Red White and Black and Blue (19 page)

"You know, I've met Barney Frank," McCloskey said. "A bit cranky—doesn't suffer fools—but brilliant, brilliant. We've come a long way in this country since Walter Jenkins was forced to slink out of the LBJ White House for being gay. Not that Kenyon Louderbush isn't a very different sort of animal from people like you and the congressman from the Gay Peoples Republic of Massachusetts. But we'll get to that. What are you drinking, Don?"

We settled in, and Dunphy and McCloskey exchanged some gossip about their gubernatorial campaign as well as the two others. A waiter materialized with antipasti and soon was back with a Sam Adams for me and refills for McCloskey's and Dunphy's bourbons. McCloskey ordered a Caesar salad and a bowl of minestrone. Dunphy and I both put in for the 182

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linguini with clam sauce and the hemisphere of iceberg lettuce with blue cheese dressing.

"Normally," McCloskey said after the salads arrived and the door to our small room had been closed again, "anything as momentous as urging a political opponent to withdraw from a race would not be carried out by hired help such as yourself, Don. Matters this weighty—and this delicate—would be handled by senior staff or, failing that, if it came to it, via selected leaks to the
Times
and the
Post
."

"Or," Dunphy said, "via an anonymous bundle of photographic horrors somebody receives in the mail. Don't forget that time-honored variety of political malpractice."

McCloskey chuckled. "It's been known to happen. But this business with Kenyon," he went on, "is a whole 'nuther matter. It calls not just for the right balance of toughness and discretion. It requires a nuanced understanding of the special circumstances we're dealing with—the gay thing as well as the pathology. You're up to this, Don? Tom promises me you are."

"I'm not a psychologist, but I'm not sure that's necessary.

I get the basics, and anyway what's called for here is mainly a healthy sense of outrage along with a working bullshit detector."

"Tom tells me Kenyon contacted you, and he thinks he can convince you that this whole investigation of ours is a load of crap."

"He did, and he does."

"How can he be so naive? You're convinced it's not crap, I take it."

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"Oh, yes. I believe it. I'm still in the process of locating witnesses who are actually willing to testify to Louderbush's exploitive abusive practices. But as for myself, I'm more than convinced."

"What have you gotten in writing or on tape?"

"Nothing actually in affidavit form so far. One witness, a young man in Vermont who was also abused by Louderbush, won't help out; he's too much of a psychological mess himself. A young woman who Greg Stiver confided in works for a company where controversy is verboten, so she's reluctant to go public with what she knows. But a former boyfriend of the woman friend, Virgil Jackman, will testify.

He's solid and he's credible."

"Tom tells me Jackman is the son of a former IUE shop steward?"

"He is."

"Okay. What else have we got?"

"Lots of circumstantial evidence. The police report on the Stiver suicide was doctored, apparently to delete references to inquiries by Louderbush's office. Unfortunately, the susceptible cop in charge is no longer with us."

"Retired to Sarasota?"

"Dead."

"Oh boy."

"But there's evidence at SUNY that Louderbush was making odd inquiries about the death. What was his interest?

A former Louderbush staffer says the assemblyman was a quote-unquote mentor to Stiver. But Louderbush's snooping seemed to go beyond mere sadness and loss. He seemed 184

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intent on finding out if his name came up in any context and if there was any doubt about the verdict of suicide."

"Jesus. Is it possible Louderbush actually
pushed
Stiver off the roof at SUNY? That this was a homicide?"

"Why do you ask?"

"That would be a good deal tidier than what you've told me so far. Make great headlines in the
Post
and the
Daily News
."

"Well, it's not out of the question. One witness thinks she saw two people on the roof of the building before Stiver fell."

"One witness thinks... Not much there, I guess. But what about this violence against yourself, Don? Your head injury there. Tom says you're convinced that Kenyon is responsible, although I take it that so far you have no direct evidence of that. Jesus, I knew they played hardball in Kurtzburg, but this would be way out of bounds."

