“He has to know other people,” Parker said. He frowned out the window at the lake, where it now reflected the start of sunset, as though a lot of different pastel paints had been spilled on it. “He isn’t a loner,” he said.
“Not by choice,” Claire agreed. She sipped at her drink and said, “He’s always been a bureaucrat, his friends have always been other bureaucrats. They all got older together, retired, died off, moved away. He’s in correspondence with a couple of people in Florida, one in California. He still knows a few people around Albany, but doesn’t hang out with them much. When he wants to see somebody in his office on business, the guy is usually in for him.”
Parker touched the window glass; it was cool. He said, “Money?”
“His retirement. The consulting business brings in a little, not much. He’s lived in the same house for thirty-four years, in a suburb called Delmar, paid off the mortgage a long time ago.”
“Protégés? Young bureaucrats coming up?”
“He’s on the wrong side of the issue,” she said. “Or he’s got the wrong issues. And he was never important enough to cultivate. I think basically people are ready to forget him, except he’s still around here and there. Comes to the testimonial dinners and the news conferences.”
“Brothers, sisters?”
“Two older brothers, both dead. Some cousins and nephews and nieces he never sees. He comes from two old New England families, his first name, Hilliard, was his mother’s maiden name. Anglican ministers and college professors.”
Parker nodded, then turned to offer Claire his thin smile. “That’s why the anti-gambling.”
“His forebears would turn in their graves.”
“Armed robbery,” Parker said. “They’d spin a little for that one, too, wouldn’t they?”
“I’d think so,” Claire agreed.
Parker turned back to the window. The spilled paint on the lake was getting darker. He said. “He’ll think about those forebears, won’t he? He’ll want to make it right, not upset them a lot.”
Claire watched his profile and said nothing.
After a minute, Parker shook his head in irritation. “I don’t like wasted motion,” he said. “But I just have the feeling, before this is over, I’m gonna have to put Cathman out of his misery.”
12
Rosemary Shields was as Claire had described her: a rotund older woman with iron-gray hair in an iron arrangement of tight coils close to her head. She escaped an air of the maternal by dressing in browns and blacks, and by maintaining a manner of cold clerical efficiency. When Parker entered her office through the frosted glass door that read:
1100
Hilliard Cathman Associates
in gold letters, she was briskly typing at her computer keyboard, making sounds like crickets in the walls. She stopped the crickets and looked up with some surprise; not many people came through that door. But Parker had dressed for the part, in dark suit and white shirt and low-key striped tie, so she wouldn’t be alarmed.
“Yes?” she asked, unable to hide the surprise, and he knew she mostly expected to hear he’d come to the wrong office.
Parker shut the door. The hall had been empty, the names on the other frosted glass doors along here describing law firms, accountants, “media specialists” and “consultants.” Camp followers of state government. “Cathman,” Parker said.
Surprise gave way to that natural efficiency: “Yes, of course,” as she reached for the phone. “Is Mr. Cathman expecting you?”
Was Cathman expecting anybody? Parker went along with the fiction that business was being done here, saying, “Tell him it’s Mr. Lynch. Tell him I’m with the Parkers.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and tapped the intercom button on the phone.
While she murmured into the phone, not quite studying him out of the corners of her eyes as she spoke with Cathman, Parker looked around at the office. It was small and square and without windows, the walls lined with adjustable bookshelves full of law books and technical journals. The one clear area of wall space, behind Rosemary Shields’ desk, contained a pair of four-drawer filing cabinets and, above them, a large framed reproduction of Ben Shahn’s Sacco and Vanzetti poster. So Cathman was not a man to give up a cause just because it was dead.
Rosemary Shields hung up: “He’ll be right out.”
“Thank you.”
