Robert Pooler in a dark blue suit, medium-blue broadly striped white-collared shirt and red-and-blue geometrically patterned tie had a rural-looking goat-shouldered younger man by the right elbow when Merrion spotted him. The younger man, bald except for an inch-wide fringe of brown hair from ear to ear, wore a narrow maroon knit tie, a homespun-grey shirt, voluminous pleated grey pants, brownish suede shoes and a worried expression. They emerged from a doorway partway down the long corridor leading away from the reception area into the southeasterly corner of the eleventh floor of the office tower in the Bay State West complex on Main Street in Springfield.
"I haven't been in there since they had the time for the governor back in Eighty-eight. Five hundred a head for cocktails and peanuts, not even cashews for Christ sake, and then the bastard's a no-show. No wonder he lost. But they've still got that hush, like a shrine."
Merrion and Hilliard had the bar at Grey Hills to themselves that evening, the honor system operating on weekday nights that attracted few members in the off-season. "Still very classy. Maybe even a bit deeper, more luxurious, like they had it reupholstered in a heavier fabric. They must have to have somebody come in every year or so to clean it, don't you think? "First of May again, Fleason. Time to call the hush-cleaning people; steam all the wickedness out, freshen up the deception area."
About half a minute earlier the receptionist, a light-skinned middle-aged black woman with a blunt haircut and a hangdog expression not quite masking undifferentiated hostility had patronizingly taken his name, nodding, 'to see Mister Pooler."
"Not actually saying, but obviously meaning," Merrion told Hilliard, '"Oh, well, then, you must be in one heavy peck ah shit there, chile, you here to see Mister Pooler."
She had responded by keying a button on her telephone desk set when the light glowed steady red, in a tone verging on insolence she said: "A Mister Merrion to see you, sir." Then she had said haughtily to Merrion: "Mister Pooler will see you shortly. If you'll just have a seat."
Merrion told Hilliard 'the attitude's about the same as ever, too, I'd have to say. Every time I've had any kind of contact with Butler, Corey no more'n two or three other times in my life; don't see much of their ilk in the lowly district court I've always kind of wondered what gives with that bunch. They've got more attitude'n the fuckin' IRS.
What is it with a law firm that looks down on people who've got problems like they're dirt? They should be glad to see us. Isn't that what they're for, for the luv va Mike? Help people with their problems if they've got 'em; help them not to get 'em if so far they've been lucky isn't that what lawyers do?" '"Do," yes," Hilliard said. "Talk about, no. The good ones're sort of like successful call girls. Truly elegant call girls never took many calls anyway, even before they moved up. They considered themselves "models" or "actresses," sometimes "flight attendants." In Europe a century ago they were "courtesans." Their looks brought them to the attention of refined gentlemen. Their skills prompted the gentlemen to display them to their friends, also gentlemen of taste and breeding. If fate was kind, one of them made a flattering offer of an exclusive arrangement. The working girls became fine ladies, far above their previous calling, so far above it they may never've done it. They live at stylish addresses, two or three of them: city; winter; summer. Their clothes are in excellent taste. They have cars and drivers, to carry them to shops and lunch. They arrange formal but intimate dinners for thirty or forty, all without batting an eye. They talk about the theater and the ballet, and what's going on in the art world. What they do for what all of this costs still goes for about the same price they charged while they were on a fee-for-service basis, now under exclusive long-term contract to the one refined gentleman, one of marriage. What they act as though they do and prefer to talk about are not that sort of thing at all. Your top law firms behave the same way."
The slope-shouldered younger man had a manila folder thick with yellow papers in his left hand. Pooler was talking as the two of them walked up the corridor toward where Merrion sat in a red leather wing chair next to a reading table with a brass lamp. He could not recall ever having seen Pooler when he had not either been talking or else waiting with poorly concealed impatience for someone else to finish saying whatever was taking so long. Then Pooler would expel "Yes," from his mouth in a whinnying sigh of relief implying: regardless of that and resume talking.
The younger man, three to five inches taller than Pooler at five-eight or so like nearly every normal adult male, Merrion thought, with what he recognized as mean pleasure was stooping slightly, inclining his shiny head so as to hear clearly what Pooler was saying. That made it look as though he was deferring to Pooler.
That was the way Pooler wished it. He deliberately inflicted that discomfort upon everyone he talked to, speaking so softly that anyone taller would have to bow slightly to hear him. He did not look up while talking with anyone, even when he was seated and his listener was standing. He believed that the person inducing another to adopt a posture of deference dominated every situation. He sought dominance at all times, regardless of the apparent absence of any subject in contention or under negotiation.
"That son of a bitch," Merrion said once to Hilliard, 'you know there has to be something wrong with a guy who makes people uncomfortable on purpose."
Merrion had first met Pooler on the evening of the first Wednesday in April of 1968 at a small gathering of western Massachusetts Democratic politicians in the private dining room upstairs in a good restaurant in Springfield. The meeting had been called hurriedly by men and women with decades of gritty experience in Democratic state and national politics left puzzled and unsure of what to do in the wake of the shock they had sustained the previous Sunday evening. President Johnson's request for TV time had not been simply to announce, as feared, a further escalation of the war in Vietnam (although he had included that, to widespread disapproval). He had thunderstruck the country by mournfully and reproachfully announcing his irrevocable decision not to seek (or to accept, either, as though there'd been more than an outside chance that someone truly out of touch might call for a convention draft) their party's nomination to be re-elected 'as your prezdun."
Incorrectly, the party elders imputed their own sad uncertainty to younger regulars like Hilliard and Merrion. They too had been startled when Lyndon Johnson publicly renounced all ambition for a second full term of his own, but Merrion had been relieved and Hilliard had been elated. He had no doubt what to do. He was so sure that he abrogated his policy of saying nothing publicly until he had first tested it aloud on himself by discussing its probable effect with Merrion – Merrion that night had been unavailable, aloft on his way home from a long weekend in New Orleans with Sunny Keller, on leave from her assignment at Lackland Air Force base in Texas. Unrestrained by Merrion's caution, Hilliard jubilantly told the first reporter seeking his reaction that evening that he was backing Bobby Kennedy for the Democratic presidential nomination, 'hammer and tongs."
