My Honorable Brother Page 8

  When Jenna didn’t immediately respond, he continued. “But it’s like a maze up there, and you’ve got to learn the territory. Callum’s a good teacher. He knows all the players and all the cat and mouse games that go on. Spending some time with him will help you figure out the best way to skin each cat. When you get into it, you may even get to like it.” He stopped talking and continued to watch her. After several seconds he added, “In fact, I’ll bet you will.”

  Richardson was stunned. She never once, in four years at the Herald, even thought about reporting the political scene. It was distasteful to her, a “Yuk” in her vocabulary. Her dislike for politics had deep roots. She was nine years old when Nixon resigned and would never forget her father watching the drama on television. She readily pictured him raising his voice above the President’s as he leaned toward the screen. “That son of a bitch, they ought to shoot the dirty son of a bitch.”

  Jenna was raised in Brockton, a blue collar town in Massachusetts that consistently gave the Democratic candidate the vast majority of its support. The Bay State was the only state in the country in which Nixon couldn’t claim victory when his reelection campaign rolled over George McGovern in 1972. She was the youngest of Bill and Deborah Richardson’s three children, the apple of her father’s eye. He spent two years in baseball’s lower minor leagues before throwing in the towel, but his athletic genes all went to Jenna, who starred in softball, basketball and tennis in high school and college. Her love for the Red Sox matched his, and she accompanied him to Fenway Park on occasional Sundays during the baseball season.

  Jenna’s bond with her father was strong, and many of his opinions became hers. Listening to him, she grew up distrustful of politicians. Although she followed their comings and goings in the news, she never worked in a political campaign, wore any candidate’s button or put an election-inspired bumper sticker on her car. In her view, politicians were just a necessary evil. They were willing to sell their souls with the promises they made. If they never delivered on those promises, so what? Getting elected was all that mattered, and then putting themselves first on whatever agenda they drew up. She certainly didn’t want to get to know any of them.

  McMurphy’s words and his look made Jenna realize that avoiding the assignment was probably impossible. But she felt she still had to fight back, test him, make every effort she could to get out of it. She had folded her arms in front of her after her initial outburst. She kept them that way and leaned forward slightly in her chair when she answered.

  “There aren’t going to be any big stories in this election, Dan. You know that as well as I do. Spence Hardiman had a good first term. He’s going back to the Senate for another six years. The Democrats don’t have anyone who could get thirty-five percent of the votes against him. That means John Sacco stays right where he is and goes for another term in the governor’s office. Everyone’s in love with ‘Big John.’ Who’s going to want to run for his job? Do you think you’ll see another car dealer like Ed McGurty step out of the wings? Do the Democrats have someone else willing to throw a pile of money into another futile campaign just to advertise his business? Great! I’m sure no one will want to miss a word he has to say. Especially if he talks about pre-owned cars.”

  Richardson paused long enough to let the sarcasm sink in. “It’s a dead scene, and you know it. The challengers don’t have a chance. There won’t even be a contest for the two House seats. From everything I’ve read, Williston has impressed the voters in her first two years in Congress. Besides, this is another year of the woman. She’ll win easier than last time. And Droney’s got too much influence in Washington now to get beat. He’ll promise more jobs and less taxes in every speech he makes, just like he always does. Before the election, he’ll bring in Ted Kennedy and a few others to tell us how much he’s done for Rhode Island. It’s ridiculous. We’re sitting here today, in January, and we already know everyone who’ll be making a victory speech in November.” She paused again, but just for a moment this time. “I know I left out lieutenant governor. If we’re not sure who’s going to win that race, Dan, no one out there gives a good goddam anyhow.”

  Jenna was pleased with the argument she made. But she felt it was time to bolster it with another line of attack. The fact that McMurphy hadn’t tried to interrupt her was encouraging.

  “I’ve done some pretty good reporting in the last year. The Herald’s going to win one or two major awards with my story on the nursing home industry. Now everyone knows what that business is all about and who’s been minting money in it. Half a dozen different committees are working on legislation for it at the Statehouse. That’s the result of the weeks I spent putting the puzzle together.”

  She was picking up steam. “Plus there’s the story Hank and I turned in on the whole credit union mess. The rest of the media called it a ‘bombshell,’ Dan, remember? Those are the things that get our investigative team respect from the people who buy the Herald every day. That stuff affects their lives. It’s real. It’s not the phony promises that come out of the mouths of every politician. They’re ready to forget or ignore everything they said as soon as the election results are official. I’ll tell you what I think, Dan. I think giving me this new assignment is the same as asking me to write off the whole year.”

  Her last words drove McMurphy out of his chair. He walked over to the conference table, crossed his arms in front of him and looked up at the ceiling as if seeking guidance from above. After half a minute or so he returned to his desk and sat down before saying a word. “Listen to me, Jenna. If I agreed with how you see this election year, I wouldn’t be telling you to do this. I wouldn’t waste your talent. You’ve done terrific work and you’ve sold plenty of papers. But everything in this fat gut of mine tells me you’re wrong.

