by Sydney Bauer
‘Chase, honey,’ said Rita Walker, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. ‘Sweetie, I think it’s on your dresser, hon, near your new Gameboy.’
‘Find it for me.’
‘Sweetie,’ Rita began. ‘Mommy and daddy are just having a little talk and . . .’
‘Get it yourself, you lazy little . . .’
‘Kevin!’
‘I hate you,’ said Chase to his father, before pushing past him, knocking over the porcelain Dalmatian in the hallway and stomping up the plush lavender carpet stairway to his bedroom.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Rita, a look of distaste trying desperately to crack a wrinkle on her botoxed brow. She waited for the usual retort along the lines of: ‘I have devoted my life to protecting the youth of this country, and this is the thanks I get . . .’ but all she got was silence.
Something was up, she thought.
‘Rita,’ Kevin Walker began, and she noted his brow was now shiny with sweat. ‘I know how hard this is, but we have no alternative. LA just isn’t working for me.’
‘What?’ she said, lifting her left hand in a theatrical gesture, tossing her bottle-blonde hair over her right shoulder and turning towards the bar to pour herself a drink.
‘Not working for you? Well, for God’s sake, let’s all run pack our bags because LA “ain’t working” for you. Seriously, Kevin, do you have any idea what you have put us through, all those years of looking after Gavin, I mean, Chase, on my own while you were flying over South America on some exotic covert adventure.’
He let out a sigh and shook his head. Rita took a long swig of the vodka and poured herself another glass.
‘Look, honey, I’m sorry,’ he said, obviously trying to calm things down. ‘But you knew what I did when you married me.’
‘Maybe it seemed glamorous at the time – marrying a DEA agent, being part of the mystery, the great woman behind the great man. But what’s the point in being married to some big shot Federal agent if you can’t tell anyone about it. It’s like wearing a Versace blouse without the insignia on the front pocket.’
Another toss of the hair, another swig of the Smirnoff.
‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘It may not be up to us. I’ve been in contact with the Bureau, they think it might be safer if we go somewhere less conspicuous.’
‘LA conspicuous? There are nearly four million people in this fucking city, for God’s sake.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes I do and I still say no. There is no way I am moving to some piss-poor midwest town full of Normons.’
‘Jesus – they’re Mormons, Rita, and maybe that’s exactly what we need to do.’
‘No, Kevin. Washington was hard enough. Washington didn’t work for me, and I put up with it for fourteen years. No, I like LA. This is my kinda town and we are staying.’
Rita Walker, formally known as Nancy Doyle, grabbed a cigarette, picked up her glass and walked back through the living room as quickly as she could manage in her high-heeled Escada sandals. Click, click, click across the faux marble floor.
Rita loved a little home-grown drama and finished her flourish by sashaying through the salted glass doors on their back patio, revealing a moonlit view of Redondo Beach and the Pacific Ocean beyond.
She lit the cigarette and waited (as always) for her husband to follow – to apologise, tell her how beautiful she looked, how wonderful she was. But this time she could not hear his steps behind her. He was not sticking to the script.
She turned to see that Kevin Walker, formally known as Robert Doyle, had not moved. He was standing stock-still in the middle of the living room. His eyes glazed, his stance defeated. She felt the panic rise in her throat and immediately tried to swallow it.
It had been a year since her Drug Enforcement Administration Special Agent husband had come home and told her the Colombians had put out a contract on his life and they needed to go into witness protection. She had no idea why, hell, she didn’t even know what he did on those cloak-and-dagger missions at that top secret job of his. But the whole change-of-identity thing had chilled her to the bone.
There were times she wished she had married someone with a ‘normal’ job. But she had never complained – well, not really – largely because of the money.
Robert was bringing home a packet, more than a working class girl from Tampa could ever have dreamed of, and that was nothing to be sneezed at. What was it her dear departed mother used to say? Money doesn’t bring you happiness, it brings you fucking bliss.
So, she had agreed to move (telling herself she had a choice), the lure of LA making the transition that much easier. The house was small, but it was by the ocean, not Malibu but close enough for now. She was driving a convertible, shopping in Beverly Hills and had found a health spa with a six foot, blond haired, male Adonis masseur who gave deep tissue shiatsus that were better than sex.
But Rita wasn’t stupid, never had been. And this new look on her husband’s face sent a fresh sensation of terror though her veins. He was scared, he with the big bad job and balls to match.
And then it hit her. This wasn’t about the Colombians. It was about the money.
The DEA didn’t pay the type of cash he was bringing home. Blind Freddy could have told her that, but she’d been happy not to ask the questions. He was up to no good, had been for a long time, and it had finally caught up with him.
The FBI knew about the money. They were on to him. And if they were on to him, they were on to her. She was the one who spent it, after all.
‘Shit,’ she said, allowing the lipstick-stained, lady-slim filter to slip from the corner of her collagen-enhanced lips.
‘I’m sorry, Nancy,’ he said, from across the living room, not knowing what else to say.
Nancy moved back inside – quickly – the clap, clap, clapping of her heels working double time until she met her husband face to face.
‘I need you to tell me everything, Robert,’ she said. ‘Don’t leave out a thing.’
