“Jonathan Millgate would be about eighty now,” Pittman said. “Mother a society maven in Boston. Father a billionaire from investments in railroads and communications systems. Millgate graduated at the top of his class, with a law degree from Yale. Nineteen thirty-eight. Specialty: international law, which came in handy during the Second World War. Went to work for the State Department. Moved upward rapidly. Named ambassador to the USSR. Named ambassador to the United Nations. Named secretary of state. Named national security adviser. Tight with Truman. Jumped parties to become a Republican and made himself indispensable to Eisenhower. Not close to Kennedy. But despite the party differences, Johnson certainly relied on Millgate to help formulate policy about Vietnam. When the Republicans came back into office, Nixon relied on him even more. Then Millgate suddenly dropped out of public view. He retreated to his mansion in Massachusetts. Interestingly, despite his seclusion, he continued to have as much influence as a high-level elected or appointed official.
“He had a heart attack this morning.”
Pittman waited.
“Here in town,” Burt said.
“But apparently not a fatal attack, because you said the subject of the obituary wasn’t dead yet.”
“Since the Chronicle’s dying anyhow, we can afford to experiment. I want the obit long, and I want it dense. With facts, with intelligence, with style. A cross between the front page and the editorial page. That used to be your specialty.”
“You’re gambling he won’t last until a week from tomorrow, that he’ll die before the Chronicle does.”
“What I’m really gambling,” Burt said, “is that you’ll find the assignment interesting enough to make you want to do others like it, that you’ll get committed to something besides grief, that you and the Chronicle won’t die together.”
“Gambling’s for suckers.”
“And working on obituaries too long can make a person morbid.”
“Right,” Pittman said dryly. “It’s not like reporting on national affairs can make you morbid.” He turned to leave.
“Wait, Matt. There’s one other thing.”
7
Pittman glanced back and saw the envelope Burt was holding. His chest felt cold.
“The guy who subbed for you yesterday found this in your desk drawer.” Burt opened the envelope. “It’s addressed to me, so he figured he’d better deliver it.” Burt set a sheet of paper on the desk. “I guess I got it earlier than you wanted. Pretty impersonal, don’t you think, given all we’ve been through?”
Pittman didn’t need to read the typed note to know what it said.
Matthew Pittman, 38, West 12th St., died Wednesday evening from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
A memorial service will begin at noon on Saturday at Donovan’s Tavern, West 10th St. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made to the children’s cancer fund at Sloan-Kettering in the name of Jeremy Pittman.
“It was all I could think of.”
“Brevity’s a virtue.” Burt tapped the sheet of paper. “But so is thoroughness. You didn’t mention that you worked for the Chronicle.”
“I didn’t want to embarrass the newspaper.”
“And you didn’t mention that you were survived by your ex-wife, Ellen.”
Pittman shrugged.
“You didn’t want to embarrass her, either?” Burt asked.
Pittman shrugged again. “I got writer’s block when it came to calling Ellen by her new last name. I finally decided to hell with it.”
“I wish you could ignore your other problems as conveniently. Eight more days, Matt. You promised me eight more days.”
“That’s right.”
“You owe me,” Burt said.
“I know,” Pittman said with force. “I haven’t forgotten what you did for-” To interrupt the confrontation, he glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon. I’ll get started on Millgate’s obituary after lunch.”
8
The tavern had three things to recommend it: It was out of the way, it didn’t do much business, and the little business it did wasn’t from staff members of the Chronicle. Pittman could drink in peace, knowing that he wouldn’t be interrupted-not in this place. Its only reason for existing was for the coming and going of numbers runners. When Pittman had come in and asked for a drink, the bartender had looked shocked to be having a legitimate customer.
Pittman nursed two Jack Daniel’s on the rocks while he did his newspaper’s crossword puzzle. Anything to occupy his mind. Burt had been trying to do that, as welclass="underline" to distract him. And Burt’s tactic had been effective. Because the crossword puzzle wasn’t effective. The only words that kept coming into Pittman’s mind were Jonathan Mitigate.
Pittman had once worked on a story about Millgate, back when he had been at the national affairs desk. Before Jeremy’s death. Before… Seven years ago, Jonathan Millgate had been rumored to be involved as a middleman in a covert White House operation whereby munitions were illegally supplied to right-wing governments in South America in exchange for the cooperation of those governments in fighting the war against drugs. It was further rumored that Millgate had received substantial fees from those South American governments and certain weapons manufacturers in exchange for acting as a go-between in the secret exchange.
But Pittman had found it impossible to substantiate those rumors. For a man who had once been so much in the public eye, Millgate had become a remarkably private, guarded person. The last interview he’d given had been in 1968 after the Tet offensive against American forces in Vietnam. Millgate had spoken to a senior reporter for the Washington Post, expressing strong sympathy with the Nixon administration’s policy of sending considerably more U.S. soldiers to Vietnam. Because Millgate was respected so much, his statement was interpreted to represent the opinion of other conservative political theorists, especially Millgate’s fellow grand counselors. Indeed, the implication was that Millgate was endorsing a policy that he and the other four grand counselors had themselves formulated and privately urged the Nixon White House to adopt: heightening America’s involvement in the Vietnam War.
By the time Pittman became interested in Millgate because of the possible munitions scandal, Millgate’s effect on presidential attitudes was so discreet and yet powerful that his reputation for diplomacy had achieved mythic status. But no government source could or would say anything about him. As a consequence, Pittman (full of energy, motivated, in his prime) had gone to Burt Forsyth and requested permission to investigate Millgate’s legend.
Pittman’s telephone log eventually recorded one hundred attempts to call Millgate’s business and government associates. Each executive had declined to be interviewed. Pittman had also contacted Millgate’s law office in an attempt to make an appointment to interview him. Pittman was put on hold. He was switched from secretary to secretary. He was told to call numbers that were no longer in service. Pittman had phoned the Justice Department, hoping that the team investigating Millgate would give Pittman an idea of how they stayed in contact with him. He was told that the Justice Department had no need to remain in contact with Millgate, that the rumors about his receiving kickbacks because of his alleged involvement in a munitions scandal had been proven to lack substance, and that the investigation had been concluded in its early stages.