The green ball ricocheted off the white walls, pursued by an echo, a rubberized whine which carried into the next hit. Greenfeld and I scrambled after it, armed with wooden rackets. The only other sound was the quick, hollow thud of our tennis shoes.
Greenfeld played with tenacious alertness, as if squash were his job. The ball shot to my backhand. I wheeled and slammed it hard and low to the left corner. Greenfeld sped for the left wall. The stretched arc of his racket ripped air and missed the green blur by half an inch. He shook his head. We usually played even. Today I was beating hell out of him.
It kept up. I flowed on a savage adrenalin rush, half-conscious. The last point was low and to my right. I lunged, skidded on my chest, and hacked wildly from the elbow. The ball looped off the front wall. Greenfeld went for it and missed. Another half inch. My game.
He stared at the ball, dying in small bounces in a far corner. It gave a last rubbery whimper and rolled into stillnes. He turned, hands on hips.
“You’ll never do that again,” he said.
“I know.”
We showered and dressed in silence, then taxied toward the Hill. Greenfeld lost hard. He leaned against the right rear door, thinking it over. “Crew was your sport in college, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That explains the forearms,” he said, as if he’d caught me cheating.
“It also was perfect training for my current position. I sat absolutely still until someone shouted at me. Then I would stroke as fast as they told me, no faster, until someone said to stop. Then I stopped.”
Greenfeld’s absent smile turned inquisitive without changing at all. “What happened over there?”
“Nothing. Doesn’t it always?”
His eyes sharpened. “Did they screw up your case?”
“No, we’ve got a splendid result. Lasko has promised never to do it again, without conceding he did it in the first place.”
“You don’t sound impressed.”
“Are you?”
“Not very.”
“Well, that makes you smarter than most of your colleagues in the financial press. Not to mention Congress.”
“You’ll have to go farther to flatter me. Particularly after that squash game. Now why”-his voice arched-“do I get the feeling you’re holding out?”
“I don’t know, Lane. Paranoia, maybe.”
He didn’t smile. I decided to answer. “If I’m holding out, it’s because there’s something still at stake.” Martinson, for instance. “We can’t always work the same side of the street.”
“I’m not persuaded,” he said with irony.
“You don’t know what I know.”
“That’s the problem.”
“Bullshit, Lane. Do I know all there is to know about the Post? Do your readers know all there is to know about the news?”
He didn’t pursue that, and neither did I. I still wanted to pump him. It was reflex, mainly; the ECC had just closed the case. But it wasn’t that easy for me. I kept looking for answers. “Just out of useless curiosity,” I tried, “what is Justice doing about the antitrust case? Settling like us?”
“Why should I tell you?” he jibed, not joking.
“Because I beat you at squash.”
He smiled slightly. “The honest answer is I don’t know. One lawyer at Justice has been slipping me bits sub rosa. He says they were poised to prosecute. Then your friend Catlow stepped in to negotiate for Lasko. In July sometime the word seeped down that the case was going to be settled. Just like that. My source thought that was pretty solid. Then this month he heard maybe the settlement was off, that something was holding it up. I figure maybe the something was your investigation.” He paused and looked at me quizzically. “Just what have you got?”
“I just wish they’d let me find out.”
“So why hold out?” It wasn’t pressure now, but real curiosity.
“All I can say is that you would, too.”
“Thanks.” The crack needled both of us.
“You’re welcome.”
The taxi got to the Hill and dropped us off. We walked together. The wet sun steamed our foreheads. We loosened our ties and slung our jackets over our shoulders. Greenfeld looked over at me. “I picked up a rumor the other day from a guy who writes one of our financial columns. He says Lasko’s in a cash squeeze, something about the plants they’ve built to handle the defense stuff costing a lot of money. Is that what you’re into?”
I shook my head. “No. I haven’t seen any sign, but then I haven’t been looking. I suppose it’s possible-if they’ve dressed up their financials some.”
He considered that and so did I. But I didn’t want to talk it over then. “Whatever happened with the pretty girl and your Bogart film?” I asked.
He smiled thinly. “The girl palled. The film held up nicely, though.” His words held a note of irony, as if he were tired of himself. I didn’t pursue it. I was tired of myself too-and the strange and treacherous world in which I worked.
We walked across the Capitol grounds toward the Senate wing, moving from shade tree to shade tree. We stopped in the parking lot. The sun baked it, soaking the asphalt and glazing windshields. Greenfeld stood sideways, still holding his coat. “You know, Chris,” he said, “something hit me the other day.”
“What’s that?”
“That at our age, Mozart was dead.”
“That’s just great, Lane.”
“You’re welcome,” he said dryly, and strolled off toward the Senate.
I walked back to the agency wishing I were somewhere else. The lobbies looked deserted, and the elevators seemed sluggish. Debbie was out. I gazed past her desk, feeling as empty as my office. No one at home in there. Martinson had to wait till Monday, and Lehman haunted me. I picked up the phone and called Mary.