"Why didn't you just tell me all this to begin with?" I asked, a dose of aggravation seeping into my voice. "We could have avoided a lot of tragedy."
Gus shook his head slowly and looked down at the ground, then back up at me. "I think I have a pretty good idea about how you work. God knows, I've been watching you since you were greener than a meadow.
I've known you a long time, Jack. If I just gave you what I had, anonymously, you would have dismissed me as some sort of crackpot and never checked the information. If I had come to you on the record, I would have destroyed my entire life. My wife doesn't know about this armored car heist. My daughters, they don't know about this armored car heist. You're the best reporter I know. I wanted you to figure this out on your own, without my direct involvement, and come to the answers yourself. It almost worked."
I said, "So you won't go on the record? I need you on the record on this."
Gus shook his head slowly. He said, "I just can't. I busted my hump to recover from where I was. I've made a life for myself. I'm happy.
My wife is happy. I can't destroy all that now."
"Who killed Havlicek and Stemple?" I asked.
"That part, you're going to have to learn on your own. It's either Hutchins or the FBI. I just can't tell you who."
Standing there, I suddenly felt the driving urge to get somewhere fast, though I wasn't quite sure where I needed to be. I was sitting on information that no one else in the world had, but I wasn't quite sure how to let anyone else know.
I nodded slowly to Gus. I couldn't well be angry, but I was somewhere shy of appreciative. "I've got to get out of here," I said.
"You have what you need?"
I don't think he meant luggage. "I have, I think, whatever I'm going to get."
I looked back at my bodyguards and gave them a wave to approach. Their car started, and they raced up to where we were standing. Gus took a step toward me, reached his arm out to hug me, and I fell into his embrace. As we stepped back from each other, he looked me in the eye and said, "You're a man of words. Me, I'll never be able to tell you how sorry I am. For everything."
He smiled and hit me softly on the shoulder with his open fingers.
Then he added, "You're on your own now, and for you, with your talents, that's not a bad place to be."
twenty-two
So on your own really means being on your own. It means having a newspaper that doesn't want you on the story. It means having a key informant who has nothing else to give. It means having an FBI that may be trying to kill you rather than help you. It means returning home to Washington to nobody and nothing but the presence of imminent danger.
After all that had gone on that day, with all that was left to come, my hotel room seemed depressing, if I had the time or inclination to be depressed, which, right now, I didn't. As I fired up my laptop, I leaned back in my chair and pondered what I had. The president of the United States was a former armored car robber named Curtis Black who had entered the federal witness protection program at the invitation of the government under the name of Tony Clawson, switched names again to Clayton Hutchins, became a prominent businessman in Iowa, was elevated to the governorship by the eleventh-hour whims of a fickle electorate, was nominated vice president without a public vote, became president when his predecessor dropped dead, and was now one day away from being elected to a full term.
How did I know this? Well, two of his cohorts on the armored heist told me-one who was now dead, another who wouldn't allow me to use his name.
While we're at it, let's not forget that the Federal Bureau of Investigation was trying to kill me and had succeeded in killing my colleague, Steve Havlicek. And how did I know this? Well, the suspicions of those same criminals and my own gut instinct.
All this would go over big with Appleton-trying to end the Hutchins presidency on the word of two admitted criminals, but without the benefit of sharing their identities with our readership. I couldn't help but smile to myself. My sourcing, if that's what you want to call it, was so weak as to be laughable. I knew the facts. I just couldn't put them in the newspaper. I imagined the pitying look on Appleton's face when he fired me, or maybe he'd just do it by telephone, and all I'd get would be the pseudo-sympathetic tone of his voice.
I flicked the television on and turned to CNN'S Headline News to see where Hutchins was campaigning. A couple of minutes later, the network played footage of him speaking to a huge rally at Rockefeller Center in midtown Manhattan, urging his supporters not only to vote themselves but each to bring a family member and a friend or neighbor to the polls-all, he said, "To guide our own destiny, to renew that most sacred of institutions, the American dream."
The camera showed men and women and children laughing and applauding and shouting high into the air. Balloons, red, white, and blue, fell from the sky, framed by the mammoth skyscrapers of New York. I stared hard at Hutchins, at his features, his smile, his face, his eyes, his graying hair. Frustrated, I flicked the picture off.
So do I call Martin? I decided it wasn't the right time yet. I decided I wanted to be armed with more information before he raced over and threw me off my game. On a legal pad, I scribbled down the names of people I needed to call: Sammy Markowitz, Kent Drinker, Clayton Hutchins. Neither Markowitz nor Hutchins would be particularly easy to raise, though I imagined by now, Drinker might well be all too easy.
Chances were, he would find me before I even began looking for him.
Which, of course, begged the question: which was, the killer FBI agent-Drinker or Stevens, Stevens or Drinker? Or both? Stevens was an obvious suspect, given her mysterious presence at the airport. But then I recalled Havlicek telling me in the car before he died that he had talked to her that day. He just didn't explain what he had said.
Perhaps he really had given her my arrival time.
