American Sextet (17 page)

"One bad thing leads to another," she said.
"Clint led to Dorothy."

"Dorothy?"

"The jumper. My reaction to her. It galled me to see
her lying there. A beautiful girl all busted and broken. Men did that."
She paused. "See, there I go again."

"Men?"

"Three." She thought of the cans of caviar.
"Maybe even four. At least two are among the mighty."

She told him about the fingerprints, Gribben, the
identification, her visit to O'Haire. He listened patiently as the room
darkened. When he turned on the lights finally, she felt emptied of anguish,
calmer. Her hysteria had gone.

"Maybe I should leave it alone," she said,
getting up and stretching.

"I'm going to the office a little later today. Care to
go out for dinner?"

"Best offer today," she answered cheerfully.

A telephone rang and he went off to the kitchen to answer
it. When he came back, he looked troubled.

"I'll bring in some fried chicken," he said.

"I thought..."

"That was your favorite man. Captain Greene. Your
eggplant. He was fuming. Says you should stay put until he gets here."

"How did he know I was here?"

"He's not as dumb as you think."

Back in his Capitol Hill apartment, Jason poured himself
half a tumbler of Scotch and tried to sort out his tangled emotions. He wished
he had a meeting to cover--anything to take his mind off the earlier scene. It
was impossible for Dorothy to sustain that kind of rebellion, he reasoned.
Nothing more than an adolescent tantrum. She was being deliberately
self-destructive.

He finished his drink and glanced at the door. She would
crawl back. What he had to do was assemble himself, plan a response. When an
hour passed and the level of Scotch in the bottle had considerably diminished,
he began to pace the room, stopping periodically to look at the telephone. She
would call. She would be frightened, contrite. She would beg him to forgive
her.

What were those men that she should worry so much about
them? Garbage, the lot of them. Where did she get the idea that they thought of
her as a person? In a moment the telephone would ring or she'd be coming
through that door, needing him. Only him. He was her protector, her savior. And
after it was over, after the deals, the talk shows, the promotions, after the
dollars had changed hands, he'd take her away. Travel. See the world. Just the
two of them.

When the telephone rang, he took a deep breath, relieved at
last of the burden of uncertainty. Let it ring, he told himself. Two. Three.
Four. He counted them out. On the sixth ring, he picked it up, smiling into the
receiver. Vindication was sweet.

"You son of a bitch."

A male voice in a hoarse whisper, like an obscene phone
caller, sibilated in his ear.

"Who is this?"

"Your old FDA buddy," the voice said.

"Arthur."

"Not now," Arthur said, his voice scratchy and
harsh. "Meet me."

Jason looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. He
thought of Dorothy.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

He felt disoriented. The booze, the tension, the
aggravation had unnerved him. There was no mistaking Arthur's desperation.

"Where?"

In the long pause, his mind cleared. Government officials
were paranoid about telephones.

"The back parking lot at the Key Bridge Marriott."

Jason knew the place, a high rise motel at the Roslyn end
of the Key Bridge.

"A half hour," Arthur said before hanging up.

He immediately dialed Dorothy's number and got a busy
signal. He tried again. It was still busy. He tried a number of times before he
went out. Maybe she had taken the phone off the hook. No sense flogging himself
with fantasies.

As he drove, he listened to heavy rock music, nostalgia for
him now, a symbol of another time and place. He had believed in the sweetness
of his aspirations, the goodness of his motives. The truth was his holy grail.
How delicious it had been to ferret out the liars at the FDA, to prick their
bloated bureaucratic egos and watch the slime seep out. He was a journalist,
goddammit, a noble heroic soldier in pursuit of truth. Even now. He'd make them
see how far they had drifted away from the meaningful, the relevant. He smiled.
It had been the operative word of his time. Everything had to be relevant.
Suddenly a Beatles number floated into his consciousness. "I Wanna Hold
Your Hand." Remembering it, his eyes watered and tears spilled down his
cheeks. He could barely see the entrance to the parking lot when he reached it.

