Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

“Because the scenario that makes the most sense, that seems the most logical, is almost too pat,” Pace said.

“Do you doubt that scenario?” Wister asked.

Pace ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he said. “I honestly don’t know.”

Pace transcribed the quotes from Marshall that he’d scribbled hastily in his bedside notebook. Then he placed calls to the members of the Ethics Committee. He’d finished the last call when his phone rang.

“National desk. Pace.”

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Mornin’, George.”

“I’ve developed a problem,” Ridley said. “I need a news fix a couple times a day. I don’t seem to be able to wait for the next morning’s paper lately.”

Pace smiled. “What’s your point?”

“I figure you owe me lunch, and I could pick your brains about what’s happening behind the scenes. Strictly off the record, of course. I just like to keep up.”

“I guess I do owe you lunch by now,” Pace acknowledged. “There’s a great Japanese sushi place on Twentieth, between L and K. Wanna try it?”

“I like my sushi fried.”

Pace smiled. “Why did I figure that? How about Mr. K’s?”

“Your nickel? That’s a little pricey for me.”

“The paper’s nickel.”

“One o’clock.”

“See you there.”

They were seated off the main room of the huge, ornate Chinese restaurant at 21st and K Streets. It was unlike any Chinese restaurant Pace had ever experienced. The kitchen took traditional dishes, turned them into gourmet dining, and charged appropriately high prices. This was no wonton-and-fortune-cookie joint. This was strictly uptown.

Pace and Ridley each ordered a beer, and the reporter began scanning the multipage menu. Ridley’s lay unopened on his serving plate.

“You’re not eating?” Pace asked, joking.

“You know better,” said Ridley. “I’m having pressed duck.”

Pace glanced down the list of fowl entrees. “I don’t see it here.”

“It’s never on the menu. You have to know to ask for it.”

When the waiter showed up, Ridley asked.

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said. “It is $24.95.”

Pace almost choked on his beer. “You ain’t no cheap date,” he said.

“And you wouldn’t love me if I were,” Ridley replied.

“I suppose you want all the courses, too?” Pace asked.

“Of course. I would wish this to be a culinary high point in my year.”

“I thought PBJ on Wonder Bread was your thing.”

“I’ve had worse.”

While they waited for their food, Pace extracted an oath of silence from the Senate aide and filled him in on developments in the Parkhall disappearance. When he reached the part about the kids finding the body, Ridley demurred.

“Spare me while I’m eating.”

They made small talk and traded theories about Marshall and the fake-bird evidence in the C-Fan. Generally, Pace learned nothing new.

But lunch was great, even though the bill came to nearly $75.

Before the tip.

They emerged into the bright afternoon sun, and Pace said he would walk back to his office. It was too nice a day for a taxi.

“Why’nt you come up to the Hill with me?” Ridley asked.

“I’ve got work to do, George. Maybe another time.”

“It’d be worth your while, I think.”

“Why?”

“Gary wants to see you.”

“Gary?”

“Helmutsen, the chairman. Remember him?”

“Oh, I don’t think of him as Gary. What does he want with me?”

“Dunno. But he said it was important.”

“Is he in?” Ridley asked as he walked past the senator’s secretary.

She nodded. “He’s been waiting for you.”

Pace and Ridley pushed through the high door into Garrison Helmutsen’s inner sanctum, a dark, walnut-paneled office overburdened with huge mounted fish, pictures of famous people catching fish, fishing trophies, fishing magazines, cutesie fish sayings carved into rough-hewn slabs of wood, and two large framed posters of Minnesota lakes with bass breaking water.

“You do much fishing, Senator?” Pace asked as the two shook hands.

Helmutsen smiled. “When I can,” he replied. “Had more time for it when the Republicans were running the Senate. Almost too bad we took it back. Don’t repeat that. I’ll deny I said it.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, sir,” Pace replied as he sat down in an overstuffed leather chair indicated by Helmutsen. “George said you wanted to see me.”

Helmutsen nodded, and his blond hair swayed on his head. Nobody would mistake him for anything but Scandinavian, even one who didn’t know his name. He had a reputation as a hayseed; he both looked and acted the part. He tended to be quiet and not very forceful.

“As you can imagine, I’ve been reading your stories with a great deal of interest, particularly your stories about my esteemed colleague from Ohio,” Helmutsen said.

“I understand you and he are great friends,” Pace said with a straight face.

It was Helmutsen who chuckled. “What we have is great,” he said. “I would not describe it as friendship.”

“And what can I do for you?”

“It’s what I can do for you.” He paused, as if considering something very weighty. “Mr. Pace, I know I am reputed to be one of the Senate’s lesser lights. I don’t pretend to be a great statesman; I don’t even aspire to it. But I am not stupid. And I can only be pushed so far. Harold Marshall has exceeded even my great capacity for tolerance.

“As you probably know, I attended the University of Minnesota. During four very happy years there, I became close friends with another student, named Archer Smith. We were fraternity brothers, classmates, roommates, and nearly inseparable. I introduced him to the woman who became his wife. He told me he owed me a huge favor for that, and I should stash it away until the day came when I really needed something only he could provide. Then I went off to law school and he enrolled in graduate school and got a master’s degree in criminal justice. He’s now a special agent with the FBI.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Pace asked.

Helmutsen hefted a thin sheaf of papers encased in a black-plastic cover. “A couple of days ago when Harold Marshall was putting enormous pressure on me to investigate Ken Sachs—for no good reason apparent to me, I might add—I began wondering about my colleague’s motives. When I read your story on his Converse stock transactions, I began wondering what he’d done with all that money. I went to Arch and called in that favor.”

“After all these years?” Pace asked, incredulous.

Helmutsen nodded. He tossed the papers on his desk and they slid across to the edge, where Pace could reach them. The reporter left them untouched for the moment.

“I gather this isn’t something Senator Marshall would want made public?” he asked.

“I don’t think so, no,” Helmutsen replied.

“Why don’t you give it to the Ethics Committee?”

“Because I’m not at all certain the Ethics Committee has the balls to stand up to Marshall. If it doesn’t, this story will never get out, and I want it out.”

Pace cleared his throat. “I’m intrigued as hell, Senator, but I’m a little uneasy about acting as the vehicle for your vengeance.”

“I’m offering you what I think is a legitimate news story,” Helmutsen said, showing no anger at Pace’s challenge. “If you don’t think so, I can still offer this to the Ethics Committee. The choice is yours, really.”

Pace reached out and picked up the packet as though he thought it would burn his fingers. It was a confidential FBI report with a covering letter from Archer Smith.