“If I were to limit my reach to the usual suspects, the Ropes and Grays, the Goodwin Procters, the Mintz Levins-well, they all play in the same sandbox. Your father, on the other hand, was well connected in certain quarters.”
“So what sort of legal work did he do for you?”
Pappas had become distant, wary. His eyes looked out of focus. “I’m sure it all falls under the general rubric of attorney-client privilege, Rick.”
Now Pappas hunched forward in his chair and gave a great crocodile’s smile. “Rick, we’re both grown-ups. Why don’t you tell me exactly what you’d like to know? Let me know how I can help you.”
“It’s just surprising that you’d have anything to do with my dad,” Rick persisted. “You’re the major league, and he was anything but.”
“Your father provided services.”
“By services, you mean…?”
“Any number of things. Rick, I’m-”
“Did my father’s services include something called the cash bank?”
He waited. Pappas was silent. He didn’t indicate whether he recognized the term or not. Rick went on, inching up to the edge of the cliff. “To be blunt, my father procured cash used for bribery. So I’m wondering whether he provided cash to you. For bribery.”
“Certainly not, but I’m glad to see you’ve retained the old think-the-worst instincts of an investigative reporter. Son, I don’t swim in that lane.” His BlackBerry buzzed again. He glanced at it and ignored it again. Then he looked directly at Rick, his eyes magnified in size, the expression dead. “But you believe your father did.”
Rick met Pappas’s stare unflinchingly. He nodded.
“Were his books a mess? Did he leave you cash you can’t account for? The more I know, Rick, the more I can help you.”
“It’s clear my father was involved in dirty work of some kind. I’m trying to get a handle on exactly what it was.”
Pappas was silent for a long while. A cloud scudded by over the Boston skyline.
“That’s quite an accusation,” he said. “I assume your father isn’t able to speak, or you’d ask him. So you must have proof of some sort.”
“A number of documents,” Rick lied.
Pappas tented his fingers thoughtfully. “Be more specific.”
“Let me put it this way. There’s a pretty interesting trail there.”
Pappas took off his glasses and massaged his eyes with his fingertips. The BlackBerry buzzed again but this time he didn’t even look at it. With his eyes still closed, he said, “You’re suggesting your father was a bag man?”
“A fixer.”
Pappas let the word hover in the air. “I believe the usual term for guys like him is expediter. How they do what they do is their own business. I know nothing about it, and I don’t judge. But I think you’re being uncharitable.”
“Uncharitable?”
“Your father, as you may know, was scorned in most legal circles. He was regarded as untouchable, the poor man. But I knew better. I knew the stuff he was made of. He was a stand-up guy. He was a good person. Now, did I send people his way? Sure. I looked out for him. So tell me something: Why in the world would you want to drag his name through the mud, a man in his condition?”
Pappas was far slipperier an opponent than Rick had expected. For a moment he faltered, unsure how to proceed. Finally he replied, “Don’t misunderstand me. I have no intention of writing an article about my dad’s business. I’m here to get some clarity on the mess he left behind. On the ‘cash bank’ and how it worked. For my own sake.”
“I see. Simple curiosity.” He said it in a gentle, thoughtful way, but Rick sensed a subtle sarcasm.
“That’s all.”
“The ‘cash bank,’ you say.”
“Whatever you can tell me.”
“Well, Rick, Boston twenty years ago wasn’t exactly the cleanest town. A lot of money changed hands, true. None of this shocks me. You know what Robert Penn Warren said in All the King’s Men. ‘Man is conceived in sin and born in corruption, and he passes from the stench of the didie to the stink of the shroud.’ Or something very close to that. Just because my hands happen to be clean doesn’t mean I judge. I do not. So tell me what you’ve found. What amount of cash did he leave around-ten thousand dollars? Ten dollars? I can’t help you if you don’t let me know the particulars.”
Rick shook his head slowly.
Pappas got to his feet and beckoned Rick with a flip of his right hand. He turned and walked out of his office into the hallway, Rick following close behind. Pappas swerved through the open door of an empty office that had been cleared out. There was a big desk and a high leather chair behind it and a lamp and a cluster of chairs and a coffee table in front of it, just as in Pappas’s office. The view over Boston Harbor was remarkable. But there were no papers or framed things. It was vacant. No one worked here.
“This was Cass Mulligan’s office. He was just hired away from me by a K Street firm. I need to replace him with someone who’s fast and skillful and savvy.”
Rick nodded. “Okay…”
“Let’s speak frankly.” He placed a hand on Rick’s shoulder as they both stood facing the Boston skyline. “Son, your life is shit. You left journalism behind, Mort Ostrow offered you a big pay package, and that worked out for a few years until it didn’t. You were let go. Minimal severances were paid. You have no salary, no wages, no benefits. Your situation clearly cost you personally-you and your lovely fiancée split up, yes? Holly, was that her name?”
Rick felt something twist within his abdomen. Pappas had done his homework. “That had nothing to do with my job,” he protested.
“Irreconcilable similarities, then, is that it?” Pappas gave a low chuckle. “The temperature sure seems to have dropped quite a bit since the days when you and Holly were enjoying umbrella drinks at Pink Sands on Harbour Island, hmm? You’ve got to be wondering about the decisions you made. Now, you know the media from the inside out. I’ve always thought there’s no better defense attorney than a former prosecutor. You’re just the sort of person I’d be pleased to see on my team. If this is a scenario that might appeal to you, we can have that conversation. But maybe you have other decisions in mind.”
“I’m flattered,” Rick managed to say.
“The question, Rick, is whether you’re more interested in the past or in the future.”
Rick hesitated. “Both, I suppose.”
“Let me tell you a story,” said Pappas. “When I was a kid, my old man kept a small home office-he was an accountant-with a file cabinet whose top drawer was always locked. Naturally, I was curious.” He placed a hand on his chest. “Then as now, I liked knowing things. What could possibly be in that locked file drawer? What could my father possibly be keeping from me? I loved and respected my father more than anyone in the world. Well, one day a friend and I figured out how to pick the lock on that top file drawer, using a couple of paper clips. We managed to unlock it. And what sort of files do you imagine were hidden away in that drawer?” He smiled ruefully. “Alas, no files. No papers. Do you know what was in that drawer? Magazines. What you might call smut magazines. Magazines with photographs of women with big boobs, lots of leather, lots of chains. Women being dominated. Women being submissive. My father was into what’s called BDSM. Bondage and discipline and sadomasochism.” He seemed momentarily lost in thought. “This was a side to my father I wish I’d never learned. I didn’t need to know this. It turned my world upside down. It made me lose all respect for the man. I wish to hell I’d never opened that file drawer, Rick.”
He stared at Rick again with those enlarged, blurry eyes. Rick nodded.
Pappas went on. “It’s my business to know things. To know as much as I can. But sometimes… well, every once in a while you learn something you later wish you could unlearn. But you can’t. Though, by God, you wish you could.”