He drove the car slowly through the crowded lot to the rear
of the hotel. He circled it a few times until he spotted headlights flashing on
and off near the rim of the lot. Parking his car, he got out and headed toward
the other car. As he approached, the door opened and he slid in beside a
distraught-looking Arthur Fellows.

The man stared straight ahead into the darkness. He wore a
tieless dress shirt and his jacket lay rumpled between them on the front seat.
A fetid smell seemed to emanate from him, something more pungent than simple
body odor.

"You're a scroungy cocksucker," Arthur said, his
voice tremulous. A shaking hand wiped away a patch of sweat over his upper lip.
Confused by the outburst, Jason said nothing.

"She called me."

"Who?"

"Who? Queen Elizabeth, you asshole."

Suddenly Arthur turned to him, his face distorted with fear
and anger. He made a gargling sound, like a death rattle, then opened the car
door and stepped out. Jason followed him to the tree line beyond the lot.
Arthur lit a cigarette and coughed.

"Thought you gave that up," Jason said. He
couldn't bear to ask the obvious.

"Should have stayed with cigarettes. Given up other
things."

He coughed again and spat a ball of phlegm on the ground.
"She called me," he said, turning toward Jason. "She told me
that you set us up."

"Come on, Arthur. She doesn't talk like that."

"She said you were going to tell everybody about me
and her. That that was your idea all along."

"She said that?"

No, Jason protested in his heart. Not Dorothy.

"You know what she wanted me to do?" He shook his
head and made croaking sounds, half-laughing, half-crying. "Take her in.
You know. Into my house. Can you believe it? Take that cunt into my house. She
said she'd do anything. Be a maid. Anything. I couldn't believe it."

"So what did you say?"

"What do you mean what did I say? Then she told me
what was happening, what you were planning to do. At first I said no. Couldn't
be." Jason felt Arthur's eyes boring into him.

"Then I began to think about it. Shit. The bastard is
really going to do it. You lousy prick. You've been manufacturing stories all
along. You're going to put me away. At first I said to myself, she's crazy.
This cunt is crazy. I'm the counselor to the fucking President of the United
States. You're just a goddamned pimp reporter. You can't destroy me." He
pounded a finger into Jason's chest. "And you're not going to do anything
either, buster. Because I'm not going to let you.

"Is that what you told her?"

Arthur flipped the half-smoked cigarette on the ground and
smashed it with his heel.

"I told her that if she ever opened her mouth, I'd get
her."

"Get her? What does that mean?"

As a journalist, he was used to threats. They goaded him.
His reaction, always, was to stonewall, get tougher.

"You know what it means," Arthur hissed.
"And..." Again, he pounded his finger into Jason's chest. "That
goes for you, too."

"I'm creaking in my boots."

He stepped backwards to avoid the persistent finger.

"You said it was safe stuff. Now I find out it was you
setting me up." His voice softened. "I can't believe you would do
this, Jason. Not you. We were friends. Asshole buddies. And now you're planning
to destroy my life. My kids. My family." He gagged suddenly, doubled over
and vomited. When he straightened up again, he wiped his mouth with a
handkerchief.

"Haven't you got any pity?"

"Pity?" Jason thought of Dorothy. She really
believed those men cared. She really believed it. He was more angry with
himself for not seeing this coming. Now she'd know he was right.

"You're not going to get away with this, Martin.
Nobody's going to buy it. It's blackmail. Webster won't be party to that.
Besides, I'll deny it." He moved closer and Jason could smell his sour
breath. "We won't let you get away with it."

"Who's we?" Jason said, contemptuously. "You
and O'Haire? Remember who fixed him up. If she called you, she called him."

"My God. So that's why he's trying to get me." He
leaned against a tree for support.

"He was another one of the regulars," Jason said,
watching Arthur's face contort in pain.

"One of the what?"

"Regulars." He paused. "She had six."

"Six!" The knowledge seemed to slowly seep into
his comprehension. "You've really lost your mind. Do you really think
you're going to destroy six guys with this? Who are the rest?"

