“Which we should be,” she said.
“Sure.”
“It still…”
“It’s over, anyway;” I said. “It happened. Wally got shot, but he’s going to be fine, and I’m fine. Okay?”
There was a hesitation. “Okay.” Her voice was small and strangled. “Fine.”
“Are you crying?”
“Of course I’m not crying. Why should I cry?”
“It sounded as if you were crying,” I said.
“I’m not crying. You think—”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You make me so angry sometimes.”
“I know,” I said. “I don’t mean to. It’s bow we are.”
“We didn’t used to be that way.”
“No. It’s too bad. I don’t have any wisdom on it.”
She laughed softly. “There’s a first.”
“What?”
“You admitting you don’t have wisdom on something.”
“You—us—you’re much too complex for my simple brain, hon.”
“Anyway,” she said after a moment, “you’re okay, huh?”
“Yes. Thanks. I’m okay”
“Well, good. Next time…”
“I hope there won’t be a next time.”
“Me, too,” she said quietly.
Julie tapped on my door and stepped into my office just an instant after I hung up with Gloria. “The light went off,” she said. “I know you’re off the phone,”
I sighed and nodded. “I’m off the phone.”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“She really cares about you, you know.”
“Who?”
“Gloria.”
I nodded. Julie believed in marriage. Hers with Edward appeared to be working well. She was happy. She wanted the same happiness for me. Julie believed that my divorce from Gloria was a mere aberration, a pothole in the highway toward marital bliss.
Julie figured that eventually Gloria and I would recognize the error of our ways and reunite.
Actually, Julie believed that the errors were in my ways. She believed that Gloria would take me back instantly, and I had learned that there was no sense in trying to explain to her that things were much more complicated than that.
“You love her, don’t you?” she would say.
And I would admit that yes, in certain peculiar ways, I loved Gloria.
“And she loves you?”
I would nod and shrug.
“So?”
And I would say, “Well, you never know what might happen,” because that was the only thing I could say that would get Julie off the subject. But it also convinced her that she was right, and that Gloria and I shared a destiny.
“So,” she said, standing in front of my desk with her lists placed on her slim and shapely hips, “did you get things worked out?”
“With Gloria?”
“Yes.”
I nodded. “Yes. Everything’s fine.”
“Well, good. She was upset.”
“I know. Things are fine now.”
Julie sat in the chair across from me. “There’s somebody here to see you.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Brady,” she said, “I felt so bad. I mean, there you are, talking with Gloria on the phone, and she’s all upset and needing you, and right there in our office is this gorgeous woman who you have a dale with.”
“That’s Alexandria Shaw.”
“I know who she is.”
“She’s a reporter, Julie.”
“So? Everybody’s got to be something, no matter how—how predatory they are.”
I smiled. “The last time she was here, you insisted I see her. You said she had a job to do and I should help her.”
“The last time she was here,” said Julie, “she wasn’t gorgeous. She had these big goofy glasses down on the end of her nose, and if you don’t think I understand what’s going on when she comes in here in her tight pants and perfect cheekbones and no glasses…”
She sputtered to a stop. I smiled.
“You’re such an old letch,” she mumbled.
“You’re worried about Alex’s virtue?”
“No.” She allowed herself to smile. “Yours.”
I reached across the desk and gripped Julie’s hand. “Gloria and I really are divorced,” I said.
“Yeah, well that’s just stupid.”
“Go tell Alex I’ll be out in one minute, will you?” Julie nodded. She stood up and started for the door. Then she turned to face me. “I hope you were nice to her,” she said.
“Gloria?”
“Yes.”
I nodded. “I think I was, yes.”
Julie was hunched over the keyboard. Alex Shaw sat across from her with her knees pressed together and her briefcase on her lap.
The two women were studiously ignoring each other.
“Hi,” I said to Alex.
She looked up without smiling, then stood and moved toward the door.
“See you tomorrow,” I said to Julie.
She glanced up at me, nodded once, then bent back to the keyboard.
Alex drove a small Toyota sedan. She had double-parked in front of my building. We climbed in. She started up. A Bonnie Raitt tape was playing. Alex hummed tunelessly as she cut expertly through the city streets. Soon we were on Route 2, heading west toward Clinton.
We didn’t talk.
When we turned onto Route 62 in Concord, I finally said, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You haven’t spoken to me since we left my office. Something’s the matter.”
She shrugged.
When we got to Maynard, “I said, “Stop the car, please.”
Alex turned to me. “Why?”
“Please. Pull over.”
She did. She turned to look at me. “What’s this all about?”
“I want to get out.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t need this.”
“This what?”
“This silence. I’ll catch a cab back to the office”
“It’s not you,” she said.
“Who, then?”
“Me, I guess.”
“You better tell me about it.”
“Actually,” she said, “it’s your secretary.”
“Was she rude to you?”