"Tom may also have mentioned that for the first several days of my investigation I was under close surveillance, possibly electronic, by unknown persons. I could barely scratch my ass without somebody noting the gesture for posterity. Also, some real or fake Capitol cop preceded me asking pointed questions out in Hall Creek, where Louderbush had gotten Stiver a job at the community college."

McCloskey screwed up his face. "Peculiar. Very peculiar. It sounds downright sinister. Though if Kenyon is behind any of that type of thing, I'd be surprised. His organizational skills have always been limited."

"Be assured, Senator, that I'll be bringing all this up tomorrow when I meet with Louderbush. I'll be gauging his reactions, and more importantly I'll be wearing a wire."

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McCloskey all but fell off his chair. He raised both hands as if to ward off any more flying information. "Oh, no. I don't need to know that."

Dunphy said, "For chrissakes, Don, we'll work out the details of your meeting on our own. Shy just needs framework."

"It sounds," McCloskey said, "as if Kenyon is going to throw himself at our feet and beg for mercy and forgiveness.

I'd almost like to be present, but my stomach isn't as strong as it once was. He's bringing his wife along?"

"That's what he told me. She's involved, he says."

"I'm sure she is. Tom, if you were going to discuss your most sordid affairs with a private investigator, would you bring Doreen along?"

"Oh sure."

"Joyce would rather stay home, would be my guess. But this is the age of the political wife who can't tell the difference between loyalty and masochism. You saw Silda Spitzer standing there next to her no-goodnik hubby taking it on the kisser in front of Gabe Pressman and the rest of the known media world. And what's-his-name from Jersey, the guv with the Israeli butt boy boyfriend. Hava Nagila! The man's poor wife stood there next to him grinning like she was at their little girl's ballet debut, and her husband is telling the cameras he prefers sucking dick to eating pussy. No offense intended, Don."

"None taken."

"What's the story with Kenyon's missus, Tom? Do we know anything about her?"

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"She's a nurse. Stays out in Kurtzburg. That's about it.

They have kids."

"Sure they do. Don, have you checked Kenyon's children for broken bones?"

"No. I don't think it usually works that way with Louderbush's type. It's one thing or another. With him, it's grown-up young men, and sex is part of it. Anyway, a nurse wouldn't put up with that."

"You're probably right."

"The wife, I think, will be there for moral support for Louderbush and to exact sympathy from us."

"Yeah, well, don't extend any on my behalf."

"Okay."

"I certainly wish you well in your endeavors tomorrow. I know you understand that the future well-being of the state of New York may well hinge on your giving Kenyon the shove into oblivion he so richly deserves. And, as a practical matter for yourself, if you succeed here you'll have the world at your feet, I promise you. The world may never know exactly
why
you are so highly regarded by the governor of New York and in the corridors of power throughout the Empire State. Our fervent hope, of course, is that Kenyon will plead a prior engagement and politely withdraw from the race and none of this nauseating garbage will ever see the light of day."

"That's my hope, too, Senator."

Dunphy said, "I think we've got the guy by the short hairs.

Today's Monday. If Kenyon is still in the race Wednesday, I'll be surprised."

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"Unless, of course," McCloskey said, "he denies everything and tells Don here that his evidence is laughably thin and we can all go to hell. Is that a possibility? Could it be we're moving too soon on this?"

Twenty-four hours later, I repeated to Timmy McCloskey's description of how everything might go wrong, and I told him,

"If only what happened at the meeting with Louderbush had been that simple."

* * * *

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I jogged the loop around Washington Park four times and was back home by seven thirty. Cool weather had set in along with a low cloud ceiling that felt more like a disappointing version of April. I showered as soon as Timmy was out of the bathroom, then read the
Times
online with my coffee and English muffin. He went out the door to walk to work, saying as he went, "As they say in Thailand, good luck to you, good luck to you, good luck to you."

I went over my notes until eight thirty when two Clean-Tech operatives, Rod and Eugene, arrived on schedule. The cool weather worked to their advantage as they wired me up.