Hilliard's commitment was not new. Only his disclosure of it was. Well before Sen. Eugene McCarthy's anti-Vietnam war campaign bucking Johnson in the February New Hampshire primary had yielded a close-second-place finish, Hilliard had said he hoped that Kennedy would challenge the president, but he had not said so for attribution in the media. Rashly doing so that night, he said that LBJ's withdrawal was 'the best news the party's had in years. If he'd wanted the nomination, he would've had it for the asking. Sitting presidents are not to be denied, McCarthy or not. Anyone who thinks otherwise is dreaming. But then he would've lost. Guarantee you, matched-up against Lyndon, Nixon wins."
"I think that maybe did not play too good," Merrion told him grimly in the immediate aftermath of the announcement. Hilliard demurred, but after two days of fielding strong reactions, he reluctantly accepted Merrion's assessment: "You've made a lot of people goddamned mad at you, all at once, without doing yourself any damned good at all. No other mistake we've ever made, and we have made some beauts, did so much damage so fast. You've pissed-off people we don't even know. They didn't know each other, until you lit them off; you're the first thing they've ever had in common.
"First you pissed off the people who've always run the fucking party.
Postmasters, Customs collectors, marshals, all the way up to judges and ambassadors: "First our party, then our country, dead right or dead wrong." They think Eugene McCarthy is a rotten, treacherous, party-wreckin' son of a bitch, and anyone who's with him or anybody else, like Bobby, who's against the President, is either a traitor or a Republican. Which in their books is much the same thing.
"At the very same time you enraged the McCarthy people. They've been scheming and conniving for the past five years to mug the old farts and take the party away from them. Then lo and behold, along comes Gene McCarthy, the answer to their prayers, with the balls to stand up and say "Aw right, if nobody else'll do it, goddamn it, I'll do it myself."
Roll the fuckin' dice, and get the movement underway, even if it does mean the end of his career they go berserk the guy, the Way, the Truth and the Light. "Peacemakers" they claim to be; Colt Peacemakers, maybe. Look like dangerous animals to me; crazy eyes, foam in their scraggliass-beards. So what do you do? Make them as screaming mad at you's they were at LBJ. You ain't got no Secret Service to protect you, and you're local; they can get in your face.
"You think you can reason with them? Calmly tell them they just have to understand that this's how it's going to be, might as well get used to it? Bobby Kennedy's bringing all his muscle in and he's going to take it away: you got any idea how they're gonna react? They probably wont tear you limb from limb. They'll want to do that, but they wont know how. They're from good homes, went to private schools; no seminars in dismemberment. They'll practice self-restraint. Engage you in dialogue. All that passive shit, you know? Non-violent resistance. Pacificism. They'll address you in dulcet tones, probing your raison d'etre. They'll say: '"Hey you fucker, what the fuck, the nomination's his7. Like it was a fucking tricycle he now decides he wants to play with, and all he's gotta do is just come along and take it? This's something that he owns, 'cause he's a fucking Kennedy7. His brother left it to him?
Whose fuckin' country is this ours or the Kennedys?"
Pooler that evening in the spring of '68 was an assistant U.S. attorney in Boston. He was four confident years out of Yale and the Georgetown Law School. Immediately after they'd been introduced by Frank Snodgrass, a State committeeman who owned a lumber yard in Ware, Pooler said: "Being Hilliard's co-pilot, you're also therefore RFK."
Merrion, nearing thirty and feeling seasoned, mature and sagacious, failed nonetheless to connect an arrogant young man named Pooler to a powerful political family named Corey at the helm of a powerhouse law firm. He was distracted; Sunny Keller by then was many thousands of miles away from home in Vietnam, and that night like most April nights in the Pioneer Valley was a little chilly. Merrion's mind at that point had been focused on his chances of getting into bed with Mary Pat Sweeney after the meeting they turned out to be good. Rather absently he said to Pooler: "I haven't really decided. But Danny's always been a strong Kennedy backer. So I suppose I will be, too." Levelly, he thought.
Pooler said: "I suppose that means you wont give the vice president anything more'n lip-service if he gets the nomination."
"At this point I don't think I'd been in that room more than five minutes," Merrion said many times after that evening, explaining time and time again, at Hilliard's insistence, to person after person, that he'd never had a beef with Pooler and that as far as he knew Pooler'd never had a reason, that night or any other, to have a beef with him.
Each time word of another such recital reached his ears, Dan Hilliard privately thanked Merrion. "Since we of course both realize that that soothing declaration isn't one hundred percent true, and I know how painful you find it to dissemble, I really appreciate your willingness to repeat it so many, many times."
The necessity for many repetitions made it clear to them that Pooler had marketed his version at every political gathering he attended, well into the mid-Seventies, long after RFK had been assassinated and Nixon had defeated Hubert Humphrey. He used it to imply that Hilliard and Merrion put personal loyalties before party loyalty, and therefore should not be entrusted with power. Merrion and Hilliard used their sanitized summary of the encounter in Springfield as evidence that Pooler was a saboteur, undermining them to promote his own veiled interests.
Hilliard was the only person who ever heard Merrion's complete and accurate report of his exchange with Pooler. "I told him I hadn't said that, either that I was gonna be with Kennedy or I'd be sitting out. I said neither one of us ever refused to close ranks and I didn't like him suggesting that we would. I said you hadn't made any threats; you just said you were backing RFK. No dramatics at all.
"Pooler told me he didn't believe me and anyway, I didn't have to say a word it was written all over my face. That sounded to me like he was calling me a liar. I asked him if he'd mind telling me what else he could read on my face, so I'd have some idea of all the stuff I didn't know I knew yet. He called me a typical country wise-ass. I guess that could've been his sophisticated Yale idea of humor.
"If it is, his idea's wrong. He may have a very good barber razor-cut that wavy hair, not to mention an excellent tailor -he probably paid more for his suit than my whole wardrobe cost but he doesn't have a nice way of telling anybody anything. He never will. He's a natural-born prick.
"He gets up too close when he talks to you, and he spits when he says words that have S in them. It's all he can do to keep from poking you in the chest. He's got a couple bad teeth, almost black; you can see them on the upper left side of his mouth when he curls that lip of his.
His breath's too sweet; must be really bad before he uses too much mouthwash. He's ugly, too; he's already got jowls, at what, twenty-eight or twenty-nine? That's fuckin' indecent, too young to have jowls. But it figures; he's starting to get heavy all over. His waist's already begun to disappear. Some day pretty soon he wont have one anymore. Wake up some fine morning and find he's dispensed with it. He'll say he got rid of it because he couldn't find any purpose for it. He'll taper: Narrow at the ends, his head and his feet, and thick in the middle, his ass and his belly for ballast, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
Thirty years or so from now, he's pushing sixty, he'll have wattles, like a turkey. And those beady little eyes like a snake, a short, fat snake that spits. A garden adder, green and black. Except I don't think those're poisonous, and he is."
