Greenwich Read online

  He now stood facing the big window, through which he could see the Capitol Building, gleaming in the June sunshine, his back to the two other men in the room. He always felt a quiver of personal pride when he looked through the window at the Capitol. If someone had the temerity to ask him what was his line of work, he might well have nodded at the big building, which would pose a conundrum he had no desire to explain.

  One of the two other men in the room, Curtis by name, said, breaking a rather long silence, “That’s a magnificent rug. Where did you buy it?”

  “Lisbon.”

  “I would have thought Marrakech.”

  “No, Lisbon.”

  The third man in the room held his silence, wondering why in hell they were talking about a rug; there were more important things to discuss. Nevertheless, the talk about the rug turned his attention to other things in the big office, the glass case of flintlock muskets, the huge leather-covered couch—well, Drummond was a big man, at least two hundred and fifty pounds—and seeing the bulldog, he said to himself, Of course, Bulldog Drummond, and then searched his memory as to who Bulldog Drummond was. Well, someone, he decided, and returned to the problem at hand.

  “Colonel?”

  Drummond turned slowly. “You got an itch, Larry?”

  “Call it that.”

  “What itches you?”

  “Castle.”

  Drummond looked inquiringly at Curtis, who shrugged. Curtis was a fat old man with white hair. He had once been a handsome young man with blond hair, but that was all long ago.

  “Congress,” Curtis said, as if that single word explained everything.

  “I am aware of that,” Drummond said.

  Larry spoke quietly, trying to contain his anger. You couldn’t really argue with Drummond, much less actually get angry at him. “I’m on a very hot seat. Did you see the Post today? Or the New York Times?”

  “You’re worried about the press conference that little pisspot from Massachusetts held today? It’s bullshit, and no one’s going to think it’s anything else than bullshit. Ramoz assassinated? He walked into a speeding car, plain as day.”

  “The little pisspot from Massachusetts says he was pushed.”

  “Oh? Who pushed him?”

  Larry shrugged.

  “This room is not wired,” Drummond said. “I made sure of that.”

  “Shit,” said Larry, “The whole fuckin’ world is wired.”

  “That’s no way to look at things,” Drummond said gently.

  The fat old man, Curtis, spread his hands. “Of course it’s not wired, Hugh. But Larry’s not trusting. He wouldn’t trust his own father.” And turning to Larry, “That’s a compliment, Larry,” he said. “Turn on the radio, Hugh.”

  Larry nodded. Drummond turned on the radio. He preferred classical music and kept it tuned to WETA. The three men moved closer together and spoke softly.

  “Larry, who did Ramoz?”

  “Finnegan.”

  “Well, no one identified him. Where is he now?”

  “Poor chap, he drowned.”

  “A sort of blessing,” Curtis said. “You don’t rat on the IRA and live happily ever after. But Larry, it was so long ago. The only thing anyone cares about today is Clinton and Monica. Maybe it will even satisfy some public opinion, at least those who knew about Ramoz living like a pasha down in Miami.”

  “This, thank God,” Drummond said, “is a land with a twenty-four-hour memory. A year from now, they won’t even remember Monica. I was against the killing of the nuns and the lay workers, but the goddamned Jesuits, they had to be taught a lesson, and that goes for the bishop as well. But as Curtis says, nobody remembers and nobody gives a damn. And nobody’s left but the three of us.”

  “And Castle,” Larry said. “He was with State. He put it down on paper—and those papers are still somewhere in the archives.”

  “Fuck Castle!” Curtis exclaimed. “He’s a little shithead and he’ll never open his mouth. He’s an investment banker in Greenwich, Connecticut. I had dinner with him once. Lives in a big house with a new wife and he brings in two million a year. He’s a happy man. Why should he do himself in?”

  “I don’t know why. But he knows. His signature is on soon-to-be-public documents—and to save his ass, he’ll talk.”

  “Who was driving the car?” Drummond asked suddenly.