Jason told him. He watched him clinically, as the shock
registered on his face. He wondered if he should make this scene part of the
book. Hell, it added a whole new dimension. Fear. Pathos.

"You think they're going to let you do this? No editor
will buy it. There's a criminal intent here--you engineered it. Entrapment.
That's what it is. These men have families. Shit. They're powerful. A lot more
than you think you are." His body sagged, but he couldn't stop.
"What's the big crime that any of us committed? We went out and got laid.
What's the big deal?" He began to laugh. It was forced, hysterical. "We'll
deny it. To a man. It's our word against that stupid little bitch's. And yours.
There won't be any sympathy for you. You're a fucking monster. That's what you
are." He shoved himself away from the tree and brought himself up, ramrod
straight. "I don't know what I'm doing here even discussing it with you.
You haven't got a chance in hell to pull this off. Hell, this is America. I'm
personally not going to let you get away with this. I've got more clout than
you. You're just a flunkie. You want to see muscle? I'll show you muscle. Hell,
if she called all those guys and told them about you ... then goddammit ... you
better head for the hills."

He was winded, spent. Jason watched with indifference as he
struggled for control. Soon he would learn that the mighty only think they can
get away with anything. Arthur started back to his car, stopped, shook his head
and came back to confront him again.

"I'm the big asshole here, right? It's for money. Of
course, it's for money. You're looking for money from us. Right? What kind of a
figure do you put on it? Six guys. Ten thou apiece. Or more. I'm not going to
pay shit. That's actionable. You forget, Jason old salt, I'm a lawyer."

"That's why I'm not worrying about you, Arthur. You'll
make out. You always do."

The rain, which had abated, started again. Arthur continued
to glare at him, unsure of how to proceed. Jason shook his head, thinking again
of Dorothy. She had really believed they were her friends. Now she surely would
come crawling back, her innocence betrayed once again. Now she would understand
that she had one friend, one dear loving friend. Nothing would stand in the way
of what she had to do now. Nothing.

The rain began to sweep over the lot in slanting sheets,
soaking them.

"You're both going to pay for this," Arthur said.
"Pay dearly. Her word against mine."

"I got it all on tapes, Arthur," Jason said.
"The room had a live bug."

Again, he staggered back, leaning against a tree.

"Bullshit. It won't stand up."

"Stand up where? She told me everything. All those
little backbiting things you said about your colleagues. Yeah, Arthur. That,
too. It's more than just a dirty little sex scandal. It's got everything,
including foreign intrigue. We got it all. And she's going to back it up."

"The hell she is. She hates your guts. She didn't want
any part of it."

"That's when she thought you were all her
buddies."

He stood in the rain, looking at Jason for a long moment.
You won't find pity here, Jason thought. Too bad for him. He wasn't a man to
inspire pity. Not that it would do him any good anyway. It was too late for
that. Jason turned and walked toward his car. By now Dorothy would be back at
their Capitol Hill apartment. Perhaps she was worried about him. He'd let her
stew.

He heard the angry roar of a car, the screech of tires.
Turning he saw it hurtle toward him, barreling down on him at an accelerating
speed. He started to run, tripping on the slippery asphalt. Still the car came,
a relentless lethal weapon now. He threw himself on the ground between two cars.
Arthur's car missed him by inches, crashing against the fender of one of the
cars, then pulling back and speeding out of the lot.

Squinting into the rain, Jason got up slowly. A new
dimension had been added to the scenario. Desperate men did desperate things.
Until now, the possibility had been a vague one, but he realized that Dorothy,
too, was now in danger. Physical danger. He was sure of it. He got into his car
and headed swiftly for Capitol Hill.

The eggplant arrived at Dr. Benton's house in an ominous
mood. Brushing past them, he grunted a perfunctory greeting and helped himself
to a shot of brandy. His black complexion seemed grayish, a sure sign of his
inner turmoil. Taking off his jacket, he showed dark sweatlines under his
armpits. He did not look at Fiona at first, not until he had finished one drink
from a brandy snifter and poured himself another.

