The Green Progression

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  “Yes. I didn’t think you would, though.”

  Jonnie smiled. “Why don’t you leave that out?”

  Veronica laid the squat book on top of the shelf and continued looking at the titles. “Now, here’s something that doesn’t surprise me. Cynicisms. Although I wouldn’t have thought you needed a book to help you.”

  “You should read that. It’s wickedly funny. It has a good section on lawyers, almost as good as the one on consultants and politicians.”

  She pulled out the book and thumbed through it, stopping at the section labeled “Environmentalists.” Her eyes began to take in the short entries.

  “Oooo…”

  “What?”

  “‘Clean water is getting scarcer. So are clean environmentalists.’”

  “I didn’t write it,” protested Jonnie.

  “How about this one? ‘A true environmentalist protests building atomic power plants because their waste is hard to handle. They still allow coal-fired generators that have killed over a hundred thousand miners and most of the eastern forests. This is known as environmental purity.’”

  “Well, I think there’s an element of truth there.” Jonnie’s voice was cautious as he hovered over the stove.

  “I like this one!”

  “Yes?”

  “‘An environmental attorney is a contradiction in terms.’”

  “Anyone like that in your office?” asked Jonnie as he brought out a dish from the refrigerator.

  “I’m not telling.”

  “But you’re giggling.”

  “All right, it’s a standing joke. Ray Thomas. He’s a big red-bearded lawyer. He used to be a radical protester. Then he went to law school. Now he’s telling all his old environmental friends that working within the system is the way to go. Except he always complains when we hold a reception for Congress.”

  “Don’t know him,” Jonnie admitted. “You need to put down the book.”

  “Why? It is funny. Well, not funny. Maybe witty, and … well … true…”

  “Because,” Jonnie announced, “dinner is served.”

  Veronica sat in the chair Jonnie held away from the table. A blue-edged Corelle salad plate sat between each place setting. Behind each knife was a frosted glass and an open bottle of Singha Gold beer. In the center of the table was a light beige mound on a bed of lettuce with rings of red onions off to the side of the plate.

  “This doesn’t look like it was made with noodle soup.”

  “The Campbell cookbook didn’t have a good recipe for larb, so I substituted a Thai cookbook.”

  “Larb?”

  “It’s essentially cold spiced ground chicken. Give it a try. You said you enjoyed spicy Chinese food. So I thought you might like to try Thai.”

  “I do like Thai food,” Veronica admitted. “On the few occasions I’ve had it.” She began spooning the larb onto her plate. “Are you going to be having onions?”

  “I will if you will.”

  Veronica took three of the reddish rings.

  “This is good. And hot.” Veronica reached for the cold beer and poured it quickly into the glass.

  “I’m glad you like it. I tried to take it easy on the chilies since you’re a novice.”

  “Where did you get the ingredients?” Veronica asked as she reached to take some more larb from the serving plate.

  “Most of the stuff came from the local supermarket. The rest came from an Asian grocery store. There must be at least a half dozen within two miles of here. The toughest part was finding the native food colorings.”

  “Why did you use food coloring?” A tinge of suspicion edged her voice.

  “So dinner would be Thai-dyed.”

  Veronica covered her face and emitted a pained sound.

  Jonnie removed the empty dishes and disappeared into the kitchen. After several minutes of clankings and other less defined sounds, he returned carrying dinner plates and a steaming bowl of sliced beef and vegetables.

  “Nue gra pao,” he announced as he set down the plates and the bowl.

  “Quoi?”

  “Nue gra pao. Stir-fried beef with mint.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks, but you may want to try it before committing yourself.” Jonnie went back to the kitchen and quickly returned with a bowl of white rice and a glass container filled with black liquid.

  “Fermented fish sauce,” he explained as he set down the items and returned to his seat.

  For a time, neither said anything.

