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Authors: Barbara Rogan
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morning to stake out a good spot, settle in, and get acquainted with their neighbors. Gallon jugs of wine circulated, and a sweet cloud of marijuana smoke lay over the meadow. She sat on the grass, legs outstretched, leaning back on her elbows. When she closed her eyes, she could see the bare-chested boys with flowing hair, the girls in Indian prints holding half-naked babies with peace signs stenciled onto their diapers. It seemed like yesterday. Where had the time gone? People stared at her, an elegant middle-aged lady in silk and high heels lolling in the grass, but for once she didn’t care.
* * *
The door marked “Jonathan Fleishman, Eastborough Democratic Leader” was usually left ajar, for the incumbent ran an open shop; but this morning’s unexpected caller had carefully closed it behind him.
“It wasn’t so much what he said,” Arthur Speigel said, “as how he said it, if you know what I mean.”
“Let’s start with what he asked.”
“He asked what the city was getting for the Rencorp lease.”
“Did you tell him?”
“What else could I do?” Speigel said. He was a pink-faced twitch of a man, with thick glasses and an air of perpetual worry. “It’s city property. I had no grounds not to tell him. Anyway, he could have got it through Freedom of Information.”
“You told him.” Jonathan sighed. “Let me explain something, Arthur. The Freedom of Information Act does not say that every time a reporter asks a question we have to fall all over ourselves to answer it. The law lays out procedures to be followed—detailed, time- consuming procedures. Reporters still have to work for a living; we don’t have to do their jobs for them. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“Sorry, Jonathan. I just thought it was better not to seem obstructive. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. It’s not like there’s anything wrong, right?”
Jonathan leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. The chair was a custom-made orthopedic rocker, an expensive item, but the party had picked up the tag. Jonathan’s bad back was a badge of honor, like Jack Kennedy’s, and a part of his legend; it stemmed from a savage beating in an Alabama lockup some twenty-five years ago.
Except for the creaking of his chair, the room was very quiet.
“Did you mention the day-care center?” Jonathan asked.
“The day-care center, the jobs. I told him the deal was made with the city, not the party. I reminded him Rencorp is a minority business, I said it’s the opening wedge in a whole revitalization project for south Eastborough.”
“And?”
Spiegel lowered his eyes. “He kept coming back to the rent. He asked about you, too.”
“What about me?”
“He asked if you had some kind of side deal with Rencorp.”
There was a moment of silence. Jonathan leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk. “And you said…?”
“I said not that I know of.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“I’m sorry. He came at me out of left field.”
“That was the best you could do?”
Speigel pulled a large red handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “So maybe I didn’t handle it so great. He took me by surprise is all. I guess I should have seen it coming.”
“How so?” Jonathan asked with ominous softness.
Speigel took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Ever since the Probe tore into Mike Kavin, people have been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“And I’m the other shoe?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Hey, don’t kill the messenger, my friend. I’m here, aren’t I?”
There was, nonetheless, a look in his eyes Jonathan had not seen before, a speculative glint. He walked Speigel out, an arm around his shoulders.
“Do me a favor, Art. Next time Barnaby calls, if there is a next time, duck the call. And if somehow he does get ahold of you, be less accommodating. Stonewall. You don’t know, you don’t have time, you’re not authorized, you need it in
* * *
The door marked “Jonathan Fleishman, Eastborough Democratic Leader” was usually left ajar, for the incumbent ran an open shop; but this morning’s unexpected caller had carefully closed it behind him.
“It wasn’t so much what he said,” Arthur Speigel said, “as how he said it, if you know what I mean.”
“Let’s start with what he asked.”
“He asked what the city was getting for the Rencorp lease.”
“Did you tell him?”
“What else could I do?” Speigel said. He was a pink-faced twitch of a man, with thick glasses and an air of perpetual worry. “It’s city property. I had no grounds not to tell him. Anyway, he could have got it through Freedom of Information.”
“You told him.” Jonathan sighed. “Let me explain something, Arthur. The Freedom of Information Act does not say that every time a reporter asks a question we have to fall all over ourselves to answer it. The law lays out procedures to be followed—detailed, time- consuming procedures. Reporters still have to work for a living; we don’t have to do their jobs for them. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“Sorry, Jonathan. I just thought it was better not to seem obstructive. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. It’s not like there’s anything wrong, right?”
Jonathan leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. The chair was a custom-made orthopedic rocker, an expensive item, but the party had picked up the tag. Jonathan’s bad back was a badge of honor, like Jack Kennedy’s, and a part of his legend; it stemmed from a savage beating in an Alabama lockup some twenty-five years ago.
Except for the creaking of his chair, the room was very quiet.
“Did you mention the day-care center?” Jonathan asked.
“The day-care center, the jobs. I told him the deal was made with the city, not the party. I reminded him Rencorp is a minority business, I said it’s the opening wedge in a whole revitalization project for south Eastborough.”
“And?”
Spiegel lowered his eyes. “He kept coming back to the rent. He asked about you, too.”
“What about me?”
“He asked if you had some kind of side deal with Rencorp.”
There was a moment of silence. Jonathan leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk. “And you said…?”
“I said not that I know of.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“I’m sorry. He came at me out of left field.”
“That was the best you could do?”
Speigel pulled a large red handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “So maybe I didn’t handle it so great. He took me by surprise is all. I guess I should have seen it coming.”
“How so?” Jonathan asked with ominous softness.
Speigel took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Ever since the Probe tore into Mike Kavin, people have been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“And I’m the other shoe?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Hey, don’t kill the messenger, my friend. I’m here, aren’t I?”
There was, nonetheless, a look in his eyes Jonathan had not seen before, a speculative glint. He walked Speigel out, an arm around his shoulders.
“Do me a favor, Art. Next time Barnaby calls, if there is a next time, duck the call. And if somehow he does get ahold of you, be less accommodating. Stonewall. You don’t know, you don’t have time, you’re not authorized, you need it in
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