"Are adders smart?" Hilliard said. "I don't know that much about reptile IQs."
"I dunno, why?" Merrion said.
"Because if they're not," Hilliard said, "Pooler's no adder. I don't argue with you that the guy's a snake. You know him lots better'n I do, since I don't know him at all, but if he's a snake and adders aren't smart, Pooler's a different breed."
"Yeah, well," Merrion said, "I called him an asshole, which he is, smart or not. I said it politely, of course. Just making an observation: "You're the biggest asshole I've met in a long time."
"He seemed to take it personally, looked shocked and backed away, so that's where I guess we agreed to leave it. Little prick."
Hilliard said it would be best if no one heard that part. "Bob Pooler isn't just trying to look dangerous he is dangerous. His mother's maiden name was Corey, and his daddy is a partner, along with his granddaddy, Warren, in Butler, Corey. Which means his family's got a major piece of that mammoth law firm, which makes nothing but money.
Furthermore, it's been a big wealthy firm ever since the first Pynchon, Sam, pulled up a tuffet and sat down by the river to catch his breath, and before you knew it, he'd gone and founded a city.
"And if plain old big money doesn't impress you, you can throw in a herd of state and federal judges, ambassadors, law school deans, and a slew of directors of operas and museums and chairmen of corporate boards. Money buys power, and power brings in more money, which in turn ac cures more power, even for obnoxious little assholes such as Bobby Pooler who get everything wrong except their choice of ancestors.
When poor humble peasants like us go up against powerful rich assholes, the behoovin' begins. It behooves us to do our best to get along with them.
"It'll be a damned sight better for us if everyone else who meets that kid forms his own opinion of him which'll probably be the same as yours without any assistance from you. So that when the day finally comes when Junior doesn't get what he really wants, at least a federal judgeship, he wont come gunning for us. When he gets it in the teeth, his own people'll have to tell him. "When it's unanimous that you're a little shit; everybody who's dealt with you hates your guts; you're outnumbered. There's too many of 'em to single out one or two like Amby and Danny, and get even."
Bob Pooler still dressed beautifully but he wasn't aging well, Merrion decided happily, as the younger man with Pooler stopped at the office door nearest the reception desk, clearly eager to go in. Pooler's wavy black hair had thinned out on the top, the remainder growing grey, with a straggly end or two where the comb-over brushed the ears. His waist had all but disappeared. The obtrusive attitude had not. Pooler halted when his captive did, still holding onto him and talking, completing his train of thought.
His conversation was full of minor visible events. He made a chopping motion with his right hand each time he wanted to drive home a point, puffing and deflating his cheeks, furrowing his brows, to vary the intensity of what he said. Merrion could read his lips; he punctuated every third or fourth sentence with "You see? You see that? You see?"
The younger man, restless, seemed to feel obliged to nod at each gesture, as though believing that there must be some quota of obeisance which when satisfied would enable him to get away.
Then Pooler abruptly released the elbow, frowning, staring after the other man's back, as though considering whether to become annoyed at him for leaving with his folder. He apparently concluded that to do so would be pointless; there was no hope that he would ever understand what Pooler had explained. He shook his head once, irritably, then turned toward the reception area. He saw Merrion sitting in the wing chair; recognizing him in curiously Giving no sign of having recognition, he proceeded to the reception desk; accepted a thin sheaf of pink messages; riffled through them without evident interest; put them back on the reception desk and looked up again at Merrion.
"He looked at me the same way that you'd look at a school bus blocking an intersection where you want to make a turn. Nothing personal, you know? Just another obstacle in your way interfering with what you want to do. He really is a shabby piece of shit. I think the only reason the bastard finally did acknowledge me was the snooty black receptionist. She said something I couldn't hear, and it was like her knowing I was there to see him made it so he had to see me. That was the only reason he did it. He obviously knew me, but otherwise he would've ignored me. Gone back down to his office, no hello or anything. He must be the rudest fucker inna world. If he isn't, I hope I never meet the champ."
Merrion uncrossed his legs and stood up as Pooler approached him, taking inventory of Merrion's apparel, head to toe: Ralph Lauren Polo blue blazer; tan twill slacks; light blue Oxford cloth shirt, open at the collar; brown Florsheim loafers. "Ambrose," he said drily, extending his hand. "What can I do for you?"
"The same way I used to say Hello to guys I didn't like when I was at Valley Ford. Gave me some shit about a bill or they did too much complaining. After they did that just once, once was all they hadda do it whenever they brought their cars in for service, or they had something wrong with them, they hadda wait. That was Pooler's attitude toward me today," Merrion said to Hilliard.
"You tell me, Bob," Merrion said to Pooler, shaking his hand once. "I don't really know why I'm here. Wasn't my idea to come. Danny Hilliard sent me down. He said I should see you."
"Yes," Pooler said. "Looking at me," Merrion said to Hilliard, 'like now he knows why he thought he smelled cat shit in the building. He really hates my guts, but he's got this problem with me.
"His problem is that he can't heave my ass out in the street. He can't get at me. Me getting that assistant-clerk slot almost thirty years ago, couple years before he even met me, much less hated me on sight: that's the only reason that he didn't do his best to stop it from happening. If he'd known me then, he would've, and probably succeeded.
But by the time he discovered we despised each other, I was already in.
And then four years after that, his grandfather and his father were so busy scheming how they're gonna get their paws on that racetrack, they didn't notice us getting' into Grey Hills. Otherwise the Big Chief and Little Beaver would've used the blackballs on us."
"Yes," Pooler said again. "Well, I think I know what it's about." He extended his right hand to usher Merrion away from the chair toward the corridor beyond the reception desk. Merrion held back. Pooler raised his right eyebrow. "I think it would be better," he said, 'if we didn't talk about it here, but in my office."
"Lead on," Merrion said, smiling, but not very much. "I'll toddle right along behind."
Pooler had arranged the framed pictures and testaments on the credenza and the wall behind his desk so it appeared that once he had received his diplomas from Yale and Georgetown Law, his certificates of admission to the State and federal bars and his appointment as an Assistant US Attorney, he'd spent most of his time away from that desk standing behind lecterns, either delivering speeches, shaking hands with other people or assisting them to display laminated plaques, scrolls and certificates now interspersed among the pictures.
