“Yes, of course. I’ll do my level best…”
“I need your word on that. I’m sure you understand.”
“And so you have it, sir. I’m certain there’ll be no unnecessary details released to the press. There is, however, one area of concern, which presents a bit of a bother to those undertaking the investigation. We suffered another tragic, awful and strangely similar killing this morning. Sir Anthony Wells, a very prominent attorney indeed, and a gentleman already past his one-hundredth birthday, was also beaten to death. His office, the location of his vile murder, was gone through from top to bottom. There’s a disturbing link, a possible connection I’m told, between Ambassador Brown and Sir Anthony. An American, one of your embassy people. A man named Harry Levine. He met with Sir Anthony this morning. Mr. Levine, it appears, has a role in this. He may have something of Sir Anthony’s, something freely given I’m sure, something that could be important in these delicate circumstances. Our investigators would like to talk to Mr. Levine, but so far we’ve been unable to locate him. He’s not been found. If he’s safe-if you know he’s safe-do you think we could get some help with that effort?”
“What sort of connection?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why do you want to talk with this man Levine? How does he fit in here?”
“Well, I really don’t know. Perhaps no one actually knows. I suppose that’s why they want to talk to him.”
“I’ll make sure,” the President continued, “someone at the embassy assists your authorities in speaking to Harry Levine, but any interview will have to be conducted at the embassy. Particularly now, when there’s bound to be a great deal to do there after the murder, the killing of Ambassador Brown. As long as we’re clear on that point I don’t see any trouble in getting the right people together. Is there more I need to know?” the President asked.
“I think not,” answered Brian Curtis-Moore, fully aware his meeting was now concluded. “Again sir, my Government’s and Her Majesty’s sincere condolences and deepest sympathy.” With that he took his leave.
The President was upset and equally confused. Were the British on to Harry Levine? Did they know he had the document and were they after him? Did the British even know about the document? All the answers must be yes, the President conceded. What was it Curtis-Moore said Harry Levine had- “something of Sir Anthony’s”? Of course the British knew about Lacey’s document, his confession. The only question unanswered was-did they know what was in it? Maybe they really thought Harry Levine had some connection to the killings. The killings! Jesus Christ, people were dying here. What for? And why? His mind was racing while Louis Devereaux sat silent across the office. Finally, the President said, “He never mentioned Lacey, did he? And what is this thing with Curtis-Moore and you, Louis? You know him?”
“No, I do not. We’ve been at the same places, receptions, cocktail parties. I’ve seen him at various functions. But no, I never met him until today.”
“See, that’s what I mean!” the President said slapping his hands together.
“You want to know why he called me ‘Dr. Devereaux’, right?”
“Yeah, I sure do. What’s that all about? What’s he know about you?”
“I think it just means the British have a decent roster, adequate intelligence and Curtis-Moore’s been around a long while. He’s got a good memory.”
“Nothing more than that?” asked the President. “Really?”
“I think so. But Levine’s a different question. They know something about him. They may be aware of Lacey’s document. If so, there must be something in it they don’t want known. Maybe it’s just Kennedy. Perhaps there’s something else. We’re not sure, yet, but they do want Levine-enough to maybe implicate him in a double murder.”
The President said he had a plan. That was before Curtis-Moore rearranged the pieces on the board. Now, it didn’t look like he was as confident as he was a little while ago. Devereaux was thinking while the President was worrying.
“Levine won’t be at his phone-not anymore,” Devereaux said. “You can’t call him back. He’ll have to call you again. He’s on the run, but he’s still in London, probably still in the neighborhood. He might have walked over to the Embassy, thinking it was safe there. The place must be crawling with cops, Scotland Yard, MI6 people. Levine could never get inside. So, he’s out there, somewhere. He’ll get to a phone. He’ll call. We wait.”
“And then what?” asked the President.
“When he calls, let me talk to him.”
The President said nothing more for a long time. A minute or two of total silence with only two people in a room always seems much longer. He did not look pleased. Finally, he said, “Listen to me, Louis. Take care of this situation, understand?” With that he opened the door to his private bathroom and disappeared. Louis Devereaux had no response. None was required. This President-he wasn’t Truman or Kennedy-but he made himself understood. T. S. Eliot’s “Murder in the Cathedral” rumbled through Louis’s mind. “Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest!”
“I’m leaving. Today. This afternoon. I just wanted to tell you.” Walter said it loud enough so both Ike and Billy could hear him. It was an unusual announcement. “Be gone a little while, but I’ll be back, you understand?” Billy was rearranging a rack of wine glasses. He grunted something that sounded like “Okay.”
“Where you going?” asked Helen. Billy shot her a look that made her sorry she opened her mouth; sorry she couldn’t take it back. Walter offered no reply. A moment of tense, if not uncomfortable, silence followed. Finally, Ike broke through it.
“Some Japanese guy offered the Beatles something like 30 or 40 million,” he said. “They didn’t come back.”
“I think we done this already,” Billy said pointedly to the old man. Helen wanted to say something-that was pretty clear by the way she stood there, behind the bar with her hands firmly on her hips-ready to fire away, but she held her guns.
“Dumbest thing I ever seen was that fool tried to fly around the world in some kind of fancy ass balloon.” Ike said that and then coughed when he exhaled. “You see that balloon? Fell like a rock.”
“Me,” Billy said, still pushing empty glasses into neat rows, “I can never figure out those people who climb Mt. Everest. I mean why would you do that? Don’t get me wrong. I can see the first guy. Just the first guy. The others, it’s just stupid.”
“I guess every man got to do what he got to do,” Ike said. “It’s just that sometimes what it is he’s got to do don’t make any sense. It’s simple. Stupid, that’s all.”
“I’m leaving this afternoon,” Walter repeated. “And, I’ll be back.”
Billy had nothing to say. Helen, finally realizing there was something going on among the three of them, kept silent. Ike inhaled and coughed again. This time he needed a napkin. Smoke slithered out the sides of his covered mouth while he spit out something wet and ugly. Walter glanced over and for a moment thought Ike’s ears were on fire. The old man tried to say something, but nothing came out. When he stopped coughing, he just shook his head a little and went back to doing nothing.
Walter tried hard not to think about it, to no avail. The first time he sat in the same seat, in Frogman’s, he was no more than thirty-something. He was forty when Billy took the joint over. Prime of his life. How had so much time passed so quickly? It seemed unfair. He remembered all the way back, a million years ago, when he was in Saigon. The Rolling Stones’ Satisfaction. He could hear it again. An anthem. He didn’t know it then-he’d never even heard of a metaphor-but later he saw clearly, the song was all about Vietnam. “I can’t get no-I can’t get no-Satisfaction.” Vietnam. Mick Jagger did an interview, Walter remembered, not long after the record was released in 1965. He saw it again, now, sitting in Billy’s. It was as clear in his mind’s eye as it had been, then on TV. There was Mick, just a kid. In his heavily accented, staccato rhythm, he was saying, “I can’t see myself singing Satisfaction when I’m… thirty-five, you know.” Youthful perspective is such horseshit, thought Walter. Could he, at twenty-five, have seen himself, airplane ticket in his pocket, bag packed, ready to head out on another search, thirty-five years later? He didn’t want to think about it. Too much time had gone by. Too many memories. He thought about her. Gloria. “Glor-re-a, my Glor-or-ree-a.” The Cadillacs played their scratchy harmony in his head and in his heart. Then Isobel. He was thinking about Isobel. “Oh, fuck!” he said to himself. “I’ve got to stop this shit.”