"I thought he was supposed to run an honest investigation, not put on A Chorus Line. Who exactly are these people he's pissed off?"
"His committee, for one. Elements of the press."
"You mean Flores? He's a jerk."
Harrison chuckled. "Doubtless, but that does not disqualify one from a position of power in Washington. No, Bert made a very serious mistake in accepting this invitation to speak before the caucus without clearing it with Flores. Flores is hurt and he's going to lash out. Bert could have opposed him if he himself was in a position of unassailable power or if his own record were absolutely clean, but such is not, apparently, the case."
"Crane is dirty? That's bullshit!"
"Let's just say that there's a cloud. On Monday, two major papers, one in Philadelphia and one in Washington, will break stories about Bert Crane. The Philadelphia story will explore unsavory connections between Crane and various organized-crime figures that took place while he was a DA in Philly. He let a mobster named Johnny Serrano off on a corruption charge and sometime later there were contributions made to his campaign from a union known to be influenced by the Serrano crime family. The Washington story will focus on the operations of the committee staff. Apparently a good deal of money has been spent without legal authorization, and the comptroller general is starting an investigation."
Stunned, Karp paused a moment before responding, aware that the other man was examining his reaction. "That's ridiculous!" he said at last. "Crane never did any deal with mob guys. And the only money that's been spent is on essential items for the office. What, they think he's ripping off paper clips?"
"That's not the point. It is a fact of political life that you can survive accusations if you have a strong political base, or, if you have a weak base you can survive by ensuring that no accusations are made against you-as I said, by making the necessary people happy. But Crane has made people angry without a political base, and that's fatal."
"I can't believe this," replied Karp stubbornly.
"For the sake of argument, then, assume he'll be forced out. The question I wanted to raise with you, Butch, has to do with your position."
"My position?"
"Yes. Assuming Bert has to go."
"Well, obviously, I hadn't thought about it. I don't agree that Bert's going."
Harrison waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes, very loyal, of course, but let's cut the crap. Crane is finished and the only problem that remains is who replaces him. I think you'd be ideal. No-let me finish. One, you're as apolitical as a lamppost. That's essential. The report the committee writes is going to have to be salable to the public at large and that means no detectable political influence. Two, I've checked you out pretty thoroughly, and I've been unable to find a cloud. In fact, on several occasions you've dug up nasty stuff that could've been used to good advantage in building a career for yourself and you haven't used any of it. Very commendable, and useful in the present case. Incorruptibility is a salable commodity in this town, but it's as perishable as oysters. It requires, let us say, a certain protective shield. Let's say that I can arrange such a shield."
"I don't understand," said Karp, and he meant it.
"What I mean is that Crane's job is yours, if you want it. If we can come to some understanding."
"Which would be what?"
Harrison checked and grinned and fanned his hand in front of his face. "My God, such frankness! It takes my breath away. Okay, I'll be blunt, as much as it violates my sensibilities. You take Crane's job. I'll use my influence and the influence of people who owe me favors to make sure you get it. I will ensure cover for you in the press while you do your work. In return, you will provide me with a first look at everything you turn up. Also, if you're as smart as you seem to be, you'd also accept such political guidance as I may offer from time to time. How is that? Blunt enough?"
"Yeah. Tell me, you're a reporter-how come you can offer political guidance?"
Harrison laughed at that. "How? My friend, you might as well ask how a telephone can transmit stock market tips. I am a conduit for powerful people. They tell me things. I tell them things. Everyone knows that, which is why my column gets read, and why it's influential. It's the way this town works, as I'm sure you'll find out, if you survive. So-what do you say?"
"I say I'll think about it."
Harrison nodded his cube of a head several times. "Good. But don't take too long. The train is pulling out of the station and those who aren't on it will be left behind."
Karp was tired of this sort of advice. He said, "Well, Blake, the fact is that I really don't give two shits about whether I'm on the train or not. I came here to find out what the truth was about the Kennedy assassination, which is a legal and forensic investigation, a job that, with all due respect, I don't need any advice from you about. If I can do that, fine. If I can't, for whatever reason, I'm out of here."
Harrison rolled his eyes and brought his fist angrily down on his knee. "The truth! Yes, of course you want the truth. Don't you think that's what I want too? I was in Dallas when Jack was shot. I was at Parkland when they brought him in with his brains spilling out of his head. Nobody ever forgets something like that. My point, if you'd care to listen, is that without some experienced political guidance and some cover, you will not get to the truth. You will not be allowed to. So the choice I put to you is whether you want to remain a 'legal and forensic' choirboy with an unsullied heart, and get kicked out on your ass, or whether you want to play this game and win. Let me know when you make up your mind which."
He rose from his chair and stalked out of the room, leaving Karp sitting there thinking about what Clay Fulton had said those many weeks ago: indeed, he was way over his head. And in muddy water too.
After vomiting copiously in a primrose yellow toilet, Marlene washed her face, dried herself on one of the charming flowered guest towels, and went looking for a place to lie low until the wretched party had reached its end and she could sneak out.
She walked away from the sound of well-informed conversation, down a darkened hallway and through a door. She found herself in an echoing room with tall windows and a flagstoned floor, smelling oddly of both earth and chlorine. The windows on the left side were lit, those to the right, dark. To the right, then, obviously a pool; to the left a greenhouse, or, she supposed one should say, a conservatory. There was a door and she went through it.
The room was large, about fifty by thirty feet, and had one wall all of glass, which by night threw back the reflection of the overhead fluorescents and the variously shaded greens of the plants, mingled with the brighter hues of their blossoms. There were large specimens of the usual indoor plants-impatiens and prayer plants and tradescantia-but also more exotic growth. Huge staghorn ferns hung from the sprinkler pipe supports. Ficus and hibiscuses, oleanders and eucalypts grew from pots, and there were tables covered with weird aloes, and euphorbias and other fleshy, striped and waxy-flowered items that Marlene could not identify. A faint scent of jasmine floated over the bass note of the moist earth.
She saw a flash of a remarkable lavender color through the dense branches of a large croton and went around a potting table to see what it was. The plant was in a pot on the floor. It had dark green shiny leaves like a rhodie, but its flowers looked like giant purple pansies. She poked under its branches to see whether there was a label.
Behind her a voice said, "It's Brunfelsia floribunda, from Brazil."