Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [102]
“Big offices, sir.”
“Big men get big offices. That’s how it works. What’s on your mind, boy?”
Littlemore was about to mention that the Senator had asked to see him, not the reverse, but the question turned out to be rhetorical.
“I’ll tell you what’s on your mind,” said Senator Fall. “You’re thinking why does this senator in this big office want to see me.”
“That’s about right.”
“I’ll tell you why. I want you to keep me posted on your investigation.”
Littlemore opened his mouth to answer.
“Don’t you say anything, son,” interrupted Fall. “I ain’t put a question yet. I know what you’d say anyway. You’d say, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Senator, but the investigation is confidential. You’ll have to take that up with Secretary Milksop—I mean Houston.’ ”
There was silence in the room as Senator Fall lined up another putting stroke.
“Ain’t I right?” said Fall.
“Am I supposed to answer now?” asked Littlemore.
“I’m right,” said Fall, slapping his golf ball a foot past the milk bottle into a bookcase. “Damnation. That’s it. I’ve had enough of this fool game. I don’t play golf. Harding plays golf, so I figured I ought to give it a go. Well, he’ll just have to play by himself. Mrs. Cross? Get your pretty self in here.”
A door at the far end of the room opened. A tall blonde woman entered—the same attractive woman who had met Littlemore at Union Station the day before.
“Take this damn thing,” said the Senator, handing the woman his putter. “And fix us a couple of drinks.”
“Yes, Mr. Senator,” said Mrs. Cross without a glance at Littlemore.
“So how’s it feel to be a special agent, Special Agent Littlemore?” asked Fall, taking a seat behind his desk. “Must feel pretty special.”
Littlemore wasn’t sure how ironical this remark was intended to be. “It’s all right,” he said.
“Shouldn’t be all right.” Fall leaned back in his reclining leather chair. “Man of your age and your abilities shouldn’t be content to be an agent. Got to think big. Look at that jackass Flynn. You’re just as good as he is. Why shouldn’t you be the director of the Bureau?”
“Whiskey, Mr. Littlemore?” asked Mrs. Cross.
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
Fall raised his eyebrows: “You ain’t dry?”
“No, sir.”
“Glad to hear it. Mrs. Cross, give the man some whiskey. I got to tell you, Littlemore, becoming a Treasury Agent ain’t the way to investigate an act of war.”
“I don’t believe the bombing was an act of war, Mr. Senator.”
Fall shook his head. “Maybe it’s because you back down, Littlemore. Maybe that’s why you haven’t made more of yourself. Men who back down don’t rise up. Simple rule. Never fails. You were the only one to tell the truth about this bombing. You told Tom Lamont that the Morgan Bank was the terrorists’ target. He didn’t want to hear it, but you told him. Lamont was impressed; told me all about it. And Lamont ain’t impressed by most. But all of a sudden you got religion. You dropped Lamont and hitched yourself up to Secretary Milksop instead. I wonder what made you change your tune.”
Mrs. Cross handed a tumbler of whiskey to Senator Fall and offered another to Littlemore on a silver tray. He didn’t take it. Into the Senator’s glass of whiskey she poured a dollop of milk straight from a bottle.
“For the stomach,” explained Senator Fall. “One thing I hate to see is a good man back down. Knuckle under to the people at the top. Been fighting it my whole life. Take a seat, for Christ’s sake.”
Littlemore remained standing. “Does every senator keep a firearm in his office, Mr. Fall?”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve got a pistol in your second drawer.”
Fall crossed his arms, then smiled broadly. “Now how’d you know that? Mrs. Cross, did you tell Agent Littlemore about my gun?”
“Would I do something like that, Mr. Senator?” asked Mrs. Cross.
“You surely would.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“How’d you know that, son?”
“You got shell packing paper next to your wastebasket, Senator Fall, which tells me you were recently loading a weapon. On your right thumb is an oil stain, from cleaning it.