Try Try Again (11 page)

And the key to the getaway car that wasn’t? That’s another
item Charley wouldn’t have had on him, because he’d be dead before he left the
murder scene and gone to that building ledge to pick it up. But Charley had
insisted on pocketing that key during the dry run, and George had let him do
it, figuring Charley looked so damn determined he’d just walk if he didn’t get
his way.

So if George had succeeded in shooting Charley, that key
would have been found in his pocket. But he had escaped George’s bullet, and the
key was in his pocket anyway, had no doubt been found after his arrest (although
the police hadn’t said anything about that – wonder why?).

Two puzzle-pieces that didn’t fit any police theory: the
drug deal and the car key. Didn’t fit anything. And all because George was more
clever than anybody else, he thought ruefully. He may have been; but he had out-clevered
himself this time.

Some members of the prosecution would be happy just to see a
criminal sent away, he knew. Mission accomplished. But others wanted every
shoelace tied, every puzzle-piece in place. Now they had two pieces that didn’t
fit. And a third: the Harrisburg phone number. The police spokesman did let
something slip about Harrisburg. Maybe Charley had given them the number. But
maybe Charley had forgotten it, or if he hadn’t forgotten it, maybe the police
had concluded he was lying. Anyway, if they thought he’d been headed for a bus
out of town, alone, so much the better.

George had been following the Grantwood Bi-Weekly Times on
line. As he expected, there was a long story in every issue about the murder of
Ezra Barnes and the mystery of Charley Wayne Dukes. But the stories, after the
first two days, were repetitious. No news in the news, but always a twist of
some kind from the keyboard of “JTJ.” He admired JTJ’s cleverness and ability
to con the readers into thinking they were actually learning something new in
every issue of the paper. A black woman, judging from her photo below the
byline. She would make a fine criminal, George concluded. Con, most likely.
Smooth and slick. After the Barnes affair was history, maybe he’d look her up,
perhaps recruit her.

But back to his current worries: Why hadn’t the prosecutor
said anything like “the killer didn’t act alone” or “there was a conspiracy”?
He must believe it was at least as a possibility. What was happening in Grantwood
that George didn’t know about?

And what was happening in D.C.? He expected a summons from
Haskin, at least a dressing down. Or elimination. Possibly? Better get ready to
run. But not yet. If Dukes’ defense doesn’t mention the word ‘conspiracy’
perhaps he was home free.

Having time to think after the frenetic election campaign,
Senator Thomas Conning was upset. No, he was pissed off. The target of his
wrath was Sally Netherton, that forbidding woman from ConDyne, Inc., who’d made
him such a wonderful offer, and all he had to do was even the odds for ConDyne
vs. Boeing, McDonnell Douglas, NGC, and other giant contractors getting fat
sucking the DoD tit. Yes, ConDyne deserved to get a mouthful of that, too.

But now there were questions. Thank God no one had accused
him of being involved in Barnes’ death! ConDyne couldn’t have been involved,
could they? Well, the stakes were high enough. What’s one Congressman’s life against
ten billion dollars of potential procurement? If he were in ConDyne’s pocket
and Barnes’ wasn’t, would that – what a horrible thought! He remembered how
sure he’d been of her involvement the day Barnes was shot, but then he’d had
time to reconsider, repress, think of reasons for exonerating her. But if she
hadn’t been responsible for Barnes’ death, then he hadn’t been involved,
either. So he could, possibly, be rid of her.

Conning worked his normal lethargic self into an
almost-imitation of a lather. Got to call her in, he thought, cut her off,
dismiss her. The back of his mind whispered, “too late, too late!” But he had
to try. Although he had cruised to re-election now that Barnes was gone and a
nobody had been hurriedly picked as Barnes’ replacement, Conning could resign.
Just like that. Wouldn’t that put that woman’s tit in a wringer? A mental image
of that prospect floated in his mind, giving him the feeling of revenge mixed
with arousal. He seemed to be fixated on tits that morning; but his usual
pleasure lay farther south.

