Red White and Black and Blue

by Richard Stevenson

  "They must be wondering what it would take to actually get you to throw in the towel. Or, maybe they aren't wondering that at all. Maybe their aim in threatening and harassing you is entirely different."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know."

  "These guys do seem to be holding back. But they let me know constantly that they're on top of my every move. Clean-Tech is going to check the car for a tracking device, and they'll go over my laptop, too."

  "How's your ear? And your big hickey?"

  "The ear hurts. The hickey is sexy as all get out."

  "Will you stay at the hotel tonight? If the Louderbush gang knows your every move, why not just come home? We can keep a cauldron of boiling XVOO at a second floor window in case the Croatians start marching up Crow Street."

  "Serbians. No, let's keep you and the house out of this. I'll let you know where I end up."

  "Be careful."

  "Yep."

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  It was nearly five, and I grabbed my laptop and took the elevator down to the hotel parking garage. A white Clean-Tech van was waiting near the entrance, and out stepped Tom Dunphy and two stringy gimlet-eyed men in sports jackets. A fourth man drove the van as I led them all down one level to where my Toyota was parked. I handed the computer over to one of the solemn guys, who climbed into the back of the van with it. The other man had a black box with a wire and a wand, and he began waving it around my car. The van's driver got out, and he opened all the doors on the Toyota and popped both the hood and the trunk.

  While these guys worked, I stepped into the shadows of the garage with Dunphy. I watched other cars come and go while we talked. Nobody looked our way or stopped. No Serbians appeared, or Croatians or Roma.

  Dunphy told me the McCloskey campaign was creeping ahead but was having trouble raising money because Louderbush was draining off a good bit of cash in the Buffalo area. And even downstate around heavily Democratic New York City, donations were down. Too many Dems assumed Louderbush would win the primary and Ostwind the general, and a dank fatalism had set in. Big givers were already looking ahead to other electoral races two years down the road. It was becoming more and more critical, Dunphy said, that Louderbush be forced to drop out of the gubernatorial contest soon. Otherwise, just around the bend lay colossal ruin.

  I gave Dunphy an update on my findings, including the report from Millicent Blessing that Louderbush's office had 131

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  made inquiries about the Stiver suicide soon after it happened, even though Stiver was not Louderbush's constituent and his district was over 200 miles from Stiver's Albany residence.

  Dunphy said, "That's evidence of something, it sounds like."

  "It seems to be. Why were his staff people asking? I'd love to find out. You don't happen to have a mole working in Louderbush's office, do you?"

  "No, we don't. A dirty trick like that would be wrong."

  Why did he talk like this? "Tom, you aren't wearing a wire, are you?"

  "Of course not. Why would you ask that?"

  "It's my Walmart training."

  "You worked for Walmart?"

  The guys checking my car out came over and said they couldn't find any tracking or listening device. They said a more thorough search in their shop could be arranged but was unlikely to yield a different result. They were certain no electronic transmissions were being broadcast from anywhere in my car.

  This was a relief in the sense that I could now drive my own car and not have to worry about leading Louderbush operatives to my every encounter. But it was disappointing in that I still had no idea how these people always seemed to know exactly where I was at any given moment.

  The computer man returned my laptop and said it didn't seem infected in any way, and my files had not been accessed except via my own password.

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  "There is some gay porn in there," the guy said. "I have to mention that in case you didn't know it was there. College wrestlers in sexual activity with teammates?"

  "I'm aware of that material."

  "That's up to you. It's not uncommon. And this is your own PC, not a government apparatus, so it's your business."

  "True enough."

  Dunphy said, "Gay college wrestlers. Holy jeez. I'm sure that wasn't the case at Williams."

  The Clean-Tech crew departed, and Dunphy said he would make his own way back down the hill to his office. I walked with him out to State Street, and he asked me what was next according to my plan of attack.

  I said I wasn't sure, but I knew I needed to chase down any additional witnesses I could find to the Stiver-Louderbush abusive relationship. I said I also wanted to talk to Stiver's parents, if possible, and anybody else who might offer insights into Stiver's intentions and his state of mind in the weeks and days before his death. I planned, too, on checking out the college where Stiver's thesis advisor said he'd been offered a job after he supposedly told others that he had been rejected twice for teaching positions.

  "That all sounds," Dunphy said, "as if it might take a while.

  I'm getting nervous as hell that by the time you nail this guy to the cross—and eventually I'm sure you will nail him—by that time Merle Ostwind will be up there at the top of State Street hill with her pretty little white-lady right hand raised up in the chill January air being sworn in as New York State's next governor. Can you speed this up just a wee bit, Don?

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  God, tempus is fucking fugiting. Can you understand the position we're in here? Well, of course you can. And I know you can do this job for us. I've heard that about you. That and all kinds of other good things. Mister-Get-the-Job-Done-One-Way-or-Another. Just do it faster, please, if you don't mind my saying so. I'm putting pressure on you, and pressure is good. Grace under pressure. That's all I'm insisting on. Grace and, more importantly, speed. Can I make it any plainer?"

