Seventh Enemy by William G. Tapply Page A

fiddle with it, her short auburn hair fell like wings around her checks. She switched on the recorder and said into it, “Tuesday, May nineteenth, four forty-five P.M. I’m talking with Brady Coyne, Walt Kinnick’s lawyer.” She snapped it off, rewound it, and played it back. It sounded fine. She dug into her bag again and came up with a notebook and a pen. “Okay,” she said, “a couple questions.”
    I held up both hands. “Hey, slow down,” I said. “Do you want coffee or something?”
    “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I gotta get this story in by seven. Fill the space, you know? Survival of the vulgarest.” She grinned quickly. “So if you don’t mind, let’s get to it.”
    I smiled. “I don’t really have anything to say.”
    “About that incident at the Dunkin’ Donuts yesterday—”
    “No comment,” I said quickly.
    “Are you a member of SAFE?
    “Me?”
    She grinned. “I guess that answers my question.”
    “Who cares, anyhow?”
    “Hey,” she said. “I gotta fill the space, remember?”
    “Well,” I said. “I am a member of the ABA and Trout Unlimited and the Sierra Club. But I don’t belong to SAFE. Or the NRA. Or lots of other worthy organizations.”
    “You think they’re worthy?”
    “Who. SAFE?” I shrugged. “I don’t know much about them.”
    “Do you sympathize with them?”
    “Excuse me,” I said, “but really. Who cares about me?”
    “You’re Walt Kinnick’s lawyer.”
    I shrugged.
    “Right?” she said.
    “Yes.”
    “Are you defending him in any litigation?”
    “Come on. No comment. You know better. Really.”
    “Did you advise him on his testimony yesterday?”
    I smiled. “You obviously don’t know Willy.”
    “You’re his boyhood friend, right?”
    She had done her homework. “Yes. We went to high school together.”
    “And you and he were threatened yesterday at Dunkin’ Donuts.”
    I shook my head. “No comment, okay?”
    She jabbed her finger at her eyeglasses. “Mr. Coyne,” she said, “I don’t know what your opinion is of SAFE, but there’s a major story here and I want it.”
    “I already told you I don’t know anything about SAFE.”
    “Sure you do. They’re mobilizing against Walt Kinnick, did you know that?”
    “What have you heard?”
    “They’ve got the NRA working with them, and they’re trying to mount a boycott against the sponsors of his show. They’re investigating him. They’ve got lots of resources. Any skeletons, they’ll find them. If they can discredit him, they will. Seems obvious, if you’re his lawyer you’re going to be involved in this.”
    Skeletons. Like the fact that Willy was shacking up with a woman who was still technically married. “How do you know these things?” I said to Alexandria Shaw.
    She smiled. “It’s my job.”
    “And if they find some of these—skeletons?”
    She shrugged. “It’s the job of the newspaper to print it. And,” she added, glancing sharply up at me, “I assume it will be your job to protect him.”
    “So you want…”
    “Balance,” she said.
    “Well, I just don’t see how I can help you. I don’t know about any skeletons in Walt Kinnick’s closets, and if I did, I’d hardly tell you about them. As his friend, and especially as his lawyer, I am not the one to help you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have seen you.”
    “I’m just trying to get the whole story, Mr. Coyne. SAFE has been very forthcoming with the media.”
    “Organizations can do that. It’s trickier for individuals.”
    “When the individuals are public figures,” she said, “like Walt Kinnick, they’re fair game.” She tilted her head and grinned at me. “Hunting metaphor, huh? Fair game?” She shrugged. “Now you’re on their list. Walt Kinnick and you. If you’re not for them, you’re against them. A turncoat is the worst kind of enemy. Right? Those people are told how to think by their leadership, and that’s how they’ve been instructed to think,