  “There’s a calm before the storm out there, and I can feel it. Don’t ask me how. Twenty years from now you’ll be sitting in an editor’s chair and you’ll know what I mean. It grows on you. Call it experience, call it intuition or anything you want. I’m in my sailboat on a calm sea and there’s blue sky all around me. But there’s a wind I can feel beginning to pick up from the northeast and it’s making me nervous. It’s warning me that trouble’s on the way. So now I’ve got to react, know what I mean? I have to make sure I’m on top of things if there’s going to be a storm. It’s the same thing with this political scene. Things are going to happen in the next ten months—I can feel it in my bones—that you’ll regret not covering if you’re doing something else. I really believe that.”

  He went over to where she was sitting and offered his hand. She reached out and let him pull her up. “So I’m glad you’ve agreed,” he said. “You’re going to thank me for this before it’s over. But if I’m wrong, you’ll never have to listen to this speech again, I promise.”

  Jenna let him see her frustration. “I don’t believe this is happening to me. What did I do to disturb the great newspaper gods in the sky?” She turned and headed for the door.

  “Jenna,” Dan called, still standing by the chair.

  She stopped and looked at him.

  “If you do a real good job on this, I’ll speak to Al Silvano and see if he’ll let you cover the Bruins. They’ve got the healthiest looking locker room in the city.” He gave her an exaggerated wink.

  10

  TERRY REARDON GAVE THE bell in the foyer two short rings and then one long one. Moments later the buzzer sounded and he was able to open the front door. Once inside, he quickly climbed the stairs to the third floor condominium Jenna Richardson rented from its owner.

  Jenna had called him in the office to break their date. Something was bothering her, she said, and she didn’t want to talk about it on the phone. He kept insisting on coming over to her place until she finally gave in.

  Reardon had dined with Jenna earlier in the week. It was the night before she left for Charlestown Beach to check out a tip that a resort hotel was operating as a brothel during the slow winter months. They went to the Tw
in Oaks in Cranston, a favorite among Herald employees. The fact that it was always crowded and noisy pleased them. Jenna was in a terrific mood all evening. They laughed at one thing or another for the hour they sat in the cocktail lounge waiting for a table, and all through a leisurely meal. But Terry was expected home at a certain time that night, so they smooched in the parking lot for a while and agreed to see each other at her apartment later in the week.

  Ascending the last fourteen steps, Reardon reminded himself that there was no sign of anything troubling her then, and concluded that something happened in the interim. Whatever it was, he had no intention of letting it keep him from getting laid that night.

  They met for the first time in September, a little more than four months earlier. The cafeteria at the Herald was unusually crowded for lunch that day. Reardon took the last seat at a table for eight, across from a couple of reporters he knew. The conversation, as usual, was hot and heavy about the latest breaking stories. At the end of the table, someone started to bait him about another reporter who was terminated, with Terry’s blessing, for excessive absenteeism. The reporter’s appeal of his discharge was scheduled for arbitration in three weeks. As Vice President for Labor and Employment, it was Reardon’s job to assist the Company’s lawyer in putting management’s case together and preparing its witnesses.

  Ron Lucas was the one raising the issue. “No one who’s legitimately ill should ever be let go,” he said. To be certain he had everyone’s attention, Lucas banged his fist on the table for emphasis. He was the newspaper’s senior financial page copy editor. It was clear, almost immediately, that the view he expressed was also the consensus of most of those at the table. Reardon remained silent. He had no intention of being drawn into an argument with the group. But before the issue gave way to another topic of discussion, the Herald’s position was defended by a nice-looking blonde at the table. She was someone Terry saw in the building from time to time but never met.

  “If he can’t come to work and do what he’s supposed to do, why blame the paper?” she asked. “If he’s got all kinds of problems that keep him out months at a time from one year to the next, is that the Herald’s fault? News happens every day, not just when he can be here to report it. I think the Company had a perfect right to let him go.”

  Reardon was all smiles. He ignored the start of Lucas’s immediate rebuttal. “Will someone please introduce me to this spokesman, I mean spokesperson, for enlightened justice” he said.

  Someone did, and he took the seat next to Richardson as soon as it became empty. He learned that she went to work in the newsroom just after he was promoted out of his former job as Labor Relations Manager. That explained why he wasn’t the one to take her through the Company’s orientation program. “I would have turned down the promotion if I knew getting it would make me have to wait all this time to meet you,” he told her. Jenna loved it.

  Terry Reardon chased skirts. Everyone knew that, and he made no effort to hide it. Sex was a big thing in his life. He enjoyed both the pursuit and the fruits of victory. It was something in his genes, not a game he played because he was unhappy at home. Married fifteen years, with three children, he did most of the things a father of preteen-agers was supposed to do to hold on to his “hero” status with them.

  Reardon’s wife suspected his infidelity but never had any evidence with which to confront him. At some point in their marriage she decided that it made little sense to keep looking for any. She hoped only to be spared the discovery of some ladies underwear in the glove compartment of his Ford Escort, or some other obvious sign of an amorous adventure. After all, she reasoned, he was a good provider, never abused her or the children, and made love to her as often as she’d let him. Once in a while she tested him by asking for sex on a night when he called with an excuse for staying out late, but when he got home and into bed, he seemed delighted to satisfy her each time.

