Senator

by Richard Bowker

  "The funny thing is," he went on, "two of my kids dropped out of college after I went to prison. Not because they didn't have the money, but because they were ashamed when they got asked if I was their father. None of them'll have anything to do with me now. My wife waited till I was paroled, and then she left me. She had to work while I was in the slammer, see, and it didn't agree with her, so she blamed me. So I lost the only two things that mattered to me: my career and my family. I'm too old and tired and stupid to start over, and even if I had the energy, there wouldn't be any point, 'cause I'd just have to hand over everything I made to my wife. I live here free in return for changing the light bulbs and taking out the trash and shoveling the walk. I prepare tax returns for a few of my friends. But mostly I just sit around all day and watch TV. And once in a while—like every half hour or so—I think about the old days, when I mattered."

  Donato fell silent. His eyes went dead again. Strange the way the mind works, reducing a complex life to a soothing cliché. I did it for my family. He probably believed that. And it might have been true, in a way. But how convenient that he had forgotten about the sultry mistress he kept in a Charlestown apartment and the liquor-soaked trips they had taken to Atlantic City to blow thousands at the blackjack tables. She had dumped him, too, of course. And I thought: It matters to him that my motivation for helping Jackie Scanlon be good and pure because that way he can think of his own motivation as being equally good and pure. We had sinned because we loved too much. "I'm sorry," I said, for want of anything better.

  He drank some more orange juice. "How's your brother?" he asked.

  "About the same."

  "Is he grateful for what you did?"

  "If he is, I don't think he'd ever say so."

  Donato nodded in sympathy.

  "So, uh, you talked about Jackie Scanlon with Amanda, I take it?" I said.

  "She brought it up actually. I just hinted at this deep dark secret I knew about you—just to feel self-important, I suppose—and she pounced on it. She seemed to know all about what you did, except for the little twist that Glenn told me in prison. It was sort of disappointing, to tell you the truth. I thought I was going to shock her."

  "Did she tape the interview?"

  The smile returned to Donato's face. "I didn't think of that," he said. "Yeah, she taped the interview. So does Cavanaugh—"

  "The police haven't asked you about it?"

  He shook his head. "I wonder what's going on," he said, with the interest of the professional politician.

  Mackey had talked to Danny only because I had mentioned him; he hadn't talked to Donato at all. I couldn't figure it out. "So do I," I said.

  He stared at the gun, which I still clutched in my right hand, and he grew serious again. "You know," he said, "when I read about the murder in the paper, my first reaction was that you did it. To keep her quiet about Scanlon. And that would explain why the police don't have the tape. You took it when you murdered her."

  "But you still know," I pointed out.

  "So that means you'd have to take care of me, too."

  "If I figured I had to kill you, I've sure taken my time getting around to it."

  "You're a busy man."

  We stared at each other, two suspicious criminals sizing one another up. Did Donato kill Amanda? The idea had appealed to me when Kevin announced his triumphant solution to the case. If Donato had done it, all my problems were solved along with the case. Now I knew that my problems wouldn't go away that easily. But that didn't necessarily mean Donato was innocent. Did it?

  And then his parakeet suddenly started to jabber, "Ex-con, ex-con, ex-con," over and over again, as if it couldn't contain its excitement over the word. We listened to it for a few seconds, and we stared at each other, and then we both burst out laughing. I can't say exactly why, but we two criminals had tacitly agreed to trust each other. I put the gun back into the pocket of my jacket. "If I didn't do it," I said, "and you didn't do it, then whodunit?"

  "If it wasn't you," he said, "I figured it was probably one of your friends, trying to protect you. Kevin Feeney came to mind."

  I thought about Kevin. It made some sense. I remembered his eagerness to provide me with an alibi for the time of the murder; it hadn't occurred to me then that this would provide him with an alibi as well. What if he figured—along with everyone else apparently—that Amanda was conning me, and he decided to save me from her clutches?

