Seventh Enemy

by William G. Tapply

  The red light on my answering machine was winking at me. I pressed the replay button as I wrenched off my necktie. The machine whirred, clicked, and then Wally’s voice said, “Hey, Brady. It’s Wally, up here in Fenwick. Give me a call.” He left his number.

  I went into the bedroom and shucked off my office clothes. I pulled on my apartment sweat pants and T-shirt, lay down on my bed, and dialed Wally’s number. It rang three times, and then his answering-machine voice said, “Sony I guess I’m not here. Leave your number and I’ll get back to you.”

  I waited for the beep, then said, “It’s Brady, returning your call. I’m home. I hope everything’s—”

  There was a click, and then a woman’s cautious voice said, “Hello? Brady?”

  “Yes, hi.”

  “Hang on for a sec. Let me turn off the machine. There. Sorry. Walter’s been letting the machine take his calls.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “I’ll let him tell you,” she said. “But listen. Walter says you’re going to come out and do some fishing with us.”

  “I’d like to, if the invitation still stands.”

  “Oh, absolutely. We’d both love it. I’m looking forward to meeting you. The fishing’s been lovely. Listen, I’ll put him on.”

  A moment later Wally said, “Nice little caddis hatch this afternoon, Coyne. We had a couple hours of glorious dry-fly fishing. You missed it.”

  “I don’t need that from you,” I said. “What’s this about not answering your phone?”

  I heard him blow out a big breath. “Those boys don’t waste any time.”

  “Who? SAFE?”

  “You got it. Kinnick’s betrayed the cause, and they’re threatening to boycott our sponsors. The producers are getting jumpy. My damn phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

  “So what’re you going to do?”

  “Do? Shit. I’m going to let my machine answer the phone while I go fishing, that’s what. You expect me to retract?”

  “No,” I said. “I certainly wouldn’t expect that. But what’s going to happen?”

  “Oh, it’ll die down. I’m not worried. Pain in the ass. that’s all.”

  “Is that why you called?”

  “Nah. I don’t need a lawyer for this. I just called to tell you about the fishing. You are coming, aren’t you?”

  “If you still want me to.”

  “We both do.”

  “Thursday, then.”

  I beat Julie to the office on Tuesday morning, and when she walked in at precisely nine o’clock, as she always did, the coffee was ready. I poured a mugful for her and took it to her desk. She reached into her big shoulder bag and pulled out a newspaper. “Did you see this?” she said, waving it at me.

  “Nope.”

  She opened it onto her desk. “Take a look.”

  A small headline at the bottom left of the front page read, ASSAULT WEAPON BILL HEARD BY SENATE SUBCOMMITTEE.

  A box in the middle of the text read, “News Analysis, p. 6.”

  I skimmed the front-page article. It summarized the intent of the bill and highlighted the testimony of some of the witnesses. It continued on page six. I opened the paper to that page. There was a photograph of the animal rights protestors. Their signs were clearly legible, and in their Bambi and Smokey and Bugs Bunny costumes they looked silly. The State House loomed in the background. The caption read, “Animal Rights Groups Picket Senate Appearance of Walt Kinnick.”

  Another photograph, this one smaller, showed Walt shaking hands with Wilson Bailey, the poor guy from Harlow whose wife and child had been killed in the library. I was standing there behind Wally’s shoulder. The caption read, “Walt Kinnick Congratulated by Admirer After Assault-Weapon Testimony.”

  An article entitled “Assault Weapons Explosive Issue—News Analysis” began on that page. Its author was Alexandria Shaw, the reporter who had witnessed the confrontation in Dunkin’ Donuts.

  Emotions ran high as the Senate Subcommittee on Public Safety heard testimony on S-162, a bill which will, if passed, severely restrict the ownership and distribution of certain paramilitary guns labeled “assault weapons” in the Commonwealth.

  Assault weapons are defined in the bill as all semiautomatic rifles and shotguns with large magazines (a semiautomatic weapon fires a shot as fast as the trigger can be pulled). The Uzi and the AK-47 are among the twelve weapons specifically designated for control in the bill.

