It was nearly midnight when we got back to the Marriott and went up with the water dripping off us and making small puddles on the elevator floor. Outside the door to his suite Alexander paused and looked at me. His eyes were a little red, but other than that he had it back together.
"We'll be returning to Washington through the holidays. I don't use Christmas to campaign," Alexander said.
I nodded.
"I want her free of this," he said. "Remember that priority. It is the only absolute you have. She is to be free of this."
I nodded.
"And she's not to know."
I nodded.
Alexander put out his hand. I took it. We shook hands. Alexander stood a minute holding on to my hand after we'd finished shaking. He started to speak, stopped, started again, and then shook his head and released my hand. I nodded.
"I have to trust you," he said. "I've no other hope."
Then he went into the suite and I went next door to the room shared by Cambell and Fraser. I knocked on the door. When Fraser opened it I said, "Alexander's back. I'm going to bed."
Fraser nodded, closed the door, and I went to my room on the other side of Alexander's.
In the morning Alexander told Cambell and Fraser that I was doing a special assignment for him and that they'd have the full security responsibility henceforth. I rented a car and drove ninety miles back to Boston and straight to Morrisey Boulevard. It was twenty of eleven when I pulled into the visitors' parking space in front of the Globe. It was ten of eleven when I was sitting in the straight chair beside Wayne Cosgrove's desk in the newsroom.
"This a social call," Cosgrove said, "or are you undercover for the Columbia Journalism Review?"
"No, I came in to lodge a complaint about the Globe's white-collar liberal stance and they directed me to you."
Cosgrove nodded. "Yes," he said. "I handle those complaints."
"Well, what have you to say?"
"Fuck you."
"Gee," I said, "words must be your business."
He grinned. "Now that we're through playing, you gonna tell me what you want?"
"I want everything you have on Robert Browne."
Cosgrove was tall and narrow with curly hair and glasses and a blond beard. He wore a three-piece suit of dark brown tweed, and a dark green shirt and a black knit tie. The vest gapped maybe three inches at his waistline and his green shirt hung loosely out over his belt buckle. "The congressman?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"None of your business."
"Christ, how can I resist?" Cosgrove said. "You're so charming when you need something."
"Can you dig it out for me? You're computerized. How long could it take?"
"Yeah, sure, I can get it up for you, but being as how I'm in the news business, I can't help wondering if there might not be something, you know, newsy, about a guy like you wanting everything we have on a U.S. congressman."
"And senatorial aspirant," I said.
"Senatorial aspirant? Jesus Christ. Want a job on the editorial page?"
"I need to know anything I can about Browne," I said. "I won't tell you why. Probably never will tell you why, and I'd rather no one knew I was interested."
"Well, that sure sounds like a good deal for me," Cosgrove said. "Meet me someplace tonight, around six thirty, and I'll give you what I got."
"Ritz bar," I said. "I'll pay."
"You should," he said. The phone rang and Cosgrove picked it up. I got up waved him good-bye and went out. I turned in the rental car and walked to my office. It was still raining, steady and cold now. No longer pleasant. The office was stale from emptiness and I opened both windows while I went through my mail. Across the way the art director was in residence and I blew her a kiss from the window. She smiled and waved. The mail was not worth opening. I dropped it all in the wastebasket. Maybe I should get an unlisted address. What if I did and nobody cared? I called the answering service. There were no messages. I sat down in my swivel chair and took out my bottle of Irish whiskey and had a drink. The cold wet air from the window behind me blew on my neck. I thought about lunch. I looked at my watch. Twelve twenty-five. I had another pull on the bottle. I looked at Susan's picture on my desk. Even filtered through a camera I could feel her energy. Wherever she was things coalesced around her. I made a small toasting gesture with the bottle.
"Like a jar in Tennessee," I said out loud.
I drank another shot of whiskey and looked at my watch again. Twelve thirty already. I put the cap back on the bottle and put it away. Lunch.