  No. Kevin might be capable of murdering for me, but he wasn't capable of being as cool about it afterward as he had appeared that evening. I shook my head. "Not Kevin."

  "Well, you've got lots of friends," Donato replied.

  "As far as I can tell, everyone in the world had a motive for killing her."

  Donato shook his head. "You're not having an easy time of it, are you, Senator?"

  I didn't know what to say to that. It seemed strange to have Tom Donato feeling sorry for me. Easy or hard, I was still in the fight, and it was all over for him. I shrugged. "Looks to me like you're having a worse time. What I did to you wasn't personal, you know, or political. I was just doing my job."

  "That's okay. If someone does what I did, he's gotta be willing to accept the consequences. You go into politics, you risk losing an election. You break the law, you risk going to jail. Keep it in mind, Senator. Keep it in mind."

  I stood up, thinking of Paul Everson. "You're right, by the way," I said. "I've got lots of friends. One of them might be able to give you a job if you're interested."

  Donato shook his head. "Don't bother," he said. He gestured at his tiny apartment. "This is about all I'm good for anymore. Just keep Kevin from coming after me. I don't have the strength left to fend off rabid Republicans."

  "I'll do my best."

  I reached out my hand. Donato hesitated for a moment and then shook it. The parakeet was still chirping, "Ex-con, ex-con, ex-con," as I left the apartment.

  * * *

  The phone rang in the car. I didn't answer it. It was Harold, I was sure, desperate to go public with the information about Finn. The phone had rung off and on during my trip up to Lynn. He was probably frantic by now.

  He could have decided to go public without my approval, I thought. After all, I seemed to have lost interest in the campaign; why not just forge ahead without me? Time was running out. But he wouldn't do anything tonight—would he?

  I drove along Route 1, past steak houses and car dealerships and discount furniture stores, barely able to focus on the highway. I hadn't been sure what to do about Finn before my trip to Lynn, but I was sure now. "There is no tape," Everson kept telling me. But he was obviously telling me that just to keep me calm; he was unable or unwilling to find out the truth. I wasn't quite sure of that before, but I was now—now that I knew there was a second tape, one that would be just as damaging as Danny's. I could fantasize that Amanda hadn't really taped Danny's interview; Danny wasn't especially clear about the whole thing, after all. I could fantasize that she hadn't put anything about Jackie Scanlon in her notes. But there was no fantasizing about Donato.

  So Cavanaugh had to know, right? He had to be toying with me, savoring my coming destruction. Publicizing what Finn had done would only make the destruction inevitable. I couldn't let Harold do it. There was only one thing I could do with that information, I realized.

  I pulled into the deserted parking lot of a water bed store and called Harold. He answered on the first ring. "Hi," I said. "I've been trying to reach you all night. Where've you been?"

  "Did Everson talk to you?" Harold replied, ignoring my little joke.

  "He did, as a matter of fact. And he gave me a tape. Said he gave you one, too."

  "So what are we waiting for?" Harold said. "Let's go with it. Right now. We can't sit around mulling it over. There's not enough time. I've got a strategy mapped out. Get over here and we can start working on it."

  I didn't respond, and that was response enough.

  "What's the problem now?" Harold demanded,
not bothering to conceal his exasperation.

  "Harold, we're not going to do anything with that story," I said. "I'm not going to tell you why, and I'm not going to argue about it. And you're not going to leak it behind my back, because if it gets out, I will hold you personally responsible. I will fire you, and I will never speak to you again, and that will end your hopes of saving America and the world."

  Harold was silent for a moment as well, and then he said, "It's my future, too, you know."

  "We can still win. And even if we don't, you can stay employed for the rest of your life based on what you've done for me already."

  "I don't want to just stay employed. I want to work in the White House."

  "Think of this as a challenge."

  "I don't need the kind of challenges you've been giving me lately. Look, at least you owe me an explanation."

  "I owe you a lot more than that, Harold, but you're not going to get one. I'm sorry."

