Richard Stevenson - Strachey's folly

"sensitive." But I decided that a more roundabout route to a clean cop was called for, so I let it go.

Both of Maynard's writer friends were shaken by the news of the shooting which had taken place too late to make the Sunday papers-and his friends said they would notify others and would visit Maynard at GW as soon as his condition allowed. Both asked, "Was it a robbery?" I said that that was still unclear.

I was about to make another call when Timmy came out of the bathroom. "I'd better talk to his parents," he said. "I've never met them, but Maynard might have mentioned me. You know the way Peace Corps people tell stories back home."

I said I knew. The eleven-year-old son of another of Timmy's old Peace Corps friends liked to refer to the tales of India that his father told as "Dad's twelve stories."

"Do you think Maynard is really safe even in the hospital?" Timmy said. Ray Craig had assured us that the hospital's security staff would keep constant watch over Maynard, and at GW he was in no danger of being attacked again by his E

Street assailant.

I said, "Why? Are you afraid that whoever shot Maynard is going to sneak into the hospital, dress up in a surgical gown swiped from a closet, walk into Maynard's room carrying a clipboard, and stick a hypodermic needle in his ear?

Timothy, I'm surprised your feverish imagination can't come up with something cleverer than that old TV Pi-show cliche."

"As a matter of fact, my feverish imagination has. Jim Suter's letter talked about people who sounded as if they were powerful enough to place somebody inside the hospital."

"You mean to say 'deep' inside the hospital, don't you? That's the way it's usually phrased in the mall-movie trailers and doctor-show promos."

Timmy tugged his pants up around his slender waist and said sourly, "I really don't know what's going on with you, Donald. But you seem to be in total denial of the meaning of the events of the past eighteen hours. First, we discover a black, funereal AIDS quilt panel for Jim Suter, a man who apparently isn't dead. The panel has pages from Betty Krumfutz's campaign biography on it.

Then Betty herself shows up, examines the panel, and flees in horror. A few hours later, the panel is vandalized and the pages stolen. Meanwhile, Maynard receives a letter from Jim Suter saying Suter's life is in danger because he knows something-or somebody thinks he knows something- that can put important people in prison."

I said, "The letter actually said 'muchos anos'-'big enchiladas' being jailed for

'muchos anos.' Maybe that means these people are Mexican."

"Possibly, yes. And then," Timmy went on, yanking a shirt over his head,

"somebody shoots Maynard- shoots him! With a gun! Poor Maynard Maynard, one of the sweetest, most decent… " His voice caught, and he shook his head in despair.

I reached out, took Timmy's hand, and pulled him onto the bed next to me. "And then," he continued in a tremulous voice, "this cop shows up who's some cold-blooded, suspicious, creep-show weirdo, asking all the wrong questions. And then Maynard's house is ransacked in an obvious search for something somebody desperately wants to get hold of-something incriminating, presumably. And then, and then, and then-you say I'm being paranoid?"

I kissed him lightly on his big, white, beautifully shaped ear and spoke into it.

"Yes and no."

"Oh, I see. Yes, I'm being paranoid, and no, I'm not. Oh." He flopped back on the bed. I lay down beside him and lit a mental cigarette. I said, "Look, I understand that a lot of these awful things that are going on must be interconnected. Betty Krumfutz and the quilt vandalism, the shooting and the search of the house, and probably the quilt panel and Jim Suter's letter- yes, some or all of those form part of something bigger and even worse than the sum of all those ugly parts. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have observed Jim Suter's wishes-and Maynard's- and feigned ignorance with that strange, obnoxious cop.

"I'm only suggesting, Timothy, that even actual conspiracies have limits that are nearly always narrow. Whole hospitals, whole police departments, whole taxi fleets, are not parts of plots, except in Orwell, or Kafka's imagination, or-what?

Oliver Stone? Nixon's tapes? A Pat Robertson fund-raising letter?" Timmy smiled weakly. Then quickly he grew somber again and said, "You're right, but… how are we supposed to know which cop, or which taxi driver, or which hospital employee is the one not to trust? That's the problem I'm having right now."

Skeptical as I was of conspiracy theories to explain evil in human affairs, it was plain enough that Timmy's fears were not groundless, just, it seemed to me, highly exaggerated. Even more important, his fear was interfering with his analytical powers and clouding his judgment-often far keener than mine-in a way I knew was not going to help. I believed that taking the first train home to Albany would have been the smartest thing for him to do until he regained his perspective. But I knew he wasn't about to do that: he wouldn't leave Maynard; lie wouldn't leave me.

I said, "What we have to do, I think, Timothy, is find somebody in authority who we can trust absolutely-someone who is known and trusted by someone in Washington we know and trust-and then confide in that person and ask him or her to help. What we need first and foremost is an honest cop. Preferably a top-echelon honest cop."

"That makes sense," Timmy said. "But how would we ever be sure that the honest cop was an actual honest cop and not someone whose sole purpose in the police department wasn't to pose as an honest cop and gain the confidence of people like us and then-do something. Get rid of us or whatever."

"Boy, you are freaked out."

"I guess I am."

"Do you want to go home?"

"Of course not. I mean, I'd love to, but it's out of the question."

"I figured that. Would you like any help in getting through this? I mean beyond what I have to offer-kind words, back rubs, active and/or passive anal intercourse three point two times a week, et cetera?"

"No, what you have to offer sounds sufficient, Don. Why? What else did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. Pharmacological assistance perhaps, of a legal or illegal variety?"

"Nah."

"A priest?"

"No, as you just pointed out, I've got you for anal intercourse."

"How about a Jungian analyst? A little dream work might be just what the doctor ordered for a boy overcome with the heebie-jeebies. Or an orthodox Freudian perhaps. I've heard Washington is overrun with them. 'So zen, tell me, Mr.

Callahan, vaht cumps to mind?'"

He rolled toward me and said, "I guess we do have to just find somebody to trust with all this crap. You're right. That's a good first step. Maybe I'm feeling the way I'm feeling because we're so isolated with our dangerous knowledge, so alone with it. And we don't need a spiritual adviser, we need a good, old-fashioned clean cop. If possible, more than one. Then there'll be at least three of us to get to the bottom of this, and that'll make it easier."

"Timmy, I don't think 'we' have to get to the bottom of anything. All 'we' have to do is find an authority we can trust and tell him or her what we know, and then make sure Maynard is safe and recovering well. I guess we could straighten up his house, too-pick the Indonesian wombat knuckles out of the kitchen sink and so forth. But we can leave it to others better equipped than we are to get to the bottom of things."

This elicited a spontaneous snort, as I suspected it might. "Don't kid me," he said gaily. "You wouldn't miss sticking your nose in this reeking swamp of intrigue for anything in the world." I shrugged. "I know it's only a matter of time," Timmy went on happily, "before you're off to Mexico, and maybe even darkest Central Pennsylvania. I might not be able to tag along-I've got lo be back to work on Tuesday. But I certainly wouldn't attempt lo restrain you. I know you're in this awful thing to the finish, and I just want you to know, Don, that I'll help out in any way I can, personally and financially, and all I ask is that you get used to the fact that I am scared to death and even acknowledge from time to time that I actually have reason to be."