American Sextet (19 page)

"Money? So it is money."

"It is now."

"I figured it wasn't the end of it."

"Don't look so contemptuous. It's not for me. It's
mostly for my kid, for his education. How's that for decency?"

"How much?"

"Twenty thousand apiece. No big deal." He felt
his growing strength. The idea was emerging painlessly. Even Dorothy would be
happy about that. When he would speak of Trey, she would grow misty-eyed and upset.

"You can have mine in the morning," Arthur said,
quickly standing up, looking arrogant again. "All in cash, I presume. I
suppose in exchange you'll hand over the tapes to each of us. Unless you've
dubbed them."

"It'll be a clean deal. I promise that."

"Your promises. What are they worth? Deliberately
destroying other people. For what? It makes no sense. What did we ever do to
you?"

"Or Dorothy..." Jason muttered. But he didn't
want to go into that now.

"She went nuts."

Jason ignored the remark.

"There's just one more thing, Arthur."

"Still more?"

"You're going to be the collector."

The blood drained out of Arthur's face and he had to sit
down.

"Me?"

"You're a great communicator, Arthur. Hell, you're the
best."

"I can't be a party to that."

"I'm afraid you'll have to be. I'm just being
practical."

Not practical, he knew. Malignant. Even the most fleeting
sense of compassion lay dead with Dorothy. He was being deliberately
diabolical. It was no longer a child's game. Yet, he seemed to himself, oddly
reasonable.

"Hell, Arthur. You've got credibility. Access. You're
one of the people who runs America. Right hand of the President. They'll
believe you. I also don't give a shit what you tell them. Name names. I've got
nothing to hide."

"You're being satanic."

"Manipulative. I prefer manipulative--like you. I only
hope you get no objections. That, of course, would put it out of my hands
completely."

"I feel ill."

"Fight it, Arthur. You'll need your strength."

He looked at Jason and shook his head. "You're not
leaving me too many choices. And no guarantees. You're really turning the
knife, Jason. Does it give you pleasure?"

"No, I'm afraid it doesn't. But it would have been
worse the other way. I'm just thinking of myself for a change. I've got a kid,
too."

"And he'll be real proud when he finds out where the
money came from for his education."

There was a long pause.

"Suppose the police get too nosy?" Arthur said,
considering all the angles.

"I figure if there was no sign of foul play, they'll
write it off as a pure suicide. This MPD is no great shakes. But if they come
up with any strange evidence, then we're in the soup. Me, too."

"Then what? You use the tapes?"

"Every man for himself."

"You are the most disgusting human being I have ever
come across. Worse than any killer."

"I know. And I hate myself for it. But I'm not going
to let self-loathing interfere with what I have to do for my kid, for my own
peace of mind."

Arthur got up and walked to the door, pausing, his finger
on the knob.

"Be careful," Jason said. "I have to wipe
those prints away."

He removed his hand from the knob as if it was electrified.

"Don't worry," Jason said. "I've wiped off
everything and I've removed everything that could be incriminating. At least I
hope so. Most of the time I made her bring her stuff home."

"Home?"

"She was my girl. She lived with me."

"You're a pig," Arthur said.

"That, too."

"No conscience? No remorse? How can you possibly live
with yourself?"

"I'm going to have one hell of a tough time,"
Jason said, glaring at him. "Think of poor Dorothy," he said.
"She actually thought you were wonderful. All of you. Her buddies. What
did you tell her on the phone? Live with that."

Arthur shook his head. "I'll have to try. And I'll try
on the other. You'll hear from me tomorrow. I hope you're right about the
police. But I can't conceive of any of the men doing that to her. I really
can't conceive of it."

"I can," Jason said. He felt himself smile. It
was more sardonic than warm. "Hell, Arthur. Consider yourself lucky. What
if those tapes were in the hands of a really vicious man."

The door slammed shut. Jason looked at it for a long time,
then began to wipe off the knobs. Yes, he thought, they were lucky. They were
always lucky.