  After a sip from her tumbler, followed by plain rice, and a quick blotting of her forehead, Veronica said, “This is really good. I didn’t think you could cook, at least like this.”

  “I have to confess that it was pretty easy. Nothing required elaborate preparation.”

  “You’re a brave man.”

  “For admitting it was easy?”

  “For serving your date a meal based on onions and garlic.”

  “I’m having what you are so we’ll cancel each other. We won’t notice a thing.”

  “There are some things I’m hoping to notice.” Veronica’s face crinkled into a smile.

  Jonnie returned the grin. “Aside from corporeal nourishment, the purpose of food is to heighten the senses.”

  “I do believe you have succeeded,” Veronica replied softly as Jonnie quickly cleared the table and returned with two cups, each containing glutinous rice covered with sweetened mung beans.

  “It’s delicious. Different, but delicious. I’ve never had anything like this. What is it?”

  “Special dessert for a special lady. And a special friend.”

  “Thank you.” Veronica closed her eyes for a second before finishing dessert.

  “Would you like some music?” Jonnie asked after clearing the table for the last time and refilling the water glasses.

  “Yes, I would.”

  “You choose.” Jonnie motioned to the record crates.

  “I don’t believe this. Your amplifier or preamp, whatever it is, has tubes.”

  “Both the amp and preamp are tubed.”

  “No CD player, and tubes instead of transistors. I didn’t realize how poorly you were paid.”

  “It’s not a question of money. The equipment is very expensive. Tubes just provide a warm liquid sound that transistors can’t produce.”

  “Another aesthetic decision?”

  “All important decisions are when you think about them.”

  Veronica thumbed through the records. “This is not what I expected.”

  “It’s an eclectic collection.”

  “I can see. I guess I expected mostly either heavy metal or top forty.”

  “What have you got there?”

  Veronica began pulling up individual albums. “We’ve got some nice selections from the Chesky catalog, several Professor Johnson recordings, whoever he is. Any relation to Doc Johnson?” Veronica flashed a wicked grin.

  “Guess you’ll have to find out.” Jonnie grinned back.

  Veronica continued looking through the crate. “Now I’m really surprised. Norwegian jazz?”

  Jonnie did not answer, watching as Veronica’s fingers moved through the albums.

  “Kate Wolf, Nick Drake, and, oh, you’ve got Bonnie Koloc albums. How did you ever even hear of her, let alone find the records?”

  “You forget. I lived in Chicago for a while. The records I’ve been able to slowly accumulate. I think there’s only one I’m missing. How did you ever hear of her?”

  “I’ve been a fan of hers for … God, a long time. I wonder if she’s even still alive.”

  Jonnie nodded. “She even had an album out not too long ago.”

  “Really? Despite all the heroin? I haven’t heard of her in a long time.”

  “I guess she finally cleaned up her act. Here, let me put that on.” Jonnie lifted the turntable dust cover, placed the disc on the platter, and screwed down the clamp before switching the player on, giving the record a quick swipe with
a carbon fiber brush and releasing the needle.

  The two bodies came together, slowing sinking to the soft thick carpeting as “You’re Gonna Love Yourself in the Morning” played in the background. The bodies remained joined long after the record had finished.

  71

  McDARVID LEANED INSIDE THE DOORWAY. “Hello, Jerry.”

  “Hi, Jack.” Killorin’s voice was flat.

  “How are things with the metals initiative?”

  “You know I can’t talk about that. That’s ex parte.”

  McDarvid stepped inside the office, easing the door shut behind him. “Of course you can, Jerry. You just have to write it up.”

  Killorin looked up tiredly from the modular desk, leaned back in the chair, his paunch protruding over his thin brown belt and khaki trousers. “And I’ve got all sorts of time to write things like that up? We put your papers in the record. You have anything else to add, put it in writing, and we’ll add it.”

  McDarvid nodded. “You’re good about following procedures, Jerry. At least the ones that apply to rulemaking.” He looked toward the picture of the girl in the graduation gown. “Pretty girl. Where’s she go to school?”

