is, my son had dirt on Ducky Medwick."
Ducky Medwick? I tried not to let my astonishment show. "Uh-huh," I said noncommittally.
"So he leaned on Ducky, and Ducky leaned on the county chairmen, and that's how my son got endorsed for Congress."
"What dirt did your son have on Ducky?"
He lifted his shoulders. "Can't tell you. I asked, but he never said. Must have been awful big, though," Hack Sr. added, with a perverse sort of pride.
I nodded in agreement, thinking: how big was it?
Big enough that Ducky would kill the Hack to shut him up?
The other thing I was thinking: if the Hack's killer was State Senate Majority Leader Ducky Medwick, then I was definitely out of my depth.
Way out.
5
I decided to drive straight down to the State Capitol and confront Ducky immediately, on the theory that if you're standing at the edge of a deep murky pool and you're nervous about sticking your little toesies in, sometimes you have to just dive. It was Andrea's turn to pick the kids up from school, so I was free until six.
I got back in my rusty '85 Toyota Camry—even though I'm rich now, I somehow can't seem to let go of my old car—and headed south on the Northway to Albany. This was a rare trip for me. Albany may be only fifty minutes from Saratoga, but I hardly ever go there. Why bother? If you've ever been to Albany, then you know what I mean.
In all fairness, though, the State Capitol itself is pretty impressive. The building is one of those glorious French Renaissance extravaganzas they used to construct back when our country wa s young and full of hope. Everywhere you look, there are high domed ceilings, marble galore, and elegant gilt-framed paintings. The front staircase is so exquisitely carved, it's been nicknamed the "Million-Dollar Staircase." As my footsteps echoed along the hallowed hallways, the grandeur was so thick it felt like an effort walking through it.
Approaching Ducky's office on the third floor, I began feeling intimidated. Ducky had already beaten me once, when he caught me snooping under the bathroom door. What if he just threw me out of his office?
So I did a trick my father once taught me to do whenever I get scared before a meeting with some bigwig. I closed my eyes and pictured Ducky sitting on the toilet with his pants around his ankles, constipated, grunting loudly as he desperately tried to poop. It's hard to feel intimidated by a guy when you're imagining him in that position.
But my psyche job was wasted this time, because Ducky wasn't in. His effi cient, gray-haired secretary informed me that he was out for the rest of the day. I asked if she knew where he was, or if he'd be in tomorrow, but she got all frosty on me.
"Who did you say you were with?" she asked, thin-lipped.
"I'm with the madmen and the dreamers," I said. She didn't crack a smile, but that was okay, I wasn't really expecting one.
I left her and was starting back downstairs when I happened to notice, on the far wall, a listing of all the third-floor offices. The "Legal Counsel to the Senate Majority"—that must be the Hack's old office—was located in Room 313. On a whim, I turned around and walked back there.
The heavy wooden door to 313 was closed. I turned the knob, opened it . . . and suddenly found myself face-to-face with naked grief. A woman—the Hack's secretary?—was packing things in a large box and crying her eyes out. She looked over at me, not trying to cover up her tears.
It was kind of refreshing. Finally, a woman who wasn't obsessed with cassero les, or with using her dead husband's name to hustle a job she wasn't qualified for.
"I'm sending his personal stuff back home," the woman said. "It's so sad."
"I'm sorry." I took a closer look at her. It didn't hurt my eyes one bit. She was in her twenties or early thirties, with bleached blonde hair—not that that's really worth mentioning, since it seems like half the white women in America have bleached blonde hair these days. She did have a shape
Ducky Medwick? I tried not to let my astonishment show. "Uh-huh," I said noncommittally.
"So he leaned on Ducky, and Ducky leaned on the county chairmen, and that's how my son got endorsed for Congress."
"What dirt did your son have on Ducky?"
He lifted his shoulders. "Can't tell you. I asked, but he never said. Must have been awful big, though," Hack Sr. added, with a perverse sort of pride.
I nodded in agreement, thinking: how big was it?
Big enough that Ducky would kill the Hack to shut him up?
The other thing I was thinking: if the Hack's killer was State Senate Majority Leader Ducky Medwick, then I was definitely out of my depth.
Way out.
5
I decided to drive straight down to the State Capitol and confront Ducky immediately, on the theory that if you're standing at the edge of a deep murky pool and you're nervous about sticking your little toesies in, sometimes you have to just dive. It was Andrea's turn to pick the kids up from school, so I was free until six.
I got back in my rusty '85 Toyota Camry—even though I'm rich now, I somehow can't seem to let go of my old car—and headed south on the Northway to Albany. This was a rare trip for me. Albany may be only fifty minutes from Saratoga, but I hardly ever go there. Why bother? If you've ever been to Albany, then you know what I mean.
In all fairness, though, the State Capitol itself is pretty impressive. The building is one of those glorious French Renaissance extravaganzas they used to construct back when our country wa s young and full of hope. Everywhere you look, there are high domed ceilings, marble galore, and elegant gilt-framed paintings. The front staircase is so exquisitely carved, it's been nicknamed the "Million-Dollar Staircase." As my footsteps echoed along the hallowed hallways, the grandeur was so thick it felt like an effort walking through it.
Approaching Ducky's office on the third floor, I began feeling intimidated. Ducky had already beaten me once, when he caught me snooping under the bathroom door. What if he just threw me out of his office?
So I did a trick my father once taught me to do whenever I get scared before a meeting with some bigwig. I closed my eyes and pictured Ducky sitting on the toilet with his pants around his ankles, constipated, grunting loudly as he desperately tried to poop. It's hard to feel intimidated by a guy when you're imagining him in that position.
But my psyche job was wasted this time, because Ducky wasn't in. His effi cient, gray-haired secretary informed me that he was out for the rest of the day. I asked if she knew where he was, or if he'd be in tomorrow, but she got all frosty on me.
"Who did you say you were with?" she asked, thin-lipped.
"I'm with the madmen and the dreamers," I said. She didn't crack a smile, but that was okay, I wasn't really expecting one.
I left her and was starting back downstairs when I happened to notice, on the far wall, a listing of all the third-floor offices. The "Legal Counsel to the Senate Majority"—that must be the Hack's old office—was located in Room 313. On a whim, I turned around and walked back there.
The heavy wooden door to 313 was closed. I turned the knob, opened it . . . and suddenly found myself face-to-face with naked grief. A woman—the Hack's secretary?—was packing things in a large box and crying her eyes out. She looked over at me, not trying to cover up her tears.
It was kind of refreshing. Finally, a woman who wasn't obsessed with cassero les, or with using her dead husband's name to hustle a job she wasn't qualified for.
"I'm sending his personal stuff back home," the woman said. "It's so sad."
"I'm sorry." I took a closer look at her. It didn't hurt my eyes one bit. She was in her twenties or early thirties, with bleached blonde hair—not that that's really worth mentioning, since it seems like half the white women in America have bleached blonde hair these days. She did have a shape
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