The Lasko Tangent Read Free

your time.” She swept us with a quick, obligatory smile, and let herself out. The closing door cut off the last probe of the black eyes, looking at me.
    “Terrific,” I said, to no one in particular.
    McGuire turned. “Just what’s your problem?”
    “Other than Typhoid Mary?” It might as well be now, I thought. “The Hartex case. This one is starting like Hartex ended up.”
    McGuire’s eyes showed both defensiveness and anger. “Go on,” he challenged.
    “Look, I worked on Hartex for a year. I talked to people who had lost their shirts. There wasn’t a week I didn’t have some ruined life haunting my office like Hamlet’s father. I told them we would help. Then I go on vacation for a week. I call in last Thursday and discover you’ve settled the case. While I’m gone, the Hartex people send down a Wall Street type, the one who used to be Deputy Secretary of State. He tells you how much he respects you, and how a lot of trouble can be saved. In return for no jail, he agrees to an injunction promising that his clients will never swindle anyone again. They don’t need to, because they’ve just waltzed into affluent retirement. And we issue a press release that makes this out as the biggest coup since Tricky Dick turned back into a pumpkin. I tell you, Joe, the way we play the game is really amazing.”
    McGuire’s eyes were stupid with surprise. He slowly turned to look out at the Capitol, as if calling upon it for support. Apparently, he got it. He pivoted with an expression of righteous contempt. “Look, I don’t run this place just to please you. Every year I have to justify my budget to the commission and Congress—show them I close my cases. How do you think I’ve gotten here?” Now McGuire was shouting; each word thrust him out over the table toward me. Somehow I thought of an earthmover. “I can’t let you get tied up on a frigging crusade. Your job is to question witnesses and get me the facts, not make policy. So if I don’t have time to consult with you that’s tough shit.”
    McGuire’s face was an attractive red. Feiner had the bleak satisfied look of a Jesuit who had rooted out a heresy. But disillusion pushed me on. “The Hartex people should have been indicted, prosecuted, and jailed. And we could have helped get some money back. Instead, our settlement shafted the stockholders. The only places it will ever look good are in our press releases and reports to Congress. Both of which are unadulterated bullshit.”
    McGuire smashed his palm on the table like a murderer squashing a fly. Feiner winced as if he were the next fly. He was all caged tension with nowhere to go. McGuire stared at the dead invisible fly, then at me. “I don’t get this crap from the other guys.” Feiner nodded on behalf of the other guys.
    I shrugged. “They’re not my problem, Joe.”
    “So what makes you so courageous?” This was half inquiry, half sarcasm.
    “Because I have to live with myself.”
    This last echoed back to me with an unhappily pompous ring. Suddenly I was tired of McGuire, tired of the argument, and tired of myself. Most of all I was tired of feeling cynical, and wishing I didn’t.
    McGuire was just tired of me. “Maybe people like you don’t have to pay your dues,” he said in a flat oblique voice. McGuire had never had money; he’d had a lifetime to consider his attitude toward people like me. It wasn’t hard to see how the former Deputy Secretary had cut his deal. He was a fine old WASP who treated McGuire with deference. The deference was McGuire’s reward; it made punishment negotiable.
    The insight didn’t help me. I felt superior and disliked myself for it. The fight had taken on a whining undertone of buried resentments older than Hartex and bigger than the ECC. I tried to end it. “OK, I’ve said what I wanted to say.”
    McGuire hesitated, as if distracted by his failure to have the last word. The thought got the best of him. “You think because you’re a