  “Mount Holyoke,” admitted Killorin.

  “She’s bright, like her father.” McDarvid shook his head. “Amazing how expensive schools like that have gotten. When I went to Amherst, I think the whole bill was maybe four grand a year. That went further then, but now it must be over twenty thousand.”

  “It’s expensive, all right.” Killorin swallowed. “What’s on your mind, Jack? I’ve seen more of you in the past two weeks than in the past year.”

  “Well, you know how it is. Just depends on what issues I’m working. This metals thing is really fascinating. Goes so much deeper than ever shows up in the rule. I’ve really learned a lot following it.” McDarvid shrugged. “It affects things like space, high technology, government procurements, even college tuition, in an odd way.” He stepped back toward the door. “Since you’re being very formal, though, I’ll be submitting my stuff formally. Both to the docket and to the I.G.” He held up the thick folder he carried. “Makes interesting reading.”

  “What does the Inspector General have to do with a proposed rule?” Killorin had eased himself forward in the battered gray swivel chair.

  “Don’t know that he does, but when ethics considerations involve those with a substantial input to a rule…” McDarvid shrugged. “I just couldn’t be certain myself; so I thought the I.G. ought to look into it.” He eased the door back open. “Appreciate the time, Jerry. Have a good day.”

  McDarvid nodded to Angelique as he passed her desk. “You have a good day, too.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McDarvid.”

  McDarvid walked the long corridor to the elevator, where he punched the button for the ground floor. He’d already provided the package to the Inspector General—and gotten a receipt.

  Killorin was cool, very cool. So what could he do now?

  72

  “ALL OF A SUDDEN, it doesn’t look so certain.”

  “Why not? Three months ago, you said it was a lock.” Ray Thomas’ voice grew sharper.

  “Ray?” asked Killorin, his voice sounding thin in the receiver.

  “Yeah…”

  “You know Jack McDarvid?”

  “I’ve run across his name somewhere recently. What was it?” Thomas transferred the telephone receiver to his left shoulder, opened the file that lay on his blotter, and flipped through the sheets of paper. “Here it is. Something—you know, a propaganda piece. I just glanced at the thing when it came in. It looks like the same lobbyists’ shit. He sent one to your office.”

  “I read it. That’s one of the reasons why the metals thing might come unglued.”

  “Junk,” snorted the attorney.

  “I wish it were, Ray. He’s got some good points there. His numbers are better than yours, or ours, and he knows how to get people’s attention. And he’s a real bastard.”

  Thomas closed the file drawer, leaving the metals folder on the desktop, then shifted the telephone back to his right ear. “You don’t make sense, Jerry. You say his stuff’s good, and he’s a bastard.”

  “Ray, you’re confusing character with ability.” The sigh was more than audible. “He’s a bastard, and he may have me in deep shit. He’s polite and unassuming. He likes to tell you stories about his kids, but when the time comes, he’ll kick you in the balls.”

  “Shit, Jerry.” Thomas swallowed. “Can I do anything?”

  “You can’t do a friggin’ thing about that smug son of a bitch. Just stay out of his way.”

  “Why? He can’t do anything to me.”

  “Don’t say that. His numbers are good, and he knows how to use them. They’ll kill you. Take him serious, real serious.” There was a pause. “Don’t … Never mind.” There was a pause. “Anyway, the short answer to your question is that it still looks okay, but it’s sure not a mortal lock.”

  Thomas frowned. “All right if I call you later?”

  “Well … yeah, I guess I’ll be … yeah. That’s okay. But remember McDarvid.”

  “Sure, Jerry. Sure.”

  73

  McDARVID SAT DOWN ON THE STONE BENCH and removed the standard lens from his camera, setting it in the top of the telephoto lens case. Then he took the 200mm lens from the case and attached it. The lens seemed to dwarf the camera.

