Red White and Black and Blue - Stevenson Richard (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации сокращений .txt) 📗

And I knew Greg and wished him well."

"Were you in Albany when Greg died?"

"No, I'd moved up here in January. I heard about it from friends. I cried. Which I don't do very often. I learned a long time ago how not to."

"Some people who knew Greg think Louderbush somehow drove him to suicide."

A little sigh. "It doesn't work that way. Greg was a grown-up."

"But pretty unhappy, according to two neighbors of his. He was more ambivalent about the abusive relationship he was in than you are about yours."

"You think I'm not ambivalent?"

"I was getting the impression you find it fulfilling."

"Yes and no. That's called ambivalence, I believe."

"Okay."

"Anyway, Greg was not the type to commit suicide."

"There's a type?"

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"I mean only that he had quite a muscular ego. He believed in his ideas and he believed in himself. The need to be abused was an important part of Greg's makeup—I assume it had to do with his home life growing up, though I really know nothing about that—but being kicked and hit was not central to his spiritual existence. There was plenty else about him that was sturdy in a conventional way. I really thought he would go on to be successful as a conservative writer and teacher—probably show up on Fox and maybe write speeches for people like Kenyon. That he would just throw all that away seemed so out of character. Greg was somebody who saw a future with him in it. But, as I say, I wasn't all that close to Greg, so maybe there were other demons I never knew about."

"What do you think of Louderbush's candidacy for governor?"

"I wish him Godspeed. Maybe he'll win and break the Senate Democratic leadership's nose. They've had it coming for years."

"I'm working for the Shy McCloskey campaign. We want to expose Louderbush as a closeted gay man who beats up his gay lovers and isn't fit to hold public office."

An eyebrow went up, though only just perceptibly. "I thought that might be what you were up to."

"Would you be willing to sign a statement describing your relationship with Louderbush, including the abuse?"

"Of course not."

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"You don't see this history of his as a character flaw so serious that it precludes his being in charge of, say, state mental health programs?"

"What do you think a Governor Louderbush would do?

Subsidize gay guys beating up their boyfriends? I wouldn't worry about that. Kenyon is a libertarian. He thinks government should mind its own business. And maybe you should, too."

"Did Louderbush have other gay lovers he abused besides you and Greg?"

"I believe so. He referred to someone occasionally out in his district. Some hot number he liked to get drunk and pound on. I'm sure there had been others. But even if I knew who these men were, I wouldn't provide you with their names. That would be presumptuous on my part."

I went round and round with Spong for another fifteen minutes—we both kept a close eye on our watches—but I finally had to accept the near certainty that he would be no help at all in exposing Louderbush. He had some highly theoretical idea in his head as to what it would be like to live normally, but it was so far outside his experience that he simply had no objection to anybody else's making intimate human connections primarily through violence.

At a quarter to five, I said, "You're looking apprehensive. I guess I had better get going."

"Thank you, yes. My pulse rate is up. I can actually feel my heart pounding in my chest. In a way, I wish you'd stick around. This is getting exciting. The dread is palpable."

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There was no point to my telling him there were programs and yada yada. He knew all that. I thanked him and wished him well.

As I pulled out of the driveway in my rental car, an old Chevy Caprice drove by me, and in the mirror I saw it park in the spot I had just vacated in front of the carriage house. I kept on going.

* * * *

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Chapter Twenty-one

Dunphy said, "Shy wants to meet you before you see Louderbush tomorrow. Can you work it out? I know this is last minute."

I'd just gotten into my car after the flight back from Burlington and had phoned Timmy and told him I was on my way home. It was just after eight, and I was looking forward to going out for a beer and a plate of something zesty.

"Yeah, sure. You mean now?"

"Have you eaten? There's a private dining room at Da Vinci."

"Give me twenty minutes."

"Make it fifteen."

I got Timmy back and told him that instead of joining him for dinner I'd be dining with the man who might be the next governor of New York, depending on how my meeting with Kenyon Louderbush went the next morning.

Timmy said, "You're a god. But be careful of your ear."

"It's good I have a spare."

"I doubt McCloskey will do much more than bend it. He's famous for that."

"Your boss has dealt with him. Any advice on how to approach McCloskey?"

"He's a fairly honest guy, and more or less straightforward.

He's been known to put up with some dubious types on his staff, and I think he's not above Do what you have to and don't tell me about it kinds of operations. But nothing really 180

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outside the normal murky parameters of American political functioning. Also, he's a good liberal overall and a nice guy.

Just be up front with him, and you two will hit it off."

"But aren't I one of those dubious types? Should I tell him stories about how I go about my business? Will he be charmed, or will he get up and run out of the room?"

"I wouldn't necessarily go into specifics."

"In the last couple of days I've impersonated a memorial scholarship organizer, a federal agent and a producer for BBC

America. I shouldn't regale him? Old Irish pols love a good story."

"No. And whatever you do, don't say anything about Bud Giannopolous. Senator McCloskey mustn't know about him, and for that matter neither should Tom Dunphy. I'm certainly sorry I know more than I should about this criminal. I'm probably borderline culpable."

"I'm making a note." I thought, but didn't add, What I am dealing with here is a mild paranoiac educated by Jesuits.

Da Vinci was a relic of Old Albany, a downtown red sauce joint with frayed white linen and potted ferns where pols and judges once rubbed elbows with gangsters. The thugs had long since been replaced with the paid representatives of business and professional organizations who brandished not gats but checkbooks. A doddering maitre d' led me past the scattering of occupied tables and through a doorway in the rear of the restaurant. Then he went out again, shutting the door behind him.

"Don Strachey, I've heard so much about you! We meet at last. What a pleasure."

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