McDarvid nodded. “What about…”
“That’s not exactly what the exemption report language had in mind…”
“Did you consider the kiln’s destruction removal efficiency…”
Back and forth, with McDarvid quietly presenting, Roger responding, the discussion continued for well over an hour.
“It is an interesting idea,” Roger admitted.
“Let me write it up and send it over.” McDarvid shrugged. “I think that Moreland might consider an expansion of the storage permit.”
“I can’t promise anything except to look at it.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” McDarvid straightened, glancing at the clock. Nearly four. Not much else that he could do, not when three quarters of the agency would be gone within the hour.
“Anyway, thanks for stopping by. We might look at that other idea, too.”
Other idea? What other idea had he given them?
“The one in your last paper—about sampling frequencies.”
“I didn’t realize I sent that to you.”
“You didn’t, but Joyce and I trade your stuff back and forth. Even the graphs are interesting, especially the creative way in which you use the scales.”
“All the numbers are there.”
“They always are. You’re an artist, Jack. Too bad you couldn’t stay.”
McDarvid shrugged. “You know it wasn’t my choice. I try to stay honest, even if I am on the other side of the fence sometimes.”
“Well … there are a few of you in industry that we actually enjoy talking to—maybe two or three. You, the computer guy, and Maurice.”
“Maurice?”
“You know, the former Deputy Administrator who founded Datron?”
“Oh, that Maurice. What’s he doing besides getting all sorts of testing contracts for Superfund sites?”
“Jack … that’s a little cynical.”
“What else has changed?”
Roger looked at the clock. “I need to do a few things before I catch the car pool.”
“All right. Thanks again for your time. I’ll have that paper over in the next few days.”
22
“JACK?”
McDarvid looked up.
Steve Greene, wispy hair drifting across his forehead, stood in the doorway.
“Come on in.”
The attorney shut the door behind him and slumped into the client chair. “It’s still like a whole new language. Or dialect, anyway.”
“Pesticides, you mean?”
Greene nodded, then straightened up and leaned toward McDarvid. “Do they really believe this shit?” He lifted the copy of the letter in his hand.
“What shit?”
“This business about having to register a fucking alcohol as a pesticide before you can use it in a hospital sterilizer?”
“Yeah … unfortunately. It’s a little more complicated than that. If you check the exact words in the CFR, you’ll find that they could sell it without a registration, but only if the label gives its straight description as alcohol. If they use the words ‘disinfectant’ or ‘sterilant’ or any words that imply antimicrobial action, then they have to register the product.”
“Common alcohol?”
McDarvid gave Greene a wry smile. “Even the twelve-year-old stuff.”
The attorney shook his head. “The Water Act at least is technology-based, with some commonsense checkpoints.”
“On the other hand,” mused McDarvid, “you can do risk-balancing with pesticides. That’s why Larry liked FIFRA. Claimed it wasn’t all one-sided.”
“I suppose,” Greene said slowly. “Any word on the police investigation?”
“No. Detective called the other day with a few other questions. They don’t have any real leads, other than the drug angle.”
“I wish he were still handling FIFRA.”
McDarvid grinned. “It’s not that bad. You’ve been here, what? Eight years?”
“Going on nine.” Greene looked across the desk. “Jack, sometimes I just don’t know. When I started clerking for Justice Diener, I told myself that after that and a few years busting my ass to make partner, everything would be fine. But things haven’t changed. Suzanne and I got married, and Cyndy and Malcolm came along, and it’s ten years later, and I still put in a lot of seventy-plus-hour weeks.
“I’m up for partner next summer, and Heidlinger keeps hinting that someone who’s partner quality doesn’t mind spending the time—or billing the clients for every last second. He even claimed he bills for the time he reads opposition briefs on the john.”
McDarvid smiled. “But the money’s good.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Greene shrugged. “Where else could someone who’s thirty-four make what I do? But if I don’t keep working like this, I’ll be one of the ones who end up out the door on July fourth. Or a permanent senior associate, making the same salary for the rest of my life.”
“Perils of the fast track.”
“You pay one way or the other.” Greene gave McDarvid a lopsided grin as he stood up. “Sorry to keep you, Jack. But I couldn’t believe the business about needing a registration for plain old alcohol.”
“It threw me the first time, too.”
After the thin attorney had left, McDarvid glanced at the computer, wondering whether Greene would be selected for partner. He shook his head. Steve didn’t have the proper reverence. And the fact that Heidlinger had been so direct wasn’t a good sign. When things became obvious in Washington, you were in trouble. Nothing was obvious until it was too late.
That was why there was rarely a good Washington book. How would you really write about life in the fogbank that was the nation’s capital? No one would believe how things happened. Like Bill Windreck. Poor bastard probably spent every other minute worrying about either congressional hearings or the White House reactions to congressional concerns. But if you didn’t see the subtleties or the rumors, you had no warning at all. And sometimes, when you saw the warnings, no one else did, or there was nothing you could do.
Like Ned Llewellyn … or like Steve.
