Senator

by Richard Bowker

  Nothing wrong with that. Except that Danny's idea of owning a bar was to sit around all night swapping stories about the glory days with his buddies, then empty the cash register into his pockets at closing time. No work, no worries. An easy life. Danny Boy's, he called the place he bought in Brighton Center. I never found out if my father helped him with the down payment. If he did, it was not the best investment he made in his life.

  Danny Boy's. The name was apt. If I was old before my time, Danny was young long after his—or at least he tried to be, he longed to be. Even when he first bought the place, when I was still just a law student and it was too soon to tell if he or the bar would be successful, I felt vaguely embarrassed whenever I went in there and saw the framed photographs of his triumphs on the walls. A man in his mid-twenties, with his best days already behind him.

  He would have proved me wrong if Danny Boy's had become popular, but it never did. He could never choose between the working-class crowd and the college crowd; he wanted both, and most of the time he ended up with neither. He tried live entertainment; he tried big-screen TVs; he tried wet T-shirt nights. Nothing worked for long.

  And that's when the resentment began: resentment of the world; resentment, especially, of me, as my career progressed and his floundered. He resented me, I think, not simply because I was successful, but because I represented something about the world that he didn't want to believe: that it does sometimes reward hard work and perseverance.

  He resented me even as he started to flaunt his relationship to me. My photos joined his behind the bar. My infrequent appearances there were cause for a round on the house.

  And that's when the drinking began, too. He had always been drinking, actually, but when he was an indestructible youth, it hadn't mattered. Now it did. "Two sons," my father mourned, "one a lush, the other a Republican. Where did I go wrong?" Except that he really did worry about Danny, his firstborn, his pride and joy; me, he only felt obliged to cut down to size, in case my success made me forget my beginnings. What could he do to help Danny?

  Nothing, really. I was the one in a position to help. And that was why I now faced defeat, disgrace, and prison. The tragedy of Danny's life had overtaken my own; perhaps I had been foolish to think that I could escape it, just as I had been foolish to think I could leave Brighton behind.

  Danny lived just a couple of blocks from where we had grown up. Every tree, every curbstone, every telephone pole seemed familiar to me, even though all the faces were new. A Cambodian family rented the upstairs from Danny, and he never said anything good about them; I think he was afraid they would end up more successful than he was, and that would just give him something more to resent.

  I pulled up in front of his house.

  "So what do we do?" Danny said.

  "I don't know. I was hoping you'd explain it all away somehow. Give me a reason not to worry."

  Danny blew his nose. "Maybe there isn't a tape," he said.

  "Maybe."

  "It's too bad about the alibi."

  I sighed.

  "Maybe Scanlon had her murdered to shut her up," Danny suggested.

  "Gangland murderers don't leave strange messages on their victims' computers," I said. "Anyway, if Scanlon was behind it, that doesn't help me very much."

  "True." He looked out the window. "I'm sorry, Jim," he said. "But she knew already. Honest she did."

  I tried to get past my anger and frustration and think rationally. "This is important, Danny. You didn't tell her you had any specific knowledge of a relationship between me and Scanlon, right?"

  He looked puzzled. "Well, I mean, it's obvious, isn't it?"

  "It may be obvious to you, but I've never told you anything, right? And you've never personally observed anything, right? You just have this supposition. It may be right, it may be wrong."

  Danny caught on. "Sure, I guess so. Only, talking to her, I sort of assumed—"

  "Okay, but she didn't present you with any facts, did she? Beyond, you know, the Sea-Star and that business. And if she did, you couldn't confirm or deny them—at least as far as my relationship with Scanlon is concerned."

  "I guess she didn't have that much in the way of facts," he admitted.

  "All right. Look. The police will probably want to talk to you. Just tell them the truth. Don't try to hide anything; don't try to justify anything; don't try to protect me. It won't help. The only thing will help is that you don't know anything." I took out a notepad and scribbled down the names of a few lawyers. "The police'll try to scare you into thinking you're in trouble, but they don't have a case. It was a long time ago, and it's all pretty stale by now." I ripped off the page and handed it to him. "Talk to one of these guys if they start reading you your rights or if you feel you're getting in over your head. Understand?"