“Oh no. Friendly as all get out. Tells me you’ll be ready in a minute, but you’re on a very important phone call. Your wife. ‘He’s on the phone with his wife,’ she says. Like I’m supposed to understand this is a major priority for you. Now, I know she means ex-wife. But she says wife, and even though I know what she’s trying to do, I’m still thinking, what’s he doing talking with his ex-wife and keeping me waiting when he knows I’ve gotta be in Clinton by four, and your secretary keeps chatting away, telling me what a terrific father you are and how devoted you are to your family—she calls it family, see, implying, that it’s not just your sons but her, too—your wife—and by the time you come out I’m—aggravated. Aggravated with your secretary for fucking with my head, angry with myself for letting my head be fucked with so easy, and mainly angry at you, because…”
“Because?”
“Because, God damn it, I’m a woman and I’m entitled to be angry with a guy if I want.”
“Aha!” I said. “My first insight of the day.”
She smiled. “Insight, huh?”
“Yes. I know men are no smarter or more competent or anything than women. But I’ve always maintained that we’re different.”
“Well, jeez. Of course we’re different.” She reached over and put her hand on my leg. “Thank God.” she said.
“Most women,” I said, “seem to think it’s an insult to make note of differences between the genders.”
“We’re different, all right.”
“I wish I understood it better.”
“Don’t try,” said Alex. “Just enjoy it.�
�� She drummed her lingers on the steering wheel, then said, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Are you gonna get out?”
“Guess not,” I said. “It’s an expensive cab ride hack to Boston from here.” I reached over and touched her hair. “I’m sorry about Julie.”
“That’s okay,” said Alex. “She’s a woman. I understand.”
She pulled away from the curb. A minute or so later we passed a car that had pulled to the side of the road. I turned to look at it. It was a blue Ford Escort. A classically nondescript vehicle.
“What’s the matter?” said Alex.
“That car back there.”
“That little Ford?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“I think it was behind us on Storrow Drive.”
“There must be a million of those cars on the road.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s what bothers me.”
Ten minutes later we picked up Route 117, a country road that wound past meadows and newly planted cornfields and apple orchards. The apple trees had already dropped their blossoms and were bursting with shiny pale green leaves. I turned and looked out the back widow. There was no blue Ford Escort in sight.
“I tried to reach Senator Swift,” said Alex.
“Senator Swift, huh?”
“I wanted an interview.” She glanced sideways at me. “He’s next on the list, you know.”
“Um,” I said.
“I got the brush off.”
“Figures.”
“Yeah, I guess. Still, if he gets assassinated, I’ll really be upset.”
“Hell, so will I.”
“I mean,” she said, “what a story.”
And a few minutes later she said, “I wonder why he wouldn’t see me?”
“Who?”
“Chip Swift. I’ve interviewed him plenty of times. Politicians usually fall all over themselves for reporters. Publicity is their nourishment.”
“He’s probably just busy.”
“Maybe.” She was silent for a moment. “Still, I wonder…”
I didn’t ask her what she wondered. I had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew I had met with the senator at the Commonwealth Club, and somehow she had managed to make me feel guilty that I wouldn’t tell her all about it.
Women can do that.
25
SAFE HEADQUARTERS OCCUPIED THE first floor of a converted Victorian house on Route 110 in Clinton, not far from the Wachusett Reservoir. The upper two floors appeared to be apartments.
We pulled into the dirt parking area and got out. As we did a blue Escort cruised past. I couldn’t see the driver’s face.
“Did you see that?” I said to Alex.
“That car?”
I nodded.
“You think it’s the same one?”
“I don’t know. If it is…”
She squeezed my arm. “Brady,” she said.
I shrugged. “Paranoia. Forget it.”
We climbed onto the porch. A sign over the doorbell instructed us to RING AND COME IN. So we did.
We walked into the first room off the narrow hallway. It was dominated by a long conference table which was piled with magazines and newspapers and file folders. Two men in T-shirts and jeans were standing by the window drinking Cokes from cans and talking. They stopped their conversation when they saw us. Both of them looked familiar. One of them was tall and gaunt, with close-cropped black hair and gray stubby teeth. The other one was twentyish, with an earring and a blond ponytail and a red face. I couldn’t recall his name, though I knew I’d heard it. I had met both of them in the Dunkin’ Donuts on Tremont Street.
The younger one hesitated for just an instant, then smiled at us. “How ya doin’?”
Alex and I smiled back. “Just fine,” I said.
“Kin I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. McNiff,” said Alex. “I’m Alexandria Shaw from the Globe. I have an appointment.”
“Hang on a sec. I’ll get him for you.”
He disappeared into an inner room. The other guy brushed past us and went out toward the front door without saying anything.
Alex nudged me with her elbow. “Those two guys…”
“Right. Dunkin’ Donuts.”
“Do you think they recognized you?” she said.
“Sure.”
“But—”
At that moment Gene McNiff came into the room. His short-sleeved shirt hung untucked over his stomach. If he was surprised to see me with Alex, he didn’t show it. “Miz Shaw, welcome,” he said, holding out his hand to Alex. She took it. Then he looked at me. “And Mr. Coyne. Hello.”
“Hello,” I said. We shook hands, too.