  He put the regular lens in the case, closed it, and eased the case into the right raincoat pocket. With a sigh he stood, checking the address on the piece of paper again—no more than a two-block walk. According to Tom, Renni usually had lunch out on Fridays. Sometimes on Mondays, but usually on Fridays. That figured, since most Fridays the committee had no hearings.

  Number 345 was a modest three-story town house, perhaps thirty feet wide at the most, a Washington, D.C., imitation of a New York brownstone. McDarvid whistled as he walked past. The entire house had been gutted and refinished behind the original stonework. Not bad for a black engineer and lobbyist who had pulled himself out of the depths of Chicago. McDarvid shook his head. For sheer ability, Alroy had it, from the advanced MIT degrees to the reputed near-concert-level ability with his Steinway grand. He also clearly had charm, especially if cold, bitchy Renni Fowler warmed to him.

  McDarvid checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. Could be as much as a thirty-to-forty-minute wait.

  At the end of the block, he crossed the street and stopped. He tried focusing on the doorstep, but the trunk of a stately oak blocked a clear shot. He moved back toward the brownstone and tried again. This time a thinner and unidentified tree crossed the camera’s field.

  Moving back up the block on the other side of the street, he tried again. This time he got a clear image.

  Overhead, the clouds thickened. McDarvid checked the settings on the camera again, then took a shot of the town house. And a second. After all, there were thirty-six exposures on the roll, and he doubted that he would get half that many at the right time, even with the autowinder.

  Leaving the camera on the strap around his neck, he sat on a stone fence post one house closer to Alroy’s and pulled out the notepad from his pocket. He began to list items:

  ITEM:

  A dead and influential attorney known for his success in making the improbable occur

  ITEM:

  A secret nuclear test in the Pacific

  ITEM:

  A government favor to the French

  ITEM:

  Environmental regulations targeted at high-tech industries

  ITEM:

  Scholarships for the children of idealists setting environmental standards

  ITEM:

  Not-perfectly-secure computers in key locations supplied by the same people who granted the scholarships

  ITEM:

  At least two key low-level decision-makers receiving apparent financial aid

  A well-dressed black woman walked past. Her eyes took in the camera and the notepad, and she i
mmediately looked away.

  McDarvid glanced up the block, but saw only a stroller and a younger woman pushing it. The wind ruffled through his hair, and his ears were getting cold.

  A tall athletic figure appeared at the corner on the other end of the block. McDarvid stuffed the pad and felt-tip into the raincoat pocket and picked up the camera.

  He managed five clear shots, the last of Alroy with his key in the lock.

  While he waited, hoping Renni would show, he tore his list of items from the pad, folded the two sheets of paper, and put them in his pants pocket, not the raincoat pocket.

  The faint tapping of heels alerted McDarvid, and he had the camera ready.

  Renni looked neither right nor left, but walked quickly and determinedly toward the brownstone.

  McDarvid’s second shot caught a smile on her face. His last shot caught Mike Alroy’s profile almost as if in a quick kiss with Renni’s lips.

  Good enough?

  McDarvid’s stomach twisted as he took another two shots of the brownstone. Then he put the lens cap in place and began to walk toward the Metro.

  “Who do you work for?”

  He stepped back at the question. Two middle-aged women in heavy dark cloth coats stood at the corner. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

  “He has to be from the press, Gladys. Look at that camera. That’s a telephoto lens. Walter had one like that.”

  McDarvid shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t work for anyone. Just … bird watching.”

  “Oh … what kind of birds, young man? I can tell you that about the only things you’ll find around here are pigeons.” The thinner woman was amused.

  “This is so exciting…” interjected the other one. “I’ll bet he works for someone like Scandal Tours. Digging up all the dirt.”

  “Excuse me, ladies.” He stepped around the two women and continued walking toward the Capitol South Metro station.

  “Maybe a private eye…”

  “Bird watching indeed…”