I had on khakis and a sports jacket over a nicely styled T-shirt of the type Anderson Cooper might wear to a famine. A minimally bulky device the size of an mp3 player fit in my breast pocket. Its microphone was a ballpoint pen in the same pocket. Plan B was a second ballpoint pen I would hold or place on a table with my notebook; it broadcast sound to a receiver in a nearby room at the hotel where another Clean-Tech op would be listening and recording.

At nine thirty I ambled outside and over to Washington Avenue and on down past the Capitol and Albany City Hall.

The unseasonable chill only served to make me feel more alert. It took me back to high school football and the thrill in the air before a big game.

I reached the Crowne Plaza just before ten, on time, and rode an elevator to the twelfth floor. It occurred to me that 189

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Louderbush would have his own techies on hand to strip search me and remove the breast pocket device and maybe even the innocuous-looking ballpoint pen transmitter. But when he opened the door to the suite and he and his wife were apparently the only people present, I wondered why he was acting so confident.

"I'm Don Strachey."

"Kenyon Louderbush. This is my wife Deidre."

"Hello," she said, barely audible.

He was tense enough, but she was clenched all over and looked as if it was all she could do to contain her rage. He was tall and broad, an aging but still formidable right tackle.

He had a big jaw and big hands and wore gentlemanly specs, his only visible concession to the passage of time. She was good-sized, too, stocky as opposed to stout, also a onetime athlete maybe. She had a round pretty face with a minimum of makeup and some big but not comically big hair tinted auburn and recently styled. Both of the Louderbushes wore the kinds of conservatively presentable outfits you'd expect a state assemblyman and his spouse to turn up in at a Rotary Club dinner back in his district. One of my thoughts was, am I underdressed for this occasion?

We arrayed ourselves around a coffee table where the hotel had thought to provide some fresh gladiola that were tall enough to obstruct Mrs. Louderbush's view of me. Without a word, she got up and transferred the vase to an out of the way end table. There were nuts and wrapped hard candies too, but nobody reached for any. There weren't of course any ashtrays.

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"This is going to be painful for all of us," Louderbush said,

"so let's get it over with."

Painful for all of us? "Sure," I said.

"I called you, Mr. Strachey, because I've had reports coming in that you are on my case for some immoral things I did many years ago."

"Five years ago is not many years ago," I corrected him.

"No, not to you it isn't. But to me five years ago is another lifetime."

"Well, you did what you did. Repeatedly over a number of years apparently."

"I can't deny that. I'm not here to deny anything. I'm here to...try to get you to understand what some of the consequences will be if you and Shy McCloskey make my sins of the past a campaign issue."

"Consequences for whom?"

"I'll get to that. Primarily for my family." Mrs. Louderbush tightened up even more and was glaring up a storm. She had set down a shoulder bag that was even bigger than mine—

both rested on the end table separated by the gladiola—and I hoped she didn't also have a weapon in hers.

"Deidre and I have three teenage children," Louderbush went on. "This is an extremely vulnerable age. Teenagers are so sensitive, so easily hurt and confused. They need their parents. They need to be able to look up to their parents."

"No, I'd hate to see any young people get hurt. I mean, any more than have been injured already."

Mrs. Louderbush looked at her husband and started to say something, but he shook his head. "You're going to be 191

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merciless with me," he said, "and I understand why. Believe me, I do. I've been in counseling since Greg Stiver's death, and I can tell you that nobody is as angry at me as I am at myself."

"Good."

"I don't think I need to relate to you the whole dreary story of my upbringing and my life with my violent father and my being raped by my uncle Alan when I was twelve and all the rest of an incredibly sordid tale. But my young life made me a psychological cripple of the worst kind, the kind of man who preys on younger men who have been made vulnerable by family traumas of their own. I can't justify anything I have done. I can only explain. And I can say over and over and over again that I am so, so, so sorry for all the pain I inflicted, and I can honestly declare that I am beyond all of that horror. And, yes. It was Greg Stiver's death that forced me to confront my demons and my anger-management problems and to seek help and to promise myself and my wife that I would never enter into one of these sick relationships ever again. I also quit drinking, which had been a factor in my behavior."