John Grisham - The Pelican Brief

"Any names?"

"Just two. A certain man named Pryce from Idaho, and one named MacLawrence from Vermont. That's all I know about names. I think they are both federal judges. Nothing more on this."

"What about the investigation?"

"I haven't heard much, but as usual I'll keep my ears open. There doesn't appear to be much going on."

"Anything else?"

"No. When will you run it?"

"In the morning."

"It'll be fun."

"Thanks, Sarge."

The sun was up now and the cafe was noisier. Cleve strolled over and sat next to his father. "You guys about finished?"

"We are," Sarge said.

Cleve glanced around. "I think we need to leave. Grantham goes first, I'll follow, then Pop here can stay as long as he wants."

"Mighty nice of you," Sarge said.

"Thanks, fellas," Grantham said as he headed for the door.

* * *

VERHEEK WAS LATE as usual. In the twenty-three-year history of their friendship, he had never been on time, and it was never a matter of being only a few minutes late. He had no concept of time and wasn't bothered with it. He wore a watch but never looked at it. Late for Verheek meant at least an hour, sometimes two, especially when the person kept waiting was a friend who expected him to be late and would forgive him.

So Callahan sat for an hour in the bar, which suited him just fine. After eight hours of scholarly debate, he despised the Constitution and those who taught it. He needed Chivas in his veins, and after two doubles on the rocks he was feeling better. He watched himself in the mirror behind the rows of liquor, and in the distance over his shoulder he watched and waited for Gavin Verheek. Small wonder his friend couldn't cut it in private practice, where life depended upon the clock.

When the third double was served, an hour and eleven minutes after 7 P.M., Verheek strolled to the bar and ordered a Moosehead.

"Sorry I'm late," he said as they shook hands. "I knew you'd appreciate the extra time alone with your Chivas."

"You look tired," Callahan said as he inspected him. Old and tired. Verheek was aging badly and gaining weight. His forehead had grown an inch since their last visit, and his pale skin highlighted the heavy circles under his eyes. "How much do you weigh?"

"None of your business," he said, gulping the beer. "Where's our table?"

"It's reserved for eight-thirty. I figured you would be at least ninety minutes late."

"Then I'm early."

"You could say that. Did you come from work?"

"I live at work now. The Director wants no less than a hundred hours a week until something breaks. I told my wife I'd be home for Christmas."

"How is she?"

"Fine. A very patient lady. We get along much better when I live at the office." She was wife number three in seventeen years.

"I'd like to meet her."

"No, you wouldn't. I married the first two for sex and they enjoyed it so much they shared it with others. I married this one for money and she's not much to look at. You wouldn't be impressed." He emptied the bottle. "I doubt if I can hang on until she dies."

"How old is she?"

"Don't ask. I really love her, you know. Honest. But after two years I now realize we have nothing in common but an acute awareness of the stock market." He looked at the bartender. "Another beer, please."

Callahan chuckled and sipped his drink. "How much is she worth?"

"Not nearly as much as I thought. I'm not sure really. Somewhere around five million, I think. She cleaned out husbands one and two, and I think she was attracted to me for the challenge of marrying just an average joe. That, and the sex is great, she said. They all say that, you know."

"You always picked losers, Gavin, even in law school. You're attracted to neurotic and depressed women."

"And they're attracted to me." He turned the bottle up and drained half of it. "Why do we always eat in this place?"

"I don't know. It's sort of traditional. It brings back fond memories of law school."

"We hated law school, Thomas. Everyone hates law school. Everyone hates lawyers."

"You're in a fine mood."

"Sorry. I've slept six hours since they found the bodies. The Director screams at me at least five times a day. I scream at everybody under me. It's one big brawl over there."

"Drink up, big boy. Our table's ready. Let's drink and eat and talk, and try to enjoy these few hours together."

"I love you more than my wife, Thomas. Do you know that?"

"That's not saying much."

"You're right."

"They followed the maitre d' to a small table in the corner, the same table they always requested. Callahan ordered another round, and explained they would be in no hurry to eat.

"Did you see that damned thing in the Post?" Verheek asked.

"I saw it. Who leaked it?"

"Who knows. The Director got the short list Saturday morning, hand-delivered by the President himself, with rather explicit demands about secrecy. He showed the list to no one over the weekend, then this morning the story hit with the names of Pryce and MacLawrence. Voyles went berserk when he saw it, and a few minutes later the President called. He rushed to the White House and they had a huge cuss fight. Voyles tried to attack Fletcher Coal, and had to be restrained by K. O. Lewis. Very nasty."

Callahan hung on every word. "This is pretty good."

"Yeah. I'm telling you this part because later, after a few more drinks, you'll expect me to tell you who else is on the list and I won't do it. I'm trying to be a friend, Thomas."

"Keep going."

"Anyway, there's no way the leak came from us. Impossible. It had to come from the White House. The place is full of people who hate Coal, and it's leaking like rusty pipes."

"Coal probably leaked it."

"Maybe so. He's a sleazy bastard, and one theory has him leaking Pryce and MacLawrence to scare everyone, then later announcing two nominees who appear more moderate. It sounds like something he would do."

"I've never heard of Pryce and MacLawrence."

"Join the club. They're both very young, early forties, with precious little experience on the bench. We haven't checked them out, but they appear to be radically conservative."

"And the rest of the list?"

"That was quick. Two beers down, and you've already popped the question."

"The drinks arrived.I want some of those mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat," Verheek told the waiter. "Just to munch on. I'm starving."

Callahan handed over his empty glass. "Bring me an order too."

"Don't ask again, Thomas. You may have to carry me out of here in three hours, but I'll never tell. You know that. Let's say that Pryce and MacLawrence seem to be reflective of the entire list."

"All unknowns?"

"Basically, yes."

Callahan sipped the Scotch slowly and shook his head. Verheek removed his jacket and loosened his tie. "Let's talk about women."

"No."

"How old is she?"

"Twenty-four, but very mature."

"You could be her father."

"I may be. Who knows."

"Where's she from?"

"Denver. I told you that."

"I love Western girls. They're so independent and unpretentious and they tend to wear Levis and have long legs. I may marry one. Does she have money?"

"No. Her father was killed in a plane crash four years ago and her mother got a nice settlement."

"Then she has money."

"She's comfortable."

"I'll bet she is. Do you have a photo?"

"No. She's not a grandchild or a poodle."

"Why didn't you bring a picture?"

"I'll get her to send you one. Why is this so amusing to you?"

"It's hilarious. The great Thomas Callahan, he of the disposable women, has fallen hard."

"I have not."

"It must be a record. What, nine, ten months now? You've actually maintained a steady relationship for almost a year, haven't you?"