  Richardson also learned of Reardon’s reputation early on. She agreed to have dinner with him in downtown Providence several nights after they met. By the time he dropped her at her car in the cheap five-dollar-a-day parking lot several blocks from the Herald, she knew he was anxious to become intimate with her. He certainly wasn’t handsome, Jenna told herself, but she was amused by him. And there was an attraction in the freckled face with the large pointy ears that gave him the look of a grown-up boy whom Norman Rockwell might have chosen for one of his paintings.

  Do I want this, she wondered, or is it too close to home?

  During the next few days Richardson asked some friends at work about Reardon. What came back in their descriptions of him were the words “womanizer,” “Don Juan,” and “lecher.” She was given the names of several women, still employed at the Herald, with whom Terry was openly friendly in the past. But everyone called him “a nice guy” and “fun to be around.”

  Reardon’s marriage wasn’t a problem for her. She dated other married men in the past and figured they could play a role in her life until “Mister Right” came along. In the meantime, she liked having a good time and feeling the strong arms of a man around her when she needed to unwind.

  Besides, Jenna respected him for the fact that he always wore his wedding band. Unlike others, he never intimated that he was having “trouble” of any sort at home. On their third date she gave him a long preview of the story she just finished writing which McMurphy scheduled to start running in the paper on Sunday. Terry listened attentively and applauded her work. Afterwards, she invited him to her apartment for some coffee. He had two cups, with cream and sugar, when they finished making love.

  * * *

  Jenna opened the door just as Reardon reached the top landing. He went in, kissed her on the lips and smiled. “Now tell me what’s so bad that it could have kept us from getting under the covers,” he said.

  She wanted to smile herself. Instead, she gave him a feigned look of disgust. “You men are all alike,” she said. She took his hand, led him to her small living room and moved inside his arms. “I need a hug, right now,” she whispered.

  Terry held her close to him for a while, saying nothing, and kissed the side of her neck several times. When he let her go, he leaned forward and kissed her very gently, first around her eyes, then on her cheeks and nose. She found his lips, embraced him again and kissed him hard.

  “Okay,” Terry said when she started to move away, “no more free love until you let me know what’s wrong.” He was determined to keep things light.

  They sat down on the sofa and she related everything Dan McMurphy said to her that afternoon. Jenna complained again that the whole year would be wasted. “Maybe a lot of other people in the newsroom would kill for that assignment, but I’d like to kill him for choosing me.”

  Reardon’s instincts prevailed. He got up, slipped off his jacket and threw it on the wicker chair across from the couch. He undid the knot in his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. Taking the wide end of the tie in his hand, he made a show of pulling it off. As he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, he exaggerated the movement of his fingers around each button.

  “Terry, what are you doing?” Jenna was giggling as she asked the question.

  He knew things were going well. This was fun for both of them.

  “I’ve listened to your story, ma’am,” he answered. “As I understand it, you want to be an investigative reporter and to hell with writing about politics. But you’ve got an enemy out there. You’re in danger, ma’am, no doubt about it.” Terry started to speak from deep in his throat: “I can see that this is a job … for Superman.” He smiled. “Just hold on a second, ma’am,” he continued, “I’m changing into my costume.” His shirt was off. He tensed the muscle in his right arm and acted as if it would take a great feat of strength to undo the belt on his trousers. He grabbed one end of it and pretended to pull at it violently before achieving his goal. He followed up by patting his left shoulder, as if congratulating himself on his success. Terry looked over at Jenna. She was laughing and e
njoying the performance immensely. He quickly kicked off his loafers, stepped out of his pants and threw them on the chair with his other clothes.

  “Now I’m ready for action,” he announced.

  “What are you going to do to McMurphy dressed like that?” Jenna asked. She had raised her legs up onto the couch.

  “McMurphy will have to wait. First I must help a damsel in distress.”

  Terry went back to the couch and moved Jenna’s left leg over to give himself room to sit down. He unbuttoned the flap of her jeans at the waist and yanked the zipper down quickly. He took hold of them at her ankles and began pulling them off. As he did, he let out an exaggerated series of grunts. Jenna laughed louder and put her head down on a pillow in the corner of the sofa so the jeans would slip off easier. Moments later, Terry removed her underpants.

  “We’re almost out of danger, ma’am. Do you want to fly with that sweater on or off?”

  “I’ll leave it on until we get to someplace a little warmer, Superman.”

  “Okay then, time for you to hold on to me tight.” He took off his shorts, lay down on the couch and coaxed her on top of him. “Here we go, ma’am, up, up and away.”

  11

  IT WAS ONE HELL of an interesting morning, Doug Fiore told himself. He sat alone at an umbrella-topped table in the lobby of the Spalding Bank building. At 2:15 he came out of the coffee shop where he purchased a cup of chicken soup and half a tuna sandwich for lunch. The umbrellas were there just to provide atmosphere, but the foot traffic going by gave the occupants of the several tables the feeling they were relaxing at a small cafe on the Via Venetto or the Champs Elysee. He took advantage of it to do some serious girl watching.