"It is."
"What time is it, Cleve?"
"Almost five-thirty."
"It must be good."
"Don't know. Sarge didn't say, you know. He just said to wake you up 'cause he wanted to talk."
"Why does he always want to talk before the sun comes up?"
"Stupid question, Grantham."
A slight pause. "Yeah, I guess so. I presume he wants to talk right now."
"No. You got thirty minutes. He said be there at six."
"Where?"
"There's a little coffee shop on Fourteenth near the Trinidad Playground. It's dark and safe, and Sarge likes it."
"Where does he find these places?"
"You know, for a reporter you can ask the dumbest questions. The name of the place is Glenda's, and I suggest you get going or you'll be late."
"Will you be there?"
"I'll drop in, just to make sure you're okay."
"I thought you said it was safe."
"It is safe, for that part of town. Can you find it?"
"Yeah. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Have a nice day, Grantham."
Sarge was old, very black, with a head full of brilliant white hair that sprang out in all directions. He wore thick sunglasses whenever he was awake, and most of his coworkers in the West Wing of the White House thought he was half blind. He held his head sideways and smiled like Ray Charles. He sometimes bumped into door facings and desks as he unloaded trash cans and dusted furniture. He walked slowly and gingerly as if counting his steps. He worked patiently, always with a smile, always with a kind word for anyone willing to give him one. For the most part he was ignored and dismissed as just another friendly, old, partially disabled black janitor.
Sarge could see around corners. His territory was the West Wing, where he had been cleaning for thirty years now. Cleaning and listening. Cleaning and seeing. He picked up after some terribly important people who were often too busy to watch their words, especially in the presence of poor old Sarge.
He knew which doors stayed open, and which walls were thin, and which air vents carried sound. He could disappear in an instant, then reappear in a shadow where the terribly important people could not see him.
He kept most of it to himself. But from time to time, he fell heir to a juicy bit of information that could be pieced together with another one, and Sarge would make the judgment call that it should be repeated. He was very careful. He had three years until retirement, and he took no chances.
No one ever suspected Sarge of leaking stories to the press. There were usually enough big mouths within any White House to lay blame on each other. It was hilarious, really. Sarge would talk to Grantham at the Post, then wait excitedly for the story, then listen to the wailing in the basement when the heads rolled.
He was an impeccable source, and he talked only to Grantham. His son Cleve, the cop, arranged the meetings, always at odd hours at dark and inconspicuous places. Sarge wore his sunglasses. Grantham wore the same with a hat or cap of some sort. Cleve usually sat with them and watched the crowd.
Grantham arrived at Glenda's a few minutes after six, and walked to a booth in the rear. There were three other customers. Glenda herself was frying eggs on a grill near the register. Cleve sat on a stool watching her.
They shook hands. A cup of coffee had been poured for Grantham.
"Sorry I'm late," he said.
"No problem, my friend. Good to see you." Sarge had a raspy voice that was difficult to suppress with a whisper. No one was listening.
Grantham gulped coffee. "Busy week at the White House."
"You could say that. Lot of excitement. Lot of happiness."
"You don't say." Grantham could not take notes at these meetings. It would be too obvious, Sarge said when he laid the ground rules.
"Yes. The President and his boys were elated with the news of Justice Rosenberg. This made them very happy."
"What about Justice Jensen?"
"Well, as you noticed, the President attended the memorial service, but did not speak. He had planned to give a eulogy, but backed out because he would have been saying nice things about a gay fella."
"Who wrote the eulogy?"
"The speechwriters. Mainly Mabry. Worked on it all day Thursday, then he backed out."
"He also went to Rosenberg's service."
"Yes, he did. But he didn't want to. Said he'd rather go to hell for a day. But in the end, he chickened out and went anyway. He's quite happy Rosenberg was murdered. There was almost a festive mood around the place Wednesday. Fate has dealt him a wonderful hand. He now gets to restructure the Court, and he's very excited about this."
Grantham listened hard. Sarge continued.
"There's a short list of nominees. The original had twenty or so names, then it was cut to eight."
"Who did the cutting?"
"Who do you think? The President and Fletcher Coal. They're terrified of leaks at this point. Evidently the list is nothing but young conservative judges, most of whom are obscure."
"Any names?"
"Just two. A certain man named Pryce from Idaho, and one named MacLawrence from Vermont. That's all I know about names. I think they are both federal judges. Nothing more on this."
"What about the investigation?"
"I haven't heard much, but as usual I'll keep my ears open. There doesn't appear to be much going on."
"Anything else?"
"No. When will you run it?"
"In the morning."
"It'll be fun."
"Thanks, Sarge."
The sun was up now and the cafe was noisier. Cleve strolled over and sat next to his father. "You guys about finished?"
"We are," Sarge said.
Cleve glanced around. "I think we need to leave. Grantham goes first, I'll follow, then Pop here can stay as long as he wants."
"Mighty nice of you," Sarge said.
"Thanks, fellas," Grantham said as he headed for the door.
Verheek was late as usual. In the twenty-three-year history of their friendship, he had never been on time, and it was never a matter of being only a few minutes late. He had no concept of time and wasn't bothered with it. He wore a watch but never looked at it. Late for Verheek meant at least an hour, sometimes two, especially when the person kept waiting was a friend who expected him to be late and would forgive him.
So Callahan sat for an hour in the bar, which suited him just fine. After eight hours of scholarly debate, he despised the Constitution and those who taught it. He needed Chivas in his veins, and after two doubles on the rocks he was feeling better. He watched himself in the mirror behind the rows of liquor, and in the distance over his shoulder he watched and waited for Gavin Verheek. Small wonder his friend couldn't cut it in private practice, where life depended upon the clock.
When the third double was served, an hour and eleven minutes after 7 P.M., Verheek strolled to the bar and ordered a Moosehead.
"Sorry I'm late," he said as they shook hands. "I knew you'd appreciate the extra time alone with your Chivas."
"You look tired," Callahan said as he inspected him. Old and tired. Verheek was aging badly and gaining weight. His forehead had grown an inch since their last visit, and his pale skin highlighted the heavy circles under his eyes. "How much do you weigh?"
"None of your business," he said, gulping the beer. "Where's our table?"
"It's reserved for eight-thirty. I figured you would be at least ninety minutes late."