Desperate Measures Read Free Page A

not-yet-dead movie star. Burt’s brows were so thick, they made his eyes seem hooded—dark, intense.
    “All right.” Pittman gestured. “The subject isn’t dead yet.”
    Burt nodded.
    “But evidently you’re convinced that he or she
will
be dead within nine days.”
    Burt’s expression didn’t change.
    “Otherwise, the obituary won’t be any good,” Pittman said, “because the
Chronicle
will be dead a week from tomorrow, and I never heard of other newspapers buying freelance obituaries.”
    “It’s my gift to you.”
    “Gosh. I don’t know what to say. How generous.”
    “You’re not fooling anybody,” Burt said. “You think I haven’t figured out what you’re planning to do?”
    Pittman showed no reaction.
    “Ellen phoned yesterday,” Burt said.
    Pittman felt sudden heat in his stomach, but he didn’t allow himself to show any reaction to that either, to the mention of
     his ex-wife.
    “She says you’ve been acting strangely,” Burt said. “Not that I need her to tell me. I’ve got eyes. In fact, anybody who thinks
     of you as a friend has noticed. You’ve been going around making a point of paying back favors, money you borrowed, whatever.
     You’ve been apologizing for any harm you caused, and I know it’s not because you’re cleaning house as part of joining AA,
     not the way you’ve been drinking. That car accident three weeks ago. Three A.M. A deserted road in Jersey. A bridge abutment. What the hell were you doing out driving at that hour? And even as drunk as
     you were, I don’t see how you couldn’t have avoided that big an obstacle. You
meant
to hit it, and the only reason you didn’t die is that your body was so loose from the booze, you bounced like a rag doll
     when you were thrown from the car.”
    Pittman touched a still-healing gash on the back of his hand but didn’t say anything.
    “Don’t you want to know what Ellen wanted?” Burt asked.
    Pittman stared at the floor.
    “Come on,” Burt demanded. “Quit acting like you’re already dead.”
    “I made a mistake.”
    “What?”
    “Coming back to work. I made a mistake.” Pittman stood.
    “Don’t,” Burt said. “Let me finish.”
    A reporter appeared in the doorway.
    “In a minute,” Burt said.
    The reporter assessed the two men, nodded somberly, and went away. Other reporters, seated at their desks, were glancing toward
     the glass walls of Burt’s office. Phones rang.
    “What Ellen wanted was to tell you she was sorry,” Burt said. “She wants you to call her.”
    “Tell me about this obituary.”
    “Give her a chance.”
    “Our son died. Then our marriage died. There’s plenty to be sorry about. But I don’t want to talk about it. I’m through talking
     about it. Nine—correction: Since I promised last night, if we count today, it’s
eight
more days, Burt. That’s all the time I’m willing to give you. Then we’re even. Tell me about the obituary.”

6
    Assessing Pittman, Burt didn’t blink for quite a while. At once he shrugged, sighed, then picked up a folder on his desk.
     “Jonathan Millgate.”
    Pittman felt a spark speed along his nerves.
    “That name ought to sound familiar from when you were working on the national affairs desk, before…” Self-conscious, Burt
     let the sentence dangle.
    “Before I cracked up, you mean? Or fell to pieces, or… What’s the euphemism these days?”
    “Needed a rest.”
    “I’m not so fuzzy-minded that I wouldn’t remember the name of one of the grand counselors.”
    Burt raised his thick eyebrows.
    From the forties, from the beginning of the Cold War onward, a group of five East Coast patricians had exerted a continuous
     influence on American government policy by acting as major advisers to various Presidents. At first they had been cabinet
     members and ambassadors, later private consultants, mostly to Republican Presidents, but not exclusively. During the Democratic
     administration in the late seventies, Carter was supposed to have