But what was Netherton up to now? What was she planning
next? It was time to put an end to his involvement in all that, whatever it
was. Conning had never been a conspirator, really, or even a very good
politician. Years ago he’d been picked by the party bosses as “safe” and had
just drifted up with the tide. His one adventure in being proactive was with
that Netherton bitch. He’d show the bosses he could take some independent
initiative, could play with the big boys. And he’d fucked up. Yes, fucked it
the hell up. Damn her!

He picked up the phone and left a four-character code on a
polite automaton that forwarded the code for “See me!” to Sybille Haskin’s
automaton. The two automata conversed, he imagined, interfacing algorithms and
passwords, clicking together in digital wonder. Ain’t it grand, this rich
comedy? Someday, when all those dolts made of meat, those monkeys, those hubes,
were gone, well then! No more being restricted to eight-bit characters and sixty-four-bit
words! The fucking sky, it wasn’t even the limit!

Actually, he knew, the computer programs hadn’t shared these
thoughts, because they were incapable of doing so. Yet.

At three p.m. that afternoon, Sybille Haskin received a
four-character code on her web appliance that meant “’X’ needs you. Right
away.”

“How about that; he’s panicking.” Haskin smiled, not her
usual expression and she had to remember how to do it. It was time to tell
Conning the facts of life. She purposely waited four hours to respond, then
sent a different four-character code that meant “I’ll be in your office ten
a.m. tomorrow.”

She settled back in her leather lounge chair, fondled its
soft warmth. Her skin reached a state of excitement only possible when she was
planning something deft. Yes, she thought, it was time to throw off the “ConDyne”
mask. Her skin became warmer. Her breathing deepened. But it wasn’t the time
yet to tell Conning who he was really working for. This would be a beautiful
meeting. The one after that would be even more beautiful.

At ten a.m. sharp, “Sally Netherton” was announced. She was
usually late, which meant Conning didn’t seem prepared for her appearing on
time this morning, while he happened to be speaking on the phone. Haskin said
“Good morning, Senator.” She heard, faintly, a voice relayed to the Senator from
the nearest cell tower: “Who was that?” A female voice. Haskin recognized Marie
Conning’s voice from news clips and a CNN interview.

Conning, foolishly, stuttered and said “Nobody.” No wife on
earth would fall for that. No-bodies usually had bodies which they were using
for one purpose or another, and not telling one person, one spouse or the
other, exactly what.

Marie Conning could be a danger, Haskin thought, even if
Haskin had Tom Conning’s metaphorical balls in her metaphorical hand, and was
about to give them a great big metaphorical squeeze.

After a few stuttered words, Conning hung up the phone.

“Ah- ah-,” he said; his usual opening words; his overture.

Yes, the Senator thought, this morning he would tell this
Sally Netherton or whoever she really was that he had quit serving ConDyne.
He’d done a lot for that company. According to Wall Street, ConDyne was doing
as well as the other big defense contractors, even better in some ways. Haskin
could just thank him and go away, or find someone else to help her out. It was
over.

But first, a few courtesies.

“ConDyne’s support has been very much appreciated,” said
Conning in senatorial pluperfect tense. “I prevailed in a tough contest over a
talented young man. Or I would have, I mean.”

“But now, while fully appreciating your generous offer to
contribute to my – future goals two years from now, I believe it’s time to
terminate our relationship. As of this meeting. Your help was exceptionally
generous, but I don’t believe that any further support is required.”

Conning had risen from his chair during this speech, and had
turned toward the door as if expecting that Haskin would take the hint and
leave. But she remained seated.

“Senator,” she said, “none of that information you supplied
was ever used. No,” she continued, “we wanted to make sure you were above
suspicion, so we never used any of that defense information, didn’t sell it to
a third party even though that would have made us – me – a great deal of money.
We shredded it, or the electronic e-quivalent of that, except for a few telling
pieces to hold over your head.

“All we were doing was collecting enough evidence to put you
in prison for a very long time, and to make your loving wife wish she’d never
heard of you. Not to mention your children. Not to mention everyone in America,
and everyone who reads a world history book in the next fifty years.”

“No more information?” he said, his voice on edge.

“No more information, Senator. Nothing. And more good news,”
she continued, “I don’t need you to do anything for me right now, or for the
next two years. And when the primary season warms up then, we will be pleased
to provide, once again, financial support; this time, for your campaign for
President.