"I can leave if you like," Dr. Benton said.
Despite his calm wisdom, he could be obsequious in the face of authority.

"No. You stay," the eggplant roared, turning
bloodshot eyes on Fiona. He took another deep swallow and refocused on her.

"Might as well. He's your rabbi."

It was a police term. Everyone in the office knew that
Fiona and Dr. Benton had forged a special friendship, one of the department's
many odd couples. They all knew, too, that Dr. Benton was no boat-rocker and
could be trusted with anyone's secret. Except the secrets of the dead. What she
suspected, too, was that the eggplant needed a reliable witness.

"All they send me is assholes. Used to be a time when
they'd send me real cops. Now it's deadheads and..." She could see him
struggling to hold back the hated word. "Feeemales. This time the mayor's
in it." Fiona looked at Dr. Benton, who shrugged, not comprehending. A new
law had given the mayor absolute power over the police, one more thorn in the
eggplant's battered hide.

"It was bad enough that we can't get a handle on this
crazy who's wasting little girls." His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he
looked at Fiona. "Black teenage girls. That's bad enough."

"No leads at all, Luther?" Dr. Benton asked. It
was a particular concern of his. He had done the autopsies on the victims, a
terrible chore for him. "I can't take the youngsters," he had often
said. "Why do they kill the children?"

"That would be bad enough," the eggplant said,
lighting a cigarette. He was already working on creating a little mound in an
ashtray.

"It'll kill you, Luther," Dr. Benton said.

"One way or another," he said, "if this
one..." He pointed to Fiona "...doesn't do it first." He waved a
nicotine-stained finger at her nose. "This time I think you've bought it,
mama." He turned to Dr. Benton. "I'm going to do her in for
insubordination, malfeasance, harassment. The book. And I'm through eatin'
myself up alive over it. White woman or not. She's gone too far."

They let him talk. He was all wound up in his bitterness
and Fiona braced herself. She had sensed it was coming anyway.

"He was mad as hell, the mayor. I had to stand there
in the big nigger's office listenin' to him rant and rave about appropriations,
about his career, about honky power. You name it. I got both barrels. And I
stood there holdin' my Johnson like a dummy wonderin' what the hell he was
gettin' at. Then he started to talk about some jumper. Oh shit." His face
glistened with oily sweat. "What jumper? What the fuck has he got to do
with a jumper? Here I'm tryin' to find some crazy killer and he's layin' this
jumper on me." He looked at Fiona. "You know what jumper? Your
goddamned jumper. The same one. The one you said smelled funny. Well it sure as
hell does smell funny. Only it's me that smells. I didn't know what the bastard
was talkin' about." He stopped, took a deep drag on his cigarette and
poured himself another brandy. "Your jumper, mama. I'm sure you told the
good rabbi here all about your jumper."

Dr. Benton nodded. Fiona wanted to interrupt, but thought
it wiser to remain quiet until he burned up more venom. By confronting O'Haire,
hadn't she begged for this?

"I checked your reports, too. That was after. Just to
make sure." He turned toward Dr. Benton. "You did a toxic and smears.
Right? This is one persuasive little bitch. And what did you find?"

"Evidence of intercourse..." Dr. Benton began.

"Since when is fucking a crime? Evidence of
intercourse," he mimicked. "I had to stand there while the fat-assed
mayor dressed me down for her stickin' her nose where it shouldn't be. You
can't manufacture a criminal from the air. Some dumb honky broad snuffs out her
own lights, which is her privilege, and the great detective here..." He
upended his drink in one gulp. "Intuition, right? That's where it is.
Intuition. Pretty little white ladies don't throw themselves over a bridge
after they get laid. The hell they don't. And it's none of your damned business.
Like I told her. Leave it alone. Leave it alone."

"Maybe I overreacted," Fiona said quietly. Dr.
Benton watched her, comforting her with his eyes. You're in trouble, Fiona, she
told herself. And the eggplant knew it.

"I had enough on my plate without this," the eggplant
said. "There's just so much one human bein' can take." He was
wallowing in self-pity now, a typical ploy of his.

"I didn't mean to..."