9
‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Sara, sitting at David’s breakfast table, the early morning sun flooding through the east-facing kitchen window. She was wearing one of his old college t-shirts, her long legs bare, her fingers holding a piece of fresh rye toast.
‘I know,’ said David, kissing her on the head as he poured her another cup of coffee, bending down to read the Tribune over her shoulder. ‘It’s surreal. I didn’t know the guy personally but by all accounts he was the genuine article. He was going to be our next President, that much was for sure.’
‘That’s what’s so amazing, I mean, with his past and all, the people forgave him. They practically anointed him for getting over it.’
‘Well, there’s irony for you.’
Sara took a sip of coffee as David sat down across from her.
‘It’s weird, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘All those years being clean. And now, just as he is about to hit the big time, he injects himself with enough pain medication to kill an elephant?’
‘Pressure, I guess.’
‘I guess.’ She looked up from the newspaper and smiled.
‘What?’ he said, smiling back.
‘Nothing, just you, here. I’m so glad to be back, David. Last night was . . .’
‘Incredible,’ he finished. ‘And it doesn’t end here. I’m not letting you go anywhere for the next, well, hundred years at least.’
She smiled again and they sat quietly, enjoying the need to say nothing, Sara passing David the front section of the paper as she opened the supplementary pictorial. Her eyes drifted over photographs of a seven-year-old Bradshaw playing little league, Bradshaw accepting some academic award in high school, Bradshaw at Harvard, at his wedding, on the campaign trail. The next page showed pictures of the various luminaries who attended last night’s fundraiser: politicians, academics, movie stars, sports personalities, famous musicians. And that’s when her eyes settled on Professor Stuart Montgomery and his b
eautiful wife Karin.
At first she said nothing, not wanting to spoil what was turning out to be one of the happiest mornings of her life, but then she realised love was all about honesty and, when it came down to it, she just needed to know.
‘David?’
‘Hmmm,’ he said, swallowing a mouthful of scrambled egg.
‘Did you see her?’
‘See who?’
‘Karin, last night. Did you see her?’
David looked up and she could see his eyes drift to the photograph of the Montgomerys – the caption beneath it naming Professor Stuart Montgomery as Tom Bradshaw’s personal physician who ‘attended to the Vice President immediately after his death’.
‘Sara,’ he said.
‘No, really, I’m not asking because I am worried. I just wondered if you knew she was there.’
‘No. I didn’t know. I didn’t see her. In fact I haven’t seen her in over ten years.’
‘You haven’t even talked?’
‘Not unless you include four-way conversations with our lawyers as go-betweens.’
Sara paused before going on. ‘Maybe you should,’ she said at last.
‘What?’
‘Maybe you should, you know, talk, bury the hatchet.’
‘Sara, you have no reason to be . . .’
‘I know. But . . .’
He reached across the table, taking both of her hands in his. ‘Look, I admit, it hurt for a long time, but I am so over it, so over her. We were just kids.’
‘But you loved her.’
‘Well, yeah, as much as you can when you are nineteen and your whole world revolves around passing finals and passing out at keg parties.’
She said nothing, wondering how far to push, but then decided, as much as this may hurt, she really needed to know.
‘Did she leave you for him?’
David took a deep breath before answering.
‘When I first met Karin she was in her first year of nursing at BC. She was friends with my sister; they were in the same classes, hung out with the same crowd.
‘We had only been dating for about six months when we decided to cut to the chase and get married. I had just started my first year of law and she decided to transfer out of nursing to study medicine at BU. She was smart and determined, one of those people who sucked the marrow out of life – always in a hurry to learn and get ahead, which she did.
‘Anyway,’ he said, looking up from his breakfast. ‘Four years later she graduated with honours and went straight to Washington Memorial for her residency. She wanted to specialise in cardiovascular medicine and Washington was the best. So, there was never any question really. She went there, I stayed here.’
‘But why didn’t you go with her?’
‘We thought we could handle the long distance relationship. I had only just passed the bar and we’d just bought a house we couldn’t afford. I spent my days working as a paralegal and my nights pouring Guinness at a second-rate pub in Southie.’
‘And Montgomery?’
‘He ran the cardiac surgical team at WH. He was fifteen years her senior, the famous surgeon with the even more famous patients. He was rich, successful, good looking. It was a no-brainer really. I was no competition.’
‘Arthur once told me she just walked out – broke up with you in a note.’
‘Yeah,’ he sighed. ‘She came home for Thanksgiving. I guess her original plan was to tell me in person, but I went out for a bottle of wine and came back to an empty house and a note on the mantelpiece. She said something about hating goodbyes. I guess she knew what she wanted, and I wasn’t it.’
‘Did you try to contact her?’
‘Of course, but she made it clear she didn’t want to speak to me. It was kinda pathetic really. I sat around for at least a year waiting for a phone call that never came.’
Sara looked into his green eyes and saw the years of rejection coming back to haunt him. There was so much more she wanted to know, but she feared that perhaps she had pushed too far and took comfort in the fact he had told her this much. Besides, beyond the memories of rejection she sensed there was something else in his expression – a closure on his part, a resolution to move on.
