Red White and Black and Blue (6 page)

Timmy said, "Not so far. If it had been somebody's house pet who got mauled, TV would be all over it."

Dunphy asked me if I had gotten a good look at the attackers, and I said I hadn't. "I doubt if I could pick them out of a lineup. What I can say is, they were tall, beefy guys, thirtyish or thereabouts, and two looked kind of Slavic maybe.

Serbian? Or am I just reading that into it from news photos of Ratko Mladic? One was a bit darker. Not black. Brownish, though not Hispanic probably. Gypsy possibly."

Timmy said, "Roma."

"Okay."

"It's what they prefer to be called."

"Well, far be it for me. I hope I run into this guy again so I can apologize."

Timmy told Dunphy, "A writer friend once told me that I have the soul of a copy editor. I took it as a compliment."

Uncertain of what to make of this two-acerbic-gay-guys-in-love back-and-forth, Dunphy said, "So the insurance-guy witnesses must have gotten a look at the car the baddies were driving, no?"

"Hanratty says it was a black Lincoln Navigator with Jersey tags. The three witnesses disagreed on what the numbers were. If this was a higher priority case, the cops might fool 53

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around with different number combinations and try to match them with New Jersey Navigators. But they don't have a lot of extra time on their hands, and of course the Albany Police Department is unaware that what I am working on is destined to alter the course of Empire State history."

Timmy said, "Lincoln Navigators aren't your usual Jersey goon style of vehicle. Or are they? They're usually the mode of transport of magnates, rock stars, the Secret Service."

"These guys could have been any of the above. Come to think of it, they were all nattily clad—upscale smart casual."

"Those blood stains will be hard to get out," Timmy said.

"Their slacks will probably need dry cleaning."

"And there I was writhing on the tarmac outside Outback in my togs from Marshalls. Maybe I was attacked for my questionable taste."

"It wouldn't have been the first time."

Dunphy said, "You guys sure are taking this a lot more lightly than I would have. I'd be shitting my pants and probably going into hiding. Anyway, I'm grateful you're willing to stick this out, Don. It shows you know how important this project is and that you're willing to do what's... I hate to sound sloppy, but the word that comes to mind is
patriotic
."

Timmy and I exchanged glances, and I said to Dunphy,

"It's true this is a job I don't think I need to be embarrassed about. Not so far. But you know, one thing you might be able to help me out with, Tom, is this: Who besides you and Shy McCloskey knew that I agreed just yesterday morning to take this Louderbush thing on? And who besides you knew I was meeting Jackman and Insinger yesterday afternoon? It seems 54

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odd that anybody working for Louderbush—if that's who we're looking at here—would have learned so quickly of my plans and of my whereabouts. I keep trying to figure that out. It's puzzling."

Timmy and I both looked at Dunphy. He had been sitting with his elegantly shod feet on the metal footrests of his wheelchair, and now he shifted and placed both feet on the floor. "You're right. How did these guys know?"

"It's disturbing."

"Yeah."

"Either Jackman or Insinger could have let something slip.

Although, I set up my appointments with them only a few hours before I met them. There wasn't much time for either of them to mention me to anybody casually and innocently.

Either of them, of course, could have done it intentionally—

set me up for whatever weird unknown malign reason. But when I met them, both struck me as sincere in their strong disapproval of Kenyon Louderbush and his actions, and highly unlikely to be reporting secretly to him or his staff or his Serbian militia."

"You're right."

"It's baffling."

"All I can say, Don, is that I certainly have not discussed your working for us with anybody except Shy. And he was unaware of the specifics of your meetings yesterday until after they took place and you landed in here."

"What about your staff? Beryl and her crew out there?"

"They don't even know who the fuck you are. You're just some security guy."

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"Right."

"What about Myron Lipschutz?" Dunphy asked. "Timothy, your boss."

"He knows Don is working for you, but not that it's about Louderbush. And Myron certainly didn't know Don was meeting yesterday with Jackman and Insinger."

I said, "And you're sure your phone lines are clean? And your office? What about your computers?"

"Absolutely. The computers are checked for hackers, and the rooms and phone lines are swept every morning just before Beryl gets in."

"By Clean-Tech?"

"Yes."

"And they're trustworthy? The company isn't owned by Diebold Incorporated. or Karl Rove's brother-in-law in Florida?"

Dunphy screwed up his pink face. "Jesus, you're making me nervous, Don. If you can't trust the firms you pay the big bucks to secure your information, who can you trust?"

"You don't by chance record telephone conversations yourself, do you, Tom?"

"Me? Why would I?"

* * * *

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My head hurt. The doctors said I wasn't concussed—no unsteadiness, no disorientation, nothing untoward on the MRI—but every beat of my heart was like a sledgehammer against my cranium.

"Now I know what a circus tent stake feels like when those apelike guys take turns pounding it into the ground," I told Timmy.

"Funny, I think of tent stakes as insensate. But maybe it's because they don't have mouths that we never hear their pitiful cries."

"When was my last Tylenol?"

"Six thirty. You'd better wait another little while. I guess a beer wouldn't help at this point. Or a medicinal bit of weed."

"Nah."

I was in bed at our house on Crow Street. When I'd gotten home just after five, Timmy had warmed up some tam yam gai he'd picked up at the Thai place on Lark Street and I sat at the kitchen table and ate it. Such an improvement over the hospital boiled-chicken-in-mucus. I went up to lie down then and make some calls on my cell, but at first the throbbing was just too disconcerting. Looking at TV was out of the question—MSNBC is not the answer to a headache—so I tried some Art Tatum. That was too busy for the state of my tender brain, and Timmy put on a Bach partita, but that was even busier.

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I tried silence for a while, thinking I might drift off to sleep, but then I kept wondering who it was who had set me up, and my mind was so busy chewing over that question that soon I was wide awake.