  I said, "Dunphy, I think you need to walk across the street to Jack's for happy hour and take a load off. You're unraveling and that's not helping. In the meantime, either keep me on the payroll to finish this job as fast as I can humanly do it, or fire my ass and bring Pinkerton in, or Rudy Giuliani, or Captain Marvel. Think it over. I'll be in touch."

  I left him on the sidewalk looking alone and dejected, and I felt pretty rotten myself. In fact, I had no idea what exactly to do next. I rode back up to my room, popped more Tylenol—the earache had seemed to spread deep into my brain—and stuffed my meager belongings into my bag and prepared to head off to—where?

  My cell phone rang.

  "This is Strachey."

  A long pause. I noted the number calling me, and I saw that it was the same number that was stored in Greg Stiver's phone as belonging to KL.

  I said, "Take your time. I know who you are."

  More static. Then, weakly, "How could you know who I am?"

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  "Your number was stored in Greg Stiver's cell. I saw it there."

  More static. Where was he calling from? Finland?

  He said, "I need to talk to you."

  "Sure. That could be helpful."

  "No. I just need to explain. You don't understand any of this."

  "Okay."

  "Can we meet? Privately?"

  "Yes, we can. My house on Crow Street?"

  His voice was the one I'd heard countless times on television going on about horrible big government and out-of-control taxes, but now the voice was wobbly and a bit hard to make out. He said, "No, outside of Albany somewhere. Where we can talk and I won't run into anybody."

  "There's a Motel 6 on Route 7 just east of Troy. I'll get a room."


  Another pause. "I suppose that would work."

  "Seven o'clock?"

  "No, it's better after dark. Ten is better. Ten o'clock."

  "My car will be parked in front of my room. I'll tape a note to the door that says Don." I described my car and gave Louderbush the license number.

  "I've got that. Thank you. Thank you so much."

  "Will you be coming alone, Assemblyman?"

  "Absolutely. That's the whole point."

  "Right. See you at ten."

  He rang off and I wondered how I was going to sit still for the next three and a half hours.

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  136

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  Chapter Fifteen

  Louderbush didn't show. I sat waiting, my Smith & Wesson under a pillow—precautions wouldn't do any harm—and kept on waiting for over half an hour. At ten forty I dialed Louderbush's number and got his voicemail.

  I said, "I understand this is no picnic for you. But your impulse in calling me was a decent one. You said you wanted to explain. I'm ready to listen. So please call again, and we'll do what we need to do to get this sorted out. I hope to speak with you soon."

  What was Louderbush up to? He seemed to be presenting himself as the aggrieved party here, the fellow who was being misunderstood. But how could he possibly come up with a story that cast himself in any kind of positive light? I didn't get it, but I was immensely curious.

  I took the Don sign down from my door and locked myself in. Through the motel's thin walls, I could hear a TV going in the next room, one of those hair-raising real housewives shows that leaves you convinced civilization is basically over and a kind of human devolution is well underway.

  I phoned Janie Insinger and asked if she was safe and doing all right. She said she was, but she sounded tipsy and she asked if she could speak to me some other time because at that moment she and Kevin and Anthony were "like, having a party."

  When I called Virgil Jackman, he said he was just getting off work, and he hadn't been bothered by any Serbians either.

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  He said he was going out with Kimberly and he would talk to me Monday if that was okay. I said sure.

  It was Friday night, so maybe even the Serbians were out doing the club scene.

  I reached Timmy at home, and all was well there. I told him where I was and what had happened with Kenyon Louderbush.

  "Wow."

  "You bet."

  "Maybe he knows you're on his trail, and he's going to drop out of the race."

  "I doubt it. He wouldn't do it through me. He'd just announce he had a brain tumor, or he wanted to spend more time with his family, or a voice had spoken to him in the night and told him to move to Salt Lake City."

  "You're right. These guys never just spit it out."

  "No, Louderbush seems to think of me as somebody who can somehow defuse the accusation. I want to hear his story, and I'm irked that he didn't show up at the motel. But this thing was plainly eating at him, and I'm guessing he'll call again."

  "So, are you spending the night up there?"

  "Yeah, and I think I've finally shaken the Serbians loose. I checked out of the Crowne Plaza. Maybe I'll be back home tomorrow night. It's possible Louderbush has called off the dogs while he tries to negotiate something. Not that there's anything to negotiate, really, if he admits to having had a physically abusive affair with Greg Stiver."

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  "Maybe Louderbush was the second person somebody saw on the roof with Stiver, and he shoved the kid off in a rage, and now he wants to confess."

  "That's disgusting and tidy and not altogether implausible, but the confession part seems unlikely. What he said to me was that I didn't understand, and he wanted to explain what happened. That doesn't sound like a confession in the offing.

  It sounds like a defense."