  “I told you, Finnegan.”

  “Where did you get it?” Curtis demanded.

  “It was Finnegan’s car. That’s how Finnegan drowned. He’s in the car at the bottom of the bay in Florida.”

  “You were a congressman—and you’re valuable. Don’t you ever think of that, Larry?”

  “All the time. That’s why I’m clean.”

  For a minute or so, the three men were silent, while Beethoven’s Third Symphony filled the room with its magnificent sound. Drummond regarded Larry thoughtfully, and finally he said, “Someday I may want you to run again, Larry, and I want to keep it with the three of us. I agree with Curtis. Castle will keep his mouth shut. If we do Castle, we have the contract man, and it begins to spread.”

  “I’ll do it,” Larry said.

  “No. It’s too damn dangerous—you’re no mechanic!”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  Drummond continued to stare at Larry as if he had never seen him before. Neither Larry nor Curtis spoke. Then Drummond nodded slightly, walked across the room, and clicked off the thunderous sound. “Meeting’s over.”

  Larry excused himself for a prior engagement. He had to leave immediately. Curtis and Drummond sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them staring through the big window at the Capitol. Finally, Drummond opened a humidor on his desk and took out a cigar.

  “Do you want one?” he asked Curtis.

  “I’d like a shot of scotch.”

  Drummond went to the bar at one side of the room. It had been built as an eighteenth-century highboy, a fine reproduction and a handsome piece. He poured bourbon for himself and scotch for Curtis.

  “Straight or with ice?”

  “Straight.”

  Curtis swallowed it like water. Drummond sipped the bourbon while he cut the end of the cigar. “Curt,” he said, “we’re both of us older than we ever expected to be. There are just a few things in life that remain viable, and a Cuban Cohiba and good bourbon are two of them.”

  The British bulldog stirred.

  Curtis sighed and said, “How did you ever come to pick Larry?”

  “He looked like a congressman,” Drummond said.

  “He’s a psychopath.”

  “Maybe. But that can be an advantage in his line of work. He started out as a sheriff in a small southern town. Killed a couple of bank robbers, and it gave him a charge. Then he shot a nigger. The man was unarmed, but snotty. Larry enjoyed it. I needed a congressman, and I picked Larry and gave him a short course in civil rights. I think he has a law degree. He’s a thug, but he’s obedient. Like that bulldog.”

  He snapped his fingers, and the bulldog waddled over to him.

  Nine

  David Greene bought a bottle of Italian Chianti for six dollars and seventy-five cents. Nellie warmed the soup and broke up a loaf of hot French bread, which David used to wipe up the last bit of soup in his plate. It was good soup, a mixture of beans and lentils and carrots and celery. When they had finished, with just an inch or so of wine left in the bottle, David leaned back and grinned. Nellie smiled at him.

  “When you smile,” David said, “you’re very beautiful.”

  “That’s nonsense. I was born gawky and I remained that way.”

  “I feel too good to argue, and just to see you smile is enough. You want to tell me about your rotten day?”

  “If you want to hear about it?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She cleared the table as she spoke, the sink, stove, and refrigerator lined up at one end of what was dining room and kitchen. The rest of the room contained a futon and a couple of chairs.


  “I’ll wash the dishes,” David offered.

  Running the hot water over the dishes, she said, “Later.” She dried her hands and sprawled out on the futon. “God, I’m tired, Davey. After this summer, it’s your last year, isn’t it?”

  “Last year. And I’ll make it home every weekend.”

  “You’re obsessed.”

  “Sure I am.” He sprawled out on one of the two easy chairs, kicked off his shoes. “Obsessed, stricken, or whatever—I’m in love with you. Tell me about today.”

  “It’s grisly.”

  “Well, that’s what you do, grisly.”

  “Do you know what a coronary-artery bypass graft is?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, it’s a rather desperate way of dealing with a heart that is giving out for want of oxygen-carrying blood. This time the patient was Dr. Seth Ferguson.”