“Let’s go into my office where we can talk.” said McNiff. “Want a Coke or something?”
Alex and I both declined. We followed him through the doorway into a cluttered office. Several metal file cabinets and bookcases stood against the wall. There was a big oak desk with two telephones and several messy stacks of papers. A table held a computer and printer, a copier, and a fax machine. Four unmatched chairs sat randomly on the floor.
The guy with the ponytail was there, too. “Dougie,” said McNiff to him, “did you meet Miz Shaw and Mr. Coyne?” To us he said, “This is Douglas, my oldest son. He does a lot of work for SAFE. Sort of my right-hand man.”
Dougie nodded to us and gave me a lopsided smile. “I guess we already met, actually. No hard feelings, huh?”
“No problem,” I said.
“Well,” said McNiff, “we’ve got some things to discuss, so…”
Dougie hesitated for a moment, then left the room.
McNiff gestured at the empty chairs. “Sit, please.”
Alex and I sat.
“So,” said McNiff after he had settled himself behind his desk, “how is he?” He was looking at me.
“Who?”
“Walt. How’s he coming along?”
“He’s okay,” I said. “It was touch and go for a while.”
“Damn shame. Accidents like this shouldn’t happen. It only takes one or two irresponsible people to make all gun owners look bad. You know,” he said, cocking an eye at Alex, “SAFE has been lobbying for better safety training programs for years. I take every hunting accident personally.”
She smiled and nodded. “Mr. McNiff—”
“Gene,” he said. “Call me Gene.”
“Sure.” She cleared her throat. “Mind if I tape this?”
He waved his hand. “Not at all.”
She took her little portable tape recorder out of her briefcase, tested it, then put it onto McNiff’s desk between them. Then she flipped open her notebook. “Okay,” she said. “Now, can we—?”
“Miz Shaw,” said McNiff quickly, “I’d like to tell you some things you might not know. Would that be all right?”
“Sure. Fine.”
“I’ll give you some of our pamphlets, and I hope you’ll read them. I mean, I know why you’re here.” He glanced at me and smiled. “I’m not sure why you’re here, Mr. Coyne.” He dismissed me with a wave of his hand and looked back al Alex. “Anyway. I know your reputation. You’re a fair reporter. That’s why I welcomed this chance to talk to you. See. SAFE has this unfortunate image, and it stems from our unrelenting battle on behalf of the Second Amendment. But we do a lot more than just fight against the unconstitutional abridgement of the right to bear arms. We teach young people gun safety. We hold special classes all over New England for women who want to learn how to defend themselves. These programs are very popular. Miss Shaw. Women are feeling that they’ve been the victims of violent crime for too long. They’re upset—as we are—about the lack of protection they get from the police and the courts. So they are learning how to defend themselves.” He paused and leaned toward us. “And that is precisely what the Second Amendment is all about. It’s what SAFE is all about.”
McNiff paused, then leaned back and folded hi
s hands on his desk. I had the impression that he had given this speech more than once.
He smiled at Alex. “I hope I’m not boring you.”
“Not at all, Mr. McNiff. Please continue.”
He shrugged. “We lobby not just for the right to own firearms, but also for tougher penalties for gun-related crimes. See, we know that if the right to own guns is curtailed, then law-abiding citizens will do what the law requires. But criminals don’t obey laws. The politicians can disarm the good citizens. But they can’t disarm criminals.” McNiff shrugged. “End of lecture.” He picked up a handful of pamphlets and gave them to Alex, “I hope you’ll read them, Miz Shaw. It will help you to understand.”
She took them and put them into her briefcase. “Mr. McNiff,” she said, “four days after dramatically testifying in favor of gun control, Walt Kinnick was shot. You were seen publicly threatening him. Your newsletter named him the number-one enemy of your organization. It came out two days before the shooting. I’m sure it’s obvious to you how that looks.”
McNiff nodded. “I’d have to be an imbecile not to see how it looks. It looks like an attempted assassination. But I guarantee that no member of SAFE shot Walt Kinnick.” he hesitated. “I certainly didn’t.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Listen,” he said. “I publish a newsletter every two weeks. A regular feature is our enemies’ list. There’s always a number-one enemy. Before Walt Kinnick, none of our enemies had ever been shot at. Not one. Ever. And believe me, we’ve had some pretty big enemies.” He leaned forward on his desk and stared hard at Alex. “Look. Our members come from all walks of life. We’ve got policemen, salesmen, mechanics, schoolteachers, housewives. Lawyers and newspaper reporters, too. You name it. Some of them are highly educated. Some are dropouts. Some are smart, and some, probably, aren’t so smart. But they all share our belief in the Second Amendment. And they all know that assassinating our enemies with guns is the worst possible thing for our cause. It’s absolutely unthinkable that any SAFE member would do this.”
Alex was scribbling in her notebook. She looked up at McNiff. “But you do advocate harassing your enemies with boycotts and so forth. You do publish their phone numbers and addresses.” Alex glanced at me, then said, “Walt Kinnick received some threatening phone calls the day before the shooting. The callers mentioned SAFE.”
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