Richard Stevenson - Red White and Black and Blue

"Was Greg in psychotherapy? It sounds as if he had some real understanding of why he put up with the way Louderbush treated him."

"Janie actually tried to get him to go, but he never would, I don't think."

The waitress arrived with our taco salads, and the old woman in the next booth said to her, "We would like to order now. We have been waiting for quite some time."

"Sorry. I'll be right with you."

"We got here before those two men did, and they already have their food."

The waitress, a squat, buxom young black woman, carefully ignored this. "I can take your order now. What would you like to order, ma'am?"

The couple proceeded to order eggs Benedict. The waitress explained that Denny's didn't have any of those, so then the couple decided to make do with a single grilled cheese sandwich served on two plates. After that was settled, I asked Jackman more questions.

"Both you and your former girlfriend have told the McCloskey campaign that you believe Kenyon Louderbush drove Greg Stiver to suicide. That's a serious charge to make against anybody. Stiver was a grown-up. He was free to make choices. He could have told Louderbush to take a hike.

He could even have called the police and charged Louderbush with assault. He could have done a lot of things to get out of the mess he was in. Louderbush did not in fact shove Stiver off that building. You can attest that this was an abusive relationship, but that's a far as you can go, I think, when it comes to pinning anything on Kenyon Louderbush.

"If you are going to go public with this-as Tom Dunphy says you're willing to do-you might want to describe what you saw and heard, and you can of course relay what Greg told you about the relationship. But you can expect people to challenge your contention that Louderbush drove Greg Stiver to take his own life- drove is the word you seem determined to use-and you'll have to be ready for disagreements and other interpretations coming at you from many directions.

And a lot of people who disagree with you are going to act very hostile."

Jackman was cracking off portions of taco shell and gathering up little heaps of meat, lettuce, sauce, and sour cream, and shoveling it all into his large face. Through a mouthful of this stuff, he said, "I saw the suicide note."

"You did? How?"

"It was on the kitchen table. Mrs. Pensivy, the landlady, let us into Greg's apartment before the police came over.

Somebody at SUNY called her. There was a note in Greg's handwriting on the table, and it said, 'I hurt too much.'"

"That's all it said?"

"Janie started to cry. Mrs. Pensivy, too."

"It didn't mention Kenyon Louderbush?"

"It didn't have to."

"What happened to the note?"

"The cops must have taken it."

"Did anyone else see it?"

"I wouldn't think so."

"Did Mrs. Pensivy know about the abuse?"

"Not as far as I know. She lived next door with her sister."

"Who else knew about the beatings?"

Jackman mulled this over. "Greg never said. But other people must have figured it out. At school, or his family. You could see the marks and what have you. He had a big shiner one time. Janie gave him a cube steak to press against it."

"Did Greg ever seek medical treatment that you know of?"

"Just from Janie and I. The cube steak."

"I thought people only treated black eyes with steak in the comics. Dagwood, or Nancy and Sluggo."

A puzzled look. "What are those? You mean like in newspapers?"

"Yes."

"My granddad still reads the Times Union most of the time.

Sports and what have you."

I supposed the couple in the next booth could have explained what the funny papers used to mean in American life, but the old man and the old woman were busy staring 33

Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson intently at each other's sagging midsections, and I didn't break their reverie and bring them into our discussion.

"And I was like, I have to say something, and Kev was like, no you don't have to say anything, just let Virgil do it, cuz nobody's going to give him any shit, cuz he's a guy. But it just didn't seem right that if I know about this guy, I should just let him get elected governor of New York, and anyway maybe he still beats up on people. He could, you know, go after some young guy who works in his office-put the moves on him and then beat on him the way he did with Greg. My conscience would bother me if I didn't speak out, although I don't want my name mentioned, and I think you can understand the reason why."

"Tom Dunphy said it was for family and professional reasons."

"That's right. My parents would shit burritos if I did anything to mess up Kenyon Louderbush's chance to win the election. They think he's Jesus Walks on Water, and they don't know about the gay stuff or any of that. Also, at work it would not be appreciated if I got into some political thing.

That is strictly, like, no way."

"Where do you work, Janie?"

"Walmart. I'm an assistant shift supervisor. I keep the associates happy and productive."

"I see."

We were seated in a booth at the bar at the Outback Steakhouse not far from the Wolf Road Denny's where I had my late lunch with Virgil Jackman. Insinger had gotten off 35

Red White and Black and Blue by Richard Stevenson work at four, and she was sipping some wacky concoction: half a tumbler of Red Bull, a shot of rum, and a cocktail onion bobbing in it. I was nursing a Sam Adams and eating too many peanuts coated with corn syrup shellac.

It was hard to imagine Insinger supervising the impoverished geezers and laid-off math teachers at Walmart who wandered the aisles hanging red sale tags of $7.99 on garments sewn on the outskirts of Kunming for twenty-five cents each. With her croaky voice and cuzes and was likes, Insinger seemed like an implausible boss lady at a company famed for both cracking the whip and inspiring near-religious awe in its employees. Her deficiencies may have been compensated for to some extent by her appearance. Insinger was a knockout, both svelte and sweetly busty, with a pert nose, large hazel eyes and a lower lip the size of a kielbasa.

She was done up in the tart-wear that the young routinely leave home in now, making little distinction between going to work and attending a backroom sex club. It had been a while since I had generated a physical response to a body of the opposite sex, but there was something about Insinger's appearance and her perfume-peony bloom? — that combined to have me shifting in my seat. Until, that is, she opened her mouth again.

"So I was like, hey, if I can't personally screw over this dickhead senator and keep my job, I can at least make sure somebody else does it. After all, the guy's practically a murderer. Don't you agree?"

"In a sense, yes, if what you say is true. What is it exactly that you are saying? What did you see and hear that led you to make this accusation?"

She hesitated. "First, I have to ask you something."

"Okay."

"Are you, like, recording this conversation?"

"No, I'm not."

"I'm only asking because my boss says to be careful about that type of situation. You can never be sure, she says. You should always just figure that somebody might be wearing a wire."

"Your boss at Walmart told you this? Or do you also work for the Central Intelligence Agency?"

"No, of course not. But it could be the government or some lawyer who's gonna sue the company."

I said, "Even if I was recording our conversation, might that not actually be helpful to you? In case there's any confusion later on about what you said to me."

Insinger slurped up some of her scarlet refreshment and glanced around the room. No one was seated nearby, and the few people in other booths and at the bar seemed to be taking no notice of us.