Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

“I couldn’t sleep,” says Harry.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Wasn’t able to sleep at all on the plane.”

I sit down in one of the chairs across the desk from him. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“What’s to tell? You were there. You know,” he says.

“Sometimes things affect people in different ways. Tell me.”

“Jeez,” says Harry. “You’re gonna make me say it?” He lifts his shoulders. When he drops them he starts crying again. “We got him drunk!” says Harry. “I can’t help thinking that if I hadn’t kept pouring, maybe he’d still be alive. Maybe he wouldn’t be dead. Don’t you get it?”

“No! No, you have to stop thinking like that. He didn’t die of alcohol poisoning. He died because somebody murdered him. Giving him beer had nothing to do with it. We tried to put him in a taxi. We offered to take him home. Don’t you remember? He said no. He wouldn’t hear of it.”

“I know,” says Harry. “But I still can’t help thinking. .”

“He told us he’d take a cab. We both saw him. He walked to the counter and hit the bell. What were we supposed to think?”

Harry nods.

“Besides, the man had a tolerance for beer. I’m not saying he wasn’t drunk. But if you or I had consumed anything near what he had, we wouldn’t have had to worry about a taxi. They would have taken us away in an ambulance.”

Harry looks at me red-faced and laughs. He wipes his nose.

“You can’t blame yourself for what happened. Sometimes it’s just fate. If JFK had been ten minutes earlier in Dealey Plaza he probably would have served out his term and, who knows, done another four years. If Lennon had come home an hour later at the Dakota, maybe he’d still be making music. And if Korff had gotten into a taxi at the front door, outside that hotel, my guess is they would have never even seen him,” I tell him.

“You think so?”

“The fact they killed him on the far side of the bridge tells me they were probably waiting for him there.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Nobody in their right mind is going to want to track Korff across that bridge under all those lights. He was a big man. And if he turned to fight maybe they get trapped out there.”

Harry nods.

“So try not to think about it. We did everything we could.”

“Yeah, but if we’d known. .”

“But we didn’t. We took him at his word. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

“Still,” he says. “We should have thought about it. I mean after the girl and Graves.”

“We did think about it. That’s why we told him to take the cab. It wasn’t just because he was drunk.”

“Yeah. I suppose.”

“He knew that Serna didn’t die in an accident. We told him as much. He was well aware of the dangers. He had to be. He knew more about what was going on than we did.”

Harry nods. “You’re right.”

“Listen. Tell you what, when we’re done here, why don’t you follow me to the house. We’ll sit and talk,” I tell him. “We need to relax and unwind. A lot of stress.”

“Yeah, I’m OK. Go do what you have to do.”

“I will. But not until you give me that rusted piece of crap in your center drawer,” I tell him.

“What were you doing in my drawer?”

“If you must know, I was looking for drugs.”

“And you saw the gun?”

“You bet I did. How could I miss something like that?”

“What do you think, I’m gonna. .”

“Not at all,” I tell him. “I’m just worried that if you go and pull the trigger with the corroded bullets you’ve got, it’s gonna blow up and take your hand off. I don’t want you running around the office trying to hit the keyboard with a stump. That’s all.”

“Get out of here,” says Harry. “Go make your phone calls.”

I smile.

He looks at me and winks.

I head to my office.

Hello, Mr. Madriani,” he says.

“You called?”

“I did indeed,” says Proffit. “How is everything going?”

“The usual,” I tell him. Why trip his curiosity telling him about four murders and a burned-out gas station?

“How’s your case going?” he asks.

“Which one is that?” I can play stupid too.

“Mr. Ives, of course.”

“Oh, that! Moving right along. What is it you called about?”

“It appears you have friends in high places,” he says.

“How’s that?”

“Senator Maya Grimes called me the other day. Do you know her?” he says.

The second he says her name, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Grimes, my home state senator, the woman Simon Korff saw at Gruber Bank with a boatload of cash. I could tell him I never heard of her, but I don’t. “I know of her. Who doesn’t?”

“That’s funny,” he says. “I was sure the way she talked the two of you knew each other.”

“What did she say?”

“It seems she thinks very highly of you. So highly, in fact, that she asked me to give you a call.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Well, it seems there’s a vacancy on the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. You are familiar with the court? Sits in San Francisco, twenty-nine active judges, I believe. One step below the US Supreme Court.”

“I’m familiar with it.”

“Have you ever appeared before any of its panels?” he asks.

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” I tell him.

“Well, that is strange,” says Proffit. “Senator Grimes seems to think you’re highly qualified to fill the vacancy. So qualified, in fact, that she’s already talked to the White House to inform them that you have her unqualified support for the position.”

“And why would she do that?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” says Proffit.

“I have no idea. Are you sure you have the right Madriani?”

“Oh, yes. No mistake about that,” he says.

“Why didn’t she call me herself?”

“Well, you know politicians,” he says. “They always want to keep some distance.”

“You make it sound like a Mafia hit,” I tell him.

“I’m glad you said it and not me. I’m just carrying the message. She would like you to file an application for the position as soon as possible.”

“What’s the rush?”

“As I said, I’m just conveying the message. Are you interested?”

“Let me think about it.”

“Do you want some advice?” he says.

“I don’t know. But it sounds like you’re itching to give me some.”

“Grimes is in the position to block other competitors for this spot, which she can do by using her position in the Senate to prevent the scheduling of a confirmation hearing if she doesn’t approve of the candidate. It’s called senatorial courtesy. However,” he says, “she can’t help you dodge the slings and arrows at a hearing if members of the Senate Judiciary Committee decide to come after you. Say if, for example, the candidate seems to be lacking certain qualifications.”

“You mean like me.”

“Well, I didn’t want to say it,” he says. “I like you. I like you very much.”

I suspect this makes me part of an exclusive club, fraternity of one. Maybe it will last until the end of our conversation, if he gets what he wants.

“Allow me to save you the pain,” he says. “They would eat you alive. Why don’t you let me call her back and tell her you’re not interested? Save yourself a lot of grief.”

Or, I could just ask him for a map through the minefield. I’m sure Proffit climbed on his bulldozer to start laying them the minute he hung up the phone from Grimes.

“Did she say anything else?”

“There was one other thing. But it’s somewhat distasteful.”