“Did he talk at all about his life in Washington? That’s where he apparently lived before coming to the Berkshires.”
“Just in a general way. But I don’t even know what kind of work he did. Something official or semi-official. I do know that he gets a retirement pension that’s fairly substantial for someone who retired at such a young age – early or mid-forties.”
“Did he receive checks in the mail?” I asked.
“For a while, I think. We never actually lived together, but I slept over at his place often enough. I think he went to direct deposit at some point, but I do remember seeing these envelopes from the United States Treasury. And I assumed they were Bill’s retirement checks.”
“Because they were government checks and they were addressed to William Moore?”
“Yes.”
“Did Bill ever say he worked for the FBI?” I asked Santiago.
“No, he never said. If he mentioned his pre-Berkshires life at all – and he seldom did – Bill just said he had left all that behind. He said he wanted to start his life over and get it right this time. He did say that a couple of times. He said coming up to the Berkshires was his chance to do things right and not fuck up this time.”
“George, did Bill ever refer to any violence in his past life? Violence that he did, or that was done to him?”
Santiago looked uneasy. “Why? Do you think Bill might have had something to do with Jim Sturdivant’s murder?”
“Not necessarily. Anyway, the guy is my own client. I wouldn’t be working for him if I thought he was involved in a murder.”
Santiago looked at me peculiarly, and if I had been looking at me I would have looked at me peculiarly, too.
He said, “Jean Watrous is the person to talk to about Bill. They were friends in DC, and she’s closer to him and knows more about him than anybody, I think.”
Something occurred to me, and I wrapped things up quickly with Santiago. I thanked him for his perspective and wished him well paying off his loan to Gaudios in a timely way that would not lead to the need for hospitalization and several weeks in a wheelchair. He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about, and he said he wasn’t worried.
In The Brewery parking lot, I phoned my FBI contact in Washington. Luckily, he had not left for the weekend – in fact, he said, he’d been working late and on most weekends since 9/11 – and I asked him about an FBI retiree named Jean Watrous. No more then two minutes later, I was told, yes, Jean Watrous was retired from the bureau. She had been an employee, assigned throughout her career to headquarters in Washington, from March, 1969 to January, 2002. I asked if she worked in the anti-mob-activities section of the FBI. My source said, no, Watrous had worked in counterterrorism.
Timmy said, “You know, your name is Ramona, and we’re eating in a restaurant called Aroma. That’s almost an anagram.”
“Yes,” Furst said. “Too bad my name isn’t Ramoa. Then it would be an anagram.”
“You could change it,” Timmy said. “That seems to be what a lot of people do here in Massachusetts. People like Bud Radziwill and Barry Fields, your client.”
Furst said, “And if you changed your name from Timothy Callahan to Malb Loovinda, that would be an anagram for what I’m about to order for dinner. God, I’m starved.”
Timmy and I looked at each other, and both our lips moved.
Aroma was on Main Street, just south of downtown. We had a booth that was private and remarkably quiet. Great Barrington on Friday night felt like SoHo or the Via Veneto on a weekend, with determinedly jolly diners and shoppers tramping up and down the small town’s streets by the hundreds or perhaps thousands. They came from all over, to what Furst said were Great Barrington’s many dozens of cafes and restaurants. Twenty years earlier, she said, “ethnic” food in Great Barrington meant pizza. Now, with the tourist and second-home boom, there was Japanese, Indian, Thai, even Finnish, and a couple of places that offered jazz, cocktails, and what Furst described as “high-priced grandmother food.”
Before dinner, I had walked over to the Triplex, where the Friday-night throngs were descending on the place like hajjis at the Dome of the Rock. I spotted Myra Greene in the lobby surrounded by what looked like outraged and sympathetic admirers. They all but hoisted her on their shoulders and carried her around town like a Mexican saint at Candelaria, Santa Myra de la Cinema. It looked like a crowd that could have hanged Thorne Cornwallis in effigy. Bud Radziwill had told me Cornwallis rarely ventured south of Pittsfield, and I could see why.
In our cozy retreat, Furst said, “This is so nice, eating here, even if we’re going to talk business. Shall we share a lamb vindaloo, another meat dish and a veggie dish? Or is either of you vegetarian?”
I said, “Timothy eats nothing that casts a shadow larger than Mount Washington. Otherwise, we’re happy carnivores.”
“My thirteen-year-old is vegan,” Furst said. “It gets complicated in the kitchen. And when I’m in a place like this, I tend to pounce on the odd steer or fowl running loose and plunge my fork into it.”
Timmy said, “You must be good in a courtroom.”
“I am,” Furst said. She was still in her courthouse dark business outfit, and she hadn’t unwound all the way, despite the dent she had made in her whiskey sour.
I said, “You have kids. And a husband too?”
“Two kids, Jessica, thirteen, and Howie, eleven. My ex has them this weekend. They’re great. It makes some other things about the marriage okay to forget about.”
I saw now that Furst’s lustrous auburn hair might not have been nature’s own shade, and I wondered why most women who colored their hair usually looked fresh and new, and men who did it, no matter who they were, usually came across as Dick Clark.
Timmy said, “How long were you married, Ramona?”
“Too long,” she said and caught the eye of the waiter, a somber man of late middle age who looked as if he could have been a professor of accounting in Jalalabad. We ordered an assortment of zesty savories.
“Thanks for turning over your Friday night to us,” I told Furst. “To us and to Barry Fields. I’m sure you’d rather be out on a date, taking your mind off all this.”
“I’m actually not dating right now,” Furst said. “I’m just coming out of a relationship with a woman who was too high maintenance, and I’m taking a break from all that.”
Timmy said, “Oh, you’re gay?”
“Bi,” Furst said and dipped a celery stick in some tamarind sauce. “I like men, too, if they meet certain criteria.”
“Like, if they have large breasts?” Timmy said jocularly, and to my relief Furst laughed.
“No, Timothy. I go for men with really nice asses. Like Don’s here. You’re a little skinnier than I generally go for. But you are pretty cute otherwise.”
“Timmy’s bi, too,” I said. “Bipolar. Would that do?”
“Been there, done that,” Furst said. “No, what I look for in a man is a shred of decency. And it constantly amazes me how often I find it.”
“Why is that so surprising?” I asked gingerly.
“Too many men are so angry. It’s as if they resent not being able to spend their time roaming the forests spearing things. It’s women who more often have reasons to be mad as hell, but most women take life as it comes. It’s always a relief to find a man who’s like a woman in that regard.”