"Didn't mean shit," he shouted, banging his fist
on the table, scattering the cigarette butts.

"Easy, Luther," Dr. Benton said in in his soft
voice.

How was it possible to explain anything to this raving
maniac? She could never tell him about Clint. He would ridicule it, trivialize
it. In this state, Fiona knew, nothing could placate him.

"Murder. So it was murder, was it? There's not a shred
of evidence. Not a shred. Did you see anything, smell anything?"

Dr. Benton looked at him helplessly.

"And you." He glared at Fiona. "Any evidence
of a crime? Not one iota." He got up and lumbered across the room, then
poured himself another drink.

"I've suspended Cates pending an inquiry," he
said. "And you, too, FitzGerald."

"Isn't that harsh, Luther?" Dr. Benton asked.

The eggplant came back to the couch and banged his glass
down on the table. Fiona's stomach tightened, the lump of fear expanding.
Suspension. Inquiry. So he was finally testing the power of the double
minority.

"I had no choice," he said, quieting.

"And if you did?" Fiona asked, her voice
breaking.

"Maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn't." He glared at
her.

"Typical."

"Easy, Fi," Dr. Benton warned.

"You think I got it easy," the eggplant said.
"To some of you, I'm a joke. The eggplant. You think I don't know that?
Sometimes I can't tell who's worse." He looked up at the ceiling.
"You. Or the damned killers. I don't know who gives me more shit."

"Well, you sure as hell pass it along," Fiona
said, drawing courage from her welling anger. "You're like the guy who
comes home from work and kicks the dog. Only some of us are the dogs."

"Fiona," Dr. Benton interrupted sharply.

"Let the bitch talk," the eggplant mumbled,
pouring another drink. "My department doesn't respect me. Least of all
her. The token white princess. Well, this time she's gone and bought it. The
laugh is, that it wasn't me who did it."

"Not you?" she asked, momentarily confused.

"Mayor's orders. Not that I wouldn't have done it
myself, but he's the boss. I told you. I had no choice. He had me there with my
pants down."

"I hadn't realized ... So I really did get to that
bastard O'Haire."

"Who?" the eggplant asked.

"O'Haire. The majority whip of the house. You mean his
name didn't come up? That's the one I leaned on."

They exchanged looks of confusion. The eggplant shook his
head like a dog rising from a long sleep and stood up. He began pacing the
room.

"Why exactly was I suspended then?" Fiona asked,
watching him. "I have a right to know. And Timothy Cates. That's a real
bad rap for him. It wasn't even his fault. I..." she hesitated, glancing
briefly at Dr. Benton, "I pussy-whipped him."

"I told you. He took it out of my hands."

He turned to Dr. Benton.

"Maybe I am an asshole," he said. "But one
thing I do is defend my own people. If they screw up, it's me that gets the
poker."

"Well, you didn't defend us," Fiona muttered.

He stopped pacing and glared at her. "Even I got
limits, FitzGerald. What do you know about it anyway?"

"What did the mayor tell you," she said gently.
"I have a right to know that."

The eggplant sat down again and lit another cigarette.

"The White House. One of the President's top
guys..."

"That high up?" Dr. Benton said.

"A man named Arthur Fellows. He said you were messing
in areas that are very sensitive. That the President was upset. That unless
there was solid evidence of foul play in this suicide you'd better stop messing
around. He made me check, so I read your reports. There is no evidence. He said
you were apparently working on your own, harassing people and you had to be
stopped."

"He didn't mention O'Haire?" She could have
understood O'Haire. Even Martin. They, at least, had a legitimate gripe.

"No."

She tried to assimilate the information.

"The White House. Is it possible?"

"Hey, woman. You know the games they play. They all
jerk each other off. Clout. Remember that word. They trade things around with
each other. Appointments. Favors. Who the hell knows? Maybe the mayor thinks
he's going to lose next time out and wants to be ambassador to Zululand. It
wouldn't be the first time the White House scotched an investigation. National
security or some shit like that. Besides, it's not like we're squelchin'
anything. FitzGerald..." He raised his voice. "There's no crime here.
No fucking crime."