"There's one picture of him shooting off his mouth in a white turtleneck under one of those crew-neck sweaters with the big white reindeer marching across his chest," Merrion told Hilliard. "Except for that the guy never seems to've gotten within range of anyone holding a camera except when he's had a jacket and tie on. I bet he sleeps in a suit. On weekends he wears his tux to bed instead of pajamas, case a charity dinner breaks out inna middle of the night."
"He told you what's been bothering him," Hilliard said.
"He told me what he's been hearing," Merrion said. "He said what bothers him about what he's been hearing is that he's afraid it means the feds're going to come after you in order to go through you to get at somebody else. And the way they're gonna get at you's through me."
"That's essentially what he told me," Hilliard said. "But can you see how he thinks they can do this?"
"Hey," Merrion said, 'that's your job, to tell me. You and Pooler.
You're the fuckin' lawyers. All I am in this fuckin' lash-up's a poor fuckin' clerk of court. I know my part in this comedy, but that doesn't mean I've got any idea what the play is about. Doesn't mean dog-squat to me. I don't know what the feds can do. I assume it's maximum damage, of course, if they can and they want to do anything.
You're asking me how they plan to do the damage, there I can't help you. I just hope it's not jail they've got in mind. I go into jails in the course of my employment. I don't like 'em. I'm always glad to get out.
"Best I can figure, what Pooler said, it all goes back all the way to Chassy and Larry Lane, Fiddle Barrow and the Carneses; how those guys were doing business around here, thirty, forty years ago, you and me're just getting' started. I don't really see how they can do this, considering that every statute of limitations I ever heard of expires after five or six years. If they haven't bagged you by then, they can't. Except for murder and treason; and I don't think they got us on that.
"But according to what Pooler says, they got a way says they can get around it. I don't trust him but I guess I believe him. Still think the bastard'll bear watching, though. He's a shifty mother-fucker and I think he's twenty-to-forty-percent on the side of the enemy here. He told me he hates to lose. Said he goes into every case fully expecting to win. "When I can't expect that, I refuse it." But this time I think if his client loses, he'll be able to take it in his stride."
Pooler seemed dwarfed by his own lustrous brown leather desk chair. He sat far down in it so that hunched behind the desk he looked like a frog sitting on a rock, partially obscured behind a bigger rock in front that hid his body except for his shoulders and the part of his torso above the base of his sternum. Once he had Merrion seated in the barrel chair he studied him, working his mouth while he used his left index finger to rub his left nostril, hard. Then he picked up large black-framed eye-glasses with visible bifocal lines and used both hands to put them on, spreading the bows and fitting them over his ears as carefully as though he had been preparing to cut a diamond. When he looked up the upper and lower lenses enlarged Merrion's view of his brown irises differently, so that their upper and lower hemispheres did not quite seem to match. Pooler swallowed and said "Yes."
Merrion did not say anything. "I felt like some kind of specimen," he told Hilliard. "Something helpless in a lab that this guy was now going to cut up and see if he could learn something. Hard on me, maybe, but useful to him."
Pooler rested his chin on his left hand and extended his index finger up alongside the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips.
"The gist of it's the club memberships," he said. "From all we've been able to gather naturally not wanting to appear to be too interested but from what we can piece together that's essentially the direction they seem to be taking." His teeth were even and white.
"Grey Hills?" Merrion said. To Hilliard later he said: "I wasn't saying that to give the guy a hard time. Playing Mickey-the-dunce with him there. If we're really involved in something here, it isn't all just smoke and mirrors, how the hell could Grey Hills have anything to do with it? Almost twenny-five years after we joined it? It was a legitimate question.
"He thought I was jerkin' his chain. For Pooler that question was all it took. My asking that really creased it."
"Yeah," Pooler said, glowering at him, "Grey Hills. I know, it's a long time ago, but that's the way it is with over-reaching. You may get what you want at the time, but what you have to do to get it, well, those things have a way of coming back to haunt you.
"You probably never heard what I had to say at the time you and Hilliard applied for membership. I knew you by then from meeting you in Sixty-eight, and I didn't like you. And I said then to them, my father and grand ad I didn't like it and I thought it was a rotten idea for you and Dan to become members. Quite candidly said so. And not just to them, either; to the membership committee; totally open and aboveboard. I would've said it to you and Dan, if the opportunity'd occurred, said it right to your faces.
"I said it was a very bad idea. That no matter how nice and friendly it might look as though wed all become, dealing in party and legislative matters, the two of you did not belong at Grey Hills.
"My father and the Chief said their concerns were political. They were sorry circumstances had been such that the membership rolls had to be reopened, and very much regretted that had made it possible for people like you and Dan to aspire to membership and apply. They said when they voted to reopen, they assumed that the high price of initiation and membership would be enough to prevent your kind from even trying to get in. If they had ever dreamed that people like you might somehow find the money, they would've blocked the proposal at the outset.
It would've never made it out of the executive committee, much less been approved by the board of governors or voted on by the entire membership. In hindsight they fully agreed it would have been far better if they'd bitten the bullet and submitted to a hefty extraordinary one-time assessment on the membership to meet the club's financial needs.
"But now it was too late. They were afraid that if they kept you out, Dan might retaliate, prevail upon his pals on Beacon Hill to refuse to grant racing days for that damned racetrack the Chief was so obsessed about. They were obsessed by that damned track. They virtually ordered me not to use my blackball.
"I didn't, but I warned them. I told them no good would ever come out of letting the pair of you in. I said nothing but trouble would ever come out of it. I told my dad that, and I told the Chief, too, it was an awful idea.
"I couldn't know then exactly what form the trouble would take, what repercussions there'd be. I must confess it didn't cross my mind that somehow your joining some day might form the basis for a tax evasion case, which seems to be the way they're heading. But there was no doubt in my mind that some day, sooner or later, something bad was certain to happen. Now my ugly premonition seems to be coming true.
"I want to emphasize that none of this was personal. It was not that I had a thing against you. Even though wed had that confrontation over the Humphrey candidacy, that was irrelevant. Nor had I anything against Dan Hilliard, or anyone who'd gotten where he is today by means of his own good hard work. More power to him, I say. I just knew that trouble was bound to come out of it some day, if your applications went through. My father and the Chief knew it too. I suspect you both knew, regardless of whether you admitted it to yourselves, that the two of you did not belong at Grey Hills. You didn't have the stuff.
