Seventh Enemy

by William G. Tapply

  They stared at him and shrugged.

  “Please,” said Bailey. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and came up with a sheaf of photographs. “My wife and daughter. I’d like you to know what I had to say today.”

  He handed out the photos. The reporters closed around him.

  “Good chance to get out of here,” mumbled Wally.

  “That man had quite a story to tell,” I said. “His wife and daughter were killed by an AK-47.”

  “They were killed by a person,” said Wally.

  I shrugged. “I stand corrected.”

  We were halfway clown the steps when a voice called, “Hey, Kinnick! Wait!”

  We stopped and turned around. Gene McNiff was hurrying toward us. His eyes blazed and his mouth was an angry slash across his red face.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he snarled at Wally.

  “A United States citizen, I guess,” said Wally mildly.

  “I arrange this whole thing,” growled McNiff, “agree to take care of your expenses, and you—you flicking betray me. You killed us in there. I hope you know that every member of the NRA in the country will hear about this. You’re dead meat, Kinnick. Trust me.”

  “Don’t worry about the expense money, Gene,” said Wally with a smile. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”

  “Well, I ain’t done with you,” said McNiff.

  Wally touched my elbow. “Come on, Brady. Let’s go get some coffee.”

  We started down the stairs. Behind us, McNiff yelled, “This ain’t the end of it. Kinnick.

  “He’s going to be in trouble for bringing me here,” said Wally. “That’s what he’s upset about.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  “Me, neither.” He shrugged. “Tough.”

  The demonstrators spotted us. “There he is,” several of them shouted, and they all turned to look at us.

  “Excuse us,” said Wally. “Come on, now, folks. Some of us have things to do today. Let us through.” We moved directly toward them, and they parted to let us pass. They mumbled slogans at us, but they seemed to have lost their energy, or their enthusiasm, for it.

  “That,” I told him after we had crossed Beacon Street, “was quite a morning. In one fell swoop you made enemies of both the animal rights crowd and the NRA.”

  “Well,” he said, “if you’re still my friend, I’m happy. I could use a cup of coffee.”

  6

  “WELL,” I SAID, “WE can go down to Charles Street or cut over to Newbury, Plenty of little European-type cafes where we can get a cup of raspberry-chocolate-flavored coffee and a croissant.”

  “Or?”

  “The Parker House in the other direction. Best coffee in town.”

  “Or?”

  “Well, there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts right over there on Tremont Street.”

  “Dunkin’ for me,” said Wally.

  I smiled. “Somehow I knew you’d say that.”

  We strolled down Park Street to Tremont, crossed over, and went into the Dunkin’ Donuts. Five or six people were perched on stools at the counter. There were half a dozen tables, none of which was occupied. We got coffee and doughnuts at the counter—toasted coconut for me, honey-dipped for Wally—and took them to one of the tables near the rear of the small place.

  I lit a cigarette and sipped. “What kind of trouble are you really in?” I said.

  “Trouble?”

  “Testifying that way. Everybody’s afraid of the NRA.”

  He look a bite out of his doughnut. “I guess I’d be in more trouble if I didn’t testify the way I believed.”

  “You surprised the hell out of them,” I said. “The chairman had quite a twinkle in his eye.”

  Wally nodded. “He’s a friend of mine. Diana’s, actually. Pretty good guy. A trout fisherman. He sponsored a clean water bill a year or so ago that she got involved in.”

  “So now what happens?”

  “To me?” He smiled. “Now I take the T over to Diana’s place in Cambridge, climb into her Cherokee, and we tool out to Fenwick, and at three o’clock this afternoon we’ll be casting dry flies on the Deerfield River. And you’ll join us later, huh?”

  “I can probably break away Thursday.”

  “You’ll make it a long weekend, at least, I hope. It should be—” Wally stopped, glanced over my shoulder to the front of the shop, and said, “Oh, oh.”

  I turned around. Three men had entered. They stood inside the doorway. They were staring in our direction.

  “Friends of yours?” I said to Wally.

