Senator

by Richard Bowker

  Spalding stubbed out his cigarette. He looked a lot calmer now that he had told his story. "Did you have any luck finding Sid Blomberg, Mr. White?" he asked.

  "Not yet," Harold replied. "We have gotten in touch with some of the other men in your platoon, though."

  "And they remembered, right? They told you I wasn't lying."

  "Some of them remembered. But you and Sid were the only ones to witness the actual killing, so it's important for us to find him and make sure he can corroborate your story."

  "I understand. I wish I could help you, but like you say, it's been a long time. Sid could be anywhere. Could be dead." Spalding's tone suggested that the latter possibility was not unlikely.

  "We'll keep looking," Harold promised.

  "What do you think you'll do with—with all this?" Spalding asked.

  "First we have to think over the situation very carefully," I responded. "Politics is a tricky business, as I'm sure you understand. This is a serious charge, and we wouldn't want to make it recklessly."

  "I'm willing to, you know, do what I can."

  "Thank you, Larry." I stood up. "And if we can do anything for you—"

  Spalding struggled up from his swivel chair. "No, no. I don't want money or anything for this. That's not why I'm doin' it."

  He led us back to the front door. His keys jangled at his side. His shirt was soaked with sweat. I shook his hand again before he let us out. "We'll be in touch, Larry."

  "Thank you, sir. I've always admired you, you know. You've always been a straight shooter."

  I smiled, and Harold and I left the darkened building.

  The rain was heavier. We raced over to the Porsche and got inside. Harold started the car. "Interesting thing about Massachusetts Gear Works I found out today," he said.

  "What's that?"

  "Seems it's a subsidiary of Everson Enterprises." He gave me a glance.

  "Small world," I said. "But doesn't Paul Everson control just about everything?"

  "I suppose that's true."

  We pulled out of the parking lot and left Larry Spalding to his lonely job of guarding one of Paul Everson's many possessions.

  "So what did you think?" Harold asked.

  "He seems like a really nice guy. It's sad."

  "True. But the story. It's perfect, isn't it?"

  I knew what he meant. If I had a weak spot, it was that many people perceive me as being soft on defense. This was consistent with the philosophy I shared with Harold. I would rather spend some of the Pentagon's billions on programs that would help improve life in America—not necessarily the same programs that liberals supported, but the line of argument was the same. What's the point of being impregnable against outside attack, if we collapse from internal rot?

  When I was assigned to the Armed Services Committee, I wasn't exactly antimilitary, but I was death on waste and fraud. I used the investigative experience I had built up as attorney general to poke around the Pentagon budget. My staff uncovered some shady dealings, and we made some headlines, and I acquired a reputation.

  It wasn't a bad reputation to have—who's in favor of waste and fraud?—but Bobby Finn, the war hero, decided he had an issue. He was overseas fighting for our country while I was attending that pinko university in Cambridge. And now I was crippling our nation's defenses by second-guessing the people who were trying to protect us. This tactic didn't go over well with the liberals in Finn's own party, but that didn't matter; they would have to hold their noses and vote for Bobby anyway. But it did strike a chord with veterans' groups and other patriotic types who would normally vote Republican. I might not be evil, but Bobby was one of them.

  But Larry Spalding's story undercut Finn's patriotic appeal; this wasn't the way we wanted our heroes to act. Furthermore, it went to the heart of many people's doubts about the governor. Sure, he was fatherly; sure, everyone liked him. But everyone also knew that he had a temper, that his staff hid beneath their desks when things didn't go his way. He admitted it; he joked about it. That was part of his charm. But murdering an innocent woman wasn't charming at all.

  If we could back up Spalding's story, Governor Finn was history.

  Unless, of course, he had a worse story to tell about me.

  And it would be worse, in every way. I had abused my office, then (people would surely infer) murdered a young woman in cold blood to keep her from revealing my secret. Finn's murder had occurred during wartime, when he was under terrible stress. And he could conceivably wriggle out of the charge. It was his word, after all, against that of a not very articulate and not very prepossessing security guard. And Sid Blomberg, perhaps, wherever Sid was. If Finn insisted he had seen a gun, who could prove he was lying?

