phone, and dialed Louise Parker.
“Uh, I guess I won’t be seeing you any more,” he said awkwardly.
“I guess so.”
He tried to assess what her subdued tone meant. Was she too busy to talk? Sad that he was bothering her? Or did he dare hope she didn’t want it to be the end of their relationship. “I’ve separated from my wife.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Really?”
“Well, sorry for you,” she said.
“Don’t be, it’s for the best. A long time overdue. Uh, I was wondering, maybe, would you want to have dinner some time?”
“I’d like that.”
He bounced on the balls of his feet, glad she couldn’t see. A passerby looked at him and he grinned. “Friday, around 7 p.m.?”
They agreed to meet at Jake’s restaurant. But before he called there for a reservation, he dialed a familiar number. He got voice mail.
“Hey Betty, it’s Brian. I’m ready to come back now.”