  “SAFE boys. I remember the fat one.”

  I watched them as they sidled up to the counter. They gave their order, then turned to stare at me and Wally. One of them was, indeed, fat, although he was also tall, an over-the-hill offensive tackle with a pockmarked face and a pale untrimmed beard. The second man was equally tall, rail-thin, with bushy black eyebrows and dark hair clipped to a buzz. Right out of Deliverance. Both of them appeared to be in their late thirties. The third man was younger, twenty or so. He wore a ponytail and an earring. His cheeks were pink.

  All three of them wore blue jeans and flannel shirts. The SAFE uniform.

  They paid for their coffee and headed our way. “Don’t say anything,” whispered Wally.

  They came directly to our table. The fat guy slammed against it with his hip. Wally’s coffee mug tipped and spilled.

  “Oh, sir, I’m terribly sorry” said the fat man, his voice dripping with mock politeness. “Please, let me help you.”

  He grabbed a napkin and began to smack Wally’s chest with it. Wally grabbed both of the man’s wrists and held them immobile. He smiled mildly up into the fat guy’s face. “Thanks, anyway,” he said quietly. “Apology accepted. I’m fine.”

  The fat man wrenched his hands free and stood there dangling his arms and glaring down at Wally.

  The dark-haired man stepped forward. He put his coffee mug in front of Wally. “Here, sir. Take mine.” Then he hit it with the back of his hand so that its entire contents spilled onto the table and flowed into Wally’s lap. “Oh, how careless of me,” said the dark guy.

  I found my fists clenched. I started to stand up, but Wally frowned at me. I sat down.

  “Take it easy, boys,” he said quietly. “You’ve made your point.”

  “Fuckin’ traitor,” said the young guy. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “I know who I am,” said Wally.

  The kid grabbed a handful of Wally’s jacket. “You better watch your ass,” he said.

  “And you better let go,” said Wally softly.

  The kid yanked at Wally’s jacket and the next thing I knew he was staggering backward holding his stomach. He ended up sitting on the floor gasping for air.

  Then Wally stood up and so did I. The other two, the fat guy and the dark-haired guy held their ground. Their arms hung at their sides as if they were gunfighters ready to draw. Their eyes were narrowed and their mouths worked soundlessly at finding words to express their feelings.

  “Does Gene McNiff know you’re here?” said Wally to them.

  “McNiff’s an asshole,” mumbled the fat man.

  “Hasta be, bringing you here,” said the other one.

  “You want to start a brawl in a public place, it’s not going to help your cause any,” Wally said. “Why don’t you boys go home and think about it?”

  “You get the message?” said the dark guy.

  “I would infer that you aren’t happy.”

  “‘I would infer.’” mimicked the fat guy. “Fuckin’ big shot.”

  “Your ass is grass, man,” said the other one.

  The young guy had regained his breath. He got to his feet. “I want a piece of him,” he said.

  The fat guy put his hand on his shoulder. “Not now, Dougie.” He turned to me. “You, too, Mr. Lawyer. We know you.”

  I dipped my head. “My pleasure.”

  By now the waitress had come out from behind the
counter. She was young and pretty in her soiled white uniform. “I’ve called the police,” she said.

  “Shit,” said the fat guy. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He turned and walked away. The other two followed behind him. The young guy, Dougie, turned at the doorway. “This ain’t done with,” he said. Then they all left.

  The waitress smiled at us. “Are you all right?”

  “No problem,” said Wally. “Little misunderstanding.”

  “Let me get you more coffee.”

  “Thank you.”

  She went back behind the counter. Wally and I sat down. She returned a moment later with two cups of coffee and a big wad of napkins. “I probably should’ve called the police,” she said.

  Wally was dabbing at the coffee stains on the front of his shirt and pants. He grinned at her. “You didn’t?”

  She shook her head. “You looked like you could handle it.”

  Wally touched her arm. “You did just right. Thanks.”

  She shrugged. “Stuff like this happens here now and then. We’re open late. Guys come in, drunk, mad at the world. I can get a cop in about thirty seconds if I need one.” She gestured at the coffee. “This is on the house.”