"By rights you didn't have the means, the resources, to be members. How you came by them, I don't know, and I don't want to. I do know some kind of shady business was involved. Had to be; you had no other way, no honest way, to have laid your hands on that amount of money that fast. Sixteen or seventeen thousand dollars? An assistant clerk of courts and a state rep on the lower rungs of power? I'll give you your due: you were cute. No one's ever found out what you did or how you did it. But cleverness purifies nothing: the dirty politician's still like a rotten mackerel in the moonlight: so brilliant, and yet so corrupt, he shines, and stinks."
Merrion glared at him. "You piece of yellow shit," he said, 'getting me in here to say that to me. The next time we meet where some of my friends're around, so I'll have witnesses, I'm gonna call you out, dare you to repeat that. If you don't I'm gonna call you a fuckin' coward, and spit on you. And if you do, you'd better have a friend with you to hold your fancy bridgework or you're gonna swallow it."
Pooler smiled. "Sorry, Amby, but there's no other way of putting it, wasn't then and isn't now, and your reaction to the statement of that fact just proves it: you're not Grey Hills material and you never were.
Neither of you ought to've been allowed to place yourselves in the position where you'd have to do whatever it is you've done to meet the obligations membership entailed. As the fix you're now in proves conclusively. But back then, no one would listen to me."
He nodded, pouching his cheeks with air like an industrious squirrel with a cargo of acorns. "And now the day of reckoning has come, just as I predicted. But now it's too late for my cautions to do any good."
Merrion said to Hilliard: "I considered getting up and winding up and letting him have it, popping him one in the chops. Pasting him six or eight good ones, glasses and all, right in his smug little, fat little, face. Hair on the walls and blood on the floor; teeth in the nap of the rug. Change his nose from convex to concave. But I restrained myself. For one thing I don't want his yard-man to wind up behind the wheel of my car, using my house as an equipment shed. Particularly since I'd most likely still be in jail when he won the civil suit turning all of my goods over to him. Besides, my impression is that at least until one of us belts him, he's at least got to pretend he's on our side."
"Hell, if you think about it," Hilliard said, 'he may actually manage to get us to agree with him about Grey Hills. He's a third generation member. He's never seemed to use his membership much; I've seldom seen him there. But up 'til now I've always assumed it was because he was working all the time. Or else he just didn't like golf. There are people like that, you know. But now you've got me wondering: Maybe it's fear of rubbing elbows with riffraff like us, using showers that we've used, that's made him scarce up there. Is he really that petty?
If he is, he's right saying we're not fit to be members. What kind of asshole'd pay money to hang out with him? The very idea's disgusting.
Fine mess you got us into, Ollie, you and your grandiose ideas."
"Hey," Merrion said, 'my intentions were good. I'd had an unexpected bit of good fortune. Shared it with a friend."
"Yeah," Hilliard said, 'well, so whaddaya think? Myself I think I'd have to say the two of us by working hard've paved the road to Hell damned well."
"I think the bastard actually liked explaining it all to me," Merrion told Hilliard after dinner in the dim dark-panelled bar at Grey Hills.
"Listening to him… I sat there and he talked and I heard what he was saying and it was like I'd stepped outside myself, and what I wanted to do more'n anything in the whole world was stand up and whack him one.
It was the same feeling that I had the day I went back with my mother to see the specialist, the "geriatricist" sounds like a circus act, guy who rides a bike naked onna high-wire, something. Her regular doctor sent us to him, see if he could figure out what was going on with her.
"Have him run a few tests." Duck when they say "a few tests"; they're warmin' up to tell you you're doomed.
"The idea was to find out why she was forgetting things, who she was or where she lived; why she mattered in the world and who she mattered to.
Naturally my dear brother Chris's nowhere to be seen; that's a family tradition. I can tell when the fat's inna fire: Chris's long-gone an' hard to find.
"She went outdoors one cold morning, late November, in her nightgown, barefoot. Went for a stroll down the street. Eight-thirty or so. Lots of people must've seen her, going off to work in their cars, coats on and the heaters going, barefoot lady in her nightgown walking down the street, but nobody stopped and tried to help her, or called the cops, their car-phone. They didn't care if something happened to her, nobody they knew; just ignored her and drove right on by. She got about a mile before someone who knew her from the bakery stopped her car and hollered at her, snapped her out of it, thank God; drove her home and called me. She'd only done it that once, but even once gets you worried. Next time she might not be that lucky, wander off and freeze to death, do something else and get hurt.
"And both of us already… it wasn't like we didn't have an inkling what was going on. We didn't know the details but we had a pretty good idea. She was gradually losing her buttons. We'd seen it happen to other people. Her mother, Rose; then they called it "hardening of the arteries." "Her brain isn't getting enough blood she's getting old, and simple, too." Before wed heard of senile dementia and Alzheimer's.
When she was lucid, which she was most of the time she had a pretty good idea that when she wasn't quite right, that was probably the explanation.
"But we didn't want to have that pretty good idea, you know? We didn't like having it. And her doctor, Paul Marsh, dead himself now: the reason that he sent us to this baby-faced specialist -looked like he was about fourteen was because he didn't want it to be what we all knew it was. He was the family doctor. He'd been treating her for years,
"taking care of all of you," was what he said. She was as much a friend of his as a patient. He didn't want her to have what she had, and for damned sure he didn't want to be the one to tell her. This new guy would do that. Wouldn't bother him; he didn't know Polly from a load of goats. We were seeing him to spare Paul. I suppose it was in a good cause.
"So they did those few tests they had in mind to do on her, and that took quite a while. "A few tests" is quite a lot, you find, when you start taking them. And then they told us to go home until they could "just get all the results back here, take a look at them so we can see what they mean." Give us a few more days or so to make-believe and hope that what we knew was going on was not. Then they had us back again and this time he sees us in his nice office, about sixteen diplomas on his wall and the kind of smooth white face you'd expect to see on your executioner. The vet we took our last dog to, have him put to sleep: he had a kinder face, I swear he at least pretended he felt sorry it hadda be done. But this assassin sits us down and quite pleasantly informs my mother and me that one by one, a few here, few there, she's begun to lose her marbles. And there's nothing he can do.
"For us this was kind of upsetting news, you know? But for him it was all in a day's work, like he's conducting an experiment. "Okay, let's see how these two take it when I hand the sentence down, tell them there's no hope." I suppose in his line of work, has to do this every day, gets to be routine. But my God, it hurts like hell when you're the people it's bein' done to then it's not routine at all.