23
THE BLACK CONVERTIBLE RUMBLED into the parking lot. At the sound of incompletely muffled exhaust, a thin woman pushing a blue denim baby carriage looked at the less than pristine bodywork of the not quite classic vehicle.
Jonnie grinned at the woman, who looked away quickly. “Maybe it’s the beard.”
From the space next to a rust-streaked blue Dodge van, he walked toward the nearest wing of the apartment complex. Apartment 112 was at the other end from where he had parked, but on the ground-floor level.
Overhead, a few puffy white clouds dotted the sky. The air was warmer than even the typical Washington Indian summer, but untypical of Washington weekends, when it usually rained. Jonnie rang the bell.
Veronica opened the door. “I’m ready,” she announced, hoisting a bag from Sutton Place Gourmet.
“Wow. Looks great.” Jonnie took a long look at the flannel shirt and the trim and faded jeans. The loose-fitting red-and-white-checked flannel shirt couldn’t completely hide the shapely form underneath.
“You don’t even know what I got for lunch.”
“That’s okay. I wasn’t referring to lunch.”
“Are you … Never mind.” Veronica suppressed a half-smile and set down the bag beside the doorway. “Well, come on in. You might as well see my digs before we leave. Do you want a drink or anything?”
“Actually, a glass of water would be nice.” Jonnie stepped through the doorway and past the closet and turned left into the living/everything room.
Veronica went the other way, into the small kitchen.
Once past the squared archway, Jonnie stopped, looking at the picture hanging over the battered tan couch. The image was of a younger Marx, but the look that would become famous in his later years was already obvious.
Behind his back, Jonnie could hear
the sound of running water, followed by the sounds of a refrigerator opening and the clink of ice into a tumbler.
Besides the picture, he noted the battered desk in one corner and, strangely incongruous, the computer, complete with a large black plastic box filled with floppies. The external modem’s red lights were dark.
“Here’s your water.”
Jonnie turned and accepted the glass. “Thank you.” He took a deep swallow. Riding with the top down usually left him thirsty.
“This is home, at least for now.”
He looked toward the kitchen.
“I’ll take it. You don’t even know where it goes.” She took the glass, opened the dishwasher, placed it on the upper rack, and closed the door with a muted thump.
“I thought environmentalists didn’t use dishwashers,” he teased.
“They use less water than washing by hand, especially if you wait until it’s full. That’s what industry always says. And they’re right about that.”
Gesturing toward the portrait above the couch, Jonnie asked, “I take it this means you’re a Marxist?”
“Of course. You know what leftists we greenies are. I even have a matching sweatshirt.”
“I like it.” Jonnie was going to enjoy this picnic.
As they reached the front door, Veronica picked up a plain blue windbreaker along with the lunch provisions.
Jonnie looked back toward the living room where Groucho, flanked by duck and cigar, leered down from the wall.
As they left the apartment, Jonnie stepped onto the still-green grass to avoid the same woman with the baby carriage. She did not even look at Jonnie, instead glaring at Veronica.
Veronica stepped up beside Jonnie.
“Which car?”
“The black one down there. I parked at the wrong end.”
“The van?”
“No, it’s behind the van.”
“That one?” she asked at the sight of the 1967 GTO, black top down.
“It’s just good basic transit. Besides, it’s fun.”
“Basic transit? Then why are there flames on the hood scoop?”
“Oh, a friend put those on. He said if I was going to have this car I might as well do it right.”
“Is it environmentally sound? I mean, a car like that must get terrible mileage.”
“Environmentally sound? Hell, it’s not even very safe.” He opened the door for her.
“Just a minute.” Veronica paused and pulled on the windbreaker. Then she slipped into the passenger seat, looking for the seat belts. “You don’t have shoulder belts.” She finally fished out the buckle end of the belt from deep within the seat.
“Lucky to have seat belts. They were an option on this car.” Jonnie shut the door.
“Oh…”
Looking back over his shoulder, Jonnie turned the key. The lady with the baby carriage was nowhere in sight as he backed out of the parking space and eased the GTO out through the narrow apartment lane.
“Why do you live all the way up here?” Jonnie asked as he swung the GTO south onto Route 29 from South Entrance Drive. “Somehow, I imagined that you lived in town. Georgetown or Adams-Morgan.”
“It’s pleasant.” Veronica raised her voice as the GTO rumbled. “I can catch most of the concerts at Merriweather without buying a ticket. The first part, at least. They turn down the volume at ten. I’ll have some friends over, set up some lawn chairs or a blanket in the field by the parking lot, and enjoy the show until the volume drops. Besides, it’s affordable. For what I pay here, including my car payments, I’d be watching the roach races in a tiny apartment in Adams-Morgan or Capitol Hill. And taking bets on how many times I got broken into each week.”
Veronica shifted in the cracked vinyl seat as the wind blew back her hair. “How did you end up working where you do? I mean, you seem concerned about the environment.”
Jonnie shrugged as he cut the car around a slow-moving Cadillac in the left lane. “Maybe because I am concerned. Sometimes, I think that the work I do does more to shape good environmental policy than all the yammering interest groups put together.”
“You think that Ecology Now! is composed of yammering idiots?”