  David nodded. “I hope it went well.”

  “No, it didn’t go well. It’s a complex operation. The surgeon begins by removing sections of the large leg veins, and they’re set aside to be used for the grafting. It takes hours, but I’ll make it short. An incision is made through the breastbone, and the chest is opened, exposing the heart. Then the heart must be stopped and its temperature reduced while you switch the circulation to a heart-lung machine. I won’t go into all the details, except to tell you that the leg veins are used to replace the blocked arteries, sutured, and then the heart is warmed and given a gentle electric shock to start it again. Then the chest is closed. It’s a team thing and everything must be done with great precision. Harvey Loring was the surgeon, and usually he’s good, but this time he botched it and excessive bleeding started—and—and I don’t know. Dr. Ferguson’s in intensive care now.”

  “Is he going to make it?”

  Nellie hesitated for a long moment before she answered, “I don’t know. I spent an hour with his daughter before I met you. She’s very close to him. Good God, I didn’t know what to tell her. If I said her father was going to make it, I’d be lying and making it worse. I don’t think he’s going to make it. Damn Loring! I could have done it better myself—no, I have no right to say that.”

  “You like Loring, don’t you?”

  “No, damn it! He is likable. Everyone likes him. I don’t want you to repeat this, please?”

  David nodded, wondering how he would have felt had it been his father lying in intensive care, and what he would feel about a man who was responsible—yet with a part of his mind thinking that at least this was the end of Nellie and Loring as a competitive couple; and then disliking both the thought and himself as the thinker.

  “Let’s go to bed, Davey,” Nellie said. “I want to put my arms around you and cry a little. I don’t want to spend my life as a scrub nurse.”

  “Sure.”

  In bed, his arms around her, David said, “Is that real—not wanting to go on with being a scrub nurse?”

  “When I feel the way I do now, it’s real.”

  “Then what would you want to do?”

  “Get married and have kids.”

  “Right on. I’m with you.”

  “David,” she said woefully, “I’m three years older than you and you’re at Harvard and I’m here in Greenwich, and you have a job now at Bilko’s Boatyard, scraping boats for six dollars an hour, and sooner or later you’ll fall in love with some pretty girl at Radcliffe or Wellesley—”

  “Not likely.”

  “Oh, shut up and hold me.”

  Ten

  The last of the Castle dinner guests had arrived when Richard Bush Castle was called to the phone. Castle was in the living room with his guests, and Joseph, Abel Hunt’s son, was fixing drinks and passing a tray of hors d’oeuvres when Donna, the upstairs maid, informed Castle that there was a call for him in the study.

  “Did he give you a name?” Castle whispered.

  “No, sir. He asked for Bush.”

  Castle excused himself. “Only for a moment,” he apologized.

  Not everyone called him Bush; it was the name he had chosen for special situations—a term he loved—and for a select group of people. He explained to some, if they inquired, that it was an old family name, not connected to the family of the onetime president, but to the old Bush-Holly House. Since there was no easily available lineage of the Bush family that had once occupied the Bush House, and since the Bush political family made no claim to a relationship with the Bush House, Castle had, so to speak, picked the name for himself unchallenged. However, Sally always called him Richard, and when she spoke of him in the third person, it was often Mr. Richard Castle or Mr. Richard. She had seen a film once where “mister” was used as a prefix by the household help and wife, and the usage had fascinated her.

  The Castle household had three telephone lines, one for their son, Dickie, one for the home, and one for Mr. Castle, whose personal telephone was a tieline connected to his New York office. His home office had once been a changing room for his swimming pool, but he had rebuilt it and equipped it with his computer, printer, fax, desk, and chairs. And another extension connected to a phone in the main house, in his study.

  When he picked up the phone and said, “Hello—Castle here,” a voice replied, “Bush, this is Larry.”

  Castle had to reorient himself, and he was silent for a moment or two. He recognized the name and he recognized the voice, but it was different.