  Danny stared at the list. The reality of it seemed to befuddle him. "Okay, Jimmy," he said finally. "Okay." He shoved the list into his shirt pocket.

  "All right, Danny. Let's go inside."

  He got out of the car and walked up the front steps. I followed, almost tripping over an upended tricycle on the porch. Melissa opened the door before Danny had a chance to find his key. She must have been watching as we pulled up—worried, as usual, about what her husband was up to. She didn't look happy to see either of us; my presence was a sure sign that Danny had been misbehaving. I thought about turning on the charm and smoothing things over, but I didn't feel like it. This was Danny's problem.

  "You could've called," she said to him.

  He pushed past her without replying. Melissa looked at me for a moment, as if trying to decide if decorum would win out over her anger; decorum lost. She left the door open for me and followed her husband into the kitchen. I went into the living room and listened without much interest to their argument. Melissa was angry at him for getting out of his sickbed and going off drinking without so much as a word. Well, what was he supposed to do, Danny wanted to know, hang around here with a bunch of screaming kids? Why didn't she just leave him alone? Why didn't everyone just leave him alone?

  I sat on the sofa in the tired living room amid the scattered toys, and I wondered if the kids were awake, listening. I looked at their photographs on the mantel of the walled-over fireplace.

  They weren't bad kids. But what was a life like this going to do to them?

  What had it done to Melissa? Their wedding picture was on the mantel as well: the dashing groom, the happy bride. She wasn't happy anymore; she was filled with a rage that I found frightening whenever I caught a glimpse of it. Life had been full of promise back then. She had a good job; she had a small inheritance; she had a gorgeous guy. But her inheritance disappeared without a trace into the bar, and she gave up her job when Daniel junior came along and life married to the gorgeous guy turned out to be a lot less fun than life dating him. And now she was trapped.

  Having a famous brother-in-law gave her some solace. Certainly she couldn't understand Liz's problems with me. What did Liz have to complain about? I was inclined to agree with Melissa about that, naturally. But we all find our own ways to suffer.

  Doors slammed finally, and Melissa appeared in the living room. She had lost her figure having the children, and the cheap sweat suit she was wearing didn't flatter her. There were perpetual creases in her forehead from frowning. She was probably not happy that I was seeing her like this, without makeup, wearing unattractive clothes, in a messy house. She nervously scooped a magazine off a chair. "I'm sorry, Jim," she said. "Was he very bad?"

  "Not really. But we thought it'd be a good idea if he didn't drive. His car's over at Dad's."

  She nodded. "We'll get it back. Can I, uh, get you a cup of tea or something?"

  "That's okay, Lissa. I've got to be going."

  "You have that funeral in the morning," she said.

  "That's right."

  She sat down on the chair. She was still clutching the magazine. "Is everything going to be all right with you?"

  Not likely, I thoug
ht. "You never can tell," I said.

  "It sounded on the news like the district attorney might be out to get you."

  "Cavanaugh's been out to get me for as long as I can remember, and he hasn't succeeded yet. I wouldn't worry about it, Lissa."

  She rolled the magazine into a tight cylinder and squeezed it. "I worry about everything," she said. "Dan won't see a doctor. I wish he'd see a doctor."

  "Just like his old man," I said. Had Danny told Melissa about Amanda—or about Jackie Scanlon? That would give her something to worry about. No, it wasn't any of her business, Danny would insist.

  "I think he might get fired," Melissa was saying. "He's used up all his sick days. And I don't think he does a very good job when he does show up. It would serve him right."

  "Now, Lissa. It wouldn't serve you and the kids right. And if he's been sick—"

  "He's sick because he doesn't take care of himself. And maybe having him lose his job is what I need to—to do something. I wouldn't have any choice then."

  Her voice had risen; the magazine was crumpled in her hands. I couldn't recall seeing her this bad. Her anger at Danny was warping her thinking. She could divorce him anytime. And if she didn't divorce him, did she think life would be better with her out working at some awful minimum-wage job while he sat at home, drunk and sullen? "It's always better to have a choice," I said. "Look, if you need advice, if you need help, be sure to let me know, okay? I can't straighten out Danny, but maybe I can do something for you."

