Desperate Measures Read Free Page B

consulted with them about the Iran hostage situation. It
     was rumored that on their advice he authorized the failed hostage-rescue attempt and in effect opened the way for Ronald Reagan
     to get into the White House. Eventually, as they aged, they acquired the status of legends and became known as the grand counselors.
    “Jonathan Millgate would be about eighty now,” Pittman said. “Mother a society maven in Boston. Father a billionaire from
     investments in railroads and communications systems. Millgate graduated at the top of his class, with a law degree from Yale.
     Nineteen thirty-eight. Specialty: international law, which came in handy during the Second World War. Went to work for the
     State Department. Moved upward rapidly. Named ambassador to the USSR. Named ambassador to the United Nations. Named secretary
     of state. Named national security adviser. Tight with Truman. Jumped parties to become a Republican and made himself indispensable
     to Eisenhower. Not close to Kennedy. But despite the party differences, Johnson certainly relied on Millgate to help formulate
     policy about Vietnam. When the Republicans came back into office, Nixon relied on him even more. Then Millgate suddenly dropped
     out of public view. He retreated to his mansion in Massachusetts. Interestingly, despite his seclusion, he continued to have
     as much influence as a high-level elected or appointed official.
    “He had a heart attack this morning.”
    Pittman waited.
    “Here in town,” Burt said.
    “But apparently not a fatal attack, because you said the subject of the obituary wasn’t dead yet.”
    “Since the
Chronicle
’s dying anyhow, we can afford to experiment. I want the obit long, and I want it dense. With facts, with intelligence, with
     style. A cross between the front page and the editorial page. That used to be your specialty.”
    “You’re gambling he won’t last until a week from tomorrow, that
he’ll
die before the
Chronicle
does.”
    “What I’m really gambling,” Burt said, “is that you’ll find the assignment interesting enough to make you want to do others
     like it, that you’ll get committed to something besides grief, that you and the
Chronicle
won’t die together.”
    “Gambling’s for suckers.”
    “And working on obituaries too long can make a person morbid.”
    “Right,” Pittman said dryly. “It’s not like reporting on national affairs can make you morbid.” He turned to leave.
    “Wait, Matt. There’s one other thing.”

7
    Pittman glanced back and saw the envelope Burt was holding. His chest felt cold.
    “The guy who subbed for you yesterday found this in your desk drawer.” Burt opened the envelope. “It’s addressed to me, so
     he figured he’d better deliver it.” Burt set a sheet of paper on the desk. “I guess I got it earlier than you wanted. Pretty
     impersonal, don’t you think, given all we’ve been through?”
    Pittman didn’t need to read the typed note to know what it said.
    Matthew Pittman, 38, West 12th St., died Wednesday evening from a self-inflicted gunshot wound
.
    A memorial service will begin at noon on Saturday at Donovan’s Tavern, West 10th St. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations
     may be made to the children’s cancer fund at Sloan-Kettering in the name of Jeremy Pittman
.
    “It was all I could think of.”
    “Brevity’s a virtue.” Burt tapped the sheet of paper. “But so is thoroughness. You didn’t mention that you worked for the
Chronicle
.”
    “I didn’t want to embarrass the newspaper.”
    “And you didn’t mention that you were survived by your ex-wife, Ellen.”
    Pittman shrugged.
    “You didn’t want to embarrass her, either?” Burt asked.
    Pittman shrugged again. “I got writer’s block when it came to calling Ellen by her new last name. I finally decided to hell
     with it.”
    “I wish you could ignore your other problems as conveniently. Eight more days, Matt. You promised me eight more days.”
    “That’s