And he was. Parker turned toward the inner door, and it opened. Cathman stuck his head out, like a mole out of his hole in the ground, not sure what he was going to see, and relief showed clearly on his face when he saw it was Parker out there. Fortunately, his Rosemary had gone back to her computer keyboard and didn’t see her boss’s face. Or was she in on it, along for Cathman’s U-turn into crime? Parker doubted it, but there was no way to be sure.
“Oh, yes,” Cathman said. “Mr. Lynch, of course. Come in, please.”
Parker followed him into the inner office, and Cathman shut the door, his manner switching at once to a fussy indignation. “Mr. Parker,” he half-whispered, in a quick high-pitched stutter, “you shouldn’t come here like this. It’s too dangerous.”
“Not for me,” Parker told him, and looked around at Cathman’s lair. It was a larger office than the one outside, but not by much. One wall was mostly window, with a view out and down toward the huge dark stone pile of the statehouse, a turreted medieval castle, outsize and grim, built into the steep slope and now surrounded by the scuttle of modern life. From here, you saw the statehouse from an angle behind it and farther up the hill and from the eleventh floor and the steep city in a tumble of commercial and government buildings on down to the river.
Inside here, Cathman had made a nest for himself, with an imposing partner’s desk inset green felt top, a kneehole and drawers on both sides so the partners could sit facing one another angled into a corner, where Cathman could look out the window and still face the door. There were more bookcases in here, but better ones, freestanding, with glass doors that closed down over each shelf. Framed diplomas and testimonials and photos were spaced around the walls. An L-shaped sofa in dark red and a dark wood coffee table filled the corner opposite the desk.
Cathman, calmed by Parker’s indifference, but still feeling wronged, came forward, making impatient brushing gestures at the sofa. “Yes, well, at least you used a different name,” he said. “Sit down, sit down, as long as you’re here. But I already told you, I repeatedly told you, I’ll be happy to meet you anywhere, anywhere at all, answer any questions you have, just phone me and”
“Sit down,” Parker said.
They were on opposite sides of the coffee table. Cathman blinked, looked at the sofa, looked at Parker, and said, “My secretary”
“Rosemary Shields.”
Cathman blinked again, then thought, and then nodded. “Yes, you do your research. You probably know all there is to know about me by now.”
“Not all,” Parker said.
“Well, the point is,” Cathman said, “Miss Shields will expect me to offer you a cold drink. We’re not equipped to do coffee here, but we have a variety of soft drinks and seltzer and so on in the refrigerator under her desk. Business meetings begin with that, she’ll expect it. What would you like? I can recommend the Saratoga water, it’s a New York State mineral water, very good.”
The local politician to the end. Parker said, “Sure, I’ll try it.”
“Pleasesit down.”
Parker sat on the side of the sofa where the light from the window would be behind him. Easier then to see Cathman’s face, harder for Cathman to see his. Meanwhile, Cathman went back to the door, opened it, murmured to Miss Shields, shut the door, and returned. “She’ll bring it, in just a moment.”
“So this is the time we talk about the weather, right?”
Cathman smiled, apparently surprising himself when he did it. “I doubt that,” he said, “though it would be usual, yes. But we won’t want to discuss Ah, Miss Shields. Thank you.”
They waited and watc
hed her in silence as she brought in a small silver tray, on which faintly jingled two bottles of mineral water and two glasses with ice cubes. She didn’t speak, but continued her performance of being in a world where her efficiency mattered. She put the tray on the coffee table, nodded to Cathman, and left, closing the door firmly but quietly behind her.
Cathman actually wanted water; he poured himself some as he said, “Is there really any reason for this urgency?”
“No urgency,” Parker told him. “I wanted to talk to you, and I wanted to see your place.”
“And now you’ve seen it. Will you need to see it again?”
“I hope not.”
Cathman sipped his bubbly water, put the glass down, and gave Parker a curious look. “That was some sort of threat, wasn’t it? What you meant was, the only reason you’d come back here is if you intended to do me harm.”
Parker said, “Why would I want to do you harm?”
