Vulgar Boatman (15 page)

“Hey, that’s tremendous. That’s great news.”

“Here’s what I think,” I said. “You’ve got to meet questions about Buddy head-on, okay? We cooperate with the police. We cooperate with the media. Buddy didn’t do anything wrong. We both believe that. That’s the message.”

“I agree,” said Tom.

I hesitated, then said, “Look, Tom. Just to make sure there’s no misunderstanding. Our friendship is one thing. But I’m doing this for Buddy.”

“I hear you. No problem. No conflict there.”

“Winning isn’t the point.”

“Eddy Curry worries about that,” said Tom. “She’s blaming me, you know.”

“Joanie.”

“Yeah. You’re the white knight, now.”

“Why me?”

“It’s got to be somebody. She thinks all this happened because I’m running for governor.”

“She’ll get over it,” I said. “What about you, Tom? You blaming yourself, too?”

“I know it’s irrational…”

“Whether it is or not, it’s unproductive.”

He sighed. “Tell it to Joanie.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. On the phone—”

“Yeah, I heard. Christ, Brady. She’s sleeping in Buddy’s bed now. Won’t let me near her.”

“Tom…”

“I’m sorry. Talk soon.”

We said good-bye. I hung up the phone gently. I wondered what I had gotten myself into.

T
HE YOUNG REPORTER TAPPED
the business end of the microphone and studied the portable cassette recorder, which rested atop the desk in my office. He sat in the chair beside me. I was behind my desk.

“Interview with Brady Coyle, October 3, ten A.M. in his office six floors above Copley Square in beautiful downtown Boston,” he said, watching the little red bulb blink as he spoke. “Marv Adler, reporting.”

“Coyne,” I said.

He peered owlishly at me. “Huh?”

“Coyne. It’s Brady Coyne. You said Coyle.”

He shrugged. “Whatever. I’m confusing you with some guy from a novel. That one got shot to death, I think. I’ll get it right when I write it up.”

“You’d better get it right,” I said.

I lit a cigarette and watched him examine the little pad of paper that lay open on the table beside the recorder. He wore a rumpled seersucker jacket over a blue button-down shirt. No tie. Jeans and sneakers. It looked like he had salvaged the jacket from the floor of his closet for the occasion.

“You ready, Mr. Coyne?”

“Shoot.”

He cleared his throat. “Okay, then. For the record, sir, how would you describe your role in the Baron campaign?”

“I have no role in the campaign.”

“But I have this press release—”

“I have been Tom Baron’s personal lawyer for many years, and I continue to serve as his legal adviser. Since he has become a candidate for public office, some of the kinds of advice he may need will be different. That’s all.”

“Do you participate in strategy decisions?”

“No. Eddy Curry is his political strategist.”

“But legal matters impinge on campaign strategy, don’t they?”

“When and if they do, then I render advice.”

“Can you give me an example of this?”

“Only hypothetical. It hasn’t come up yet.”

Marv Adler frowned. “Can you give me a hypothetical example?”

“Sure,” I said. “Curry advises Tom to hire someone to assassinate his opponent. I tell him that it would violate a law and they shouldn’t do it.”

The reporter stared at me for a minute. “Look,” he said after a minute, “I’m just trying to get a story here, okay? You agreed to the interview. Why are you being hostile?”

“I’m not being hostile. You haven’t asked any good questions.”

He sighed. “I was hoping you’d just sort of talk to me.”

“I’m an attorney, Mr. Adler. I don’t just sort of talk.”

“Call me Marv, okay?”

“Happy to.”

He flipped over a few pages in his notebook. “Well, then. Let’s get to it. What about the Buddy Baron murder investigation? What’s your role in that?”

“Like all good citizens, I am cooperating with the police.”

“But as Baron’s legal adviser—”

“I would have helped arrange Buddy’s defense, had he lived and had he been arrested. Presently I am interested in seeing that he is not tried in the press.”

Adler’s eyes widened. “And do you feel that the press has dealt unfairly with the situation, Mr. Coyle?”

“It’s Coyne, Marv. And no, I don’t. So far the press has restrained itself.”

“I’m glad we get high marks from you.”

