Burial of the Dead

PLOTS - 3

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“So what’s this all about?” Talmadge asks Moraski as they park in the lot behind the Capitol.

“Don’t know,” Moraski says.

“But the Attorney General called?”

“His brother made the call.”

“You can bet they’re joined at the hip.”

“Are they?”

“I don’t know. They think they’re the fuckin’ Kennedys.”

They get out of the car. Moraski looks overhead, a solid haze, the kind of sky that often gives way to blue sky and sunlight.

They take the elevator to the Attorney General’s office where Andrew Somers, the A.G.’s younger brother and chief of staff, meets them and ushers them to an ante-room to brief them before the real meeting begins.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, “and call me Drew,” a little guy, so heady in the reflected light of power he raises manners to a grand calling, the manners of a military man, informed by false modesty. “I’m afraid we have a problem,” Drew says. “and my brother hopes you can help us achieve some kind of resolution.”

“What problem?” Talmadge asks.

“Mrs. O’Neal.”

“The old lady,” Talmadge says. “The only problem with her is that she won’t go away and the whole thing’s a waste of time.”

“Let’s just say there’ve been phone calls.”

“Who’s making phone calls?” Moraski asks.

“I needn’t go into names or identities.”

“Insurance company doesn’t know whether they should pay out or not. Somebody’s clock is tickin,’” Moraski says.

“That’s your guess, not mine, Detective.”

“We’ve been closing in on a guy,” Talmadge says.

“But I’m not so sure,” Moraski says. “And neither is my partner, here.”

“Temporary partner.”

“You’re talking about Bobby Sullivan,” Drew says.

Moraski says nothing; Talmadge grimaces.

“We’re not uninformed,” Drew says, looking about the small room. There’s a pot of coffee and cups on a side table. Drew hurries over, as if he’s forgotten his manners, and asks if they’d like a cup. Talmadge says yes; Moraski says no. Drew does the honors and Moraski notes the crisp white shirt, newly pressed, the club tie, the casual elegance and thoughts of a prep school and the ease of unconscious, unearned and very real superiority. Moraski thinks if he were tougher, he’d play the roll of the street wise Bogart and allow a kind of thirties noir style, world weary and unimpressed, to protect him from the toxins of envy and insecurity. But Moraski’s not that tough, not since law school, not since before law school. He’s an ambitious second generation immigrant, Polish and very Catholic, insecure, prone to airs, and, in this room, vulnerable. He grows small as Drew moves about, serving Talmadge, checking the time, utterly secure. Then he denies the feelings, fighting with himself, and he grows smaller and hopes to gather himself, to obtain some leverage, some height, some weight before he meets the older brother.

“My brother’s got the coroner and the D.A. with him,” Drew says.

“Frawley?” Talmadge asks.

“Right.”

“And what’s his name? The D.A.?” Talmadge asks.

“Jimmy Reis.” Drew says.