Richard Patterson - The Lasko Tangent

He had followed my eyes. “I don’t have much time for reading these days. Breaking into this job has been a real experience.” The engaging smile reappeared. “I hope I can keep up.”

I wasn’t used to commissioners seeking my encouragement. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

He looked thoughtfully at the Chagalls, as if they had some connection to his work. “Still, I’m concerned. A lot of commissioners come into agencies like this for PR value. They punch their tickets and leave. But they never really learn their jobs. Never really have an impact. I don’t want to be another one.” I agreed with him about ticket-punching. But if this was just for my benefit, he was an awfully quick study. I half-believed in his sincerity.

Woods waved up at the law school diploma which hung behind his desk. “You went there, too, didn’t you, Chris?”

I wondered whether he knew as much about McGuire’s other ninety-nine lawyers. “Yes, I did. I got out three years ago.”

Woods smiled slightly at the diploma, as if satisfied that we were peers. Then he turned his candid eyes to me. “I’m very concerned about the Lasko case.” He spoke seriously, leaning forward as if he wished to share the full weight of his concern.

I chose a neutral tone. “So I understand.”

The eyes seemed to at once accord trust and demand attention. He was very, very good. “I’m concerned for several reasons. To be honest, I know I’m young for this job. I want to do well here. And I don’t want this agency to act indiscreetly. That means both that I don’t want us to go out on a limb and that I don’t want inaccurate charges against Lasko to rub off on the President. Is that understandable?”

I said that it was. He continued. “But most of all, I want this investigation to be good. I don’t want anyone to say we dropped the ball, or pulled punches. It’s how an agency handles cases like this that sets the tone for whether it’s got basic integrity or is just another hack outfit. I’m political, sure, and I’ve existed in a political world. But I came over here to do a job.” His eyes locked in an intent, determined look. “And I believe the best politics, in the long run, is to do that job as fairly and honestly as I can.”

If that were true, I was all for him. “I’ll do what I can to help.”

“Just keep in touch with Mary,” he said easily. “I want to know what’s happening in this thing.” His voice dropped, and his words took on a slow rhythmic emphasis. “But if you need anything, any help at all, don’t hesitate to come to me direct. I’ll do anything reasonable to help you out.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” He rose. “You’ll be wanting to talk to Mary.” I wasn’t so sure, but my time was clearly up. We walked together to his door.

“Thanks, Chris.” He shook my hand again. “I hear you’re very good at this. I’ll look forward to seeing you.” The smile that went with the handshake said that he meant it. “And I’ll need your help on other things as I go along.” The warm voice bespoke pleasant hours of purposeful escape from my catacombs, amidst the impressionist serenity. He instructed the receptionist to get Mary Carelli, then backed into his office and closed the door. He left behind a bracing warmth, like a shot of good whiskey. I returned to the subject of the books. My best guess was that Woods read them, then recorded choice quotes on index cards to be fit into future speeches. Substance and surface rubbing together. It was a measure of his skill that I didn’t mind.

I was enjoying the padded chair when I noticed that it was 5:15. Mary Carelli emerged from her office and wordlessly waved me in. The experimental subject had been sealed and delivered. I liked her less than ever. When I got to the door, she was already behind her desk looking at a notepad and waiting for me to sit. So I leaned against the door frame until she looked up. Her eyes were watchful and didn’t change with her smile, which seemed to measure itself to the nearest millimeter. She nodded toward a chair. “Come on in and sit down.”

I looked at my watch with studied deliberation. “Does whatever we’re going to do have to be done today?”

She sat up in her chair and squared her shoulders. Set against the white walls and the hanging plants in her window, she looked mint cool. “Don’t be bureaucratic. I’d just as soon talk to you now.” The voice was cool too-a touch of scorn amidst a lot of indifference.

I didn’t move. “I’m not bureaucratic. Just thirsty. I’ve talked more today than I care to and listened to more than I like to hear. A good deal of it nonsense. So I’m thirsty-and bored.”

She sat holding her pad, still except for her left hand, which idly rubbed the pad between forefingers and thumb. It was as if all but her fingertips was under military occupation. She spoke with measured impatience. “So what do you suggest?”

“I’ve suggested to myself that I have a gin and tonic on the deck of the Hotel Washington, and marvel at our nation’s capitol. I’d be happy to buy you a drink and talk business there.” Once I’d asked, I wasn’t so sure. But it beat sitting at attention in her office by a comfortable margin.

Her body was a stiff parody of resistance. Finally, she willed it away. “All right. But I don’t intend to make a habit of this.”

I knew what she meant, but played dense. “Why?” I asked innocently. “You married?”

She looked at me askance. “No. Divorced.”

I believed it. We left, more or less in tandem.

The deck of the Hotel Washington overlooked the Potomac, the White House, and the Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln memorials, surrounded by grass and trees. From this distance, the squalid brown of the Potomac was blue, and carried a toy armada of trim pleasure craft. Arlington Cemetery sat in soft green hills, an optimist’s glimpse of eternity. The vivid view had an odd unreality, like a mural of the tourists’ imagined Washington. It was possible here to drink oneself into a dazed belief in the dramatic Washington of political fiction: statesmen launching soliloquies at moonlit marble, musing over the fate of Western civilization. The real Washington sat around me: knit-suited bureaucrats, drinking gin with tight mouths, nibbling on salted peanuts and calculations of small chances for petty gains. I looked out again and decided that I had a mild case of overcynicism. On its merits, the view was lovely.

Mary and I sat in awkward silence staring out at the view. She was as remote as the marble. I would have preferred having a drink with the Washington Monument; it wasn’t so embarrassing when it didn’t talk to you. Instead I ordered two gin and tonics and waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Finally, I asked her what it was that she wanted. She told me. So I gave her the rundown she requested-what I had found and what I intended, including the subpoena to Sam Green. The last part caught her interest.

“Have you already sent the subpoena?”

“Yes,” I lied.

She looked angry and unsettled, for reasons I couldn’t fathom. She sat erect and marshalled her shoulders again. I was beginning to read her better. She seemed to expend a lot of energy just keeping herself under control. And the rest of it controlling others. “I thought it was understood that you would clear investigative steps with our office before you took them.”

“It was?”

She looked annoyed, like a teacher with an overaged discipline problem. “You don’t seem to understand the implications of this thing.”

“You know, I didn’t get the impression from your boss that you and I were going to be Siamese twins.”

She wasn’t sure what Woods and I had talked about. She shifted ground slightly. “You’re making this Sam Green come all the way to Washington on pretty weak evidence. It’s like a form of harassment.”