  Melissa started to cry. She dropped the magazine and turned her head away, embarrassed. I was embarrassed, too. It was my brother who was causing her this pain. "You shouldn't have to worry about us," she sobbed. "You've got enough to worry about."

  That was certainly true. "Well, you're worrying about me," I pointed out lightly. "We're all worrying about each other. That's life, right?"

  "Danny's a shit," she replied.

  No, he wasn't. But he was a problem neither of us could solve. I went over and kissed my sister-in-law on the top of the head. "I'm sorry, Lissa," I said. "I'll talk to you soon."

  Sniffling, she looked up at me. "I'm sorry, too, Jim," she whispered.

  I let myself out. The ride back to Hingham was long and unpleasant. For once I would have preferred some company to being alone with my thoughts. Danny. Amanda. Jackie Scanlon.

  Why hadn't Danny told me Amanda was questioning him about Jackie Scanlon? Did he really think he had been protecting me? It wasn't impossible. He turns on the Irish charm, and Amanda pretends to succumb; she was very good at pretending. He thinks he's talked her out of writing the story when, in fact, he has just given her the confirmation she needs to make the story real.

  But how—and how much—did she know in the first place?

  Unless Danny was lying to me—also not impossible. She calls him up for an interview, expecting nothing unusual, and instead he gives her the scoop of a lifetime. Why? Well, why would Melissa want him to lose his job? The desire to hurt can be stronger than the instinct for self-preservation. He had seemed drunkenly pleased with himself at my father's until he found out that I could be charged with murder as a result of all this. Besides, how much harm would Amanda's story have done him? He had a crime to conceal, but it was nothing compared with what I had on my conscience: a U.S. senator who was once in the back pocket of a mobster. Just how much resentment did he have festering inside him?

  I tired eventually of trying to understand Danny; that was a lifetime project. What mattered now was the tape of his interview—if it existed—or any other evidence that Amanda knew my guilty secret. If Cavanaugh had the evidence, I was done for. Danny's ignorance might be helpful, but I doubted it would stop Cavanaugh for long.

  Liz and Kathleen were asleep when I got home, and I soon joined them. I dreamed I was listening to a tape, and all that was on the tape was the endless scream of a woman, dying. In the morning I woke up expecting to be arrested.

  Chapter 8

  The police weren't waiting on my doorstep. The papers said that attention was being focused on the victim's acquaintances. The stories all mentioned the weird message on the computer and the mysterious stranger with the hat and the black umbrella. No mention of any suspects.

  What was Cavanaugh up to? I began to feel a little better. Surely by now Mackey had listened to Amanda's tapes and read her notes. If the police had evidence that Amanda knew about Scanlon and me, why not haul me in?

  Well, maybe Amanda hadn't been able to come up with the whole story. Danny had part of it. But who had the rest—except for Scanlon and me? And Scanlon swore he hadn't talked. Without the whole story my motive might not be entirely clear. So maybe the police had to do a little more digging.

  In any event I had to proceed on the assumption that I was in the clear, that I was dealing with a political problem, not a criminal one. The only way you can get anything accomplished, I have found, is by assuming that it can be done. So I put on a somber suit, and my wife and I went off in the rain to my lover's funeral.

  I was happy to have Kevin drive us in a campaign car—someone to talk to besides Liz, who looked and acted as if she'd rather have been going to my funeral. We sat on opposite sides of the back seat and stared out at the traffic as Kevin tried to make conversation.

  The brain trust had decided that I should go to the funeral home first to offer my condolences to the family. We didn't want Mr. and Mrs. Taylor to give a sobbing interview to some newspaper and say I never once told them I was sorry their daughter died. Every nuance counted.

  Our arrival caused a predictable stir. Heads turned; conversations stopped. The sickly sweet smell of flower arrangements in the crowded room made me want to gag, but instead I forged ahead to the closed casket. I can't remember if I felt anything as I looked at it; I was too nervous. It wasn't Amanda anyway; Amanda was in my memories, not in the casket.