The early April rain had coaxed open the cherry blossoms
around the reflecting pool exactly as scheduled. The delicate pink buds on
trees donated by the Japanese before World War II formed a magnificent display,
one of Washington's prime tourist attractions.

From where Fiona and Cates stood at the north end of the
pool, they could see a panorama of American history--the Jefferson Memorial,
Arlington Cemetery, Memorial Bridge, and the Pentagon. Behind them was the U.S.
Mint.

"It's the helplessness that really hurts," he
said.

"Hell, that's just the other side of power. No fun
being powerful if the victim has choices." She watched the lines of
tourists walking along the path that snaked around the waterside. They leaned
against a railing and Cates flipped tiny pebbles into the water.

"Just don't talk about fair," she said. "I
don't think I can take fair."

"All right, I won't say fair. But you got to admit,
Fiona, we started something, stirred things up a bit. The damned White House.
That's heavy duty. Sounds like a football play--Congress to White House to
mayor."

"To eggplant to Cates to FitzGerald. A round
robin."

"That's not football," Cates muttered, flipping a
pebble far across the pool. "What the hell do you suppose we did?"

"Why flagellate? Forget it."

"I can't."

"I warned you," Fiona said. "Erase it."

"And just wait it out?"

"That's the game plan."

"How long?"

"Weeks. Maybe two or three. Then he's going to get us
reinstated and we get our pay."

"But it goes on our records."

"If he's willing to go this far, he'll probably have
it removed." She wondered why she was putting so much faith in a
bootlicking lackey like the eggplant. But he always reacted to strength and her
information was a formidable hand.

"Now that's fair," he smirked.

"Sure," she smiled. "If it benefits you,
it's fair. If it benefits the other guy, that's injustice."

He threw another pebble in the water.

"You think it was O'Haire got on our case?" he
asked.

"Doesn't matter. Up there, they're all in cahoots.
Right?" He searched her face for the sarcasm, found it, and smiled. If she
were a man, he might have kicked her teeth in for getting him into so much
trouble. I warned him, she assured herself. But it didn't chase the guilt and
she found herself still searching for ways to explain it.

"It's bureaucracy. Everybody has to protect the man
ahead of him. Simple as that. That's why we always get the supreme level of
mediocrity at the top."

"It still stinks," Cates said.

There was a long silence between them. A puff of cumulus
cloud hid the sun for a moment, then the blazed out again, stinging their eyes
with the sudden brightness.

"What do you think in your gut, Fiona? That's what I
want to know."

He had turned and looked deeply into her eyes, probing, the
pupils dancing.

"You're not supposed to think with your gut,"
Fiona said, looking away quickly. "That's why we're in this mess in the
first place." She wanted to explain to him about Clint's being the
trigger. He had a right to know that, but still she held it back. Her temporary
weakness had jeopardized his career.

"You owe me that," he said gently.

"Owe?" She felt a whip of anger.

"What do you think really went down? Did the girl get
heaved? Was she some kind of a spy? An agent of some sort? How many men did she
make? A Supreme Court justice? A top congressman? Someone in the Czech Embassy?
Maybe the ambassador? And a four star general?"

"Maybe even someone in the White House."

It seemed utterly impossible to avoid the subject.

"And that Martin guy," he pursued. "We can't
forget him. He brought the poor girl to town in the first place."

"Now you're doing it."

"Doing what?"

"Saying poor girl."

"I've been thinking a lot about her."

"Now you," she mumbled.

"Just a kid from the sticks. A dumb bunny. He should
have just let her alone."

"Who?"

"The newspaper guy. Something fishy about him."

"Forget fishy," Fiona said. "It's not going
to do us much good. We got jobs to worry about."

"Yeah, jobs."

Cates scratched his chin and shrugged. "Just the
same..."

"Can't you stop it? Just shut up," she snapped.
She started to walk down the path and he caught up with her. "I'm
sorry," she said, "I got you in. I'll get you out. Just shut up and
be a good boy."

"Us boys," Cates said. "All we do is run.
When we fight, we always lose anyway."

She tapped her forehead.

"Smart thinking, black man."