  If the Democrats were toying with me until after the session, they would stop toying once we told the world what had happened in that Vietnamese village over twenty years ago.

  "Well?" Harold didn't like my silence.

  "I think we have to find Sid Blomberg," I said.

  "I disagree," Harold replied. "Surprise is crucial when you drop this kind of bombshell. Someone from the platoon may be talking to Finn right now, telling him his opponents are asking nasty questions. That gives him a chance to figure out a defense. What if he finds Sid and convinces him to contradict Spalding, offers him some low-stress job at the State House in return? Even if Finn doesn't do anything, we still don't want to wait too late in the campaign to come out with this. People are liable to think it's a smear, and it might backfire."

  "Those are chances we have to take then. This is just too risky. I want more than one guy's word on it."

  Harold pounded the steering wheel in frustration. "Damn it, you could lose this election," he said. "Steadman's polls still show that people are on the fence. If any evidence comes out that Amanda Taylor was your lover, Finn will cream you. You're walking a tightrope, Jim, and this is your net."

  We reached the airport. The rain came down in sheets. SENATOR DIES IN PRIVATE PLANE CRASH, SECRET CAMPAIGN TRIP BLAMED. I couldn't argue with Harold about this; better to just lay down the law. Let him think I was a cretin; nothing would change between us. "Harold, I want you to keep looking for this guy," I said, "at least until after the weekend. A few days won't hurt. We'll reassess the situation then."

  "This is idiocy."

  "And don't go behind my back and leak the story to some reporter. Understand?"

  "Why? Why? Why?"

  "Understand?"

  Harold shook his head and looked out at the rain. "Did you bring an umbrella?"

  "I left it on the plane."

  "Then you can borrow mine."

  "Thanks."

  I took his umbrella and got out of the car.

  "Don't forget to bring the damn thing back!" Harold shouted to me as I walked toward the administration building, where I would find my pilot and then head back into danger.

  I waved to Harold without turning around.

  Chapter 17

  I survived the flight to Washington. Back in my apartment, and feeling guilty, I called Kathleen. I could fly up to Massachusetts to see a security guard, but I didn't have time to see my daughter, my only child. We chatted about school and the campaign, but the whole time I was trying to keep from apologizing. After the election, I promised myself. But I had made promises before.

  When I had said good night to Kathleen, I called up Paul Everson. I had the private number for his retreat in the Berkshires. Shangri-la, it was called; I had never been there, but I read an article about it once in one of the decorating magazines Liz buys. It had been built by some movie magnate, who had given it the banal name. I vaguely recalled an indoor basketball court and swimming pool, an oak-beamed dining room large enough to hold the U.S. Senate, and a row of antique autos gleaming in a spotless garage.

  I got an answering machine; I left my name and was about to hang up when Everson came on the line. "Jim," he said. "Sorry I haven't gotten back to you."

  "Have you come up with anything?" I
asked.

  "I'm working on it, Jim. As I said, this isn't my turf, and anyway, this case is so political that people are afraid to say anything. Their careers are at stake. But I wouldn't worry about it. Did you look into Finn's war record?"

  "As a matter of fact, I was chatting tonight with Larry Spalding. I understand he's one of your employees. How did you come up with him?"

  Everson laughed. "If I told you my secrets, you'd be a wealthy man, and obviously you don't want to become wealthy. Let's just say he's talked about Finn before, and I have people who are paid to listen for talk like that. What did you think?"

  "He mentioned a guy named Sid Blomberg who was also supposed to be a witness. Does Sid work for you?"

  "Not that I know of. Want me to find him for you?"

  "All right. Harold is looking for him, too."

  "So you're going to use Spalding?"

  "I'm not sure yet. I'd like some supporting evidence. Spalding sounds like he's telling the truth, but I don't want to get burned."

  "You can trust him, Jim. Go after Finn. Forget about the murder. Forget about that tape. You'll be all right."

  I wanted to believe him, but he wasn't giving me much reason to. "How are things in Shangri-la?" I asked.

  "Lonely," Everson replied.