  And then, finally, quietly, he said: "You did kill her, didn't you, Jim? That's what this is all about."

  The inference made sense if he didn't know about Jackie Scanlon. "I didn't kill her," I said. "I'm sorry. I'll talk to you tomorrow." And I hung up.

  I stared out into the empty parking lot. The water bed store was having a gigantic clearance sale. The wind whipped the highway litter past. I turned up the heat in the idling car. The gun felt awkward against my side; I was breaking the law by carrying it with me. Harold might risk my wrath and leak the story, but I didn't think he would. He was too confused, too worried. Even if I wasn't guilty of Amanda's murder, he knew I wouldn't cross him on something like this without a very good reason. But he didn't know what the reason could possibly be, and that would unnerve him. He had already been unnerved by the mistake he had made in going to the publisher of Hub behind my back. He didn't want to make another mistake.

  It couldn't be helped. I had to do something, and I had to do it right away.

  I picked up the phone once again and dialed directory assistance. "In Belmont please," I said. "I'd like the number for Robert Finn."

  Chapter 26

  It was no surprise that Bobby Finn's phone number was unlisted. But I had seen a sample ballot at campaign headquarters, and I remembered his address from it. I had a street map in my car—required equipment for campaign vehicles—so I had little trouble finding the place. It was on one of those serene side streets where half-million-dollar houses smile discreetly at one another from the ends of their long driveways, their security systems turned on, their owners snug and safe inside. Belmont was a rung or two up the economic ladder from Hingham, and Finn's street was several rungs above the one on which I lived.

  It was Republican territory for the most part, but it was also home to wealthy people whose consciences bothered them or who had a sense of noblesse oblige—like Elsa Finn. Bobby was as out of place here as he was at the white wine and Brie receptions he went to at the Kennedy School—or as he would be at a cocktail party in Georgetown—but he wasn't about to return to his roots any more than I was.

  Unlike me, Bobby had always been a politician. When he got back from Vietnam, he ran for state rep in a district where being a war hero was still looked on as a virtue. He won easily, and he started working his way up the chain of command in the House. He probably would have still been there, a loyal soldier awaiting his chance to lead, if he hadn't met and married Elsa, who apparently saw in him something of what Harold had seen in me. She knew that the House was a dead end for a politician, so she bankrolled his run for lieutenant governor. The race was tighter than his first run for state rep; there were a lot of candidates for the Democratic nomination, and there was little reason to vote for one rather than another. But Bobby's connections in the House helped him win the endorsement at the Democratic convention, and his wife's money helped his name recognition in the primary. He won again, and he was now a statewide figure.

  Being lieutenant governor is as useless as being Vice President. But the two positions share one crucial advantage: When the boss leaves, you're the heir apparent. Finn performed his limited duties well; he never upstaged the governor, but he made sure he kept a high enough profile that people didn't forget about him. And when the governor decided to retire, he was ready to make the run. His only serious opposition on the Democratic side would have been Tom Donato, and I took care of Donato for him. The only Republican he had reason to fear was me, and I wisely decided to run for the Senate instead. So Finn was elected governor the year I was elected to the Senate; four years later he was reelected in a landslide. We were now the two most popular politicians in the state; by tomorrow, I thought as I pulled into his driveway, we might have destroyed each other.

  I turned off the engine. There were lights on in the house, so someone was probably awake. I hoped Finn wasn't still out campaigning; this was going to be awkward enough without having to wait for him. I wondered if he had state troopers guarding him at home; that would also be awkward. The gun pressed against my side; I took it out and stuck it in the glove compartment. Then I picked up the tape Everson had given me, got out of the car, and walked up to the governor's front door.

  I rang the bell, and a few moments later I was facing a teenage boy wearing one olive green plastic soldier earring, a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and Army camouflage pants. He had a spray of acne across his forehead and the glazed expression I associated with kids listening to heavy metal on Walkmans. He stared at me with a vague sense of recognition: Had he seen me on TV or someplace? "Yeah?" he said.