"Black man?" he groaned. "My blood's the
craziest mixed drink you ever saw. My grandfather was half-white, half-Indian.
My grandmother was half-black, half-hispanic. My father was a British civil
servant in Trinidad. Half-Indian, I think. My mother migrated here with me in
her gut. And I'm what you call a bastard."

"You think you got troubles. I'm Irish. That's trouble
by definition."

They walked in silence for a long time. Cates worried her.
His mind couldn't leave it alone.

"Just hold on, Timothy," she said. "It'll
blow over. I made the deal for both of us. Just have a little patience. We're
little people. We stuck our nose in the wrong place. One way or another, the
girl died. And the mighty are still the mighty. We're not God's avengers."

"So you think they are getting away with something."

"You just can't leave it alone, can you? It doesn't
matter." She paused and looked out at the tranquil setting, the blossoms
swaying in a gentle breeze. "I was the believer. You were always the
skeptic. This is no time for role reversal."

"I sure would like to know how close we came to
something really big..."

"Dreams of glory. That's what we need in our business.
Another glory hound."

"You're not even curious?"

She took a deep breath and felt her heart flutter briefly.
"Not anymore," she lied, patting his back. "Just hold on, kid.
It wouldn't be any fun without the secrets. We're in the den of the ruling
class. They like to play God. We're supplicants. Pay your fucking respects and
shut up."

They began to walk along the path. She had vouched for him with
the eggplant. Her job, after all, was to keep him cool.

"Whadayawannado?" she joshed. "Take in a
flick? Grab a hamburger? Go to a gallery? How about the zoo?"

"The zoo." He looked at her and smiled. "I
been to the zoo, baby. I grew up in the zoo. I work in the zoo."

He started to laugh and slapped his thigh.

He'd be fine. She was sure of that. Just fine.

They spent the day in the Museum of American History. It
was the beginning of the tourist season and crowds of teenagers in buses had
begun to descend on the city.

That was the first way she'd seen it. She had done an essay
on "The American Way," and the trip was sort of half-prize since her
parents had to pay half-price. She remembered how the first sight of the
Capitol dome had thrilled her. They had all stood on the Capitol steps and sang
"America the Beautiful," and everyone in their hearts believed that
it was true. The perfect Capitol of a perfect world. A man took their picture
and they all paid fifty cents apiece for it. Now it stood in a battered frame
in her parent's living room "rogues gallery."

"Pick out Fiona," her father would say sometimes,
usually to one of their growing brood of granchildren. The kids were never very
successful at it. On her visits home, for some reason, she always noticed that
picture and the original feeling came back, like a pure fresh breeze.

Maybe it wasn't so perfect. But people weren't perfect and
people ran things. Who was she to demand perfection? Her job was to see that
people obeyed the written rules. As for those that were unwritten ... that was
none of her business. Let she who was without sin cast the first stone, she
thought, smiling at the change of gender.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Us," she said. "A couple of idiots. Gribben
said MPD was a bunch of idiots."

"He's right."

They decided to spend their suspension seeing the city like
tourists.

"Let's see how they run America," she teased.

"Hell, we know how they run America."

"Do we?"

They had dinner at a small Italian restaurant in Georgetown
and headed home in different directions. Suspension might not be so bad after
all, she thought.

She had just settled into a book, proud to have put all
thoughts of the case out of her mind at last. She had washed her hair, shaved
her legs and underarms, filed her finger and toe nails and painted them pink.
To match the blossoms, she decided. Then she gave herself a facial, tweezed her
eyebrows, took a hot bubble bath, and rubbed herself all over with softening
lotion, even the bottoms of her feet. It was delicious, she told herself, all
this pampering. And she had nearly convinced herself when the telephone rang.

It was Clint. Her stomach heaved, a groan bubbled up from
her chest, but she could not put down the phone.

"Still mad?" he asked.

"Mad?" No, she decided. No games. "It's not
a question of mad. Whatever we had, which was good and wonderful, is hereby
terminated. Why don't you give up, Clint?"

"I can't."

