our offices in Boston tomorrow morning.”
“I—tomorrow?” Danny paused. “Sure, that’s fine. What time?”
“Say, eleven. And it won’t take more than half an hour. Just some routine questions for the press release and forms and what have you. I know this is terribly last-minute, but if it’s at all possible . . .”
“Sure,” Danny said. “No problem.”
“Wonderful,” Mr. Yeager said. “We’re all excited to meet you. I’m a big fan of your Kennedy book, by the way.”
“So you’re the one,” Danny said, one of his standard jokes.
Mr. Yeager chuckled, and gave directions. “One last thing,” he said. “I need to ask you to keep all this confidential until the official announcement. The government, you know.”
When he hung up, Abby said, “What was that all about?”
“Some—government committee,” he said. “They want my input on who gets put on postage stamps.” He shrugged.
Maybe the old saying was right: Good news really did come in bunches.
When it rains, it pours.
13
T he next morning, Danny wrote more than he had in a year. He was on fire. His fingers flew at the keyboard, the sentences spewing out of him like tape out of one of those old stock tickers. By the time he stopped, at a few minutes after noon, he’d written eighteen pages.
It was that drink with Galvin that did it.
The way Galvin had talked about how those snooty blue-blood types had looked down on his money. Galvin, the plumber’s son who’d made a fortune, thought of himself as an outsider and always would.
Something had flicked a switch in his brain, because he finally understood Jay Gould. The problem had been that he didn’t like his subject. Because he didn’t quite understand him. But Gould was no worse, really, than any of the other business titans of his time. He gave to charity, gave money to his employees and to all sorts of people in need. He just didn’t publicize it. Jay Gould’s career was your classic rags-to-riches story. He was born on a farm in upstate New York and went to New York City with five dollars in his pocket. After he hit it big, the newspapers of the time trashed him, and he didn’t bother to defend himself. He let his enemies write his biography. That was his strategic blunder.
Buzzing with satisfaction, Danny called a taxi and got a ride to downtown Boston, to the big ugly building called One Center Plaza, where the stamp commission had its offices, along with a bunch of other government agencies. He got there fifteen minutes early. He had his laptop with him in a shoulder bag, in case he needed to do some work.
The offices were on the second floor. There was no sign on the door, just a number: 322. The gray wall-to-wall carpeting was soiled, a large blob of a stain at the threshold of the office door.
A pretty young African American secretary was sitting at a cheap-looking government-issue L-shaped mahogany-laminate reception desk. She smiled and held up an index finger to signal she’d be with him shortly. After a minute or so she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. . . . Goodman, right?”
He nodded, smiled.
“Would you like to have a seat? I’ll let them know you’re here.”
He sat in one of a row of chairs against one wall under the DEA seal, which showed a stylized eagle’s head in gold on black. Most Wanted posters lined the walls, offering MONETARY AWARDS for MAJOR TRAFFICKE RS .
About two minutes later, she said, “He’ll be right out.”
The door to the inner offices opened and a squat, slump-shouldered man in an ill-fitting navy suit emerged. He had a large bald head a size too big for his body, almost no neck, and a fringe of wispy gray hair that reached his collar. With his thin downturned mouth, he vaguely resembled a frog. He had a bristly mustache and a face that bore the scars of serious teenage acne. He wore steel-rimmed bifocals and looked to be around fifty.
“Mr. Goodman, thank you for coming,” the man said. “I’m sorry to keep you
“I—tomorrow?” Danny paused. “Sure, that’s fine. What time?”
“Say, eleven. And it won’t take more than half an hour. Just some routine questions for the press release and forms and what have you. I know this is terribly last-minute, but if it’s at all possible . . .”
“Sure,” Danny said. “No problem.”
“Wonderful,” Mr. Yeager said. “We’re all excited to meet you. I’m a big fan of your Kennedy book, by the way.”
“So you’re the one,” Danny said, one of his standard jokes.
Mr. Yeager chuckled, and gave directions. “One last thing,” he said. “I need to ask you to keep all this confidential until the official announcement. The government, you know.”
When he hung up, Abby said, “What was that all about?”
“Some—government committee,” he said. “They want my input on who gets put on postage stamps.” He shrugged.
Maybe the old saying was right: Good news really did come in bunches.
When it rains, it pours.
13
T he next morning, Danny wrote more than he had in a year. He was on fire. His fingers flew at the keyboard, the sentences spewing out of him like tape out of one of those old stock tickers. By the time he stopped, at a few minutes after noon, he’d written eighteen pages.
It was that drink with Galvin that did it.
The way Galvin had talked about how those snooty blue-blood types had looked down on his money. Galvin, the plumber’s son who’d made a fortune, thought of himself as an outsider and always would.
Something had flicked a switch in his brain, because he finally understood Jay Gould. The problem had been that he didn’t like his subject. Because he didn’t quite understand him. But Gould was no worse, really, than any of the other business titans of his time. He gave to charity, gave money to his employees and to all sorts of people in need. He just didn’t publicize it. Jay Gould’s career was your classic rags-to-riches story. He was born on a farm in upstate New York and went to New York City with five dollars in his pocket. After he hit it big, the newspapers of the time trashed him, and he didn’t bother to defend himself. He let his enemies write his biography. That was his strategic blunder.
Buzzing with satisfaction, Danny called a taxi and got a ride to downtown Boston, to the big ugly building called One Center Plaza, where the stamp commission had its offices, along with a bunch of other government agencies. He got there fifteen minutes early. He had his laptop with him in a shoulder bag, in case he needed to do some work.
The offices were on the second floor. There was no sign on the door, just a number: 322. The gray wall-to-wall carpeting was soiled, a large blob of a stain at the threshold of the office door.
A pretty young African American secretary was sitting at a cheap-looking government-issue L-shaped mahogany-laminate reception desk. She smiled and held up an index finger to signal she’d be with him shortly. After a minute or so she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. . . . Goodman, right?”
He nodded, smiled.
“Would you like to have a seat? I’ll let them know you’re here.”
He sat in one of a row of chairs against one wall under the DEA seal, which showed a stylized eagle’s head in gold on black. Most Wanted posters lined the walls, offering MONETARY AWARDS for MAJOR TRAFFICKE RS .
About two minutes later, she said, “He’ll be right out.”
The door to the inner offices opened and a squat, slump-shouldered man in an ill-fitting navy suit emerged. He had a large bald head a size too big for his body, almost no neck, and a fringe of wispy gray hair that reached his collar. With his thin downturned mouth, he vaguely resembled a frog. He had a bristly mustache and a face that bore the scars of serious teenage acne. He wore steel-rimmed bifocals and looked to be around fifty.
“Mr. Goodman, thank you for coming,” the man said. “I’m sorry to keep you
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