Greenwich by Howard Fast Page A

little pisspot from Massachusetts held today? It’s bullshit, and no one’s going to think it’s anything else than bullshit. Ramoz assassinated? He walked into a speeding car, plain as day.”
    â€œThe little pisspot from Massachusetts says he was pushed.”
    â€œOh? Who pushed him?”
    Larry shrugged.
    â€œThis room is not wired,” Drummond said. “I made sure of that.”
    â€œShit,” said Larry, “The whole fuckin’ world is wired.”
    â€œThat’s no way to look at things,” Drummond said gently.
    The fat old man, Curtis, spread his hands. “Of course it’s not wired, Hugh. But Larry’s not trusting. He wouldn’t trust his own father.” And turning to Larry, “That’s a compliment, Larry,” he said. “Turn on the radio, Hugh.”
    Larry nodded. Drummond turned on the radio. He preferred classical music and kept it tuned to WETA. The three men moved closer together and spoke softly.
    â€œLarry, who did Ramoz?”
    â€œFinnegan.”
    â€œWell, no one identified him. Where is he now?”
    â€œPoor chap, he drowned.”
    â€œA sort of blessing,” Curtis said. “You don’t rat on the IRA and live happily ever after. But Larry, it was so long ago. The only thing anyone cares about today is Clinton and Monica. Maybe it will even satisfy some public opinion, at least those who knew about Ramoz living like a pasha down in Miami.”
    â€œThis, thank God,” Drummond said, “is a land with a twenty-four-hour memory. A year from now, they won’t even remember Monica. I was against the killing of the nuns and the lay workers, but the goddamned Jesuits, they had to be taught a lesson, and that goes for the bishop as well. But as Curtis says, nobody remembers and nobody gives a damn. And nobody’s left but the three of us.”
    â€œAnd Castle,” Larry said. “He was with State. He put it down on paper—and those papers are still somewhere in the archives.”
    â€œFuck Castle!” Curtis exclaimed. “He’s a little shithead and he’ll never open his mouth. He’s an investment banker in Greenwich, Connecticut. I had dinner with him once. Lives in a big house with a new wife and he brings in two million a year. He’s a happy man. Why should he do himself in?”
    â€œI don’t know why. But he knows. His signature is on soon-to-be-public documents—and to save his ass, he’ll talk.”
    â€œWho was driving the car?” Drummond asked suddenly.
    â€œI told you, Finnegan.”
    â€œWhere did you get it?” Curtis demanded.
    â€œIt was Finnegan’s car. That’s how Finnegan drowned. He’s in the car at the bottom of the bay in Florida.”
    â€œYou were a congressman—and you’re valuable. Don’t you ever think of that, Larry?”
    â€œAll the time. That’s why I’m clean.”
    For a minute or so, the three men were silent, while Beethoven’s Third Symphony filled the room with its magnificent sound. Drummond regarded Larry thoughtfully, and finally he said, “Someday I may want you to run again, Larry, and I want to keep it with the three of us. I agree with Curtis. Castle will keep his mouth shut. If we do Castle, we have the contract man, and it begins to spread.”
    â€œI’ll do it,” Larry said.
    â€œNo. It’s too damn dangerous—you’re no mechanic!”
    â€œLet me worry about that.”
    Drummond continued to stare at Larry as if he had never seen him before. Neither Larry nor Curtis spoke. Then Drummond nodded slightly, walked across the room, and clicked off the thunderous sound. “Meeting’s over.”
    Larry excused himself for a prior engagement. He had to leave immediately. Curtis and Drummond sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them staring through the big window at the Capitol. Finally, Drummond opened a humidor