“Only if I’d done you some.” Cathman smiled. “And I’m not going to, so that’s an end to that. Mr. Parker, I do understand what sort of man you are, I really do. I knew what sort of man our late friend Marshall Howell was. I am no threat to you, nor to anybody at all except the gambling interests in New York State.”
“That’s nice,” Parker said.
“You wanted to”
“Talk to you about those gambling interests,” Parker told him, “and the people opposed to them. There’s some state legislators against it, right?”
“In a minority, I’m afraid.”
“That’s a list you’ll have.”
Cathman was startled. “You want a list of anti-gambling legislators? But, why would you want to You don’t mean to approachthem.”
“Cathman,” Parker said, “get the list.”
Cathman didn’t know what to do. He needed reassurance, but if Parker were to consult with him once, give him explanations, then Cathman would want explanations and reassurances all the time. Stop it now, and it’s dealt with.
When Cathman couldn’t stand the silence any more, he put down his glass of New York State mineral water, with a clickon the coffee table, louder than he’d intended, and said, “I’ll get But Of course, it can’t leave Well.”
Parker watched him. Finally Cathman got to his feet and hurried from the room.
There was a second door in here, narrower, in the other corner, farthest from the desk. A way out, or a bathroom? Parker rose and crossed over there, and it was a bathroom, small and efficient, with a shower. Towels were hung askew, the soap in the shower was a smallish stub, hotel shampoos were on the shelf in there; so it was used, from time to time.
As Parker headed back toward the sofa, Cathman returned, a thick manila folder in his hand. He saw Parker in motion, looked quickly at his desk, then realized Parker was coming from the other direction, and stopped worrying; about that, anyway.
When they were both seated, Cathman put the folder on his lap, rested a protective hand on it, and said, “If you could tell me what you want
“
“An anti-gambling legislator. Not from this part of the state. Short and fat. Sour expression.”
Cathman looked alert, ready to be of help. “Do you know his name?”
“You’re going to tell me,” Parker said. “He should be an obscure guy, somebody most people wouldn’t know very much.”
“Oh, I see,” Cathman said, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I was confused, I thought you meant one specific person, but you want a type,someone to match a Well, it would have to be an assemblyman, not a state senator, if you want someone obscure. There are many more assemblymen than senators.”
“How many assemblymen?”
“One hundred and fifty.”
“That’s a good herd,” Parker said. “Cut me out one. Short and fat. Sour expression. Most people don’t know him, or wouldn’t recognize him.”
“Let me see.” Cathman opened the folder, riffled through the sheets of paper in there, then found it was more comfortable to put the folder on the coffee table and bend over it. After a minute, he looked up and said, “Would New York City be all right?”
“Wouldn’t they be well known?”
“Not at all. There are sixty assemblymen from New York City alone. And assemblywomen, of course.” Cathman shrugged. “And to tell the truth,” he said, “the rural people and the people in towns are likelier to know their assemblyman than the people down in the city.”
“What have you got?”
“His name is Morton Kotkind, from Brooklyn. His district has hospitals and colleges, a lot of transients. It always has among the lowest percentage of eligible voters who actually cast the ballot. Nobody actually likesKotkind, he’s just a good obedient party man who does the job, and it’s a safe seat there, where nobody will ever notice him.”
“Sounds good.”
“He’s a lawyer, of course, they’re all lawyers. He has a practice in Brooklyn, and devotes most of his time to that, so he consistently has one of the worst absentee records in the assembly. Basically, he shows up only when the party needs his vote.”
“Do you have a picture?”
“No, I don’t have any photos here, but he’s as you described. Short and quite stout, and verysour in expression.” Cathman smiled faintly. “He’s a contrarian, which I think is the only reason he’s come out against gambling. Of course, a number of the city legislators object because the city and Long Island have been excluded as gambling locations.”
“But he’s known to be against gambling.”
