Joe Gores - Glass Tiger

‘His name is Tuxie,’ said the zaftig blonde with the dog. ‘Because his white chest is like a tuxedo.’

‘Nice name,’ said Thorne. ‘Nice dog.’

She nodded, making golden curls jump. ‘Dogs are the best people there are,’ she said seriously.

The Hard Times Cafe was halfway up King Street from the dock. Inside, booths flanked the heavy door along the front wall, none of them occupied. Behind a deserted reception desk was a bar half-filled with drinkers on this weekday evening.

Thorne took a booth and asked for a draft beer, a bacon cheeseburger, and fries. If Johnny Doyle didn’t show, at least he’d get a chance to eat. He’d just leaned back on his bench with a sigh of repletion when a shadow loomed over him. Doyle, red-faced and disheveled, with a slight slurring of his words.

‘Thorne! What the hell are you doing here?’

Thorne got to his feet and stuck out his hand. Johnny took it. His palm was moist.

‘I was at the Georgetown Dock and saw the Old Town tour boat and jumped aboard. Let my buy you a drink.’

‘Let me get mine from the bar. I was in the can.’

He came back, half-empty glass in hand, sat down across from Thorne, and leaned confidentially across the table.

‘No crap now, Thorne, how’d you end up at the Hard Times?’

Even high, he was no fool.

‘I wanted to thank you for those phone logs.’

‘What phone logs?’ Doyle dead-panned. He motioned with his empty glass. ‘I’m shelebrating the end of my career.’

Thorne caught the waiter’s eye, made a circular gesture for refills. ‘I guess I’m not following.’

‘You heard about the president’sh barnstorming tour?’

‘It was on Fox News Channel.’

‘Full-court press. Front men out an’ everything.’

‘Hey, that’s great! Since you were a front man during—’

‘No, it’s shitty. I pissed the Old Man off just suggesting I be one of them.’ He downed half his new drink, lifted his eyes to meet Thorne’s gaze. ‘I know I drink too much, but it’sh never interfered with my work. It’sh those two pricks, Crandall and Quarles. They’re ass-lickers an’ they’re probably queer for each other an’ they’re always tellin’ the Prez I’m unreliable.’

‘I thought all three of you were with the president in Minnesota during his years as governor.’

‘Yeah. Good times. Me an’ Jaeger an’ Crandall an’ Quarles an’ Nisa...’

He shook his head. ‘Beau’ful, shmart p’litically. She an’ me usta be buds. Tol’ each other things.’

‘Why didn’t she join Wallberg’s presidential campaign?’

‘He was bangin her while he was gov’nor, ’fore an’ after she married Mather. Was Wallberg broke it off, when he shtarted his run for president. Y’know, knight errant, sittin’ up over ’is armor, regain his purity, all that shit. She was cryin’ an’ let it shlip when I asked her wha’ was wrong...’

Regaining his purity might have been what he told Nisa, but the truth would have been different: fear that the affair might be discovered under the intense, minute scrutiny any presidential candidate was subjected to by the media. Thorne realized he hadn’t been listening; Doyle was staring at him, blear-eyed.

‘Was ’nother reason, too. Our wunnerful Chief of Staff, Kurt fuckin’ Jaeger, had th’ hotsh for her. She turn’d ’m down cold, he started goin’ af’er campaign workers, lottsa complaints. Sho...’ Doyle chortled. ‘Early days o’ th’ campaign, black pimp in LA named Sharkey shtarted findin ’im black local hookersh anywhere, any time, din’t mind gettin’ beat on.’

Nothing in any of that for Thorne. He asked, ‘Why’d Nisa rejoin the campaign after Wallberg got the nomination?’

‘Couldn’ shtay ’way. Pol’tics in her blood. Draf’ed his speeshes, worked out th’ campaign shtrategy...’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Ol’ Wallberg, he foun’ out Corwin was after ’em, he dumped ’em both. Cold. C’n you b’lieve ’at? An’ they got dead. ‘Coursh mosta Wallberg’s big idealsh jus’ bullshit. While he was shtill th’ Guv he tol’ us he was shcared some guy knew somethin’ could do him outta the pres’dental nomination...’

Couldn’t have been Corwin. He and Wallberg, kids in high school together, sure. But Wallberg’s father was the mayor of Rochester — those early years were an open book. Still, if Mather heard Wallberg’s remark and thought Corwin was that threat, he might have thought Wallberg would owe him if he...

‘Was Damon Mather there the day he said that?’

‘Can’t ’member. Whatta fuck differensh it make now?’ He lurched to his feet, staggered unsteadily toward the men’s room.

Was there anything useful in all these drunken character assassinations? Yeah. Something was hidden in Wallberg’s past.

When Doyle shambled back, Thorne said, ‘Y’know, Johnny, that FBI guy, Hatfield, is sure making my job a lot harder by denying me access to the documents I need.’

‘Yeah. I ’member you ashkin’ bout th’ forensicsh an’ provenance on the murder weapon. Crime schene. Gun.’ Doyle put a finger alongside his nose. ‘Jush leave it to ol’ Johnny.’

Thorne walked him home to his apartment on Cameron Street two blocks from the Hard Times Cafe, caught the last tour boat to Georgetown at ten o’clock. He walked back to his hotel.

The watchers were on duty outside. He could almost hear their collective sigh of relief when he showed up. They hadn’t tossed his room and they probably wouldn’t tell Hatfield he’d been in the wind for almost six hours.

The next morning, Thorne got an e-mail message from Victor Blackburn on one of the hotel computers maintained for guests.

Where the hell you been the last six years or so? I’m still at Benning, getting fat and lazy. Last physical, I could muster only 75 pushups. Remember when we could do 200 of those mothers without breaking wind?

Halden Corwin. In certain circles, that pussy is a sort of legend. I would have liked to go up against him in his prime. Came from a dysfunctional family, drunken father, submissive mom. Between the lines, his old man probably beat on the boy when he was drunk.

Rochester High School, always in trouble, good at sports. He and Wallberg played hockey for a local amateur team called the Mustangs. Both graduated in June, 1965.

Wallberg went to the University of Minnesota, Corwin started Rochester junior college in September, wild-ass kid just turned 18.

New Year’s Eve, 1966, Corwin had a fatal drunken stolen-car hit-and-run accident. Judge gave him a choice: volunteer for Vietnam or serve a stiff jail-sentence for vehicular manslaughter.

He chose ’Nam. Married a girl named Terry Prescott the day before he left. Did three tours in country, the last two as a long-range sniper behind enemy lines. Exceptional behind the gun. At various times, he took out four gook officers with 1,000 yard shots.

When Vietnam ended, he came home to Terry and in ’73 they had a daughter, Nisa. But peace-time Army couldn’t hold him. In the mid-’70s he went the soldier-of-fortune route. The records are sketchy. Maybe Nigeria. Maybe Angola. Maybe the Sudan. Maybe Biafra. Maybe all of them. Maybe none. Maybe yes, maybe no, maybe bullshit.

State department tried to pull his passport, but, no proof. Dropped off the screen. No other official records I can access without other agencies knowing someone is looking. If you’re after Corwin, cream his ass. Fucker hadn’t ought to be that good. Buy me a drink sometime and tell me how it turned out.

So Corwin’s wife, Terry, had been his girlfriend when he and Wallberg were playing hockey together. Wallberg knew the wife, years later had an affair with the daughter. Creepy, but that’s all: Corwin never saw Wallberg again after he went to Vietnam.