"I got the same feeling listening to Pooler. I think he was making it sound worsen it is. I realize this isn't gonna be fun, something we'll really enjoy, fucking romp in a meadow or something, but he sure didn't go out of his way to make it sound better.
"He said they call it the Public Corruption Unit," Merrion said. "Said it didn't exist when he was in the US Attorney's office, twenty-odd years ago. I guess this's some new drill they dreamed up recently.
Almost smacking his lips, the son of a bitch; I think he envies the bastards. "Gee, that looks like fun; wish wed thought of it." Guys like him're like dogs that've killed once and had that first taste of blood: they never get over it. You know they'll kill again."
"But then, of course," Pooler said to Merrion, 'then there were only a dozen or so of us assistants; now there's about seven times that many.
And there wasn't any western division of the District of Massachusetts, no federal court or satellite US Attorney's office out here. So things do change. There're more of them now with time on their hands, looking for something to do. They're bound to be more aggressive. To us older hands some of the things they propose to do seem a little far-fetched at first blush, but they've been making them stick.
"Essentially the unit operates on the same principle as the old Organized Crime Strike Forces: target prosecution. They identify subjects they think're corrupt, state and local officials, and then they study their official acts to see if they can find a way to apply federal criminal statutes. They've used the racketeering statutes, which were enacted to go after the Mafia, to go after people paying and accepting kickbacks on state contracts. They've charged mail fraud against people falsely claiming they can't work in order to get state and municipal disability pensions. Hard to argue with; they mail in the false statements of injury and get their checks by mail. The wire fraud statutes've been used to get people who picked up a phone to promise a bribe to a local plumbing inspector, just across town, and nailed the inspector for taking the call and taking the money. And of course they've been using the criminal tax-evasion statutes ever since the Thirties, when some frustrated genius said: "Well damnit all, if we can't prove Capone had people murdered, as he did, let's get him for tax evasion."
"That looks like the approach they're going to take with our friend Hilliard," Pooler said, his expression a mixture of amusement and contempt. To Hilliard, Merrion said: "I dunno whether he was sneering at the federal fuckers or at us."
Pooler shrugged. "Not that Danny's quite as big a trophy as Al Capone was, but he had a lot of power in his day, and he made himself conspicuous with his not-so-private life, so a lot of people know him.
They still recognize his name. Get a grand jury to indict him and you're guaranteed a headline. Drop enough broad hints around before you go for the indictment, which is what they're doing now, you build up suspense; anticipation fed by rumor makes the headlines even bigger."
"Danny's always paid his taxes," Merrion said. "So've I; we both have.
Danny never took a bribe. Once when something I said made him think that I might do that, he as much as told me that if I had goin' on-the-take in mind, he wouldn't put me in a job. I eased his mind on that.
"Now, have I ever done a favor for a guy, given breaks to people who'd done things they shouldn't do? Sure, of course I have, and so has Danny: many favors. And gotten many in return. Sometimes a guy's bought me a drink after I've helped him out. Once or twice I've been out somewhere having dinner with a lady friend, and when it's come time for the check I find out I'm not getting one -someone I know but didn't see spotted us when we came in; on his way out told the maitre d', give our check to him. That's happened to Danny too, more times'n me. Not because he's crooked; because he knows more people. Friends of his picking up a check or giving him tickets to the ballgame? Sure, small stuff like that, of course we've done it.
"But never have we taken money, not once. That was always out of the question. Now are you telling me we're guilty of something? A federal offense? I don't believe it."
Pooler sighed. "Amby," he said, 'you and I've always had trouble talking. We just can't seem to communicate. You refuse to hear what I'm trying to tell you, and what you say to me's unresponsive.
"What you choose to believe is irrelevant, hear me? Put it aside; it doesn't matter. The feds've picked up on you two. My guess is what got their attention, made them think you might be worth going after, is that you and Danny, especially Danny, have lived very well on your earnings. Danny's real estate holdings for example: a state legislator, lawyer who never practiced, managed to acquire a ten-room house in Bell Woods where his ex lives; a three-bedroom cottage in West Chop; and a three-bedroom townhouse condo in Wisdom House. He drives a Mercedes. All the while living a lavish lifestyle of which the Grey Hills membership is not the only but certainly a prime example. Quite an accomplishment, considering that until about ten years ago his reported income never exceeded fifty thousand dollars a year.
"They have suspicious minds. When they see a politician who's pulled off something like that, the first thing they think is that he did it by taking kickbacks from state contractors who disguised them as campaign contributions, and converted the campaign funds to pay his personal expenses.
"They realize he and his now-ex-wife had the house in Holyoke, and he inherited his parents' property, their house in Holyoke and the camp on Lake Sunapee, all of which he sold. The feds say if you combine the proceeds of selling off those three properties, that accounts for the big house and land worth upwards of four hundred thousand by now, all of it debt-free in Bell Woods.
"Okay, but now what? That exhausts all the capital they concede he came by honestly. Where did he get the twenty-six-thousand-dollar down-payment on the house on the Vineyard? That was over twenty years ago. He was a legislator, making about forty grand a year. As far as the IRS knows, at least; that's all his tax-returns show.
"He's only bought two cars in that period. But they were both Mercedes, very costly automobiles. When he bought the first one he was still in the legislature. It cost him about a year's pay; so what did he live on?
"And that still leaves him to account for the fifteen thousand he somehow found to be put down on the townhouse, while he was going through a very costly divorce, buying the second Mercedes, and financing his scandalous high life. The feds maybe can't prove he did any singing, but they've got all the evidence of wine and women they could possibly want.
"They think the only way he could possibly have done all that was by taking payoffs from people who then got big contracts from the state, as several of his biggest contributors did. Contracts to install electrical systems in state buildings: his late generous backer Carl Kuiper's electrical company up in Deerfield did just under sixteen million bucks of that work during the last nine years that Danny was chairman of Ways and Means. During that same period: nine-point' three-million in state printing contracts to Haskell Sanderson's printing plant in Greenfield. An average of nine-hundred' and-eleven-thousand dollars a year in rent for state office space in western Massachusetts: to real estate holding companies owned or controlled by the Carnes family."
He gazed at Merrion. "There's probably more, if they look, as of course they are planning to do. But on the basis of what they've told me they already know, and what I can further surmise, I think it's going to be very difficult for Danny and me to come up with convincing evidence to rebut the inferences a jury will draw from those facts. I realize you're not a lawyer, but most jurors aren't either; wouldn't you share my concern?"