Well, I wasn't going to answer that question now, so I flipped through my datebook for Markowitz's number. When I called, some dullardly gentleman picked up the telephone, announced the name of his fine establishment, the Pigpen, then yelled to someone nearby, "Hey, leave the fucking jerky alone. I'll get it for you when I'm done." Pause, then, "Yeah, what."
"Is Sammy there?" I asked.
"No."
Great. This song and dance all over again. I said, "Well, when he gets in from church, could you tell him that Jack Flynn called. Tell him it's urgent that I speak to him."
"Hol'on a second," the man said. I heard him ask someone else, "Hey, Rudy, the boss go to church or somethin'? Isn't he in his booth?"
There was no pulling one over on this guy. A long pause followed, then the phone rang, then Markowitz's voice said, "You have nine lives?
Hate to tell you, but I think you're down to about two."
I wasn't much in the mood to make funny with him, given the day.
"Sammy, I need you to tell me something, and I need you to be straight.
Is there anyone up there in your world who'd be worried about me digging around on Curtis Black? Let me take it a step further. Is there anyone up there who'd kill over this? His cohorts in that failed robbery? Debtors? Anyone you can think of? And is there anyone who would want to kill Black himself if they found out who he is or where he is?"
There was silence. I heard the flick of his lighter, the sound of him inhaling a cigarette, then blowing smoke out toward the decrepit environs of his bar. "No," he said. "Black kind of became a nobody when he left, and that was a long time ago-over twenty years. We don't hold grudges that long in my business. Only in the movies. Too much money to be made." He paused as if he was calculating something, like that day's bookmaking receipts maybe, then added, "And I'm tallying the people up here. Everyone involved in that particular heist is either still in jail or dead. There's no one free who gives a rat's ass about Curtis Black."
I asked, "You're absolutely sure?"
He paused again, then said, "Yeah, unless there's something going on I don't know about, but that's at best unlikely. Yeah, I'm
sure."
I said, "Let me ask you something else. You by chance mention to anyone that I was talking to you about Curtis Black? If you did, no hard feelings. But I'm at a point in my story that it would be really helpful to know."
There was another long pause. I could hear him puffing on his cigarette. I could hear the mindless chatter of his small-minded clientele in the background, some woman on a jukebox singing a country song about a car stealing her man or maybe her man stealing her car.
"No," he said. But it was the way he said it, anything but firm. He sounded uncharacteristically weak, begging more questions.
So I asked him one. "Who? Who'd you tell? I need this."
I heard him take a deep breath, then let out a mouth full of smoke. "A fed, some fucker by the name of Drinker-I told him he should own a bar with that name. He came by, wanted to know what I knew. He kept pressuring me, wouldn't get out of my face. He was raising your name.
After a while, I just had to get him out of here. I told him you were looking into Black." Another long pause, then, "I don't normally say this, Jack, but if I hurt you, sorry."
Dimed by a lifelong crook. "Great. An apology. That means a lot."
Sammy said, "Look, I'm getting old. I'm in the market for friends, not enemies, and he was offering me friendship, said he'd keep an eye out for me, rather than on me."
I said, "Do me a favor, Sammy. When you screw me over again, just let me know about it, would you?"
Next, I called the White House switchboard and asked to have Royal Dalton paged in New York. This would be my most significant problem.
My past dozen days aside, a reporter doesn't just get in to talk to the president of the United States at will, especially on election eve. In fact, most reporters never get the chance to see the president one-on-one in their entire lives. The only time they are able to question him is on national television, at one of his rare press conferences-a venue that wouldn't work particularly well in this situation. Just imagine, me standing up in the East Room of the White House and saying, "Sir, we are pursuing a story saying you were once Curtis Black, an armored car robber in Massachusetts. Do you care to confirm that fact here, and if so, is it true that the FBI has killed reporter Steve Havlicek in its effort to protect you?" Either the stock market would drop one thousand points in the day, or I'd be led off the grounds in a straitjacket by men who would load me into the back of a blue van and say repeatedly, "You're right, the whole world is out to get you. But trust us. We're your protectors."
Ten minutes later, my telephone rang back. An officious-sounding twenty-something said, "This is Hamilton Carr. Could I help you?"
First off, I hate when someone returns someone else's phone messages.
Second, I hate it more when they just assume I know who they are.
This, by the way, is standard procedure in Washington, the world's self-importance capital.
I said, dismissively, "I don't think so. I'm trying to reach Royal Dalton."
"Well, can I help you with something?"
"Sure. You could take a message and pass it on to Royal Dalton. Ask him to call me at the number you just dialed."
Exasperated, young Hamilton said, "I am the duty person in the White House press office today. How can I help you?"
Equally exasperated, I said, "You can do your duty by calling Mr.
Dalton, telling him that Jack Flynn said he has a significant story running in tomorrow's paper on the presidential assassination attempt that requires an adult's attention, and asking him to please call me at the number you just dialed. Tell him I'll be here for ten more minutes."
Sure enough, about three minutes later, Dalton was on the other line, himself exasperated. "It's the day before the election," he said in that thin voice of his. "What could you possibly be doing?"
