“Think of the Bureau, Nick,” said Howard. “Think of saving the Bureau.”
Save yourself, Nick thought.
But when he opened his mouth, what came out was, “Howard, you don’t give a shit about the Bureau. You’re not the Bureau. You’re just one scuzzy little asskisser trying to make it to the top, and you’ll fuck anybody who gets in your way, the way you fucked me in Tulsa seven years ago. I didn’t put Myra in that chair, you did, because you were so fucking scared you wouldn’t shut up on the radio. And I didn’t have the guts to stop you.”
He took a deep breath.
“And I see the last thing, too, Howard, you just bet I do. You’re on Lancer Committee! Right? Yeah, it’s exactly the kind of swank connection a political suck-up like you would go for. And for years now you’ve been slip-streaming for the Agency’s use of RamDyne, and that’s how you meet a piece of smooth-talking scum like Old Hugh over here, who authorized his pal Ray Shreck to wipe out a village and then to hit the one man in the world with the guts to stand up to it. And then framed a great American hero because it was convenient, it tied up a lot of loose ends and protected his own precious ass! And if that ever gets out, you and everybody on the Lancer Committee, you’re all finished.”
Nick stared at them. He didn’t feel particularly serene but he knew what he was going to do now. He took a deep breath, smiled and then spoke his answer.
“Well, this is where it ends. This is where you’re stopped. But let me tell you something, boys. You’re going up against the best. And many’s the time slick operators have thought they had Bob Lee Swagger nailed. And just as they moved in for the kill, he blew ’em away. He’s going to do that to you, too, and I’m going to watch it happen, and then Sally and I are going to walk out of there. Howard, here’s the bad news, buddy. You’re history. You’re the fucking past. It’s payback time. You answer for Myra and you answer for Sally and you answer for Lancer and you answer for the Sampul River and whatever the hell else you’ve done. I’m going to watch it happen. Now get the fuck out of here.”
After they left, he noticed that he couldn’t stop shaking.
Two federal marshals delivered Nick’s subpoena that afternoon, requiring him to appear at the New Orleans District Federal Courthouse two days hence for the Preliminary Hearing for Case Number 44-481, the Government v. Bob Lee Swagger. A sternly worded note appended to the sheet warned him that he was subject to arrest if he failed to appear. Half an hour later, he got a call from the U.S. Attorney’s office informing him that he wasn’t to leave the city as he was about to be indicted on three charges of impersonating a federal officer, and that he’d better get himself legal representation. And before the day was out, to bring off the hat trick, he received official notification that, for failing to show up at the suspension hearing on August 8, 1992, he was formally terminated from service in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and was under legal obligation to therefore return any and all Bureau property before next Friday or face indictment on charges of grand theft of government property.
For some reason, that was the one that hurt most. There was no return. Howard was cutting off all the exits, preventing all possibilities. Howard was tightening the screws.
Nick returned to his little house in Metairie, mowed the lawn – which needed it badly – paid what bills he could afford, contemplated his desperate financial straits – he hadn’t drawn salary for close to three months – and contemplated his woe.
There were moments at his lowest point when he felt like calling Howard. It would be so easy and it was so tempting.
“Uh, Howard, look, I think I sort of blew it a few days ago, do you think – ”
But then he thought of Howard triumphant, Howard bleating, Howard beaming, Howard’s biggest moment. No, he couldn’t do it. He simply couldn’t make himself do it.
He knew he had to do one thing, however. He had to call Sally.
“Hello.”
“Hi. It’s me.”
“Nick – ” She was crying. “Oh, Nick, they’re telling me they’re going to charge me with espionage. Oh, God, Nick, what should I do? I didn’t do anything. How can they – ”
“Honey, listen to me, they’re bluffing. They’re trying to bump me into doing something that’ll make them look good. Howard’s probably under a lot of pressure to deliver on this thing and to protect his ass, so he’s playing it hardball. But don’t worry. I swear to you, you don’t have to worry. Trust me. They haven’t got a thing.”
Even as he said it, he cursed himself for not having the guts to tell her the truth; that they had everything, and they were going to sweep Bob and himself and her and anybody who’d ever done anything for Bob Lee Swagger away.
“What should I do?” she asked.
“Nothing, for now. Let’s see what happens at that preliminary hearing tomorrow. It’s the deal where the defense can require that the government establish that it does have a reasonable case, so that a trial date can be set. Once that’s out of the way, we’ll see where we stand.”
“Nick – ”
“Honey, I know it’s hard. But it just goes on a little longer. Do you want to come to court tomorrow? I’d be happy to take you. It’s not much of a date, but – ”
“Yes. Yes, I’d like that very much.”
That night was Nick’s worst. Worst ever. Worst since the night after Myra died. He couldn’t get to sleep until nearly three, and kept thinking of poor Sally in some federal shithole for the next twenty years, of poor Bob being strapped into a chair and blitzed away, of goddamned Howard and his pet prosecutor Kelso and that hoary old fraud Meachum riding the publicity of their triumph on to better and better things.
Senator Howard D. Utey, the man who nailed Bob the Nailer!
It put Nick into dark rage and when he finally got to sleep, his memories were haunted by Howard’s laughing little face, his smug confidence. God, Howard, you’ve dogged me ever since Tulsa.
Why didn’t you shut up on that goddamned radio?
Why didn’t I hit that shot?
Poor Myra. Poor Sally. Poor women who made the mistake of falling for Nick Memphis.
The alarm went off at seven; Nick limped grimly into the bathroom and faced his own grave self, a sallow, scrawny, melancholiac. His crew cut had grown out and the pouchiness of his face had vanished. He was thin as death, and maybe just as hard.
He showered, dressed slowly, putting on a suit for the first time in months, had a cup of coffee and then went to pick up Sally. He had $11 in his pocket and $236 in his checking account and over $4,000 in bills. Today he would be indicted on three counts of a federal felony.
Again, the impulse flew at him to call Howard.
It probably wasn’t too late.
He tried to imagine life after selling out: how nice it would be.
But then he remembered the time Tommy Montoya was forcing the gun barrel of his Colt Agent toward his head and he was a second from his own death, when Bob’s shot had come from nowhere and saved him.
Howard never saved shit. Howard only took.
Hugh Meachum only took.
Okay, Bob the Nailer, thought Nick. In for a penny, in for a pound, going to heaven, going to hell, I’m along for the ride, my friend. Here’s hoping you’ve got it today.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“All rise, all rise, the Fifth United States Circuit Court is now in session, the Honorable Roland O. Hughes presiding.”
Nick and Sally stood up, with two hundred others, including dozens of reporters, about half the New Orleans FBI office and Howard and his prosecuting angel, Kelso, at the prosecution table, which happened by absurd coincidence to be near Nick and Sally’s seats in the front row of the courtroom. Hugh Meachum sat behind the prosecutor’s table, in a three-piece gray herringbone suit. He had a little red bow tie on and Nick decided he looked three hundred years old.