“Oh, yes,” Cathman said. “His name is on all such lists. He’s spoken out against it, and he votes against it if he happens to be around.”
“You got a home address there?”
Again Cathman looked startled and worried. “You’re not going to What are you going to do?”
“Look at him,” Parker said. “Does he have letterhead stationery? Not as a lawyer, as an assemblyman.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“Get me some,” Parker said. “And write down his address for me.”
Cathman dithered. He said, “Nothing’s going to
happento him, will it? I mean, the man is
inoffensive, he’s on our side, I wouldn’t want
“
Slowly, Cathman ran down. He gazed pleadingly at Parker, who sat waiting for him. There was a notepad on the coffee table, and after a while Cathman pulled it close and copied the address.
13
Parker was the first to arrive. “Lynch,” he said, and the girl in the black ball gown picked up three menus and the red leather-covered wine list and led him snaking through the mostly empty tables in the long dim room to the line of windows across the rear wall. Most of the lunchtime customers were clustered here, for the view. Parker sat with his left profile to the view, where he could still see the entrance, then looked out at what the other lunchgoers had come here to see.
First week in May. Sunlight danced on the broad river. Across the way, the Palisades made a vertical curtain of dark gray stone, behind which was New Jersey. This restaurant, called the Palisader and catering mostly to the tourist trade, was built on the eastern shore of the river, just above the city of Yonkers, New York City’s neighbor to the north. That was the northeast corner of New Jersey over there, behind the Palisades, with New York State beginning just to the right, leading up toward West Point. A few sailboats roamed the river today, sunlight turning their white sails almost to porcelain. There were no big boats out there.
Parker looked away from the view, and saw Mike Carlow come this way, following the same hostess. He nodded at Parker, took the seat across from him, then looked out at the view. “Nothing yet, I guess,” he said.
“Not yet.” Cathman had said it would happen between one and three, and it was now just twelve-thirty.
“I’ve got a sister in Connecticut,” Carlow said. “If we’re gonna do this thing, I might bunk in with her for a while, save all this flying around.”
“Well, it’s looking real,” Parker said, and the girl came swishing back through the tables, this time with huge Dan Wycza in her wake. She gestured toward Parker and Carlow with a slender hand and wrist that only emphasized Wycza’s bulk, smiled at them all impersonally, and sailed away.
Wycza looked at the remaining places at the table; he could sit with his back to the view or to the door. “Never be last,” he announced, and pulled out the view-facing chair. Settling carefully into it, the chair creaking beneath him, he said, “So we’ll do it?”
“Unless something new happens,” Parker told him. “I called Lou Sternberg again this morning, he’ll come over next week.”
“Good.” Wycza picked up his menu, but then looked out at the river and said, “What we need’s somebody that can walk on water.”
Carlow grunted. “They don’t play on our team,” he said.
Wycza shrugged. “If the price is right,” he said, and studied the menu.
Their order was taken by a skinny boy wearing a big black bow tie that looked as though somebody was pulling a practical joke on him. After he left, Parker said, “We need a woman. Not to walk on water.”
“What about yours?” Wycza asked him.
Parker shook his head. “Not what she does.”
Carlow asked, “What do we need?”
“Young, thin, good-looking. That could look frail maybe.”
Grinning, Wycza said, “Like the little lady led me here.”
“Like that,” Parker agreed. “But one of us.”
Carlow said, “There was a girl with Tommy Carpenter like that. You know Tommy?”
“We worked on something together with Lou Sternberg once,” Parker said. “What was her name? Noelle.”
“Noelle Braselle,” Carlow said, and smiled. “I always thought that was a nifty name.”
Parker said, “But she comes with Tommy, doesn’t she? That’s two more slices, not one.”
Shaking his head, Carlow said, “Tommy got arrested or something. Well, they both did.”
“That’s the job,” Parker said. “The same job, with Lou. Some paintings we took. Those two got grabbed, but then they got let go, they had a good lawyer.”
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