She moved around the table and sat down on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him softly on the forehead.
‘It’s her loss,’ she said, bending lower to kiss his eyes, his cheek, his neck. ‘Don’t you see, David? As soon as she left you, the minute she walked out that door it became her loss and my gain.’ She started to undo the buttons on his shirt, pulling it back across his shoulders.
‘Karin may have been bad at goodbyes,’ she said. ‘But me, I am the worst.’
‘Really?’ he said, returning her kisses, slowly, softly.
‘Really,’ she answered. ‘Which is why I never intend to say it. I am afraid you are stuck with me, Mr Cavanaugh, like it or not.’
He took her in his arms and lifted her up, kissing her deeply as he carried her to the bedroom. And in that moment she sensed that all of the lonely days and nights he had spent waiting for his ex-wife to call were not the end of what should have been, but the beginning of what was meant to be. If he hadn’t lost Karin they would never have this.
‘I love you, Sara Davis,’ he said as he put her down on the bed, lifting his old Boston College t-shirt over her head and throwing it across the other side of the room.
‘I know,’ she said before kissing him again. ‘I know.’
10
Myrtle McGee’s was a popular café at the northern end of Downtown Boston. The fresh food and juice spot was a regular stop for a loyal clientele who would drop in for a long tall cup of Myrtle’s famous combination squeezed juices or strong Brazilian coffees before heading off to one of the thousands of offices and retail centres in America’s oldest business district.
This morning its owner, a large copper-topped, freckle-faced Irishman named Mick McGee, stood behind the lime green counter with a pot of coffee in one hand and a carrot in the other, his crooked smile a familiar welcome as David and his friend Tony Bishop walked through the front glass doors.
‘Well, Mr Bishop,’ said the bachelor Mick who swore his café was a success because people assumed he had a cheery wife named Myrtle who did all the cooking somewhere ‘out back’. ‘Still hanging around with the likes of young Cavanaugh, I see. Glutton for punishment, are we?’
‘Hi, Mick,’ said Tony with a smile. ‘David isn’t so bad really, kinda grows on you after a while.’
‘Hmmm, like a particularly annoying rash, I suppose,’ grinned Mick, shaking both their hands as he turned to the juicer to make their regular concoctions of carrot and apple and pineapple and orange.
‘Very funny, Mick,’ smiled David.
‘What’s he so happy about this morning?’ asked the Irishman.
‘Sara’s back,’ said Tony.
Mick rolled his eyes. ‘Ah, that’ll do it. Now there’s a real lady. Don’t know what she sees in him either.’
‘You and Nora should do a double act.’ David smiled again.
‘It’s the Irish in us, son,’ said Mick with a wink. ‘Perceptive and honest.’
‘And full of crap,’ finished David.
‘Ah yes, and that too, I suppose,’ laughed Mick. ‘You boys got time for breakfast?’
‘Just a quick one,’ said Tony, looking at his watch. ‘I got a meeting in Washington. My plane leaves in a couple of hours.’
Tony Bishop worked for a blue chip firm called Williams, Coolidge and Harrison, a high profile practice whose clientele included everything from major oil companies to multinational conglomerates with interests in travel, electronics, insurance and tobacco. He was smart and ambitious, and savvy enough to realise that in the high-powered world of top-notch attorneys, contacts and information were everything. Keeping your finger on the ever-changing political pulse was key to keeping your clients happy, especially when half of them were major political contributors who a
lways expected their quid pro quo.
The pair took a seat at the back of the café overlooking what was this morning a crisp and clear Christopher Columbus Park and the Harbour beyond. Minutes later they were tucking into a generous serving of poached eggs with bacon and roasted tomatoes with a side of hash browns and chutney, a mug apiece of Mick’s bottomless coffee beside them.
David wanted to get Tony’s take on the weekend’s events, sure that his friend would be up with the latest. As well as his legal fraternity contacts, Tony’s older brother James was a Congressman and, given their closeness, there was no doubt they would have swapped respective views on the political lay of the land.
That said, David’s friendship with his law school buddy was one based on trust and discretion, so David knew Tony would never cross the line between friendly banter and revealing information confidential to his brother or his clients, and he respected him for it.
‘So,’ began David, ‘I would imagine you are facing a hell of a week.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Tony, shaking his head. ‘On the surface Bradshaw’s death is a tragedy that demands a period of stillness, you know, the mandatory public pause for grief. On the other more realistic front it calls for some serious damage control. This is an election year, my friend, and Bradshaw’s demise is one major setback for the government.’ Tony re-filled his coffee mug before going on.
‘The opposition will put on a show of regret and express their condolences for the late VP, mainly because they know how popular the guy was and any open signs of opportunism would backfire. But make no mistake, the removal of Bradshaw gives them a massive advantage and they will be laughing all the way to the polls.’
‘So what does the government do?’ asked David.
‘Well, they start by throwing every respected pollster on the case of gauging public opinion. They need to work out exactly how much damage has been done. They figure it will take a week or two for the masses to absorb it all and then decide how it is going to affect their vote. So the next few weeks will be crucial.’
‘And what’s your take on the election?’