There were three invitations to purchase a sewing machine and win a free trip to Las Vegas, and an envelope with a dollar bill in it from a former client who was paying me off a dollar a week for three thousand weeks. The fifth item was a slip from the postal service notifying me that a registered letter was waiting for me at the main post office. I slid the slip into my wallet.
The Albany phone book showed a Colonie listing for John C. Lenihan. I called directory assistance and was given a new number for Lenihan on Swan Street, which I dialed. I let it ring for a full minute. Down on Central traffic was starting to build. Behind the beer truck double-parked in front of Jimmy's Lounge a rusty beige Buick sat idling with a man in a baby-shit-brown leather jacket behind the wheel. He was smoking something and looked settled in.
I hung up the phone, locked the office and went down the back stairs to the fire exit. Snow had drifted against the door, but I shoved it open far enough to angle my way out, then over a fence and through a backyard to Washington Avenue. Snow worked its way down into my boots, and I figured if I kept this up I'd have to stop off somewhere for a couple of bread bags and two rubber bands.
Back on Crow Street I opened the passenger door of Timmy's big snowball, retrieved the snow brush from the back seat-no body was on it-and went to work. The plastic handle snapped under the wet weight and I ended up swiping the rest of the car clean with my arms. Snow seeped into my gloves, and I thought again of the islands.
I warmed up the Subaru, rocked it to and fro for a time, then shot onto the roadway and over toward State, trailing chunks of flying snow like James Bond firing at a pursuing nemesis. My pursuer, undeterred, was the green Chevy pickup that had been parked across from our house when I'd passed it ten minutes earlier. I sailed down State on the hardpack, then left on Broadway. I drove around to the back of the main post office, through the gateway, past the columns of mail trucks, up a ramp, and into a loading bay. The green pickup did not follow.
"Hey, you can't park there!"
"Governor's office," I chirruped, and flashed my library card. "Special-delivery birthday greetings for Mario's mom!" I fled on into the building, signed for the registered letter, pocketed it carefully, strode out, drove down the ramp at the far end of the loading dock, exited through the gateway opposite the one I'd come in through, lined up on the north side of a CDTA bus about to cross Broadway, then stayed with it through the intersection. The pickup truck was nowhere in sight.
On Lodge Street I parked alongside the Hilton, went in and booked a double room under the name Hiram Nestlerode.
"But that's not the name on your credit card," the clerk pointed out. I'd seen him around, at the Watering Hole, the Green Room, Uncle Charlie's Far North.
I winked. "Look, I'm really Engelbert Humperdinck, here for a sold-out concert at the Coliseum, and I'd just like a little privacy, that's all, a little discretion on your part. You know how it goes." I winked again.
His experienced desk clerk's eyebrow went up. "My dear, you don't look the least bit like Engelbert Humperdinck. You look more like-Tom Selleck, except with a few years on him."
"That's who I am actually-Tom Selleck with a few years on him. Now just give me a room, will you?"
"Welcome to Albany, Mr. Selleck. If there's anything I can do-anything at all-to make your stay more enjoyable, just let me know. Ask for Malcolm."
"You're too kind."
"Have you any luggage?"
"It's en route from the airport."
"I'll have it sent right up. Perhaps I'll carry it up myself. Front!"
The envelope, with no return address, was postmarked Los Angeles, the previous Monday, January 14, P.M. The letter inside was dated January 13 and was handwritten on two sheets of plain white inexpensive typing paper. Taped to the bottom of the second sheet were five tiny keys.
Dear Mr. Strachey,
We met one time last summer, and I am hoping you remember me. I was at Herb Brinkman's pool party and we talked about the Democratic convention which was coming up soon. You might recall that I was a Jessie Jackson supporter for the Rainbow Coalition and you said you were for Morris Udall. I argued that your vote would be wasted because Udall was not running. Do you remember me now?
Although I disagreed with your position on certain issues, I got the strong impression that you are a man of integrity who can be trusted to do the right thing when the chips are down. Other people I know said the same thing about you recently, even though you are rather weird in some ways, but I can relate to that.
Mr. Strachey, I need your help very much right now, and I am in a position to pay for it. A large sum of money has come into my possession, and my request is that you keep it safe for me until I can dispose of it in an appropriate manner.
You are probably wondering why I don't deposit this "fortune" in a bank-is this money "hot" in some way? I just want to say that what I am doing might be illegal, strictly speaking, but it is not immoral. Not in the least way. On the contrary.
I have heard about the way you think, and I'm sure you will agree with me.
For the time being, it is in your interest if I do not explain the details of this project completely. This way you will be protected if anything goes wrong.
Some people are very pissed off at me, but all you would have to do is show this letter bearing my signature to prove your lack of knowledge.
If you ask anybody, you might get an earful from certain people that I am a rotten apple. Well, I have had my ups and downs, good times and bad, this is very true, I admit. But all that is in the past, and for the first time in my life I am taking a positive attitude toward certain things instead of negative.
I have a chance to make up for a very great amount of evil, and don't you think I would be a "real shit" and a coward if I did not embark on this project?
You must be confused, but I am asking you as a gay friend and a concerned citizen to trust me!!
I will be back in Albany as soon as I clear up some matters and I will contact you. Please take what you charge as your fee and for your expenses. I hope you don't mind me doing it this way, but I don't have any choice. You are the only person I can trust right now who is "street-smart" and not connected with me in an "obvious" way.
When you find out the nature of the project you have participated in, you won't be ashamed. You will be proud of yourself, just like I will be proud of myself for the first time in my fucked-up life.
Your friend, (signed) Jack Lenihan
I reread the letter, and then I began to forget about the weather.
FOUR
I phoned Timmy, who said he was alone in his office reading a book, probably Nanook of the North.
"Don't go back to the house."
"Why?"
I described the morning's events and read him the letter.
"You talked me into it. I won't go back to the house."
"I've got a room at the Hilton. Come over here when you're ready to leave.
I'm either Hiram Nestlerode or Tom Selleck, I'm not sure which."
"Your usual state of affairs."
"Or Engelbert Humperdinck."
"Nah."
I said, "What do you make of it?"
"It's obvious. Lenihan stole some big doper's payoff boodle, and he was going to use it to finance-I don't know what-blowing up the Federal Building?"
"It wouldn't require a 'fortune'-Lenihan's word-to do that. No, it's something big but less loony, something that only a rigid mind would consider wrong or morally ambiguous. Maybe something with political implications-an act against the machine he's known to loathe. He seemed so certain that I'd approve."
"It wasn't morally ambiguous to him. But he might have been nuts."
"Yeah, but you can be nuts and be right. It's happened in history."