  “Castle!” the voice said. “Larry.”

  “Yes, Congressman.”

  “Call me Larry.”

  “I just feel damn derelict, Larry. I should have called you long ago, I’ve been derelict.” Castle was pleased with the choice of the word.

  “Bush,” Larry said, more gently and intimately, “you’ve been reading the New York Times?”

  “Yes,” Castle admitted. In his mind, Larry was coming increasingly into focus. “Yes, I have. I must say it worried me.”

  “Not one damn thing to worry about, Bush, not one blessed thing. But we have to talk.”

  “Yes. Yes, I guess we should. You’re not worried?”

  “Not a bit,” Larry said cheerfully.

  “Thank God for that. Where and when?”

  “I’m in New York at the Waldorf. How about tomorrow morning, early—let’s say eight A.M.—you’re awake by then?”

  “I’m awake, but getting into New York at that hour—”

  “I’ll come up to your place.”

  “Drive up here?” Castle hesitated.

  “I’m no stranger to your home. Give me the address again and I’ll find the place. You’re in what they call the Back Country, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Bush,” Larry said mollifyingly, “I wouldn’t put you through this bother, but I have to catch the shuttle at noon tomorrow. That squeezes me for time. I’ll spend a half hour with you, and we’ll put this together. It’s important.”

  “Hey, come on, Larry. I know how important it is. As a matter of fact, I’m pleased you called, and I hope that after we talk, I can stop worrying. We have a long driveway, so I’ll be at the road gate, waiting for you. Just remember that you take the Hutchinson River Parkway into the Merritt. You get off at North Street and turn left where the service road meets Lake Avenue. We’re about a mile north of there.”

  Then Castle gave Larry the address and the off-road directions and returned to his guests. Evidently, his absence had cast no pall over the party. Muffy Platt, who had filled in for the seat of Harold Sellig’s wife, was the only one who appeared bored, but her face lit up when Castle reentered the room. Mary Greene sat with Sister Pat Brody and Sally, and the monsignor was listening to a discussion between Greene and Sellig. When Castle joined them, Sally rose and announced that she had to see about dinner. It was about seven forty-five then, and Sally knew that dinner at eight was proper.

  Abel Hunt considered Sally Castle to be one of the prettiest women he had ever seen, on the screen or off. As a well-educated, intelligent, race-conscious
Afro-American, he knew quite well that it was his duty to denigrate the beauty of a white woman, but the innocence of Sally Castle broke through his most cherished vows. He rejected his son’s notion that Sally was stupid, explaining to Joseph that in the society they both inhabited, innocence and a high degree of intelligence do not exist easily in the same individual. This evening, when Sally entered the kitchen, he greeted her with a broad smile and said, “We are ready to go. Just sit them down at the table. Cooking is an art, Mrs. Castle, and this is state of the art.”

  “I know. I can’t fry eggs properly, so I know it better than most people.”

  “Someday, I will come here—no charge—and spend a day teaching you. Absolutely.”

  “That would be divine.”

  “And I gave instructions to Josie and Donna about the service. They will not screw up.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunt,” Sally said, taking two bills from her bodice. “This is my own gift—something extra—a hundred for you and fifty for your son.”

  “Very generous of you.”

  “You can leave whenever you’re through. As long as the girls understand the menu.”

  “They’ll hear from me if they don’t.”

  The two women, standing at the other side of the kitchen, giggled. Abel’s son entered with a tray of glasses as Sally stood up on her toes and kissed Abel’s cheek. After Sally left the kitchen, Joseph said to his father, “It’s your age and beauty, so I won’t mention it to Mom.”

  “You miss the point entirely,” Abel replied. “That’s a good woman, a very fine and innocent woman. I don’t care why she married Castle or what she done before she married him, but that’s a good, generous woman. Time you learned the difference between men and women. There are good women but mighty few good men.”

  “Right on!” Donna exclaimed. They were both of them, Josie and Donna, in awe of Abel.