so—”
“What do you mean, their list?”
“SAFE publishes a list of their so-called enemies in their newsletter. Prominent people who oppose their party line. The word is that you and Walt Kinnick will be high on their next list. How do you feel about that?”
“Flattered. Humble. Unworthy.”
She smiled quickly. “Come on, Mr. Coyne. Any comment?”
I shrugged. “I appreciate the warning, Ms. Shaw.”
“It wasn’t a warning. Just some information that’ll be in my story tomorrow. I wish you’d give me a hand with the rest of it.”
“Sorry. I can’t.”
She stared at me for a moment, then nodded. She reached into her bag and came out with a business card. She put it onto my desk. “If you change your mind, hear anything else…”
“Right,” I said. “Sure.”
“Oh, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“How can I reach Walt Kinnick?”
I shook my head. “Sorry. Can’t tell you. Privileged information.”
She smiled. “Didn’t think so.” She snapped off the tape recorder and stuffed it into her bag. Her notebook followed it. She stood up and held out her hand to me. “Thanks,” she said.
Her grip was firm. She actually shook my hand. “I’m afraid I wasn’t much help,” I said.
“Everything helps,” she said. “You’d he surprised.”
I spent Wednesday doggedly trying to clear enough odds and ends on my desk to appease my conscience so that I wouldn’t feel compelled to lug my briefcase to Fenwick. Julie, of course, would pack it up for me, as she did every day, and I’d dutifully take it home with me when I left the office. I’d prop it against the inside of the door to my apartment, the way I always did, so I wouldn’t forget to take it back to the office with me.
But I wasn’t going to bring the damn thing on my fishing trip. Briefcases and fly rods don’t belong in the same car together.
So I skipped lunch and stayed at the office until nearly eight and felt wonderfully masochistic and virtuous. I was a man who had earned a few days of trout fishing.
That evening I assembled my gear, not an easy task since I found it scattered all around my apartment. My fly rods were in their aluminum tubes in the back of my bedroom closet. My waders lay rumpled in the corner of the living room. I found my reels on the bottom shelf of the linen closet. I discovered fly boxes on my desk, in the kitchen cabinet with the canned soup, in the drawer of my bedside table.
I nearly abandoned the search for my favorite fishing hat, the stained and faded Red Sox cap that my friend Eddie Donagan, the one-time Sox pitcher, had given me. It was studded with bedraggled flies, each of which had caught me a memorable fish, and I needed it for luck. I finally found it in the last place I expected—hanging on a hook in the front closet.
When I got all the stuff assembled, it looked as if I had enough equipment for a two-month African safari. When I got it packed in my car there certainly wouldn’t be any room for a clunky old briefcase.
I showered, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed. I started to turn off the light, then changed my mind. I picked up the phone on the bedside table and pecked out the familiar Wellesley number.
It rang five times before Gloria mumbled, “Hello?”
“Sorry. You sleeping?”
“Oh. Brady. No.”
“Busy?”
“Not really.”
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.
“I said I wasn’t busy.”
“You said, ‘Not really.’”
“That means no.”
“Well, but you said, ‘Not really.’ What did you mean, ‘Not really,’ if you didn’t mean you really were busy?”
“Brady, dammit, do you always have to cross-examine me? You don’t have to play lawyer with me. If I was busy, I would’ve said I was busy. Okay?”
I sighed. “Okay.”
I heard Gloria sigh, too. “Shit, anyway,” she said.
“I’m sorry.
“Yeah. Fine.
“Everything okay?”
“Except for Perry Mason phone calls, fine.”
“Well, good.”
“That why you
“What do you mean, their list?”
“SAFE publishes a list of their so-called enemies in their newsletter. Prominent people who oppose their party line. The word is that you and Walt Kinnick will be high on their next list. How do you feel about that?”
“Flattered. Humble. Unworthy.”
She smiled quickly. “Come on, Mr. Coyne. Any comment?”
I shrugged. “I appreciate the warning, Ms. Shaw.”
“It wasn’t a warning. Just some information that’ll be in my story tomorrow. I wish you’d give me a hand with the rest of it.”
“Sorry. I can’t.”
She stared at me for a moment, then nodded. She reached into her bag and came out with a business card. She put it onto my desk. “If you change your mind, hear anything else…”
“Right,” I said. “Sure.”
“Oh, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“How can I reach Walt Kinnick?”
I shook my head. “Sorry. Can’t tell you. Privileged information.”
She smiled. “Didn’t think so.” She snapped off the tape recorder and stuffed it into her bag. Her notebook followed it. She stood up and held out her hand to me. “Thanks,” she said.
Her grip was firm. She actually shook my hand. “I’m afraid I wasn’t much help,” I said.
“Everything helps,” she said. “You’d he surprised.”
I spent Wednesday doggedly trying to clear enough odds and ends on my desk to appease my conscience so that I wouldn’t feel compelled to lug my briefcase to Fenwick. Julie, of course, would pack it up for me, as she did every day, and I’d dutifully take it home with me when I left the office. I’d prop it against the inside of the door to my apartment, the way I always did, so I wouldn’t forget to take it back to the office with me.
But I wasn’t going to bring the damn thing on my fishing trip. Briefcases and fly rods don’t belong in the same car together.
So I skipped lunch and stayed at the office until nearly eight and felt wonderfully masochistic and virtuous. I was a man who had earned a few days of trout fishing.
That evening I assembled my gear, not an easy task since I found it scattered all around my apartment. My fly rods were in their aluminum tubes in the back of my bedroom closet. My waders lay rumpled in the corner of the living room. I found my reels on the bottom shelf of the linen closet. I discovered fly boxes on my desk, in the kitchen cabinet with the canned soup, in the drawer of my bedside table.
I nearly abandoned the search for my favorite fishing hat, the stained and faded Red Sox cap that my friend Eddie Donagan, the one-time Sox pitcher, had given me. It was studded with bedraggled flies, each of which had caught me a memorable fish, and I needed it for luck. I finally found it in the last place I expected—hanging on a hook in the front closet.
When I got all the stuff assembled, it looked as if I had enough equipment for a two-month African safari. When I got it packed in my car there certainly wouldn’t be any room for a clunky old briefcase.
I showered, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed. I started to turn off the light, then changed my mind. I picked up the phone on the bedside table and pecked out the familiar Wellesley number.
It rang five times before Gloria mumbled, “Hello?”
“Sorry. You sleeping?”
“Oh. Brady. No.”
“Busy?”
“Not really.”
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.
“I said I wasn’t busy.”
“You said, ‘Not really.’”
“That means no.”
“Well, but you said, ‘Not really.’ What did you mean, ‘Not really,’ if you didn’t mean you really were busy?”
“Brady, dammit, do you always have to cross-examine me? You don’t have to play lawyer with me. If I was busy, I would’ve said I was busy. Okay?”
I sighed. “Okay.”
I heard Gloria sigh, too. “Shit, anyway,” she said.
“I’m sorry.
“Yeah. Fine.
“Everything okay?”
“Except for Perry Mason phone calls, fine.”
“Well, good.”
“That why you
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