  She went back to the counter. Wally sipped his coffee. I lit a cigarette. “You handled yourself rather well,” I said. “I’m glad you were here.”

  “Hell,” he said, “if I hadn’t been here you wouldn’t have had a problem.”

  “Good point.”

  At that moment a woman appeared at our table. “Alex Shaw, Boston Globe.” she said. “I saw what just happened. Can we talk?”

  Wally glanced at me, then said to the woman, “My friend and I are just having a quiet cup of coffee, miss.”

  “It didn’t look that quiet to me.”

  “There’s no story,” said Wally. “Just a misunderstanding among friends.”

  Alex Shaw pulled out a chair, sat down, and hitched it up to our table. Her reddish-brown hair was cut chin length, and it framed her face like a pair of parentheses. She wore big round eyeglasses, which kept slipping down her nose. “I know better,” she said, poking at her glasses. “You’re Walt Kinnick, and I just heard you testify, and those three guys are members of SAFE and they threatened you. They believe you betrayed them.”

  Wally didn’t say anything.

  “I followed you here,” she persisted, “hoping for an interview.”

  “An interview,” said Wally. He turned to me. “She followed us here, Brady.” To her he said. “This is Mr. Brady Coyne. He’s my lawyer. He advises me on things. Brady,” he said, turning to me again, “I thought back there after the hearing I told all of those journalists I didn’t want to answer any questions.”

  “That you did,” I said.

  “And just now I think I said that there was no story.”

  “You are correct, sir,” I said in my best Ed McMahon imitation.

  “Implying, I thought, that I just wanted to sit here and relax and sip this delicious coffee with you in privacy.”

  “As a lawyer,” I said, “I would interpret it precisely that way.”

  “Because I said all I have to say at the hearing.”

  “You said it concisely and clearly,” I said.

  “And I have a certain mistrust of journalists.”

  “Not without reason, sir,” I said.

  “Journalism,” said Wally, “being nothing more than the ability to meet the challenge of filling space.”

  “As Rebecca West so shrewdly observed,” I said, “journalism also being the profession that justifies its own existence by the great Darwinian principle of the survival of the vulgarest.”

  “Oscar Wilde,” said Alex Shaw, who was grinning. “Are you guys having fun?”

  “My lawyer advises me to refrain from comment on my statement at the hearing,” said Wally.

  “What about what just happened here?”

  Wally glanced at me, then said, “Nothing happened here, Miz Shaw.”

  “Looked to me like you were both victims of an assault. I heard what they said to you. They threatened you. Do you take their threats seriously? I mean, these are guys who love guns. Are you frightened?”

  Wally caught my eye and gave me a small headshake. Neither of us said anything.

  “I’d like to hear your side of the story,” she persisted.

  “If you heard my testimony, you got it all,” said Wally.

  “I mean on what just happened here.”

  “Nothing happened,” said Wally.

  “It was pretty obvious where they were coming from.”

  Wally shrugged. “We’d just like to drink our coffee, if you don’t mind.

  She stood up. “Okay. Maybe you’ll give me an interview this afternoon?”

  “Sorry. I’m leaving momentarily. After I drink my coffee.”

  She turned to me. “Mr. Coyne, how about you?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve got to get to the office.”

  She nodded. “Too bad. Guess I’ll have to do the best I can with the story without your input.”

  “Fill up that space,” said Willy.

  She stood there for a moment, frowned at Wally, then peered at me through her big glasses. “Lawyers,” she said, “are the only persons in whom ignorance of the law is not punished.”

  “Jeremy Bentham?” I said.

  “You are correct, sir,” she said, and hers wasn’t a bad Ed McMahon imitation, either. She grinned wickedly, then turned and left.

  We watched her go. She was wearing a short narrow skirt, and Wally said, “Admirable legs, Coyne.”

  “Jesus, Wally. You can’t say things like that.”

  “Why not? It’s true,”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s offensive.”

