“No comment.”
“What about the Alice Sylvester murder? Are you involved in that investigation?”
“No comment.”
“Any link that you’re aware of between the two cases?”
“No comment.”
He sat back, frowned for an instant, then grinned. “Yeah, okay. I think I can use that.”
“Good,” I said. “End of interview.”
I reached into my desk drawer and took out the tape recorder that had been quietly turning in there. I put it onto my desk and switched it off. The reporter stared at it for an instant, and then he grinned. “Good for you, Mr. Coyne,” he said. “Nixon’s got nothing on you.”
He rewound the tape on his machine and played back part of it. Evidently satisfied that his equipment had functioned, he gathered up his gear. I led him to the door and shook his hand.
“Appreciate your time,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re not an easy interview.”
“Thanks.”
The story appeared the next day on the page the Globe had begun to devote to campaign news. The headline read: “Murder a ‘Juicy Story’—Baron Aide.” I muttered “Jesus Christ” under my breath, folded the paper, and took it out onto my little balcony overlooking the harbor. I sat on one of the aluminum patio chairs, propped my feet up on the railing, and read on.
Brady Coyne, a Boston attorney and the newly appointed legal adviser to the Republican gubernatorial candidate Thomas Baron, admitted in an interview yesterday that lurking beneath the facts was what he termed a “juicy story.” “Tom Baron’s son was murdered,” said Coyne. “There’s a juicy story there.”
Coyne, who said his role in the Baron campaign was “to make sure nobody’s rights have been violated, including those of Buddy Baron,” asserted, “I don’t think Buddy Baron killed Alice Sylvester.” When asked if he had evidence to support his belief, he declined comment.
Coyne also refused comment on the question of whether he had somebody under suspicion for the murder of Baron’s son, or whether he was conducting a private investigation. He further refused comment on the question of the relationship between the Baron murder and the earlier murder of Alice Sylvester. Both victims were teenagers from Windsor Harbor, hometown of Thomas Baron.
Coyne also stated that the Baron murder was “a personal, not a political, tragedy.”
Boston Police also continue to decline comment on the Baron murder. Windsor Harbor Police Chief Harry Cusick announced in a press release: “The Alice Sylvester investigation is proceeding satisfactorily.” He refused to answer reporter’s questions.
I folded the newspaper and tucked it under the chair. The sun cracked the horizon, streaking the sky with spectacular red and orange patterns. Overhead hung purple globs of clouds, so dense that they looked as if they would fall to earth.
I went inside, showered, and shaved. I was munching a sugar doughnut out on the balcony again when the phone started ringing. I counted twelve rings before it stopped. A minute later it started again. Fourteen rings this time. I went back into the kitchen, poured myself some more coffee, and went on a necktie-hunting expedition, hoping to flush out one that wouldn’t clash too badly with the gray herringbone suit I was wearing.
I found it on the floor beside the sofa under a stack of old Field & Stream magazines. A dark blue paisley pattern. Looked okay to me.
The phone rang again while I was fiddling with the knot. It stopped after seven. “Quitter,” I said.
An hour later I answered the office phone myself, Julie having gone off to the ladies’ room.
“Coyne, goddammit,” said the voice.
“You are persistent, Eddy, I’ll give you that.”
“Why don’t you answer your telephone?”
“And interrupt my gourmet breakfast?”
“You mind telling me what’s gotten into you? What’s this ‘juicy story’ shit, anyway? You working for the bad guys here, or what?”
I sighed. “Not that I should have to explain myself to you, but that particular quote was yanked out of context, kicking and screaming.”
“You said it, right?”
“I suppose I did. But from my point of view the interview served its purpose.”
“And what the hell was that? To make sure McElroy wins?”
“All those no comments I got in there.”
“Jesus,” I heard Curry mutter. He paused, and I could hear the rustle of his newspaper. “I got it,” he said. “Big fuckin’ deal. What good do you think this is gonna do?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet,” I said cheerfully. “Can’t do any harm, however.”