  Liz and I knelt and pretended to say a prayer, then blessed ourselves and stood up. Amanda's parents and younger sister were standing a couple of feet away, greeting the mourners. The people they were talking to seemed to melt away, and the family was facing us. Mr. Taylor was tall, graying, and handsome—an investment banker to the marrow of his well-bred bones. He stood stiffly next to his wife, as if someone were grading his posture. Mrs. Taylor—blond, tanned, smooth-skinned—was the image of her daughter grown older, although the slightly dazed look in her eyes suggested that she lacked Amanda's brains. She was a volunteer, a tennis player, a gardener, according to Amanda. She looked a trifle too serene under the circumstances; probably an extra Valium was helping her make it through the day. And finally there was Lauren—was I supposed to know her name?—who had missed out on the family's good looks and compensated for it by being an intellectual; she was a grad student at Chicago or Northwestern or someplace. I wondered what she would have given for Amanda's cheekbones. She eyed me suspiciously through thick glasses; she and Amanda had not been close.

  "Jim O'Connor," I said to Mr. Taylor, meeting his gaze, "and this is my wife, Liz. I just wanted to tell you how deeply sorry we are about your daughter. This must be a terribly trying time for all of you, and I want you to know, if there's anything we can do, please just tell us." I gazed at Mrs. Taylor; she smiled a little woozily.

  "Thank you for coming, Senator," Mr. Taylor said. "I've always been an admirer of yours." Amanda had told me of his admiration, said he was pleased Massachusetts had finally come to its senses and elected a good conservative Republican to the Senate. He took my hand in a bone-crushing grip and shook it, then passed me on to his wife while Liz murmured something to him.

  Mrs. Taylor had a limp, ladylike half grip that surprised me in a tennis player. "Oh, Senator," she crooned, "how awful for you to discover... you know—"

  I put my left hand lightly on her arm. "Mrs. Taylor, what I went through was nothing compared to what you've had to endure. I lost a friend; you've lost a daughter. I don't know how you're managing so well."

  Her face lit up at the co
mpliment. "Oh, well, you know, one must—you know. It's important that you—you know, don't you think?"

  "Exactly. And this must be Amanda's sister."

  "That's right," Mrs. Taylor said, still smiling. "Senator O'Connor, this is my daughter Lauren."

  The suspicion in Lauren's eyes had deepened into obvious distaste. She didn't offer her hand. Did she know something? Amanda couldn't have confided in her—or could she? "I just want to tell you, Senator," she said, "that I think your reactionary views on crime are despicable."

  "De'-spic-able"—accent on the first syllable, like a true intellectual. Was that all that was bothering her? "I'm sorry you feel that way, Ms. Taylor," I replied. "I'd be happy to discuss my views with you at a more appropriate time."

  "Why isn't this an appropriate time?" she persisted. "Poor people and people of color are suffering at this very instant because of policies you support."

  I sent out telepathic signals for someone to rescue me. "Senator, could I speak to you for a moment?" It was Kevin, matchless Kevin, at my elbow, leading me away from danger.

  "Excuse me, won't you?" I said to Amanda's sister. "I really do hope we have a chance to talk sometime."

  She turned away from me in disgust and shook Liz's hand perfunctorily.

  "Thanks, Kevin," I murmured as we moved away. Could have been worse. Lauren hated me, but not because she thought I had something to do with Amanda's death. People like her can crop up anywhere; they're an occupational hazard for politicians. Liz joined us. "The sister didn't nail you?" I asked her.

  "She said she pities me," Liz replied.

  I rolled my eyes.

  There were a few minutes to kill, so I shook some hands on the periphery of the funeral parlor. Didn't want to look as if I were campaigning, but I didn't want to appear unsociable either. No one had anything nasty to say to me. I noticed a young man with greased-back hair and rimless glasses angling for me, and finally there was no avoiding him. "Brad Williams, Senator," he said, shaking my hand. His palm was moist; his smile was phony. "I'm another Adams House alum—a few years after you, of course."