Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [19]
It was no secret among the children that the father favored Phil, and viewed him as the bright and shining light that would make worthwhile all his years bent over stitching machines and rubbing polish into other people’s shoes. His favoritism didn’t cause resentment among the kids. They understood that their father was from the Old World where men succeeded in business, and women married and had babies. Phil was an outstanding high school student, both academically and athletically. He was energetically recruited in his senior year by a number of top colleges and universities, and chose the University of Illinois, whose aid package covered virtually everything apart from spending money. His father had never seen his son play basketball or run track in high school; nor did he ever venture west to see him at the university. After many attempts to coax the man to Urbana-Champaign, Phil gave up. He thought he knew why the old man wouldn’t come. He was embarrassed at what he’d become, stooped, bald, his hands grotesquely swollen with arthritis, his breathing labored and voice hoarse from years of smoking. And so Phil contented himself with a weekly phone call to bring his father up to date—to make him proud.
This day in 1970, a Saturday, he sat drinking beer at a favorite student watering hole with his roommate. Earlier, he and Lyle had been to a party at their fraternity, Kappa Phi Kappa, and had driven to the bar in Simmons’s new, fire-engine-red Ford Thunderbird. Rotondi had balked at joining a fraternity. He considered it an extravagance, one that neither he nor his father could afford. But the fraternity recruited him aggressively in his sophomore year the way all fraternities rushed star athletes. When he told them he couldn’t afford the difference in cost between the dormitory and the frat house, they assured him they could work something out. It wasn’t until he graduated that he found out that his dorm roommate, Lyle Simmons, who’d also pledged Kappa Phi Kappa, had agreed to pay the difference in order to have his new friend as a fraternity brother. It was too late to resent it. Nothing was to be gained. Lyle was his best friend.
Lyle had had considerably more to drink than Phil that day, and Rotondi became concerned about his driving. But they’d made it safely and were now ensconced in a booth in the noisy bar, B. J. Thomas singing “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” through the sound system.
“So, buddy, ’fess up to Uncle Lyle.”
“About what?” Rotondi said.
“That delicious female creature you were with last night at the house.”
Rotondi dismissed the question with a shrug and a slow grin, and sipped his beer.
Simmons reached across the table and grabbed his roommate’s wrist. “Come on, pal, come on. You really scored. She’s a knockout. An absolute knockout. Who is she?”
“Name’s Jeannette.”
“Jeannette what?”
“Boynton.”
“Irish?”
“Alpha Phi. She’s from Connecticut.”
“So?”
Rotondi’s expression asked a question.
“Did you score, do the deed?”
“Come on, Lyle. I only met her a week ago. She’s in my political science class.”
Simmons’s leer was exaggerated, as though mugging for a camera.
Rotondi changed the subject. “You’re definitely going to Chicago for law school?”
“Yup. And I’ll never understand why you won’t be coming with me.”
“Money, Lyle. Just that simple. Maryland Law is giving me a free ride. The U of Chicago won’t.”
Simmons shook his head. “I told you I’d pay your tuition if you came with me.”
“Yeah, I know, Lyle, but buying me a cheeseburger when I’m short of pocket money is one thing. Paying for law school is another.”
“That’s false pride, Phil.”
“Call it what you will. I’m just not comfortable taking a big handout from a friend—from anyone for that matter.”
Simmons sat back in the booth and flicked a piece of lint from the front of his argyle sweater. “You resent me, don’t you, Phil?”
Rotondi had just taken a swig of beer and laughed, causing