“I gotta talk to our candidate,” he growled.
“Listen,” I said. “It’s been great fun chitchatting with you like this. Perfect way to start my day. But you know how it is. Time is money. So, if all you wanted to do was schmooze a little…”
“It ain’t,” he said.
“It ain’t?”
“You see the other story in the paper?”
“About the Patriots linebacker? Damn shame. Another knee. They’ve had more than their share—”
“The one that quotes the opponent, Coyne.”
“What’s McElroy saying now?”
“Get yourself a paper,” growled Curry. “And next time save one of those no comments for when someone asks you to give an interview. ‘Juicy story!’ Good Christ!”
He hung up before I had the chance. He was good at that. I went out to the vestibule. Julie had returned to her desk. “Where’s our paper?” I said.
She jerked her head at a side table. I gathered up the paper and brought it back into my office. I found the McElroy story on the same page as the one that quoted me. The headline read: “McElroy Charges Baron Hiding Behind Personal Tragedy.”
I skimmed the article and got the gist of it. Tom Baron was refusing to confront the issues. Tom Baron was, by implication, daring his opponent to raise the question of Buddy’s death. McElroy would have none of it. He had no intention of discussing what he called “my opponent’s unfortunate family situation.”
I thought the “unfortunate” was canny as hell.
McElroy went on to dare Baron to a television debate on what he termed “the real issues, not the phony issue of his son’s death.”
“When,” asked McElroy rhetorically, “can we expect Mr. Baron to emerge from behind his veil of mourning? We are all sympathetic. Our hearts go out to Tom Baron and his family. But is it fair to the voters for him to continue to evade his responsibilities as a candidate for the highest political office in the Commonwealth? When will he become a candidate again? I am waiting for him. The voters are waiting for him.”
McElroy, I decided, was a most formidable opponent. Probably had excellent advisers.
I put down the paper. Curry was blaming me for this? I called him at the Republican headquarters. When I was put through to him, I resisted the impulse to hang up on him.
“Don’t lay this on me,” I said to him. “Campaign strategy is your baby.”
“Well, I am blaming you. Our esteemed candidate—who, by the way, has lost three more points since the funeral—is guilty as McElroy charges. All he wants to talk about is Buddy. Oh, he pretends he’s after drug pushers, he talks about getting tough, shit like that. But it always comes back to these victims, as he calls them. And then he gets off on Buddy. ‘Why, my own son,’ he says, and we all groan, because we’ve heard it, we know what’s coming. This is your doing, Coyne. The man’s on a high horse and the voters ain’t gonna put up with it. McElroy’s making hay. Every time Tom opens his mouth, you can just see the votes drifting away. See, now the issue is that Tom’s avoiding the issues. McElroy can’t lose on that one. Because he’s absolutely right.”
“What do you want me to do?” I said, acknowledging to myself—but not to Curry, because he was too damn pompous for me to admit anything to, which, I was forced to admit, was pretty pompous
of me—that he was right on all counts.
He chuckled. I recognized it. It was the same chuckle he had used to get me to sit down at the table at Locke Ober’s when I threatened to walk out on him. “Hell, Brady,” he said. “Talk to old Tom, willya? You’re his friend here. He trusts you. Just tell him we need a little balance here. Tell him he’s doing a helluva job on the Buddy thing, but now maybe he can start to get back to some of the other stuff. He don’t listen to me. Just you. You and Joanie. Whaddya say?”
“Well,” I said, awed by Curry’s charm. “Maybe.”
“He ain’t gonna like that ‘juicy story’ crack of yours, either, you know.”
“I told you. It was taken out of context.”
“So sue the son of a bitch.”
“I can’t. I said it.”
“Damn clever of you. Listen. Talk to our candidate, willya, Coyne?”
“Maybe. If I get a chance.”
The chuckle again. “Terrific. Keep up the good work.”
So I sipped my morning coffee and thought about it, and around eleven in the morning, finding myself with half an hour between appointments, I called the Baron house. I hoped Joanie wouldn’t answer. Something else that didn’t work out right.