“It’s not the individuals. It’s the group process. Business or environmental group, they’re all the same. Facts don’t have much to do with beliefs.” He paused, then tried to explain. “Look, I actually try to apply some analysis to show the consequences of proposed rules. Very little real analysis goes into policy proposals, whether by government, interest groups, or corporations. Hell, I think I fight more battles with my clients trying to get them to do the smart thing than I do with anybody else.”
“You sound like it’s a single-handed battle.”
“Almost. I work with another fellow. We do the analyses and education work for the firm, the detailed practical analysis that lawyers avoid.”
Jonnie eased the car around the circle at the District line and headed down Sixteenth Street. “As to how I ended up here, your guess is as good as mine. Just chance, I suppose. After I graduated from Georgetown, I spent a year at OMB before I went to grad school and got a finance degree from Chicago. After that, I went to General Brands and ran the pudding business.”
Veronica’s face crinkled with laughter. “The pudding business?”
“Sure. I was the pudding czar. I ran the financial side of their pudding business until I came to a stunning realization.”
“What was that?”
“I hated pudding.”
Veronica grabbed the dashboard as she broke into laughter.
“There was actually only one benefit to having worked there.”
“What was that?”
“It’s good for making cute girls laugh.”
The car squealed to a halt, a little too sharply, at a light.
“That place was divorced from reality. You know they sell those frozen pudding bars? The kind that celebrities advertise?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, they used to refer to those products as frozen novelties. They were marketed to kids. Then someone got the bright idea of selling a dietetic version of frozen desserts for grown-ups.”
“So?”
“The company formally referred to them as adult novelties.”
Veronica began convulsing with laughter. “Adult novelties? Was that because of the shape?”
“Nah. No one even thought of that, even though the shape is … suggestive. As far as they were concerned, it was just frozen fruit drink in the regular shape. But no one saw anything funny in the idea of selling frozen adult novelties. It just never occurred to them. I had to get out of there.”
“Did you take any samples?” Veronica grinned lasciviously.
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to check my freezer.” Jonnie grinned back as he floored the GTO to cut in front of a furniture delivery van. “Anyway, I saw a small want ad in the Washington Post asking for a regulatory economist. I’d already learned something about regulatory issues during an internship on the Hill, and that led to a year at OMB. Besides, I had a decent economics background coming out of Chicago.”
From N Street, Jonnie turned south on Twenty-third. “So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a town like this?”
“It’s my turn?”
Jonnie did not answer as he ran the yellow light and began to merge the heavy car into the circle traffic.
“Well, somehow, and nobody in my family can quite explain it, I came down with political fever early. Even as a little kid I stayed up late on election nights to watch the returns come in. Once, in school, when I was running for class president, I promised a boy that I’d kiss him if he voted for me.”
“Did you?”
“No. He was cute enough, but somehow I just never went through with it.”
“Did he vote for you?”
“Of course.” She grinned.
“You’re right. You did learn politics at an early age.”
Jonnie took the righ
t-hand turn off the bridge that would lead him to the George Washington Parkway.
“Anyway, for politics, this is the place to go. Columbus just wasn’t the spot for what I wanted. Somehow, between working, student loans, and help from my folks, I managed the tuition at George Washington. I could have gone to a better school than G.W. for less money, but I wanted to be in Washington.
“G.W. is expensive. Did you like it?” Jonnie asked as he hit the brake, then the accelerator. “Damned parkway…”
“It was okay. I went more for the access than the education. Some of the professors had the experience I was interested in learning about. Being in Washington also allowed me to get the internships I wanted. Like I said, it met my needs.”
Jonnie repressed the urge to let out a whistle. Instead, he tapped the brake several times to warn the tailgating Volvo and flicked the turn signal before pulling into the island’s parking lot. Veronica was showing more than met the eyes, and there was plenty to meet the eyes.
A spot large enough to accommodate his car was his immediate priority, but apparently the breeze had kept both tourists and locals away, or at least enough away that he had no problem in wheeling the big convertible into a parking slot between two diminutive imports.
“Here we are!” he announced, opening the door. He looked at Veronica, then continued past the trunk to her door, which he opened, wondering whether she appreciated the gesture. Not that disapproval would have stopped him.
She inclined her head, wreathed in windblown hair.
“I need to…” he mumbled as he headed back, keys in hand, to open the trunk and extract the old army blanket.
Thunk! The entire GTO shuddered as the trunk came down.
Veronica did not even look up as she reached down behind the seat to recover the shopping bag with the picnic inside.
Jonnie sauntered up, closing the door for her. “Ready for a short walk?”
“Of course.” Sometime between his opening the door and returning from the trunk, she had brushed or combed the long hair back into place.
“This way…” Once clear of the parking area, Jonnie led Veronica up the gentle slope and through a stand of trees to a small clearing on the other side of the narrow island—on the shore downstream and across the river from the Georgetown campus. With the cool breeze off the water keeping both tourists and locals away, Jonnie knew they wouldn’t be disturbed, especially as they were well away from the trails and picnic facilities.
The Green Progression Page 9