  “Oh,” said Wally, touching his fingertips daintily to his mouth. “How insensitive of me. I’ve offended you.”

  “Not me, asshole.”

  “Who, then?”

  “The vast majority of women who don’t happen to have admirable legs, I guess. You’re supposed to admire their brains.”

  “Oh, sure. How porcine of me.”

  I smiled. “Well, you’re right about her legs, of course.”

  “That one has admirable brains, too, I suspect.”

  “Dangerous combination,” I said, “admirable legs and brains.”

  He nodded, sipped his coffee, then sighed. “I really don’t need this kind of publicity, Brady. I can see it. WALT KINNICK IN COFFEE SHOP BRAWL. Or KINNICK ASSAULTS SAFE MEMBER.”

  “Maybe you should’ve given her an interview,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I just want to go fishing.”

  7

  WALLY WROTE OUT THE telephone number and sketched a map to his cabin in Fenwick on a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin. It looked complicated. Fenwick was way out in the northwest corner of the state. Numbered highway to paved road to gravel road to a maze of dirt roads. The cabin was up in the hills at the end of a pair of ruts. Significant landmarks along the route included a wooden bridge, a lightning-struck oak tree, a stone wall, and a spring-fed brook.

  I told him I’d get there sometime Thursday morning. He said he and Diana would be expecting me. He told me that the Fife Brook Dam usually drops the water around two in the afternoon that time of year, and that’s when the fishing gets good. So I should he sure to get there by noon to give us time to have some lunch and get geared up. It would be about a three-hour drive from Boston.

  We finished our coffee. Wally left a five-dollar tip on the table, which was more than we’d paid for our coffee and doughnuts. Then we walked out onto Tremont Street.

  We shook hands outside the Park Street T station. Wally descended into the underground and I set off down Beacon Street. I cut across to Newbury at Clarendon so I could peek into the shop windows and art galleries along the way and it was a few minutes before noon when I walked into my office.

  Julie was hunched over a stack of papers. She glanced up at me, said, “Hi
,” and returned her attention to the papers.

  “Hi, yourself,” I said, I frowned at her. “You’re not mad?”

  “Mad?”

  “Having to handle everything yourself this morning? Not having the exquisite pleasure of my company?”

  “Hey, it’s your office, you’re the lawyer.” She sat up and arched her back. “I’m just the secretary. You pay me a salary. I make my money whether you’re here or not. What do I care that Mrs. Mudgett is looking for a new attorney to handle her divorce, that Mr. Carstairs of the ABA called long distance the way you told him to, or—”

  “Oh, shit,” I said. “I forgot about Carstairs.”

  “—or Mr. McDevitt canceled your lunch plans. What do I care? I did my job.”

  “I had to meet with Wally Kinnick. I told you that. He was testifying at the State House.”

  “What’s the case?”

  “There’s this bill on assault weapons, and—”

  “What’s our case, I mean?”

  I shrugged. “There’s no case. He just wanted his lawyer there.”

  “Moral support, huh?”

  “Well, legal support, too, you might say.”

  Julie sniffed. “Well,” she said, “you better get back to Carstairs, and you better try to soothe Mrs. Mudgett’s savage breast. She wants legal support, too, you know. And I know you’ll call Mr. McDevitt.”

  I snapped her a salute and went into my office, where I lit a cigarette and called Phil Carstairs. He wanted me to give a speech in Houston. I declined. Charlie McDevitt was at lunch, so I flirted with Shirley, his grandmotherly secretary, for a few minutes. Then I called Mrs. Mudgett, managed to appease her, and rescheduled.

  I persuaded Julie to hang out the Gone Fishin’ sign and sweet-talked her out of the office. We headed for Marie’s in Kenmore Square. It was lunchtime already. We had both put in a hard morning.

  I stayed at the office until nearly seven that evening, in an abortive effort to convince myself that I was a responsible and hard-driving attorney. I stopped for a burger and beer at Skeeter’s on the way home, watched a little of the Monday night baseball game with my coffee, and it was after nine when I got back to my apartment.