  Representatives of the Police Chiefs Association of Massachusetts testified in favor of the legislation, citing the danger to policemen from criminals armed with the semiautomatic weapons.

  Second Amendment For Ever (SAFE), a branch of the National Rifle Association (NRA) and staunch opponents of all forms of gun control, presented testimony citing the Second Amendment (the right to bear arms) and argued that stiffer penalties, not gun control, are the appropriate remedy for assault-weapon-related crimes.

  Perhaps most controversial of all was the testimony of Walt Kinnick, the popular host of the ESPN television series “Walt Kinnick’s Outdoors.” Kinnick has been an outspoken advocate of outdoor sports, including hunting. Kinnick testified in favor of the regulation of assault weapons, surprising both the subcommittee and the observers in the hearing room, who were predominantly members of SAFE.

  It is believed that Kinnick’s appearance before the subcommittee was arranged by SAFE. It is certain that the nature of his testimony took the pro-gun organization by surprise.

  Gene McNiff, president and executive director of SAFE, refused to comment on Kinnick’s testimony.

  “It surprised me, I admit it,” said Senator Marlon Swift (R-Marshfield), the chairman of the subcommittee. “Coming from someone like Walt Kinnick, it’s really something to think about.”

  Angry words were exchanged between Kinnick and McNiff outside the State House. Later, Kinnick and his attorney, Brady L. Coyne of Boston, were accosted by SAFE members in the Dunkin’ Donuts on Tremont Street. Neither Kinnick nor Coyne would comment on the incident.

  It is clear that the Massachusetts gun lobby, which has generally had its way with the legislature in recent years, was dealt a severe blow this morning by Walt Kinnick’s unexpected testimony. The Subcommittee on Public Safety is expected to report on S-162 by the end of the month.

  I looked up at Julie. She was grinning. “You’re famous,” she said. “Nice picture, too.”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t realize it was such a big deal.”

  “Check the editorial,” she said.

  I leafed through the paper and found the page. The lead editorial was titled, “Time to Get Tough on Guns.” It read:

  The Second Amendment For Ever supporters have had their way too long. Stubborn, single-minded, hopelessly out of touch with prevailing opinion, SAFE has opposed any and all efforts to regulate the ownership and distribution of guns, including paramilitary assault weapons, in the six New England states.

  Backed by powerful allies and a well-stocked war chest, SAFE has intimidated advocates of even the most modest efforts to control gun-related crime. Legislators have bowed and scraped before the SAFE bombast. Time after time we have seen gun-control legislation die in subcommittee, shot down by the high-caliber SAFE arsenal.

  Yesterday, the courageous testimony of Walt Kinnick punctured the SAFE bubble, and it will never be the same again. The nation’s most famous hunter, and himself a gun owner, Kinnick issued an appeal that rings true to all who would listen.

  Very simply, the time has come for hunters and gun owners to be reasonable. Kinnick told the subcommittee. We agree.

  We don’t argue with the right of sportsmen to possess their shotguns and hunting rifles. But assault weapons have only one function: to kill people. They do not belong in the hands of private citizens. It’s time for SAFE to join the rest of us at the brink of the twenty-first century. SAFE must take to heart the testimony of its most respected spokesman, Walt Kinnick. Be reasonable, compromise, or cease to exist.
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  For someone who just wanted to get away and do some quiet trout fishing, Wally had made quite a splash. If Gene McNiff had been upset after the hearing, I wondered how he fell now.

  8

  I SPENT MOST OF Tuesday morning on the telephone, and Julie and I had chicken salad sandwiches at my desk for lunch. Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, while I was trying to outline the article I had promised Phil Carstairs out of my guilt for refusing to make a speech to the ABA in Houston, my intercom buzzed. I picked up the phone and said, “Yeah?

  “Brady,” said Julie, “there’s a Miz Shaw here to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s a reporter for the Globe.”