While Timmy filled in the answers to the
Times
crossword puzzle with a military-pace hut-two-three-four, I made myself place two calls and each time concentrate hard on what I was saying and what was being said to me.

"You're at home, Janie?"

"Yeah, I just got in."

"All's well?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm like scared shitless. But other than that."

"You're being looked after, Tom Dunphy said."

"Some guy Anthony. He's actually kind of cute."

"So you know what happened after I left you yesterday.

You must have just pulled out of the Outback. I was in the parking lot on the phone."

"I know. That is so creepy."

"I'm trying to figure out how these guys knew I was meeting with you. Did you happen to mention our four o'clock appointment to anybody yesterday?"

A silence. "I'm trying to think."

"Take your time."

After a moment she said, "Just Kev. Kev called during my break—he knows I have twelve minutes rest period from two-fifteen to two-twenty-seven—and I told him I was gonna see you at Outback and talk to you about you-know-what. But Kev wouldn't mention any of that to anybody. He respects my privacy, and he knows how I am."

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"Kev is your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, Kevin LeBow. He's an installer at Verizon."

"And he supports your decision to expose Kenyon Louderbush?"

"Oh sure. Kev hates crap like that as much as I do, and also his union can't stand Louderbush."

"And there's nobody else you might have mentioned our meeting to ahead of time? What about your supervisor?"

"Oh God, no. Alma would put a letter in my file. She'd friggin' call Arkansas."

"If you were meeting with a private investigator?"

"Walmart is suspicious. But I think, like, what they don't know won't hurt them."

I thought, Kev LeBow. Could he have been recruited by the Louderbush people to ingratiate himself with Insinger and seduce her and report back on her contacts with the McCloskey campaign and its agents? Not likely. They'd been a pair for quite a while. Was I just practicing due diligence, or was I becoming as paranoid as Insinger's employer?

I told Insinger I thought she should do whatever Anthony the security guy suggested, and to be watchful otherwise, and that I'd be in touch.

I got Virgil Jackman on his cell at Jock World. He said he couldn't talk but that he had an eleven-minute break coming up and he'd call me back in ten minutes.

Timmy said, "What's a five-letter word meaning
ancient
stringed instrument
? First letter
R
, third letter
B
?"

"Robot?"

"Come on."

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"Rhubarb."

"The second letter might be
E
."

"Rebar."

"Not exactly a musical instrument."

"It could be. Percussion."

"Keep trying."

"I'm doing my best."

"I hope not."

Soon, Jackman called back. I asked him first how things were going with the security Tom Dunphy was providing.

"I don't really need it, but this guy Damien is okay to hang with. He follows me around in this Hummer he has. He's even bigger than I am. I'm glad he's on our side."

"It's good," I said, "that these guys went after me and not you and Janie. It means that their employer has some sense.

Going after you two could generate serious backlash if you went public right away and linked Louderbush to the attacks.

But by beating on me they send the message to the McCloskey campaign that they are prepared to play rough and McCloskey should have second thoughts about pursuing any exposure of Louderbush's vile behavior. Anyway, Tom Dunphy is prepared to press on, if you are. So am I."

"Sure. I'm scared, I have to admit. But I'm not gonna take any shit from somebody who did what Louderbush did to Greg. What about Janie? Is she cool?"

"It's a little bit murky as to her usefulness as a witness.

But she's accepted security from the campaign, and she's still talking to us. One thing I'm doing is trying to find other people who might have witnessed the abuse or who at least 60

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had some direct knowledge of it. People Stiver confided in and who maybe saw the shiner and the split lip and the other physical damage from the beatings. There has to be somebody who knows something, even if not as much as you and Janie do."

"I got the idea," Jackman said, "that maybe Greg dropped some of his friends after he got involved with Louderbush. He was embarrassed or whatever. I know he dropped out of the gay Republicans and that other organization—upholding the Constitution and so forth. He told Janie and I he had to finish his thesis, and he didn't have time for all those people, but I'll bet it was that he didn't want anybody asking a lot of questions about his messed up appearance. I mean, how many times can you tell people you slipped in the shower or you were in a car wreck? Especially when your car wasn't banged up or anything."

"The story about his suicide in the
Times Union
said he had friends who were concerned about his being despondent. Who do you think the paper might have been referring to?"

"A reporter called Janie and I after she talked to Mrs.

Pensivy. So I guess maybe that means us?"

"What about Greg's parents and his brother and sister in Schenectady? Might he have confided in any of them?"

"He mentioned his sister, Jennifer, sometimes. She might've known something. But his mom and dad he had nothing to do with. His dad was a violent jerk and his mom was no help. I don't know about Greg's brother, Hugh. I think he moved out at some point and was no longer part of the family equation."

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I made a note to track down Stiver's sister. As well as his thesis advisor.

I told Jackman that I was puzzled as to how anybody knew I was meeting him and Insinger on Wolf Road Tuesday afternoon. I asked him if he had mentioned to anyone that we planned on meeting.

"Not that I can think of," he said. "In fact, no. I was so busy at work...oh fuck! Shit! My break is over. I'm two minutes late. Shit. Gotta run, dude!"

He hung up.

I said to Timmy, "I still don't know how the Serbians knew they could find me in the Outback parking lot. Nobody involved recalls telling anybody I'd be there."

"The two Serbians and one Roma."

"Right."

"You never saw the driver of the Navigator?"

"No, just the three who jumped me."

"And you tend to believe Insinger and Jackman?"

"I tend to, yeah."

"And you trust Tom Dunphy?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"He's well thought of. Of course, the line of work he's in...well."

"You would know."

"You bet."

"No, it's not Dunphy or Jackman or Insinger who set me up, I don't think. There's something I'm missing here."