Merrion coughed. "Well," he said, "I never handled contributions. I was never involved in finances. I just managed the campaigns, day to day, night to night. Never saw any bills, any checks. Didn't want to.
At the beginning Mercy kept the books, and then after he got elected to the House the first time, Roy Carnes's accountants took over the financial end of things, handled it out of his office. That was always Roy Carnes's job."
"I'm aware of that," Pooler said, 'but you haven't answered my question. Do you think a jury'll acquit, when they see proof of what I've just said?"
"Look." Merrion shifted in the chair and crossed his legs. He folded his hands on his right thigh. "Look," he said again, 'when you said we never got along, you were right. We agree that we don't like each other; I don't think we're ever gonna. To answer your question: no, I don't think that a jury hearing what you just told me would be very likely to return a Not Guilty. But you are a lawyer, and my question for you as a lawyer is this: Why couldn't any halfway-competent attorney for Danny stop the prosecutor from proving that case to a jury? Danny's last campaign was in Nineteen-eighty-two. His campaign fund closed a year later. That's over twelve years ago. Have these federal magicians repealed the statute of limitations? Or aren't you competent counsel?"
Pooler shook his head, smiling. "You must've outsmarted yourself many times during your long career," he said. "Always thinking you're one step ahead, when you're generally out of the race.
"They don't need to repeal the statute, Amby. They've found a way around it. All they need now is you to guide them to their goal.
They're aware you wont want to; you're loyal to Danny, and so you'll refuse. But they think they have a way to make you do what they want you to do.
"I omitted an item from that history of Dan's provable spending. I'm surprised you didn't notice it. You can be very sure the feds have. A quarter-century of annual dues and fees for his membership in Grey Hills."
He gazed at Merrion. "Which by itself, as you and I both know, has come to a pile of money. The year you two got in you paid close to nine thousand dollars initiation, dues and fees for him. They say that was income to him, as the dues've been too, every year since."
BuM shit Merrion said, 'that was a gift. All those dues and things were gifts. Danny and me'd been friends over ten years by the time we joined. He was my best friend inna world. If I hadn't gone to work for Danny I'd probably still be behind the Parts and Service desk up at Valley Ford. No reflection on John Casey; he was a good guy, and he treated the Merrions well, but that was not the kind of life I had in mind. I asked Danny to get me the clerk's job 'cause by then I'd decided I didn't wanna go into teaching and I thought it would be a good job to have. He talked to the Carneses and Judge Spring, and I talked to Larry Lane myself. Nobody had any objections, so I got the job, third assistant clerk.
"It's a good job and I've been very happy with it, but at no time has it ever been what you'd call a major plum. Sure it turned out to be one, after Larry Lane died, but that wasn't the job, it was Larry. By the time he retired, four years after I came in, wed become pretty good friends. Then I find out he's very sick, in addition to drinking too much, and in case he might still feel cheerful while he's dying, his own family threw him out. What can I tell you? He's sick and alone; I did what I could to take care of the guy, not that it was very much.
Two years or so later he's dead.
"Until he got sick I assumed all he had was his pension and when he died that'd go to his widow. I never knew he had any other money, much less that he'd leave it to me. And neither did Danny, of course. So I couldn't've done it for that. I was just trying to be a nice guy. So then, what am I supposed to do when I find out about the money? Give it away to strangers? I don't think so. I gave me and my best friend a present, something we both always wanted to have, and never expected to get. Those memberships at Grey Hills you resent us so much for having.
"I always paid taxes on the money, every year, before I spent any of it. You can go ask my accountant. I didn't mind doin' that -well, I minded, but no more'n everyone else who pays taxes. But then couldn't I use some of what I had left to give Danny a present? I wouldn't've had it without him."
"They're not saying you couldn't give it to him, Amby," Pooler said.
"Quite the opposite: they don't dispute that at all. They're saying that you did give it to him, eighty-five hundred or so the first year, and thousands more after that ever since, year after year after year.
They don't even really care now that Lane got the money from corruption death takes the taint off dirty money; they don't see any way to take Lane's loot away from you. But they'll be sure to put the fact in evidence just the same. "See? Graft's a tradition in Massachusetts.
Graft over the years if it's wisely invested can go on yielding graft to the next generation. It's like planting a poisonous tree; the booty never stops giving."
"What they do dispute, though, is that it was a gift. They say it was payment to him under the corrupt bargain you made: a piece of whatever action you got as a result of him getting you that job. So to him it was income, illegal income, like Capone's bootleg millions, but still taxable, and he's never paid taxes on it."
Pooler lowered his head and leaned across the desk, staring at Merrion.
He moistened his lips with his tongue; his eyes glittered. "He didn't pay taxes on that money last year, Amby. He didn't pay them the year before that, or the year before that one, either, didn't pay in any year they still can reach under the five-year statute limiting criminal prosecutions. And once they prove something within the statute, they can go back to the dawn of creation, allege it was all a continuing scheme of corruption that persists to this very day. All they have to do is grant you immunity and you'll have to testify to what everybody knows you've been doing all these years. That will prove both the source and the income, and Danny's benefit from it.
"They'll try to give you what's called use immunity, meaning that they wont be able to use anything you say to prosecute you, except for perjury. But that'd leave them still able to come after you for some crime you committed jointly with Danny they can prove another way, and you do not want that. If you do as I'm suggesting and go to Geoff Cohen, he'll say that's not good enough, make them ante up transactional immunity. That would mean nothing that they make you testify about can ever be charged against you.
"They'll do it. They don't want you, they want Danny, and I think they're going to get him good. Unless I can cut a deal for him, the likes of which I've never seen, Dan Hilliard is going to jail."
"Ahhhhh," Merrion said, closing his eyes, emptying his lungs, and sagging in the chair. "I do not want to hear this."
"What I'm getting from them is just preliminary," Pooler said relentlessly, 'but it's bad enough. They figure by the time they get through adding interest and penalties on that club membership item alone, they'll be able to say he's evaded taxes on over two hundred thousand dollars. And more importantly to them, as I say, once they prove that he hasn't paid taxes on those dues and fees for the last three years as of course they can, very easily, then they can allege that that was just one aspect of an elegant scheme. One going all the way back to Seventy-two when he first accepted the payoff from you for the membership, when you got into Grey Hills.