“Oh, Brady,” she said. “How nice.”
The old lilt was back in her voice. I figured she had either been weaned from the tranquilizers, or else they had started her on a regimen of uppers.
“How are you doing, Joanie?”
“I am getting by. I am trying not to drink too much. I am off the pills, except for a Valium before bed to get a couple hours of nothing before the dreams come. I miss my boy so much that I feel like I swallowed a handful of razor blades and they’re down there in my stomach churning around. But I am getting by. I’ve been to a few of Tom’s things, and I find I can smile and shake hands without really thinking about it, and sometimes for whole minutes at a time I don’t think about Buddy. Getting by. That’s how I am.”
“How’s Tom?”
“Tom is—he’s getting by, too.” She laughed. I thought I detected an hysterical edge to it, as if it would change into a scream. But it didn’t. “Everybody’s getting by, Brady. Tom has the advantage over me, see. He’s got things to do. Me? I’m putting in some bulbs. About the only thing to do this time of year. Tulips, daffs, crocus. It doesn’t help that much. It doesn’t exactly engage your mind. What you do, kneeling in the garden, is, you think. And then you cry. Everybody says it’s good that I cry. I wish it felt good. Tom gets here and there, you know, making his speech, conferring, arguing with Eddy Curry. Keeps his mind off things, I guess.” She took a long, deep breath, and I heard the hiss when she let it go. “Brady, I said things to you…”
“Forget it. It was those pills.”
“Right,” she said. “That’s what it was.” She hesitated. “Must’ve been the damn pills. You probably want to talk to Tom.”
“Well, it’s nice talking to you, but yes, if he’s there.”
“I’ll get him. Hang on.”
I heard her yell for Tom, and then he picked up the extension. “It’s Brady,” said Joanie. “I’m hanging up now.” I said good-bye to her quickly before I heard the click.
“Tom?” I said.
“Hey, did you see the paper this morning?”
“Before you say anything,” I said, “I was not misquoted, Tom. That line about a juicy story was taken out of context, but I said it. I’m damn sorry.”
“I meant McElroy. What he said. About me hiding behind Buddy. Hell, I figured that juicy story line wasn’t the old Brady Coyne, shrewd attorney, talking. Don’t worry about it. But I’ve got to figure out what to do. I’d just as soon not give the damn election away.”
“Listen to Curry, then. He understands politics.”
“But you and I have a deal.”
“I never said not to try to win.”
“Look,” he said earnestly. “It’s not that I don’t want to exonerate Buddy. You know that. But this isn’t working.”
“You’ve done what you can. Debate the bastard. Win the sucker.”
“You almost sound like you’re rooting for me.” Tom sounded wistful, childlike, as if he really cared what I thought of him.
“I was never that impressed with McElroy,” I said.
“You finding out anything? About the—the murder?”
“Nope. Not my job, Tom.”
“But in that article, those no comments, it sounded as if—”
“You shouldn’t pay too much attention to what you read in the papers. You know that.”
He snorted. “For damn sure. Well, listen. Keep in touch, huh? You’re still on the team, right?”
“Absolutely. I’m with you.”
I spent most of that afternoon in court. More correctly, in the courthouse. I worked hard, did my job properly, and thereby managed to keep all of us out of the courtroom. My worthy adversary, an old-timer named Elliott Reynolds, with whom I’ve played poker a few times, and I worked out a settlement. We brought it to Her Honor, Judge Celia Hastings, in her chambers. She congratulated us for a job well done. Then we went back to our respective clients, shook hands all around, and reminded them how lucky they were to have clever barristers like us on their side.
Then Reynolds and I dropped in at Remington’s on Boylston Street for a few celebratory martinis, which Reynolds insisted on paying for since he thought he’d gotten the better of me, which, of course, was a normal misperception, but one he felt so strongly about that I decided it would be unkind of me to disabuse him of his illusion. So I let him pay.