  "Let's hope he calls back soon."

  "Not tonight necessarily. I'm beat. And I still hurt all over.

  I guess I should change the dressing on my ear again. Maybe even have it checked. It feels as if something is gnawing at the side of my head. Rats or ferrets."

  "This is becoming too graphic for me. I may have to go watch the Oprah channel. Should I come up there? I could be in Troy in fifteen minutes. I hate it when you don't feel good.

  It's so unlike you. Maybe I could cheer you up in some familiar way."

  "Thanks, lover, but Tylenol will have to do. What I really need is to go right to sleep."

  "Tomorrow then."

  "It's a plan."

  Except, when I turned the lights out, I couldn't sleep. The whole ugly mess kept sloshing around in my aching head. I could hear the housewives sniping and puling in the next room. Didn't anybody who stayed in motels ever watch the Hallmark Channel? I turned on the TV in my room while the eleven o'clock news was on but didn't see or hear a thing. I was aware enough to know there was no local political news 139

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  on, just car wrecks, fires, cats with cancer stories, weather—

  rain was on the way—and baseball. I shut off the TV when Jay Leno came on but still couldn't sleep.

  At a quarter to twelve, I got up, fired up my laptop and went over my notes. They were blurry and indistinct. Had I developed an ear infection that had spread to my brain? I wasn't feverish but I still felt ill and impaired. I gave up on the notes, turned off the bedside light and opened the college wrestler download, Humpy Mat Humpers. That was good for about ten minutes, leaving me even more exhausted and still wide awake.

  A cell phone whose ring tone was Queen's We Are the Champions went off in the room on the other side of me—the housewives on my right had called it a night—and a woman's voice cried out with delight, "Junior!" Then Junior got an earful. Mom had gotten her hair tinted and Midge had had her baby, and I got an earful, too.

  I turned on Leno, switched to Letterman, then to TCM.

  Casablanca was on, and I recited the lines along with the actors. I had read recently that Bogart and Ingrid Bergman hadn't liked each other. She considered him boorish, he found her haughty—and this sad thought left me even more anxious and depressed.

  When the movie ended, I started channel surfing and was clicking by a couple of religious channels when a phrase snagged my attention and I stopped. A wizened preacher with tanning-booth skin and a gray pompadour was telling a blond lady with a painted smile about something he called the Eddie Fund. As I listened, it became clear that this was a ministry 140

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  whose purpose was to turn gay people straight through counseling and prayer. When the phone number viewers could call in order to make a donation was shown, I made a note of it. Just twenty-five dollars would make Jesus smile, viewers were told. Old JC and his famous lopsided grin.

  Soon the preacher changed the subject, and I turned off the set. As I drifted into a restless sleep, I wondered why, when out-and-proud Log Cabin Republican Greg Stiver had died, mourners were asked to donate to a religious crackpot cure-a-gay organization. This made no sense, unless of course the person in charge of funeral arrangements had been Anson Stiver, the evil stepfather. Him, I had to meet.

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  Chapter Sixteen

  Rain pounded down in drops the size of boccie balls. I cupped a hand over my injured ear and made it out to the car with my laptop and overnight bag. I got in and slammed the door.

  Then I saw the note on the windshield. I climbed back out,
grabbed the piece of sopping paper, and got back inside. The ink had run, but the handwritten two-word message was still legible. I'm sorry.

  So Louderbush had shown up sometime during the night and left this apology? Presumably the note was his. Only two people knew where I was staying: Louderbush and Timmy. It seemed as if Louderbush had called off the Serbians, and he was trying to somehow deal with the repulsive mess he'd made, but he kept losing his nerve. I tried to work up some sympathy for him, but it was hard to find any.

  I made a quick Dunkin' Donuts stop in Troy and headed back down the river to Albany, eating and drinking in the car, and trying to find any political news on the radio. WAMC had on a few local headlines; none mentioned Kenyon Louderbush or the gubernatorial campaign.

  I thought about driving out to Hall Creek Community College, where Paul Podolski said Stiver had had a teaching job lined up, but I decided to wait until Monday. It seemed unlikely I'd find anybody out there willing and able to talk to me on a Saturday morning in June.

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  Instead, I headed toward Schenectady. I had an address for Anson and Margery Stiver. I pulled into the breakdown lane and keyed the address into my GPS. Normally I would have done this while in motion—another distracted-driving asshole—but I still felt so crummy that I feared that any greater than usual distraction might end in calamity.

  The Anson Stiver home in Schenectady was in one of the nicer neighborhoods in this sad-ass abandoned-by-GE old rust-belt town. Ridgemont Drive was probably where company managers and professional people had made their comfortable lives from the nineteen-teens up until the seventies, when the company moved south and way, way east. The Stivers' ample manse was fieldstone below, powder blue wood frame above, with white decorative shutters and a big white front door with a bronze knocker. The front lawn wasn't as well tended as others in the neighborhood, and the azaleas needed pruning.