"I'm sorry."

"We're negotiating," he said. "Talking it
out. I can't live without you, baby."

She felt the longing begin again, cursing its power.

"You have no right to do this," she whispered.
The flesh is weak, she told herself. Help me.

"I need time," he said. "I'm getting it
together. I'm just no good without you."

She could not think. The words refused to come.

"Fi? Are you there?" Tears spilled over her
cheeks and she held her palm over the mouthpiece. This man was making her
miserable.

"Yes."

"I love you, Fi." He paused. "And I know you
love me."

She pressed her stomach in, as if the weight could hold in
the pain.

"It's not enough, Clint," she said. "I don't
feel comfortable about it."

"Comfortable. What has that to do with it?"

"Everything."

Plumbing her depths to find courage, she found it at last
and felt the pain recede. "Maybe someday. Not now. There's too much on my
mind." She hesitated. "It's me that needs the time, Clint."

"You're not being fair."

Fair again. Please not fair. This is another woman's
property, she told herself. No matter what. And the father of another woman's
family. It was stealing. A real crime. She laughed at her simile. Her strength
flew through her in waves. She had made a deal with the eggplant. If she did
that, she could do anything.

"No, Clint. Leave it alone. Not now."

"Please. Let me see you. Tomorrow. I'll be there at
six. Like always. Please, Fi. I can't stand it. Have pity."

"I'm going to hang up now, Clint."

"Please, Fi ... Ple..." She pressed the cut-off
button and the phone went dead.

You're getting to be a hard case, Fiona, she told herself,
trying to settle back with her book. Finally she found her concentration again
and read until she eventually fell into a dreamless sleep.

The telephone's ring stabbed her consciousness. Not again.
She let it ring and covered her head with a pillow. It didn't help. The
persistence was maddening and she picked it up.

"Be dressed in fifteen minutes," the eggplant's
voice crackled. "I'll pick you up."

"Fifteen minutes?" She looked at the clock. It
was eight-thirty.

"That's an order."

"An order? I'm suspended."

"Fifteen minutes."

He hung up and she dressed quickly, jumping into the shower
to remove the grease she had smeared on herself before going to bed. She
wrapped her wet hair in a turban, then she put on a slack suit and hurried
downstairs. His car was waiting for her, the door open. A cigarette dangled
from his lips. He squinted through the smoke at her, nodded and slammed down
the accelerator. That told her all she needed to know. Something had gone
wrong. When the car jammed in traffic, he turned to her.

"I thought you said you could cool Cates?"

It caught her off guard. Cates?

"We made a deal," he growled.

He was obviously wrestling with his temper. A wrong move by
her would set off the eruption. She cautioned herself, speaking slowly.

"I was with him all day yesterday. It was
settled."

"You think so?"

"What did he do?"

She watched him as he accelerated and decelerated in quick
spurts.

"You're making me nauseated," she said.

"Good."

"So what did he do?"

"You didn't know?"

"No. I don't know. I told you. He was fine."

"Some fine."

He looked at her with contempt, removed his cigarette and
punched it out in the ashtray.

"Cates rousted this Martin guy. The newspaperman. Must
have been late last night. This morning the guy called the office for you. I
took the call. He said he would only talk to you."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I said he talks to you, he also talks to me. We work
for the same company."

"Yeah, but I'm suspended."

"He said he had somethin' important to say. He said he
was going to stop this shit once and for all. What shit? I didn't know what the
hell he was talking about. Then he told me about Cates coming to see him.
Apparently the dummy got physical as well. I'll have that one's ass."

He opened the window and spat out.

"I didn't know about it," Fiona said. "Not
that it matters now, but I'm really shocked."

"I bleed for you."

He shook his head and sneered, showing a line of yellowed
teeth. "I kept my part of the bargain. The mayor agreed. Two weeks.
Charges withdrawn. I was also going to remove them. For that, I get this."
He looked at her, his eyes narrowing. "You know what your problem is,
FitzGerald? You don't know men. You haven't got the goddamnedest instincts
about men. Black, white. Any man."