Primary Colors (50 page)

"And the dealer?" Libby asked.

"Busted. Guilty. Gone. Never heard nothin' about him again either." We sat there quietly for a few minutes, no one knowing what to do or say next.

"I don't know what you people do with this sort of thing," Reggie Duboise finally said, "and, as I said, I'm not gonna be any part of it. But if you use this to take Freddy Picker down, you should die slowly from cancer--unless you can look yourself in the mirror and say there wasn't a moment in your life when you didn't do the wrong thing, when you didn't get a little mixed up, head off on the wrong path. The good Lord gives us a precious ration of those. We're each allowed a few. My grandmother, who came down here from canecuttin' country, had this thing she'd say: Every saint has a past, every sinner has a fissure. I try to remember that when folks in this neighborhood start treating me like a role model, start hedging their language and acting like I'ns better than they are, like they can't behave normal around me. And I try to look at the fucked-up kids 'round here same way Ralph Potter looked at me, least when they're still fresh at being evil. I don't assume they're lost, I'll give 'em a tough chance back. But nobody gets that sort of slack in your line of work, do they? One strike and you're out." He shook his head and laughed. "I guess your drug is a lot more dangerous than mine was."

There was one last favor to ask of Ralph Potter. Libby called him from the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel in Miami, still sweaty and dusty from Liberty City, and drawing stares. We used the bathrooms to wash and change, then sat out on the patio for an hour, drinking iced tea. Finally, Libby called Ralph again. "Lorenzo Delgado was released from prison nine months ago," she said when she returned. "He's living at this address, a halfway house in Hialeah."

We arrived there in late afternoon. It was different from the other houses in the neighborhood, which were small, low, painted in Caribbean pastels, teeming with children and music and immigrant optimism. The halfway house was older, and more austere; all the windows were closed and the shades drawn. It was a large house, two stories, white shingles and a tin roof--a remnant from an earlier time.

The dirt yard had been carefully raked; there were no footprints. There was a sign above the door, EL CAMINO AL PARAISO. We rang the bell and were buzzed in. It was cool inside, over-air-conditioned, with a heavy institutional disinfectant smell. The entrance hall ceiling was painted--remarkably--in dark blue, with small stars and subtle, discretely placed angels. There were two posters on the walls: a flowery "One Day at a Time" and a more militant photo of a gay pride march, with the words "We're Here . . . Get Used to It."

A chunky Hispanic woman sat in the office, reading a novela. She directed us upstairs, to the sun porch, "That's where Renzo usually hangs."

We walked through a common room filled with secondhand furniture, dominated by a big-screen color television. Three men sat watching a Spanish soap opera. One had the distinctive purplish festers of Kaposi's sarcoma, another was bundled in a sweater, glassy-eyed and coughing; the third was tethered to an intravenous pole. Upstairs was a narrow, depressing hallway, studded with doorways on both sides. The porch was at the end of the hall, through an aluminum storm door. It was enclosed by screens, pleasant--warmer than inside and feathered by a slight breeze. Lorenzo Delgado was alone there. He was a small, thin man, sitting on a chaise, smoking a Marlboro. "You're Renzo?" Libby asked. He nodded. "We'd like to talk to you about Freddy Picker."

"Oh, I've been expecting you. You're from the campaign, right?" he asked, but rattled on before we had a chance--God forgive us--to say which campaign. "Well, you can tell Freddy he has nothing to fear from me," he said in a hoarse, gravelly voice. "Nothing. You understand? This happened . . . after. I fucked my brains out in jail, not much else to do there--and there were so many boys who spent all day in the gym, working on their bodies."

Libby and I didn't dare look at each other, much less say anything. We flanked him in aluminum lawn chairs. "I like this porch," he said, "but I can't do it all the time. Depends on the weather. It's strange--my body temperature is always off, one way or another. Too hot or too cold. It never feels just right. Sometimes the tiniest breeze can set me off, shivering--and I can't do anything about it, can't turn it off, just have to ride with it."

I still hadn't said anything, hadn't introduced myself-and Remo suddenly fixed on me. He appeared to check me out, a salacious glance, then he smiled and asked, "So, are you Freddy's friend now?"