  I tried to remember if he was married at the moment. "What about that starlet? Didn't I read—"

  "You haven't kept up on your reading. The starlet is in Cancun, probably screwing her divorce lawyer. I've got an army of M.B.A.'s who come in by day and make money for me, but at night it's just me."

  Poor little rich kid. I couldn't manage to feel sorry for him. "Well, if you come up with anything—"

  "Of course, Jim. We'll find this guy Sid for you. Don't worry."

  I hung up. Don't worry, don't worry. I replayed my messages. There were two from Kevin. "It's very important, Jim," the second one said. "Please call me back no matter how late." It must have been important for him to call me Jim. Had he and his private eye come up with something already, while Paul Everson was still running into brick walls?

  I called Kevin. He answered on the first ring. "Kevin, what's up?"

  "Oh, Senator, well, there's good news and there's bad news."

  "All right, bad news first."

  "Do you remember that obnoxious reporter at the funeral home? Brad Williams?"

  "Sure." He had slipped out of my mind, but now he returned, with his cologne and his slicked-back hair and his insinuating whispers on the church steps.

  "Well, it turns out he's investigating the murder, too. He's looking for dirt, Jim. Sharpe says he's trying to prove you and Amanda Taylor were lovers."

  "Yeah, I sort of figured he was going to do something like that."

  "What should we do?"

  "I don't know. Let's talk to Harold. We ought to be able to handle someone like Brad Williams. What's the good news?"

  "Well, Sharpe talked to the woman who saw that man coming into the building around the time of the murder. Her name is Henrietta Perlstein, and I guess this is just about the most exciting thing that ever happened to her. Anyway, he couldn't get anything more out of her about the man, but he came up with something else. It seems that Henrietta saw clips on the news of that press conference you and Liz gave, and she told Sharpe that she recognized Liz; she ran into her in the lobby a few weeks before the murder."

  I took a deep breath. "She saw Liz in Amanda's apartment building?"

  "That's right. Isn't it great?"

  "Um, tell me your thinking here, Kevin."

  "Well, the Democrats and reporters like this guy Williams are trying to insinuate that you had a, you know, romantic involvement with the victim. But you keep pointing out that Liz was the one who was friendly with her and, really, introduced the two of you. So this just proves you were right; they were still getting together long after you started working on the book with Amanda Taylor. But of course, we don't hear anything about this from Cavanaugh because he's too busy trying to figure out how he can charge you with murder, right?"

  "Right. Well, thanks for keeping me updated, Kevin. I appreciate it."

  "Anytime, Senator. Except for this reporter I feel very good about the case, don't you?"

  "We're in great shape, Kevin. Great shape."

  I hung up. Everson reassured me, and I reassured Kevin. And nobody knew what the hell was going on.

  What was Liz doing visiting Amanda? Leave it to Kevin to come up with the best possible interpretation for it.

  We were back more or less to normal, Liz and I. Staying on the surface. Ignoring everything but everyday life. I'd just as soon have left it that way. There was too much churning beneath the surface for me to want to probe any deeper in the midst of all my other problems. But now I realized that I couldn't afford not to.

  I remembered Liz's silence as I told her about the affair, about the murder. What had that silence meant?

  What did Liz know that she hadn't told me?

  * * *

  In the morning I wander through the empty rooms of this fancy house before I settle down in front of the computer, and I miss my daughter—miss the sound of her hair dryer and her rock station, the steam pouring out of the bathroom after her endless showers, the trail of clothes and cassettes and dirty dishes she always leaves in her wake.

  And, strangely, I find that I miss Liz, too. Miss the economy-size store-brand toothpaste she buys, miss the way she furrows her brow as she concentrates on a textbook she's reading, miss the gentle sound of her breathing as I tiptoe around the bedroom while she sleeps.

  Strange, because I rarely miss her when I'm staying at my Washington apartment, though Kathleen's absence is always an ache in my heart. In Washington I have always felt a sense of bachelor freedom at being away from Liz—even before I took advantage of that freedom. I didn't have to deal with her unhappiness, her brooding silences; she could brood perfectly well without me.