“I didn’t say you got high marks. The press has had the sense to lay off for a while. Tom Baron’s son was murdered. You people have given him a few days of space. But there’s a juicy story there, and sooner or later you’ll try to exploit it. That’s probably what you’re hoping for right now. When you do, my job will be to make sure nobody’s rights get violated. Including those of Buddy Baron.”

“So you think this is a juicy story.” He narrowed his eyes.

I jabbed out my cigarette. I had chosen my words poorly. “What I meant,” I said, “was that it’s the kind of story the press thinks is juicy. I suppose the public laps that stuff up. That doesn’t mean there’s anything substantive to it.”

“Do you think Buddy Baron killed the girl, Alice Sylvester?” he said, reading from his notes.

“No.”

“Would you care to expand on that?”

“Sure,” I said. “I don’t think Buddy Baron killed Alice Sylvester. How’s that?”

“Why? Is there some evidence, something that would prove…”

I hesitated. The germ of an idea crept into the edges of my consciousness. “I better not comment on that,” I said.

Adler’s face jerked as if I had spit in it. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘No comment.’”

“On the question about the evidence.”

“Right.”

He scribbled a note into the notebook, then peered up at me. “Can I ask why you refuse comment on that question?”

“You can ask. It would be pretty stupid for me to answer.”

“Can I assume there may be some evidence?”

“I can’t tell you what to assume, Marv.”

He tightened his mouth. “Mr. Coyne, we’re really just conversing here. If you want to say something off the record…”

“No, thank you.”

“I can help you, you know.”

I nodded. “I suppose you can.”

“Let me ask you this,” he said, staring intently at me. “Buddy Baron was murdered in your apartment. Why was he there that night?”

I lit another cigarette. “I’d better not answer that question, either.”

“Another no comment?”

“Yes.”

“But you had talked with him earlier, I understand.”

“Yes. He came to me. He knew he had to turn himself in to the police. I was the family attorney.”

“Then he ran away.”

“He left my apartment, yes. The story’s been in the paper’s already.”

“And then he came back again.”

I nodded.

“To see you.”

“I don’t know why.”

“To tell you something. Or give you something.”

I stared at Adler. “I have no comment on that.”

He frowned for an instant. Then he nodded quickly. “Right. No comment.”

“You can quote me on that. No comment.”

He cocked his head. “Sure,” he said. “I probably will, at that. Let’s go on. Do you think Tom Baron’s going to win the election?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you intend to vote for him?”

“That’s nobody’s business.”

“I know.” He grinned. “Are you impressed with the way he has handled the issue of his son’s murder in his recent speeches and press conferences?”

“He has handled it truthfully.”

“But do you think it has been politically effective?”

“I have no expertise on what is politically effective.”

“But as a citizen, what do you think?”

I shrugged. “It’s not the sort of thing I think about very much.”

“Was Buddy Baron a drug addict?”

I leaned forward. “Listen carefully, Marv. And you better not screw this up if you decide you have to write about it. A year and a half ago Buddy Baron had a drug problem. He was arrested for selling drugs. He used drugs. He had a dependency. I bet you knew that already.”

Adler widened his eyes and nodded.

“He went to a rehabilitation facility in Pennsylvania for six weeks,” I continued. “Since then, there was every indication that he was both drug-free and uninvolved in any drug dealing. All of this is well known, and I can’t see how it’s of any interest. But if you feel you’ve got to write about it, rest assured that I will read what you write. Very carefully. Do I make myself clear?”

He nodded. “Perfectly. But there are those who would say that when the boy was alive, he was a liability to Tom Baron’s political aspirations, and that, now that he is dead, he is an asset. Would you care to comment?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“If I told you, I’d be commenting, wouldn’t I?”

He grinned. “Guess so.”

“Let me say this, though. Buddy’s death had nothing to do with politics.”

“Really? What did it have to do with, then?”

I sat back and smiled broadly. “No comment, Marv.”

He shook his head. “You’re a very frustrating man to interview.”

“Thank you.”

“I thought you might like the chance to help me do a sympathetic story about the candidate and his son. Human interest. Profile in courage. Rising above adversity. Tragedy and triumph. See what I mean? But you’re not being very cooperative, Mr. Coyne. How can I write this story if you won’t cooperate?”

I shrugged. “I can’t help you there, Marv.”