"Trying to hold this democracy together, a task that you people aren't making any easier," I said. "Here's my problem. I need to talk to Hutchins. I need to talk to him about a subject that only he knows about and that only he will want to know about. I need to talk to him tonight-"
"Absolutely no way. We just gave you time with him on Saturday, and best I can tell, you haven't done anything with it."
I said, angry, "Well, we've had a few things happen since then, like a car bomb and the death of my colleague." I paused. He stayed silent, so I asked, "Where are you?"
"We're at Kennedy. We're about to board Air Force One back to Andrews."
I said, "Would you relay a message to Hutchins? Tell him I'm doing a story about Curtis Black, with some new, crucial details that could prove, well, explosive." Much as I enjoy my own puns, especially those with a double entendre, I didn't particularly like that unintended one.
He replied in that superior tone of his, "What in the world are you talking about? I'm not going to relay a message like that, even if I could. Tell me what you're working on, and maybe I can get someone else at the White House to help you out."
I said, "I'm going with a story tomorrow. It's potentially devastating to Hutchins, especially if his own staff prevents him from responding.
If you don't tell him I'm trying to reach him, you're going to be screwed. Take my word for it, Royal."
"You know I can't go to him on the night before the presidential election with no information."
"On this one, you have to, or you'll regret it for a long time to come.
Have him call me. I'll be here."
He didn't reply, leaving another moment of gaping silence. I added,
"Remember, Curtis Black, crucial details, explosive. Tell him that."
Now I'd be lying if I said I wasn't getting any satisfaction from this, working the telephone, putting pieces together, inching closer to the answers that Havlicek and I had pursued to his death. I was back in my element, even if no one wanted me there. But it doesn't matter if they did or didn't. In newspapers, at the end of each day, the only thing that matters is what you can get into print.
The telephone rang. I picked it up, and it was Lincoln Powers, the chief of staff.
"Young man," he said in a spare Texas twang, "I brought your request to the president and the president said, verbatim, that he doesn't know what you're talking about and has nothing to say."
I replied, "Well, could you tell the president, verbatim, that tomorrow's Record will carry a story detailing the transformation of Curtis Black, and it will no doubt have a profound impact on the election. I'll be at my phone for a short time only."
Well, that last part was a lie. Actually, I'd be glued to my phone waiting, but why give them the confidence rooted in your own anxiety?
About ten minutes later, the telephone rang again, and miraculously, or not so miraculously, it was that familiar voice of President Clayton Hutchins. Every half-cocked bluff was working like a charm. Without introductions, or even enthusiasm, he said, "Curtis Black. What the hell does that mean?"
"I think you know, sir," I said, trying to sound sympathetic to someone who was about to be found in a life-defining lie. "I uncovered some crucial new information on Curtis Black and his current identity."
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, young man," he said.
He sounded sincere, but politicians usually do.
I replied, "Sir, I've talked to other members of the gang on that Wells Fargo job. They know who you are. They are willing to go public with their information." Well, not exactly, but why get bogged down in the mundane details of sourcing a story?
"Young man, I don't have the slightest fucking idea what you're fucking talking about, but be aware you're talking to the president of the United fucking States of America."
Employing an old reporting trick, I let that hang out there, my implicit accusation, his pathetic response. This wasn't so much a pause as a protracted silence. I pictured him sitting in his office on Air Force One, the plane preparing for takeoff, a small army of aides and servants outside his study door. He was the most public and most private man in the world.
Now I understood what Stemple was saying on that very first day he spoke to me, all that stuff about nothing being as it seems, the strange complex motives involved. At least, I think I understood.
More important, I think I was about to know in such a way that I could write about it.
Then, in a tone I had never heard before, his voice so thick it barely sounded like him, he said, "I'm in New York now, on my way to the airport. Why don't you come over to the White House when I get back, and we'll talk."
"That would be helpful, sir," I said. "What time?"
"Seven." We hung up, leaving just one immediate question, at least for me: would someone try to kill me before I could get in?
At this point, I had no choice but to call Peter Martin, who snapped up the telephone on the first ring as if he had been waiting for my call all day. Just as Havlicek preserved the story in the moments before he died and passed it on to me in the form of Stemple's address, I needed to make plans in case I came in harm's way.
"Well, we were right about one thing," I said. "Curtis Black was definitely involved in the shooting. Only he was the victim, not the attempted assassin."
Martin said, "What? What are you talking about?"
I said, "Here's the short version. Curtis Black is the president of the United States. One of the guys from his old criminal gang told me so today." I paused and added, "Take this one to the bank."
"I don't understand." You don't hear Martin say that all that often.
I said, "Curtis Black became a federal witness. He came out with a new identity, that of Tony Clawson. A few years later, he ditched the name Clawson and assumed the name Clayton Hutchins, who, I have a raw hunch, was an actual person who had died very young. He's a smart guy. He went off and made a fortune in computer software. He came into politics almost unwittingly. He became governor of Iowa at the last minute, and then he rose up almost in spite of himself. And when it was time to run for president, think about it. He had a fabricated background. It was real, but it wasn't. It was chosen as a best-case scenario, so there could be nothing wrong with it, except it was a lie.
The Incumbent Page 33