  But here, now, it's different—perhaps because I don't have the press of Senate business to keep me occupied; perhaps because I'm spending so much time remembering, and my memories of Liz are so different from today's reality.

  Not all of them are perfect—whose memories are?—but all of them are worth remembering.

  * * *

  We met when I was in law school and she was still an undergraduate at Regis College, a pleasant suburban school for Catholic princesses. Her father was a stockbroker, and her family lived in a big old house in Needham—not the poshest of suburbs, but far more pleasant to me than the dreary urban streets of Brighton. I started spending a lot of time there. Her parents certainly approved of me. I didn't have much of a background, but I had a great future, and I was beginning to lose my bookworm mentality and find out how to make people like me. I was the kind of nice short-haired Irish boy Mr. and Mrs. Whelan wanted for their daughter.

  It wasn't a great blazing romance, but I felt comfortable with Liz. I liked trying to break through her silences, getting her to argue about Nixon, contraception, contract law, anything. I liked making her laugh. I liked the way her head fitted against my shoulder when we embraced. It was an astonishingly chaste courtship for the times. For a long while there was nothing more than groping on the sofa. Finally we graduated to making love on the lumpy bed in my apartment in Somerville, but I sometimes got the feeling that Liz wasn't thrilled about this, that she was doing it just because she didn't want me to think of her as a prude. That didn't bother me especially; sex was a gift, a bonus. Mostly I liked just being with her.

  And then, at the beginning of her senior year, things fell apart in the Whelan family. To this day I'm not exactly sure what happened. I assume that Liz knows, but she has never confided in me; it is one more thing—perhaps the most important thing—that she keeps locked up inside her skull. Sometimes I have gotten the impression that her father had been misappropriating his clients' funds; at other times it seemed that he had merely convinced people to invest in some scheme that was possibly illegal and ce
rtainly disastrous. Whatever he did, he ended up disgraced and jobless. The scandal was hushed up, but he was ruined. The family had to sell their house in Needham, and Liz had to drop out of college. I don't think she has ever gotten over it.

  Coming from a working-class background, I have always had to be aware of money, but it has never been an obsession for me. Unlike Danny, I have never been interested in flashy cars or expensive clothing, and I didn't have a bunch of kids to break my budget. I have no need to be rich, and I'm too smart to be poor; this seems to me to be the perfect combination.

  Liz had the money and lost it, and that has made her very different. She grew up without a care—much like Amanda, it occurs to me—and then one day the real world tapped her on the shoulder and introduced itself to her. I never heard her blame her father, but she's not the kind to complain. She's also not the kind to forgive easily, however, and her relationship with her parents has been touchy ever since.

  She went to work after dropping out of college, determined to pay her own way through her final year. I didn't see much of her during that period; we both were busy, and besides, I think she was too ashamed—or too angry—to spend time with anyone who knew her before the fall. I wanted to help, but her problems seemed way beyond my ability to solve. I didn't want to lose her, but I didn't know how to win her back.

  She finally returned to school and graduated, on her own. No one was invited to her commencement. I was in the PD's office by then, earning a regular, if meager, paycheck for the first time in my life. I had dated other women, had shared my lumpy bed with one or two, but my mind kept coming back to Liz: her furrowed brow, the clean soapy smell of her skin, the sexy way she ran her hand through her hair as she combed it. Perhaps the time we had spent more or less estranged from each other had increased my appreciation of her; before that the relationship had been too easy, too comfortable. Now that she was finished climbing her private mountain, I decided it was time to pursue her once again.

  Liz proved surprisingly difficult to catch. I suppose I was stupid or naive, but it took me years to figure out what the problem was—and still is. Her father had let her down, and she was determined not to let any other man disappoint her in the same way. If that meant doing without men, well, this was apparently an option. She didn't dump me, but she didn't let me past her guard either. For a while our relationship developed a strange and artificial tone. I somehow became the Irish reprobate trying to ensnare Liz, the virtuous—and rightly suspicious—maiden. The tone seemed artificial, at least to me, because I honestly didn't feel like much of a reprobate—certainly not when compared with my brother. I wasn't used to playing roles back then, and after a while I didn't like this one.