I took a cab back to the office. When I walked in, Julie cocked her head at me and said, “Woo-whee!” as she jumped up to grab my arm. “Where have you been?” she said, steering me toward a chair.
“Been to court. That’s what we lawyers do. Go to court. Settled. Helluva job. That old bag Hastings loved it. Elliott Reynolds and me went to Remington’s. Nice place. They got prints by that painter, Frederic Remington, on the walls. Cowboys and Indians. Cattle drives. Buffalo hunts. Wonderful stuff. That guy Elliott’s a good shit. Bought me some martinis. They make a helluva martini at Remington’s. Gonna take you and Edward there sometime, have martinis. Anybody call?”
“You are sloshed, Counselor. I’m getting you some coffee. Sit still.”
“Rather have ’nother martini.”
“Coffee,” said Julie. It sounded like a command. Like “Sit,” or “Roll over,” or “Play dead.”
She brought me a mug and sat with me while I drank it. Then she brought me another. I burned the roof of my mouth on it. When I complained, Julie said, “Well, good. It means you’re not completely numb.”
Then I got up and went to the lavatory. I urinated for a long time, splashed cold water onto my face, and then dared take a look at it in the mirror. “You old rogue, you,” I said to my gray-eyed image. “You don’t look like a drunk. You look like one helluva successful attorney, you do.”
I didn’t like the way I sounded, so I filled the sink with cold water and immersed my face in it. After doing that a few times, I began to feel worse. Which meant I had begun to sober up. So I dried off on a ream of paper towels and went back to the office.
Julie was putting on her coat. The dust cover was on the word processor. “You leaving?” I said, feeling self-conscious about my enunciation.
“You all right now?”
“Oh, yeah. The headache is right here—” I pointed with both forefingers at my temples “—meaning I am sober. Sober, hurting, regretful, depressed. Therefore, I’m fine.”
“Good.” She came over and brushed my cheek with a kiss. “You’re so cute when you’re loaded.” She headed for the door. “You did have one call,” she said over her shoulder.
“Only one?”
“Only one I couldn’t handle myself.”
“Who?”
“Somebody named Christie, no last name, from Windsor Harbor. She left a number. It’s on your desk.”
&n
bsp; “So what’s this Christie want?”
“These broads of yours. They never tell me.”
“I don’t know a Christie.”
Julie rolled her eyes.
“I’ll call her tomorrow.”
“You’ve got to call her this afternoon. She’s waiting near a pay phone. I told her I didn’t know when you’d be back. She said she’d wait.”
I looked at my watch. It was a little after five. “How long did she say she’d wait?”
“You better call her,” said Julie. “She said she’d wait forever if she had to. It sounded like she was agitated.”
“Christie, Christie…,” I mumbled, shaking my head at my alcohol-fuddled memory.
“She did sound kind of sexy,” said Julie.
“And she’d wait forever, huh? Well, I guess I better call her.”
Eleven
I WENT INTO MY office. In the precise center of my blotter, squared with the corners, was Julie’s note with the name “Christie” on it and a phone number. “You want to call this one,” Julie had noted. “She sounds eager.”
My secretary knew the difference between eager and anxious, so I was surprised at the distinct anxiety I heard in the voice that answered halfway through the second ring. “Mr. Coyne,” she said when she picked up the phone. “Is that you?”
“It is I,” I replied, with the careful attention to grammatical exactitude I typically employ when I am in the process of sobering up. “You are Christie?”
“Are you the same Mr. Coyne who was in the paper this morning? The one who knew Buddy Baron?”
“The same. And you—”
“Were you the guy who came to school a week or so ago? That I saw with Dr. Larsen and Mr. Speer?”
“Yes. That was me.” So much for good grammar.
“I heard Mr. Speer on the phone use your name.” She paused, as if she didn’t know what to say next.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m—I need to talk to somebody.”
“Tell me your last name, Christie.”
“Oh. It’s Christie Ayers. Look. Listen to me. I’m really like nervous here, Mr. Coyne. Can I talk to you?”
“About what?”
“About Buddy and Alice and stuff.”
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