Richard Patterson - The Lasko Tangent

I thought of my pen pal, the jailbird stockbroker. I grinned. “Tell it to the American Civil Liberties Union. They’ve got a file on me. You can find it under ‘N,’ for ‘Nazi.’”

Her eyes seemed to look clear through me, as if I wasn’t there. Which was clearly her wish. She bunched her hands in a determined little gesture. “We’re going to have to get this situation straightened out. I don’t have time to sit here feeding you straight lines and watching you stuff your ego. Which is already overfed.”

I remembered Robinson’s friend at the committee, and his brush with unemployment. I suddenly realized that the day hadn’t been all bad; I didn’t want to lose this case before it began. “Look, please understand some things. I’m not used to this kind of supervision. I like to follow the facts where they take me. Anyhow, hauling in Sammy Green is routine, like bringing in a lifetime deviate after a sex crime. He’s our version of a jailhouse character, and all the facts point to him. Would you prefer that I subpoenaed Lasko?”

The last suggestion startled her for a second. Then she tagged it as an idle threat, and dismissed it. She started to look for my new pigeonhole. “Well, then, what’s your understanding of your role?”

“I’ll keep you posted, as I have. If something major comes up, I’ll let you know before I do anything.” I didn’t like this; I clung to the loophole word “major.” “But I can’t loiter around your office like a truant with his parole officer, seeking advice. I’d never get anything done.”

She wasn’t mollified. “Christopher Kenyon Paget is a pretty name.” Her careful voice lingered on “Kenyon,” as if reading an indictment of false pride. What it told me was that she had read my personnel file. “It doesn’t go with taking direction. But you’re going to have to learn.”

That got me. “The nice thing about being Christopher Kenyon Paget”-I mocked her diction-“is that I can make these decisions for myself.”

She reached her own decision, put down her half-finished drink and snatched at her purse, ready to leave. “This has been fairly disagreeable.”

“Yes,” I said agreeably, “and it’s been so easy.”

We stood and left, single file. Then we grabbed the elevator and walked to her car. She broke the uneasy silence only to ask if I wanted a ride home. We set a new world’s record for non-communication, all the way to my apartment.

I opened the door as soon as we had stopped. “You forgot to thank me for a lovely evening,” I said. I meant it as self-mockery, but it came out wrong, like everything else. She gave me a cold look back to tell me that she wasn’t wasting more time, and leaned over to shut my door.

I was thrilled with myself. Paget the wit. Paget the charming. Paget the amateur psychologist. I had screwed up with Mary, and I had to learn to handle her better were I to keep the case. If it wasn’t too late. And there was an ephemeral personal regret. At least she wasn’t boring. Of course, I told myself, someone had probably once said that about Lucretia Borgia.

My apartment was on the first floor of a seventy-year-old red brick former townhouse, on the six hundred block of East Capitol. My landlord had largely gutted it in the process of preparing to charge $500 a month. The neighborhood had a healthy crime rate, and I didn’t walk around at night. But the place suited me. The fireplace and the fine old wood floors were still there. The living room was large, with a chandelier and shuttered windows which looked out on a garden. And there were two bedrooms and plenty of room for my paintings and books.

I opened the door and knocked over my tennis racket. I had forgotten to play this evening. I plodded to the kitchen nook, poured myself a careless martini, and stuck a frozen pizza into the oven. I bolted the first martini and, in a reckless mood, poured a second. Then I pulled the pizza from the oven. I ate hungrily, my good-taste buds desensitized by gin, then contemplated an empty evening. I was rereading War and Peace, but wasn’t in the mood, and was dating a couple of girls, whom I didn’t want to see. In desperation, I flicked on my seldom-used television. It carried a special treat, a press conference starring Lasko’s friend, the President. I felt neither antipathy nor admiration. I looked over the image for something I had missed. If he lived anywhere other than deep within himself, it was in the eyes. He was poised enough, but on the occasional question, the eyes blinked for a moment, as if in doubt of their owner’s adequacy. I wondered what accounted for that. His well-ventilated early poverty, perhaps. That could twist some people into admiring a Lasko and doubting themselves.

I decided to listen to the words. “And so, in response to the justified concern of our citizens, I am proposing to the Congress the Safe Streets and Neighborhoods Act. My study of history persuades me that at the heart of every fallen civilization which has preceded us was the lack of will to resist crime and disorder. Our administration is already moving to eliminate the root causes of crime-racism, poverty and deprivation.” The head shook disapprovingly at the words. I found myself wondering where he stood on the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. “Now with the pledge of five billion dollars to assist and augment local law enforcement, we promise to all Americans safety, security, and freedom from fear in their streets and neighborhoods.”

I turned him off. Then I advanced to my window to see if the neighborhood looked safer. I couldn’t see any difference. A police siren whined in the distance. I went to bed disappointed.

The day before he died was clear and bright.

I went to the office early, closed my door, and finished Sam Green’s subpoena. I was just signing it when Marty Gubner telephoned.

“Christopher, how are you?” Gubner’s strong New York voice carried friendly irony. He was one of those lawyers who made his living representing the people we investigated. In a way, we were his personal Works Projects Administration. Gubner and I liked each other well enough; we took our work seriously, but related in an offhand way. After all, we had to get along.

“Fine, Marty. Are you calling because you miss the sound of my voice? I didn’t know we were doing business at the moment.”

“I didn’t know until this morning. I hear you’re investigating Lasko Devices.”

I didn’t bother denying it. “Where did you hear that?”

“Ike Feiner sent a subpoena to Lasko Devices asking for trading records. The subpoena showed you as investigating officer.”

“All right,” I said. Gubner’s voice carried a strange undertone, more tentative than usual. I waited to find out what it was.

“I’m calling on behalf of someone who wants to talk about Lasko Devices. He’s asked me to set up a meeting.”

“Sure. Who is he?”

Gubner remained silent. “Marty?”

“I can’t tell you right now.”

It was a first. “This is fun,” I said. “Let me guess. Is it Judge Crater?” The silence was deafening. “How about Martin Bormann?”

“I’m serious.”

“Hang on. Does his name start with a consonant?”

“Look, Chris, I called up to give you some information, not solicit your little funnies.”

I hesitated. The anger was real and seemed to include himself. “OK, let’s take it from the top.”

“My guy is close to Lasko Devices. When the subpoena hit, it got him thinking that he should talk to you. Apparently, there’s something going on up there, although he won’t tell me what it is over the phone. I’m going to Boston today to see him.”

“Why all the secrecy?”

“I’m not sure. It’s clear he’s pretty scared. One reason he doesn’t want to give his name is so you can’t go after him with a subpoena.”