  I smiled and held out my hand. "Hi, I'm Senator Jim O'Connor. I'm here to see your father."

  He took my hand and gave it a limp, puzzled shake. "Uh, wait here a sec," he said, and he disappeared into the house.

  Nice young man, I thought. Maybe I should introduce him to Kathleen. As I expected, his mother was next to show up.

  I was used to seeing Elsa Finn at public functions like the policemen's convention and the debate, where she wore outrageously expensive clothes and radiated an energy that was almost sexual. Here at home, however, she had the no-makeup, no-nonsense look of old money. She was wearing faded jeans and a turtleneck sweater; her hair was pulled back from her face, and reading glasses dangled over her chest. She was offstage, I realized. At least she had thought she was.

  "Senator?" she said a bit uncertainly, as if I might have been an impostor or a doppelganger. She wasn't the type to believe in the spirit world, however.

  "Sorry to bother you at this hour, Mrs. Finn. I was wondering if the governor was at home."

  "Come in, come in, Senator," she said, realizing that I was still on the doorstep. She had a husky alto voice that commanded obedience. I went inside. "Was Robert expecting you?"

  She was the only person in the world who called him Robert. "No, this was more of a—a spur-of-the-moment thing. If he's here, I'd like to speak to him. It won't take long."

  She looked uncertain. "Well, he's asleep, you see. He has an early schedule tomorrow, and—"

  She stopped, realizing that this wasn't some hapless aide she was talking to. "Elsa," I said softly, "I wouldn't be here if it weren't important. I'd appreciate it if you'd wake him up."

  "Could you tell me what it's about?"

  Didn't she know? I wondered. Wouldn't her husband have confided in her about Donato and Danny and Jackie Scanlon? I shook my head. "I'm sorry, Elsa. If Bobby wants to talk about it later, that's up to him."

  She pursed her lips. "Very well, Senator. I'll see if I can awaken him. Would you like some coffee in the meantime?"

  "No, thank you."

  She nodded and ascended the stairs, leaving me alone to await the governor's arrival. I glanced around. The hall opened up into a vast living room; I glimpsed a hardwood floor, uncomfortable-looking furniture, and white walls with primitive wall hangings on them, all knots and splotches of color. Did she decorate the place herself, I wondered, or bring in the experts? Bobby certainly had nothing to do with it. From beneath my
feet came the throbbing of a bass guitar. Junior was in the basement, I imagined, expressing his disdain for his parents' lifestyle.

  I thought about Donato's cramped little apartment. What would happen to Finn and me if we couldn't straighten this out? Would the people we loved desert us? Would we end up changing light bulbs for a living and watching Wheel of Fortune for entertainment, lying in our lonely rooms and dreaming of the days when we could park right next to the State House?

  Yes, this meeting was going to be important. As important as any in our lives.

  Finn came downstairs a few moments later, buttoning the flannel shirt he had pulled on. He was wearing slippers and no socks; his hair was short but still managed to look rumpled. "Don't tell me, Jim," he said. "You've come to beg for a second debate. You wanna give away the few votes you've got left. Well, I just might agree to it if you ask me nice."

  "You're too kind, Governor."

  "What'll you insult this time? Apple pie? Motherhood? Why not just burn a flag on camera and do the job right?"

  His wife came down after him, evidently hoping for an invitation to join us. She wasn't going to get it from me. "Can we go someplace and discuss my options, Governor?" I asked Finn.

  "Sure thing. Let's go into my office."

  Finn led the way without looking back at his wife, who stood grimly at the bottom of the stairs. I followed him through a spectacular dining room, with sliding glass doors looking out into a floodlit garden, and into a large book-lined room that made my little office in Hingham look like a closet. I bet the books had never been opened.

  "Have a seat, Senator," Finn said, and I sat in a leather wing chair. All I needed was a smoking jacket and a pipe. "Can I get you something?" he offered.