"000000000-EEEEEEE," Libby said, as we headed for the airport. "You just knew it was gonna be GOOD! You just knew it was gonna be IRRESISTIBLE. And this has EVERYfucicingTHING: SEX! DRUGS! CORRUPTION! And NONE of it-none of it, Henry, my man-NONE OF IT is clear-cut venality. It's all kind of . . . human and lovely and luscious. It's weakness, not evil. I LOVE THIS GAME."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"When doing a social experiment," Libby said, going into a high-pitched Julia Child impersonation, "you do not want to stir gently. You WANT TO ROIL THE FUCKER. You want conditions right, you want it to be really tempting, y'know? You want it luscious. THIS is dripping with lusciosity."

"But I don't-"

"Understand? Ohhhhh, Henry! Of course you understand. We've been on the same fucking page from the start-if you hadn't been, I'da told you to stuff it, stay home, be a lackey. So don't play dumb with me. THIS IS A TEST. Of us and them. Actually, of us and them and us again. We just passed the entrance exam. We got the dirt. We're fucking unbelievable-you know that? We're no good we're . . . lucky." "Libby, what are you talking about?" I asked, but I kind of knew. "What are we gonna do with this shit?"

"It ain't US! It ain't what we're gonna do. It ain't about US!" She slammed the horn on "US." "It is now about THEM! We are going to do what we do: we bust dust and tell all. The question is, what are Jack and Susan going to DO with it? Inquiring MINDS want to know! I mean, little buddy, isn't that really what we're both after here? I mean, after twenty fucking years, I get to see what THEY're about-not just hypothesize, not just HOPE. This is it. Graduation day. They graduate or I do. Tell the truth, Henry," she said, and dived to an intense whisper, staring at me with wild blue eyes, instead of at the road, "isn't this what you're really after, too?"

"Drive, Libby, goddammit!" I said.

"Well, isn't it?"

"I guess," I said, but I knew. "What if they react the wrong way? What if they flunk the test?"

"Then it's OUR turn at bat again," she said. "Hoo-HAH! Then we get to see what we're made of, and we gotta hope it ain't green cheese." "Libby," I said. "I know this is hard, but I've seen you do it before. Could you please possibly get fucking sane for a minute and tell me what you're getting me into?"

"NO!" She said and swerved the car onto the shoulder, slamming the breaks, stopping with a lurch.

"Jesus!" I said.

"Henry," she said, staring at me--perfectly calm, perfectly sane. (I had done it.) "Do you remember the rules we set the day we vamped on that scumfucker Randy Culligan? Do you remember how we're sitting outside his law office and I told you I was about to do something crazy? And you could be in or out, but ask no questions?" I nodded.

"Well, sweetie," she said, taking my chin in her hand, "we're back there now. Faith or nothing. You on?"

"You're not gonna shoot the Stantons, are you?"

"Not quite," she said.

"No violence of any kind."

"Don't chivvy me, Henry," she said. "You on or no?"

I nodded yes, my chin still in her hand. And she kissed me on the cheek.

The Sunday morning papers had Freddie Picker being endorsed by the governor of Pennsylvania and most of the state's congressional delegation. I read it as a civilian might, without a twinge. There had been days, months, when I could soar or dive on the hint of a nuance in a one-paragraph item buried in The Washington Post; that had been my life. But the campaign was over for me now I called Daisy that morning and got her machine again. "Daisy, please," I said. "I flicked up. But does one fuckup mean that I'm cast into the outer darkness for all eternity? I miss you."

Libby called later that morning. "We meet at five at the Mansion, just before the other meeting, which is--you're never fucking going to BELIEVE this--a dinner meeting. And Fat Willie is CATERING! I guess Jack figures, if he's goin' out, might as well go out with a full belly."

"Did he ask you anything?"

"Does a woodpecker have a long, sharp nose?"

"And"

"Oh ye of little faith."

"Well, what did you say?"

"He said, 'Any luck?' I said, 'Depends on what you mean by luck.' He said, 'Did you find anything?' I said, 'Depends on what you mean by anything.' He said, 'C'mon Libby, don't fuck with me.' I said, 'I don't fuck, I make love. You aren't gonna risk another moment of passion now, Jack, after all the shit your wiener's gotten you into, are you?' . . . So, the question is: He call you yet?"

