Strachey's Folly - Stevenson Richard - Страница 21

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Timmy flinched. I reached for my coffee cup.

Chondelle went on, "But it sounds more like her husband is the baddie here, if anybody in the family is. So both of you are probably okay for now. Anyway, look—how about if Sudbury's friend Hively, the writer for the Blade, calls up Mrs. Krumfutz? Hively can say he's doing a story on the mysterious Jim Suter quilt panel, and he heard Suter was in Mexico with his boyfriend Jorge, and does she know how to get in touch with Jorge? Why wouldn't that work?"

Timmy looked doubtful. "I don't think Hively would call Mrs. Krumfutz without some explanation from us as to what this is all about. He's a nosy reporter, after all. And if we tell him the truth, then he's involved in this—whatever it is—too. I don't want to do that to anybody else."

Chondelle sipped from the second of the two double espressos she'd ordered, then said, "So what if Hively didn't call her, but somebody saying he was Bud Hively of the Washington Blade did? That would work just as well, if you ask me." She set her cup down, winked at me, and gazed at Timmy, waiting.

Timmy said, "Uh-uh. Not me."

"Why not?" Chondelle asked.

"For one thing, I've always been a terrible liar."

"It wouldn't take but a minute. You could prevaricate for one little minute, I'll bet."

I said, "Timothy, it would just be a small social lie."

He reddened. "No, it wouldn't. It would be much more than that."

I said, "You see, Chondelle, he went to Georgetown. He was educated by Jesuits."

"Yeah," she said, "Clinton went there, too, I hear."

"Look, I'm not all that pompously self-righteous," Timmy said. "Jeez, give me a break. It's not that I've never told a lie. It's lhat I'm really bad at it. I'll blush and probably stutter."

"Mrs. Krumfutz will never see you blush over the phone," I said. "And to her, you'll sound as if you're just another homo­sexual with a speech impediment."

Timmy fumed for another minute, but finally agreed to im­personate newspaper reporter Bud Hively and phone Mrs. Krum-liitz. He said he guessed the morality of his doing so was sound overall, though muddy, and his biggest concern was his inepti-lude as a liar as a result of a paucity of experience. We kidded him some more about the lofty moral plane he lived on. It was one of the characteristics that had drawn me to Timmy nearly twenty years earlier, and which had made me want to remain with him through hard times and easy, except, of course, when­ever his rigidity made me want to flee the sound of his voice.

Five minutes later, after Chondelle had obtained Betty Krum-futz's Log Heaven phone number through a police department source, we sent Timmy to a pay phone around the corner on Pennsylvania Avenue to lie through his teeth.

While Timmy was gone, Ray Craig made another pass and squinted over at us. He must have spotted Timmy at the pay phone and wondered what we were up to now. But Craig didn't stop. He just continued on down the block and hung a left at the corner.

Timmy was back in three minutes. He was wearing a half smile as he seated himself. He slurped up some cappuccino from his cup.

I said, "So?"

He grinned a little dementedly. Now he knew he'd go to hell, but apparently he didn't give a fig. "Jorge is Jorge Ramos. Ramos and Suter met in her office, yes, but Mrs. Krumfutz doesn't know Ramos very well. He's a friend of Alan McChesney, who used to be her chief of staff in the House. McChesney now runs the office of Congressman Burton Olds. McChesney often vacations in Ramos's house on the Caribbean coast, below Can-cun, and Mrs. Krumfutz said that if Jim Suter is with Ramos, that's probably where they are. She gave me the name of the vil­lage near Playa del Carmen." Timmy lifted his cup again and drank from it.

Chondelle said, "Nice work, Timothy. No offense intended, but it looks like you're a better fibber than you thought you were. It's nothing to be proud of, but it can come in handy, can't it?"

I said, "So you are adept as a liar. This changes everything. I may never believe another word you say."

"Neither of you two guys ever told a lie to the other one?" Chondelle asked.

Timmy said, "No."

I said, "Not for many years, so far as I am able to recall."

"It was amazingly easy getting the information out of Mrs. Krumfutz," Timmy said. "She asked me if our conversation would be off the record, and I said yes. She said she did not wish to be quoted in the Blade on anything having to do with the AIDS quilt, and she did not wish to have her name mentioned at all in connection with it. I said that was fine, that I just wanted to track down Jim Suter for a story I was writing about a quilt panel that had mysteriously appeared with Jim Suter's name on it, even though he is believed to be alive and well.

"She said wasn't that odd, as if she'd never heard of the Suter panel. Obviously, I didn't mention your encounter with her, Don, and I didn't say anything about pages from Suter's cam­paign biography having been ripped off the panel—Bud Hively wouldn't have known about the campaign-bio pages. But I did ask her if she had visited the quilt display. She said no, she'd never seen it, but she said she'd heard it was big and colorful. Then I thanked her and said I supposed she was enjoying the fall foliage up in Pennsylvania—nature's quilt. She said, oh, yes, she certainly was."

I said, "You actually called the Pennsylvania fall scenery 'nature's quilt'?"

Timmy smiled slyly.

Chondelle said, "Timothy, it sounds to me like you're a nat­ural at this. If I ever need somebody to tell a big fat lie for a good cause, I'm gonna call you."

Still looking almost smug, he said, "Don't bother. In the fu-lure, I'll only lie for Donald. This is something that's just be-iween me and my honey pie here."

I said, "What in God's name have I done? I may need to take you back to the priests, Timothy, and sign you up for an ethical lune-up."

He chuckled, but then Ray Craig rolled slowly by, and Timmy's mood abruptly darkened again. He said, "What does 11uit man want with us?"

Chapter 12

Bud Hively, the real one, was among Maynard's friends gathered at the ICU lounge outside the George Wash­ ington University Hospital unit where, by one o'clock Monday afternoon, Maynard was awake and answering yes-and-no ques­tions by blinking. He had a black tube down his throat that looked like a creature from Alien emerging from his gullet, and so he was unable to speak. Only immediate family members were allowed into Maynard's room, two at a time, but Edwin Sudbury told the nurse in charge that we were all Maynard's sib­lings. "We're farmers," he said. "Big family." The nurse looked as if she had heard this many times before and did not find it clever, but she let us go in.

A District of Columbia police officer was seated on a desk chair that had been wheeled over to the entrance to Maynard's room. He gave each of us who entered the room a quick once­over, but he made no body search and failed to conduct even perfunctory interrogations of Maynard's visitors. Were Maynard to be finished off by a visitor, the cop would be good for a vague description, I guessed, but not much more.

Timmy and I went into the room together for a brief stay. Timmy spoke reassuring and affectionate words to Maynard, who stared up at us weakly, quizzically. He obviously had ques­tions but no way of asking them. When Timmy asked him if he'd like an explanation as to why he was lying badly wounded in a hospital bed, Maynard blinked furiously, yes, yes. Timmy gave him a quick rundown of the shooting and the confusing after­math. Maynard shook his head in amazement at Timmy's story. Then, apparently exhausted by his attempt to make sense of what had happened to him, he drifted off again. We gazed at Maynard a moment longer, outraged and sickened all over again at what had happened to our friend.

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