I walked up to a Mexican place on Newbury Street called Acapulco and had a plate of enchiladas and three bottles of Carta Blanca. Then I walked to my apartment on Marlborough Street and went in and aired it out. There was a letter there from Paul Giacomin. Things were good at college. He was going to spend Thanksgiving with me, and he might bring a girl friend.
Whiskey, enchiladas, and beer did not make for a lively afternoon. At 1:15 I lay down on the bed to read Legends of the Fall. About 1:30 I rested my eyes for a moment and at 3:20 I woke up with the book still open on my chest and the thick taste of empty calories in my mouth. I got up and took a shower and put on sweat pants and a waterproof jacket and ran along the Charles for an hour until my blood moved once again without protest through my veins and the guilt of sleeping during the day was dissipated. Then I went over to the Harbor Health Club and worked on their new Nautilus until I felt sure of redemption and it was time to see Wayne Cosgrove.
I arrived at the Ritz bar freshly showered, shaved, and pleasingly exhausted at 6:20. I had primped for the Ritz bar, which was one of the few places in the city where ties are required and jeans are barred. I had on my brand new corduroy jacket with leather buttons and a tattersall shirt and a dark blue knit tie that picked up the blue in the tattersall. I took off my leather coat as I walked into the Ritz lobby and checked myself in the mirrors near the bar. With my gray slacks and my cordovan loafers I was fit for permanent display. My gun was tucked away on my right hip out of sight. I thought about getting a tweed holster but decided it would jeopardize my credibility.
The bar was uncrowded and I got a small table near the window where people passing on Arlington Street could look in and assume I was closing an important deal. Cosgrove hadn't arrived yet. When the waiter came I asked for a Rolling Rock Extra Pale in the long neck bottle. They had none. I had to settle for Budweiser. Even the Ritz bar must disappoint occasionally.
I had finished the first bowl of peanuts and managed to choke down three Budweisers when Cosgrove showed up. He was wearing the same outfit he'd had on earlier except he'd added a long plaid woolen scarf. He carried a big thick manila envelope.
"Sorry I'm late," he said. "Knowing it was the Ritz I had to go home first and brush my teeth."
"I don't mind," I said. "It just meant more peanuts for me."
Cosgrove sat down and handed me the big envelope. The waiter appeared. Cosgrove said, "Martini, stirred not shaken, twist of lemon."
"No olive?" I said.,
"Only a fucking beast would have an olive in his martini," Cosgrove said. "Olives are packed in brine, ruins the taste."
"I figured the gin and vermouth had already done that."
Cosgrove shrugged. "No accounting for taste," he said.
"You prove that," I said. "What's the scarf for?"
"Strangling muggers," Cosgrove said. "You still working for Meade Alexander?"
"You've been busy," I said.
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"That why you want the Browne stuff?"
"No comment."
The waiter brought Cosgrove's drink and a fresh bowl of peanuts. He looked at me. I shook my head. I'd only been redeemed for a half an hour.
When the waiter left, Cosgrove took a sip of his martini, looked pleased, put the glass down, and said, "No fucking comment? You work a week for a politician and you're walking around saying no fucking comment?"
"You're right," I said. "It's embarrassing. Ask me again."
"You investigating Browne for Alexander?"
"I don't want to answer that question," I said, "and if you ask it again, I'll beat your teeth in."
Cosgrove nodded. "Better," he said. He drank some more martini. "How's Susan?" he said.
"She's away," I said.
Cosgrove started to speak, looked at me, stopped, and then said, "I wouldn't have thought Meade Alexander was your style."
"I don't think he is," I said.
"On the other hand," Cosgrove said, "who is your style, except maybe that goddamned African assassin you hang around with."
"Hawk," I said. "I'll tell him you said that."
"That was on deep background," Cosgrove said. "How come you're working for Meade Alexander?"
"Best offer I had."
"How's Mrs. Alexander?"
"Fine."
"Hear she drinks a little."
"Don't we all," I said. "Know anything worth telling about the Alexanders?"
"We having dinner afterward?"
"Sure."
"I'll think on it," he said, and sipped more martini.