"Well, there sure as hell is a lot of other shit going
down," she said sharply.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

She looked at Dr. Benton, who shrugged and turned away.

"Shall I tell him?" she asked.

"I can't make that decision, Fiona," Dr. Benton
said.

She knew his courage was faltering, that he would have
rather not heard anything. It wasn't cowardice, she knew. Just surrender. He
loved his work and knew the survival techniques of the bureaucracy. Knowing too
much wasn't one of them.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Benton, to have dragged you into
it."

"I'm the goddamned boss and I don't know nothin,"
the eggplant said with disgust, sitting down in a corner chair, crossing his
heavy thighs. As she talked, she watched him. Every word she uttered seemed
like the blow of a blunt instrument. His jaw grew slack and his bloodshot eyes
seemed tired. The glass trembled in his hand. There was, she knew, a sense of
evil power in her explanation as she told him about Justice Strauss, the
oversized underwear, O'Haire, the cans of caviar, the four-star pin, Gribben,
Jason Martin.

"An investigative reporter," she emphasized.

Hearing it come out in her own words, she was startled by
the tangle of events. Was this all because of Clint?

"Lord have mercy," the eggplant said when she
finally finished. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. "Is that
all?" he asked, obviously stunned.

"No. I don't think that's all," she said. She
poured the last remains from Dr. Benton's bottle into a glass and drank it in
one gulp. The eggplant slumped back in his chair, as if his bones had suddenly
dissolved.

"I tried to tell you. It did smell. You've got to
admit that."

When he didn't answer, she continued, feeling the heat of
the brandy roll inside her.

"She could have also had a friend in the White
House."

"Who needed this?" the eggplant mumbled.

"I'm sorry. I really am sorry." She felt her
contrition deeply, knowing it was too late for that.

"At least she wasn't black," the eggplant said,
emitting a forced chuckle. Fiona looked from his face to Dr. Benton's,
connecting with their anguish. It's like we were playing bridge on the Titanic,
she thought. Minding our own business.

"That dumb nigger mayor," the eggplant exploded.
Again, Dr. Benton and Fiona exchanged glances. The signs were obvious. He was
winding up once more. No one could ever accuse him of being a quiet brooder.

"That White House fucker knows his niggers."

Suddenly he seemed to abort his temper and grew quiet, his
eyes drifting as he played with his empty glass. "You gonna cooperate,
FitzGerald, or do we all have to go through the exercise?"

He was obviously pleading. It was too big to cope with.
"Unless you're a good liar, and I don't think you are, we can't go through
an internal inquiry. Not with all that shit going down. Everybody loses. Except
maybe you, FitzGerald. The avenging white angel."

"I didn't ask to be suspended," she snapped. No,
she wouldn't want to go through it, either. Sooner or later they'd get at the
root of it. Maybe even to Clint.

"What do you mean, cooperate?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," the eggplant said, drifting
again. "Just let it pass. Blow over. I'll try to talk him out of
suspension."

"Without telling him?"

"I'm gonna try. Why should I give that son of a bitch
a club? Rule numero uno. Never trust a politician." He paused, waiting for
her answer. "Well?"

"Do I have to answer now?"

She looked helplessly at Dr. Benton.

"They're too big to play with, FitzGerald. We're
little guys. The big guys don't like little guys messin' with their shit.
Somewhere along the line we all get it. Dig? So they were playing around. We're
not the..." He laughed, a sad little bleat, "...the moral
minority."

Maybe, she thought, her loyalty ought to be to the living.
Sorry, Dorothy, she told herself. Dead is dead. It was, she knew, because of a
bit of power that had fallen into her lap, undeserved. But she could show them
her loyalty, her commonality with them, crossing all racial and sexual borders.
She'd be one of them and they'd owe her for that, she mused, upset by the
nastiness of the thought. When all was said and done, they were her people.
Just cops. Like her. Like her old man. She had finally made it, she told
herself, wanting to cry, but holding back. She would never show them that.