Free A Farewell to Legs by JEFFREY COHEN Page B

“You can’t report it by
reading the other reporters’ stuff.”
    I sat at the kitchen table. “Thanks for the vote of
confidence,” I told her. “Well, Friday I’ll have lunch with Steph,
and she’ll give me more details about their marriage, and what she
knows about the way Legs died.”
    “And where will that lead?”
    I shrugged. “Where it leads. I don’t intend to move
down to D.C. for months until something happens. I don’t think you
want me to do that, either.”
    “Of course not. Who’d take out the garbage?”
    “Please, I’m overwhelmed with your sense of romance.
Anyway, after I have some more to go on, I’ll know where to go.” I
could hear the kids arguing in the living room about which side of
the couch one or the other of them was inhabiting, so I stood up
and headed in that direction.
    “Sure, run from your problems,” said my wife.
    I turned back to face her. “Another crack like
that,” I said, “and you’re going to have trouble getting me into
bed tonight.” I pivoted back toward the living room.
    Abby chuckled. “Yeah, right,” she said.

Chapter

Fourteen
    L ouis Gibson’s funeral was
a television event unparalleled since the last television event,
and certain not to be eclipsed until the next television event. The
President did, as advertised, show up, although he did not speak.
Stephanie, to the disappointment of any heterosexual man over the
age of 35 (and a good number of them under 35), was dressed,
conservatively, in black. She dispensed with the traditional veil,
and therefore managed to avoid looking like Lady Bird Johnson.
    Standing next to Stephanie were her two sons, whom
CNN identified as “Louis Jr., 22, and Jason, 17.” Next to them was
Legs’ brother, and CNN was once again helping out, telling me his
name was Lester Gibson, and that he was three years older than
Louis.
    From what I could tell, he was a couple of inches
shorter than Stephanie, and shorter than Legs, too, and had opted
to avoid the hideous comb-over Abrams had noted, in favor of a
toupee that looked like someone had tossed a Caesar salad onto his
head.
    Stephanie did not appear to speak to Lester, her
sons, or anyone else during the service. To her credit, she didn’t
weep openly, considering how little she seemed to be grieving for
Legs when I had spoken to her. Lester looked a little shook up, and
had to keep taking off his dark sunglasses to mop at his eyes.
    Legs’ mother, Louise Gibson, was doing more than
just dabbing at her eyes. She was letting loose on national
television. Her sobs could be heard over the commentator’s
whispered tones (to remind us that this was a funeral, and not the
opening of trading at the New York Stock Exchange, but a tone which
unfortunately sounded more like the play-by-play at a golf match).
At one point, her knees almost buckled, but Jason held his
grandmother steady.
    He and his brother, lucky boys that they were,
favored their mother. Junior had Stephanie’s almond-shaped eyes and
graceful chin, and Jason, the younger one, still hadn’t lost all
his baby fat, but did not, as best as I could tell from his
infrequent close-ups, resemble his father, which is all either of
Crazy Legs’ sons could hope for, really. Maybe they’d both keep
their hair, too. Rich kids have that kind of luck.
    The eulogies were impressive, if your political bent
was just to the right of Genghis Khan. Anti-abortionists,
anti-civil rights activists, anti-just-about-everything-elses, all
spoke of what a dear and valuable friend they had lost. I couldn’t
help thinking the country was in a considerably more positive
condition now that Legs had bitten the big one, but rebuked myself
that such thinking was cruel and insensitive. Besides, there were
fifteen more just like him looking to take his place. No doubt the
jockeying for position had already begun.
    I discussed the funeral and its impact on my career
with Mahoney as I drove us to racquetball that night. Mahoney and