"No," I said.

"He will."

He did, about ten minutes after I got off with Libby.

"So how was Florida?" He asked.

"Humid," I said.

"Oh come on, Henry. Not you too?"

I didn't say anything.

"I need to know if there's any hope," he said.

I carefully considered what I said next. "It depends," I said, "what you mean by hope."

"Henry, goddammit, who are you working for?"

"Governor, I'm working with Libby," I said. "We figured it would be best if we made our report together. See you at five."

I spent the next few hours taking inventory of my aparmsent, trying to figure how much there would be to pack, how long it would take to leave. Then I went for a run and, afterward, sat on a bench next to the river, which had swollen with the spring, leaving the grassy banks soggy. Of all the things I had seen and done and experienced in Mammoth Falls, I would remember the river most vividly. It was the closest I'd ever come to a natural thing. I lived next to it, ran alongside it, sat by it, slowly learned its moods--and there were times that
I could put myself in a half-trance, and imagine its swift current emptying my mind, carrying my worries off downstream. I never really stopped to consider the transcendental power of the river-I'm not very mystical, I guess-but I do find myself sitting in that spot, in my mind, from time to time, especially when I'm looking to get calm.

Howard and Lucille were with the Stantons in the study when I arrived-which was a matter of some concern. Howard telegraphed one of his furtive little ironic smiles; Lucille glared. Susan stood, gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, "What, you didn't us bring back any jelly?" She turned to Jack and asked, "Hey, did I ever tell you about this? Whenever my folks came back from Florida, they brought a package-three glass globes, globules-of jelly. One was orange, another orange-pineapple, another cher-"

"OUT!" It was Libby, pointing a finger-casually and from above, like God in the Sistine Chapel-at Lucille. "YOU ARE OUTTAHERE, you slimetudinous sack of snail wuzzle. AND YOU TOO-YOU ESPECIALLY TOO," she said, whirling on Howard. "Life is too fucking SHORT to even have to think about your sorry ass. OUT!" Neither moved. Howard looked to Jack; Lucille, Susan. "OhhhKAYYYYY," Libby said and turned toward the door.

"No, wait," Susan said, nodding toward Lucille, who began moving toward the door-then stopped, put her hands on her hips and said to Libby, "You are one sick puppy." "HAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAW," Libby said, throwing her head back and not laughing. "Out . . . OUT, out . . . OUT," she said, barking like a dog. Then, to Howard, "You too, teenie-weenie. Time to BOOK. You're leavin' on that midnight train to JAWWW-JAH! Out . . . OUT, out . . . OUT! I've had twenty fucking years too much of you."

"Can I stay?" Susan asked, as Howard left, closing the study door behind him.

"Always." Libby smiled. "Sweetheart."

"Is all this really necessary?" Jack asked.

"NO!" Libby said, then added with a sudden Scottish burr. "But it's what happens when you send a LUNATIC to do a mannnn's work. S
o h
ere, Governor-feast your eyes," she said, tossing Stanton, who was sitting in his usual wing chair, a manila legal file with a metal clasp at the top. "You too, mlady." She handed a file to Susan, who was curled, barefoot, down the other end of the green couch from me.

Then Libby handed site a copy, accompanied by a small sigh and a clear-eyed, here-goes-nothing glance. As we read, she paced the edge of the room, next to the windows, hands clasped behind her back, head down, riffling the gauzy linen curtains as she passed.

The file was untitled. The first page said "Executive Summary." It had a row of bullets, setting off capitalized names: ORESTES FIGUEROA, EDGARDO REYES, REGINALD DUBOISE, LORENZO DELGADO-and a precise one-sentence summary of their "testimony." This was followed by more elaborate accounts of our interviews with the four, accounts that seemed entirely accurate-unhedged, unbiased-to me.

Jack Stanton whistled and looked up. Libby said, "Henry, does this square with your memory of our investigation?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"Remarkable," Stanton said, shaking his head. "How on earth did he ever think he could get away with this?"