  Julie wanted me to talk to her. Otherwise she wouldn’t have buzzed me. I generally do what Julie wants.

  “I’m in right in the middle of something,” I told her. “Why don’t you give her an appointment?”

  “She’s on deadline, Brady.”

  I sighed. “Okay. Send her in.”

  There was a discreet knock on my door, then it opened. Julie held it for Alexandria Shaw. I stood up behind my desk. “Come on in,” I said.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” she said. She wore a pale green blouse and tailored black pants. Her wide-set blue-green eyes peered from behind the oversized round glasses that perched crookedly on the tip of her nose. She took the chair beside my desk without invitation. She poked her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose with her forefinger. “I know you’re busy. I’ll try to make it quick. Do you mind if I record it?”

  Before I could answer she had removed a small tape recorder from her shoulder bag and plunked it onto the top of my desk. When she leaned forward to fiddle with it, her short auburn hair fell like wings around her checks. She switched on the recorder and said into it, “Tuesday, May nineteenth, four forty-five P.M. I’m talking with Brady Coyne, Walt Kinnick’s lawyer.” She snapped it off, rewound it, and played it back. It sounded fine. She dug into her bag again and came up with a notebook and a pen. “Okay,” she said, “a couple questions.”

  I held up both hands. “Hey, slow down,” I said. “Do you want coffee or something?”

  “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I gotta get this story in by seven. Fill the space, you know? Survival of the vulgarest.” She grinned quickly. “So if you don’t mind, let’s get to it.”

  I smiled. “I don’t really have anything to say.”

  “About that incident at the Dunkin’ Donuts yesterday—”

  “No comment,” I said quickly.

  “Are you a member of SAFE?

  “Me?”

  She grinned. “I guess that answers my question.”

  “Who cares, anyhow?”

  “Hey,” she said. “I gotta fill the space, remember?”

  “Well,” I said. “I am a member of the ABA and Trout Unlimited and the Sierra Club. But I don’t belong to SAFE. Or the NRA. Or lots of other worthy organizations.”

  “You think they’re worthy?”

  “Who. SAFE?” I shrugged. “I don’t know much about them.”

  “Do you sympathize with them?”

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but really. Who cares about me?”

  “You’re Walt Kinnick’s lawyer.”

  I shrugged.

  “Right?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you defending him in any litigation?”

  “Come on. No comment. You know better. Really.”

  “Did you advise him on his testimony yesterday?”

  I smiled. “You obviously don’t know Willy.”

  “You’re his boyhood friend, right?”

  She had done her homework. “Yes. We went to high school together.”

  “And you and he were threatened yesterday at Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  I shook my head. “No comment, okay?”

  She jabbed her finger at her eyeglasses. “Mr. Coyne,” she said, “I don’t know what your opinion is of SAFE, but there’s a major story here and I want it.”

  “I already told you I don’t know anything about SAFE.”

  “Sure you do. They’re mobilizing against Walt Kinnick, did you know that?”

  “What have you heard?”

  “They’ve got the NRA working with them, and they’re trying to mount a boycott against the sponsors of his show. They’re investigating him. They’ve got lots of resources. Any skeletons, they’ll find them. If they can discredit him, they will. Seems obvious, if you’re his lawyer you’re going to be involved in this.”

  Skeletons. Like the fact that Willy was shacking up with a woman who was still technically married. “How do you know these things?” I said to Alexandria Shaw.

  She smiled. “It’s my job.”

  “And if they find some of these—skeletons?”

  She shrugged. “It’s the job of the newspaper to print it. And,” she added, glancing sharply up at me, “I assume it will be your job to protect him.”

  “So you want…”

  “Balance,” she said.

  “Well, I just don’t see how I can help you. I don’t know about any skeletons in Walt Kinnick’s closets, and if I did, I’d hardly tell you about them. As his friend, and especially as his lawyer, I am not the one to help you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have seen you.”

  “I’m just trying to get the whole story, Mr. Coyne. SAFE has been very forthcoming with the media.”

  “Organizations can do that. It’s trickier for individuals.”