"And that then will mean they'll be able to prove all the other crooked things he was doing after that, all the kickbacks and bribes they think he started accepting when he really rose to power as the head of Ways and Means Seventy-three or four, was it? All of those kickbacks on state contracts, calling them "campaign contributions" but treating them as income for his personal use and luxurious enjoyment. Illegal income, to be sure, ill-gotten gains aren't exempt.
"They'll have him in a steamer-trunk, ready to ship. It wont be to maximum security, no, but it'll probably have bars on the windows, and he wont be able to leave. They reckon that with all their multipliers of interest and penalty charges, they'll have him twisting in the wind for taking money and evading federal income taxes on it totalling about two million dollars. And after they've forfeited to the government everything that they can lay their hands on, the state will take what's left.
"So, that's their scenario. First they're going to put the cuffs on him and cart him off to jail, and then they're going pick him clean, take everything he's got. He'll be in all the papers, maybe national TV. "Another crooked Bay State politician went to federal prison today; details at eleven."
"He's got this look he gives you when he says stuff like that," Merrion said to Hilliard. '"Local politicians," and "crooked state and local politicians," like he's talking about some lower form of life starfish or something.
"I sat there looking at him," Merrion said to Hilliard, and what I want to say is: "The what? Run that one by me again?" But I don't. I don't think it matters how many times I make him say it, it's not gonna change."
Hilliard looked grey and stricken. Merrion had not seen him look like that since his first term in the House when he came home from Boston on the afternoon of Friday, November 22, 1963, after JFK was shot in Dallas. "I called Mercy 'fore I left, and she already knew," he said to Merrion that day. "She was crying. So was I. I said "What will happen to us now, what will happen to us now? All I can seem to do is cry." She said: "It's what you should be doing. Eleven John, thirty-five." I looked it up. "Jesus wept."
"I can't believe what they're saying," Merrion said. "AH these years I've been paying you kickbacks for getting me the clerk's job, like Fiddle Barrow paid to Chassy and Larry and Roy Carnes for the courthouse contract, for them lettin' him cheap jack the job, when I thought I was giving you presents. I always paid taxes on the money I used for that when Fourmen's Trust made the annual distribution. So therefore I am okay. But they think you didn't pay income taxes on the money I paid to Grey Hills for you.
"Of course I didn't," Hilliard said. "I told my accountant about it, the first year, and he told me it was a gift. You were giving me a present, and as long as it didn't come to ten-grand in any one year or go over thirty-grand in our lifetime, tax laws that we had then, it wasn't taxable. Sam Evans said the same thing, I was going through the divorce and we're making out the statement of my income and expenses.
What you were paying for me at Grey Hills wasn't on either one. He said, "Mercy's not entitled to a share of a present you get from Merrion. She's married to you, not to Ambrose. He doesn't have to pay alimony." And now it's even more untaxable'n it was then. Now there's really no limit on gifts. As long as you're not trying to beat the estate tax, you can be as generous as you like."
"That's what I said to Pooler," Merrion said. "I said I wasn't kicking back anything to you. I was giving you a gift. You got me the job which resulted in me getting the money. You did it because you're my friend. As a result of me having the job, I came into some money.
Quite a lot of it, in fact. But neither one of us had any idea, going in, that that money even existed. Much less that I would wind up getting it.
'"It was like I hit the lottery," I said to Pooler. "You do that, you naturally want to share it with someone, family and also your friends.
All the family I had was my mother, and that fuckin' brother of mine. I paid off the mortgage on my mother's house, which's now mine, and made sure she was well-taken care of. Only reason she stayed workin' at Slade's was because she liked the job. I didn't give Chris a fuckin' thing. I don't like his attitude., Danny's the best friend any man ever had. Why wouldn't I share with him?"
"You know what he said?" Merrion said. "Pooler said to me: "Very touching. Better hope that the jury believes it."
"He thinks they probably wont. We been in this club a long time, Danny. We've belonged here almost twenny-five years. By the time they add up everything I paid Grey Hills for you, they've got you evading almost two hundred grand, taxes. They start adding interest and penalties; they're inna millions, no sweat. Pooler says for that you go to jail."
"In other words," Hilliard said, 'it's gonna be the end of me, maybe the end of your job as a clerk, but certainly the end of me."
"That's what he seems to be saying," Merrion said.
"What the hellV Hilliard said, anguish in his voice. "Do we know what it was that brought this on? Did Pooler tell you that? Playing golfs not a crime, not the last I heard, anyway, although the way we play it maybe should be. And joining a country club: that isn't, either, even when it's one that costs a lot of money. What made them decide to come after me, and therefore to come after you?
"I asked Pooler that," Merrion said. "This smells like revenge to me.
Has it got anything to do with anything we actually do in politics!
Something they can point to and say: "See? It was a fraud, right from the very beginning'? I don't remember it that way. I don't remember one occasion when Danny and I went off by ourselves and said: "Okay now, how can we make money from this? Not once in all the years." And he shrugged his shoulders and said: "I dunno. Some people think head-hunting's fun."
"But what brought it on nowV Hilliard said. "I've been out of sight for ten years."
"Pooler thinks it may go back to when you and Mercy got divorced. He said when he spoke to Sam Evans about it, Sam just shook his head and said it was the pictures inna papers, you and alia blonde babes with big tits and the skirts that just covered their breakfast. Someone, maybe someone in the IRS, maybe someone who's now in the US Attorney's office, painted a target on you, decided you should be punished. Sam told Pooler he told you not to let that juicy stuff happen, to lie low 'til the case was over, and you couldn't even do that. But at the time all he had in mind was keeping down what Mercy'd get in the settlement.
He didn't think you'd go to jail for disregarding what he said."
Hilliard seemed not to have heard him. "Pooler couldn't explain it to me the other day, either, why they're doing this to me now scalping me, ripping my hair off." He shook his head and snuffled.
"It's frightening, Amby. Makes me feel so exposed," Hilliard said "All these years, and now basically what he's saying is it could be anything, anything I might've ever done, or even said, to someone. Some casual remark that pissed someone off, and now they've found a pretext to get even, calling me what amounts to a thief. "You ran for office in order to steal." How the hell do you defend yourself?"
He shook his head again. "The short answer is that you can't," he said. Then he began to cry. He sat there at the table in the dim corner of the bar at Grey Hills and his eyes filled up with tears. He shook his head and said: "It was never that way, Amby. You know that, it wasn't. It was never that way at all."