“You’ve got two years off. But once you’re the President,
we’ll want cooperation from you. And we’ll get it. A Senator in disgrace?
That’s a senator in disgrace. But a President? That’s a nation in disgrace. And
just think of it: Quisling; Burr; Petain; Judas; Benedict Arnold; – Thomas Conning.

“And don’t think of resigning or suicide or anything like
that. We have enough on you to put you in the Quisling category whatever happens.
There’s nothing you can do but see it through with us, cooperate. It’s in your
interest as well as ours that no one finds out what you did for us, or what you
will do for us, ever.”

Conning rose a few inches from his chair, then slumped down
into it and wiped his forehead. He didn’t understand. If she could ruin him,
why would she do that after all her investment in him? And why didn’t she want
any favors from him now? He stared at her, had a thought. “I don’t believe
you’re with ConDyne!” he said.

Sybille Haskin never laughed, but she came close this time.
“Well, let the light bulb shine! No, your greed made you think I was with ConDyne,
even though I didn’t give you any reason to believe me. You haven’t been
working for ConDyne – you haven’t had just a slight case of corruption. You’ve
been working for – should we have a moment of tension here? A big ta-dah?”

“Who?” Conning asked. “Who have I been working for?”

“Do you really want to know?” Haskin asked. “Do you
really
want to know?”

Conning closed his eyes. He would have seen his desk blotter
if he’d opened them. “No,” he said weakly, “I don’t.”

“Very good,” said Haskin pleasantly. “I’ll just hold that
over you for now. And as I said, we won’t be seeing each other for a while. I’ll
just leave you with this thought: I own you, from your dandruff to your toenails
and everything in between.”

There was a long silence. Then Haskin said, more quietly.
“So why did you want to see me today, Senator?”

“Nothing,” said Conning, “nothing.”

She turned and left, smiling at the admins in the outer
office.

JTJ (the version of her name she preferred) thought of
herself as an intrepid newsperson, ferreting out the truth when others settled
for half-truths, or quarter-truths, or lies. She was firmly and habitually
freelance, because she’d never been able to work for anyone else full-time for
more than seventeen days, five hours – her personal best to this point in her
life.

Three evenings a week, JTJ taught a class called “Media
Techniques: Recording and Reporting the News” at Grantwood Junior College. She
was paid per-term as an adjunct, not an employee. That was fine with her: being
employed by a college bureaucracy was her idea of peewee-league hell.

That semester she had fourteen students and enough college
resources to afford three pro-level digital cameras, although they were older
models, surplused by their owners and donated to the college as a tax write-off.

Sometimes she was questioned about her unusual name. Most people
liked it, thought it was ‘hip’. But JTJ hadn’t made it up, quite. Her parents
had named her Josephina Thomasina Jackson, in honor of her two grandmothers,
and in hopes both would be complaisant about baby-sitting her. However, all
that this led to was Mama Thomasina’s never speaking to Mama Josephina ever
again, and JTJ’s mother and father splitting up like a dead tree. It hadn’t,
taken much to push their marriage apart, right down the grain. So the daughter/granddaughter
became ‘J.T. Jackson’ or just ‘JTJ’, her original contribution to the family’s
naming feud.

JTJ was a stringer for both the small local bi-weekly paper
and the only local radio station that bothered with anything other than canned thug
music and the sports wire. For the paper, she had actually done some useful
reporting, although mostly on the level of over-budget city IT projects, and contention
in Mensa meetings, leading to harsh language and the occasional assault.

Like thousands of other reporters, she was always on the
lookout for the big story, her ticket out of this green and pleasant, but very
hick place. She’d been beaten out on the Barnes assassination story, but was
primed and ready for the murder trial, which she was drawn to like a fly to
shit. Good money for a while anyway; hot story, chance for statewide exposure
or maybe even nationwide.

She talked her way into being the lead (only, actually)
trial reporter for the Grantwood Herald, and to give a daily five-minute spot
for Harrisburg WGWR-AM. So things were looking up. She’d need to be in the courtroom
for the trial itself, and had arranged with the court clerk that she’d have a
seat up front, in the interest of freedom of the press, so let’s hear it for
free-dom!