  “When the individuals are public figures,” she said, “like Walt Kinnick, they’re fair game.” She tilted her head and grinned at me. “Hunting metaphor, huh? Fair game?” She shrugged. “Now you’re on their list. Walt Kinnick and you. If you’re not for them, you’re against them. A turncoat is the worst kind of enemy. Right? Those people are told how to think by their leadership, and that’s how they’ve been instructed to think, so—”

  “What do you mean, their list?”

  “SAFE publishes a list of their so-called enemies in their newsletter. Prominent people who oppose their party line. The word is that you and Walt Kinnick will be high on their next list. How do you feel about that?”

  “Flattered. Humble. Unworthy.”

  She smiled quickly. “Come on, Mr. Coyne. Any comment?”

  I shrugged. “I appreciate the warning, Ms. Shaw.”

  “It wasn’t a warning. Just some information that’ll be in my story tomorrow. I wish you’d give me a hand with the rest of it.”

  “Sorry. I can’t.”

  She stared at me for a moment, then nodded. She reached into her bag and came out with a business card. She put it onto my desk. “If you change your mind, hear anything else…”

  “Right,” I said. “Sure.”

  “Oh, one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “How can I reach Walt Kinnick?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. Can’t tell you. Privileged information.”

  She smiled. “Didn’t think so.” She snapped off the tape recorder and stuffed it into her bag. Her notebook followed it. She stood up and held out her hand to me. “Thanks,” she said.

  Her grip was firm. She actually shook my hand. “I’m afraid I wasn’t much help,” I said.

  “Everything helps,” she said. “You’d he surprised.”

  I spent Wednesday doggedly trying to clear enough odds and ends on my desk to appease my conscience so that I wouldn’t feel compelled to lug my briefcase to Fenwick. Julie, of course, would pack it up for me, as she did every day, and I’d dutifully take it home with me when I left the office. I’d prop it against the inside of the door to my apartment, the way I always did, so I wouldn’t forget to take it back to the office with me.

  But I wasn’t going to bring the damn thing on my fishing trip. Briefcases and fly rods don’t belong in the same car together.

  So I skipped lunch and stayed at the office until nearly eight and felt wonderfully masochistic and virtuous. I was a m
an who had earned a few days of trout fishing.

  That evening I assembled my gear, not an easy task since I found it scattered all around my apartment. My fly rods were in their aluminum tubes in the back of my bedroom closet. My waders lay rumpled in the corner of the living room. I found my reels on the bottom shelf of the linen closet. I discovered fly boxes on my desk, in the kitchen cabinet with the canned soup, in the drawer of my bedside table.

  I nearly abandoned the search for my favorite fishing hat, the stained and faded Red Sox cap that my friend Eddie Donagan, the one-time Sox pitcher, had given me. It was studded with bedraggled flies, each of which had caught me a memorable fish, and I needed it for luck. I finally found it in the last place I expected—hanging on a hook in the front closet.

  When I got all the stuff assembled, it looked as if I had enough equipment for a two-month African safari. When I got it packed in my car there certainly wouldn’t be any room for a clunky old briefcase.

  I showered, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed. I started to turn off the light, then changed my mind. I picked up the phone on the bedside table and pecked out the familiar Wellesley number.

  It rang five times before Gloria mumbled, “Hello?”

  “Sorry. You sleeping?”

  “Oh. Brady. No.”

  “Busy?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.

  “I said I wasn’t busy.”

  “You said, ‘Not really.’”

  “That means no.”

  “Well, but you said, ‘Not really.’ What did you mean, ‘Not really,’ if you didn’t mean you really were busy?”

  “Brady, dammit, do you always have to cross-examine me? You don’t have to play lawyer with me. If I was busy, I would’ve said I was busy. Okay?”

  I sighed. “Okay.”

  I heard Gloria sigh, too. “Shit, anyway,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.

  “Yeah. Fine.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Except for Perry Mason phone calls, fine.”

  “Well, good.”

  “That why you called? To find out if I was busy?”