“Don’t you want me to write this story?”

“Not the story you want to write, no. It’s a private matter. It shouldn’t be a campaign issue, one way or the other.”

“Correction,” he said. “It is a campaign issue. Mr. Baron has made it a campaign issue. So it’s fair game.”

“Mr. Baron has not avoided the subject,” I said. “But it was the press that made it a campaign issue.”

“I won’t concede that,” he said. “And I think you don’t really believe it, either. But regardless, Buddy Baron was the son of the candidate, and it would be irresponsible for the press not to point that out.”

“Sure,” I said. “And given that, it would be foolhardy for the candidate to ignore it. He didn’t make it the issue. It has nothing to do with what kind of governor he’d make. But it’s there. He’s got to respond to it.”

“You ask me,” said the reporter, “it looks like he’s making it
the
issue. Your man is running on a platform of his son’s innocence.”

“Is that a question, Marv?”

He smiled. “You got me excited, there. I’m supposed to be asking questions, aren’t I? Sure. Make it a question. Is it fair to say that Mr. Baron is running on a single-issue platform—the innocence of his son? Is it fair to say that he is seeking the sympathy vote? Is it fair to say that he’s trying to turn a disaster into something that will serve him?”

“I’m going to try to answer that for you,” I said after a moment. “Not because I’m any expert. Just as an observer. First, in my opinion—and make it clear that I don’t know for a fact if I’m right—Tom Baron has had to confront the issue of what happened to Buddy. That is political reality. He has said what he believes. That his son was a good kid who did nothing wrong. Which I happen to believe, too. Second, as to the sympathy vote, no, I don’t think that’s it, but you’d better check with Eddy Curry or Tom himself, because they’re the ones who do the strategy. I think Tom would rather run on the issues. Third, I’m not aware of any disaster except that Tom Baron lost his son tragically. And that’s a personal, not a political, disaster.”

Adler nodded and wrote something onto his pad of paper. Then he looked up at me. “So who killed Buddy Baron?”

I laughed. “You think I know?”

“I bet you’ve got an idea.”

“Off the record?”

He hesitated. “I’d rather not.”

I shrugged.

“Okay,” he said. “Off the record.” He switched off the recorder, then looked up at me. “It’s off. Here’s the question. Who killed Buddy Baron?”

I leaned toward him. He bent to me. “I don’t know,” I whispered.

He sat back. “Well, thanks a shitload, Mr. Coyne.”

“That was off the record, Marv.”

“It was hardly worth recording.”

“I didn’t want it recorded.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you…?”

“Think about it, Marv.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. I think I get the picture. You ready to go back on the record now?”

“Yes,” I said.

He turned on the machine. “For the record, Mr. Coyne. Do you know who killed Buddy Baron?”

“No comment, Marv.”

His eyebrows twitched. “Are you working with the police on the Buddy Baron case?”

“No comment.”

“What about the Alice Sylvester murder? Are you involved in that investigation?”

“No comment.”

“Any link that you’re aware of between the two cases?”

“No comment.”

He sat back, frowned for an instant, then grinned. “Yeah, okay. I think I can use that.”

“Good,” I said. “End of interview.”

I reached into my desk drawer and took out the tape recorder that had been quietly turning in there. I put it onto my desk and switched it off. The reporter stared at it for an instant, and then he grinned. “Good for you, Mr. Coyne,” he said. “Nixon’s got nothing on you.”

He rewound the tape on his machine and played back part of it. Evidently satisfied that his equipment had functioned, he gathered up his gear. I led him to the door and shook his hand.

“Appreciate your time,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re not an easy interview.”

“Thanks.”

The story appeared the next day on the page the
Globe
had begun to devote to campaign news. The headline read: “Murder a ‘Juicy Story’—Baron Aide.” I muttered “Jesus Christ” under my breath, folded the paper, and took it out onto my little balcony overlooking the harbor. I sat on one of the aluminum patio chairs, propped my feet up on the railing, and read on.

Brady Coyne, a Boston attorney and the newly appointed legal adviser to the Republican gubernatorial candidate Thomas Baron, admitted in an interview yesterday that lurking beneath the facts was what he termed a “juicy story.” “Tom Baron’s son was murdered,” said Coyne. “There’s a juicy story there.”