Free Banquo's Ghosts by Richard Lowry Page B

points. You think our crummy $2 million is going to get him down to this office? Have a Pimm’s Cup on me. That ‘old fart’ as you call him is actually ‘old school.’ He pays his way. A government operation that turns a profit every year, even in down markets— imagine that. Just because the director doesn’t take him seriously doesn’t mean he doesn’t rightly take himself seriously.”
    Without a touch of embarrassment Bryce reversed himself completely. “What should I do in New York?”
    “Thank you for asking. I want you to dig up the son of Banquo’s old associate—Fanon, O’Bannon—”
    “ O’Hanlon . Deputy U.S. Attorney, Southern District. His dad was Banquo’s partner?”
    “I’d stick to ‘associate.’ And you march right into that cheap Mick’s office and get us wiretaps. Brain whatever judge you have to. Home and office.”
    “You want it official then?”
    “Clearly. I want a record.”
    “So you want Banquo & Duncan’s phone and personal computers tapped? Do you also want surveillance to include the physical office space too?”

    “No, no point. That boy scout of his sweeps the suite twice a week. But I do want roving taps on street-side conversations.”
    “If he’s old school like you say, he’s very careful.”
    “True enough,” Andover admitted. “But everyone slips up once in a while.”
    Without saying farewell, Bryce rose and left DEADKEY’s office. The plasma screen had frozen in pixilated fragments, how nice . . . electronic modern art. Put it in a museum. Director Andover realized he’d forgotten to tell Bryce about the turbans and the software color glitch. The screen cleared, but only to a pleasant blue field this time with the caption: sorry, temporarily out of service . . .

    The United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York kept his offices at 86 Chambers Street in lower Manhattan. But Bryce didn’t go there; instead he went to O’Hanlon’s house in the Westchester suburb of Hastings-on-Hudson just as the commuters were leaving for the city. What used to be called a “bedroom” community was really Manhattan North, with houses starting at $600,000 up from $200,000 not ten years ago, three- and four-bedroom Tudors with a half an acre’s lawn and swell backyards, on roads named Maple Street, Oak Lane, and Shady Dell. Places the lower-middle class clawed their way to from ugly Bronx streets, way back in the dark ages of the 1950s and 1960s, and thought themselves damn lucky. Now the sons and daughters of those early Westchester pioneers clung on with their fingernails, Mom taking that extra job just to pay the property taxes.
    Bryce watched from the sedan’s window, as O’Hanlon’s family got ready for the day. First the two girls came out the front door, hovered over by the Missus and packed into the school bus with their Pokemon knapsacks. Then O’Hanlon himself, carrying a briefcase and large stainless steel coffee mug. The Missus would drive him to the Hudson branch of Metro-North in the white Ford minivan. Bryce got out of the sedan, leaving the door open.

    He walked toward the couple: “Mr. O’Hanlon? Can I give you a lift?” And then drifted back toward the other side of the street again.
    The Deputy U.S. Attorney looked up sharply, then at the sedan under the shade of the trees. A worried look crossed the Missus’ face, but he reassured her. “It’s okay.” Getting her to focus on Bryce standing across the suburban street. “He’s got ‘DC’ written all over him. Get a load of that paisley bow tie for Chrissakes. Look up the word ‘Poindexter’ in Webster’s, and his friggin’ picture’s there.”
    The Missus laughed hard. She was a handsome woman, and you could see she liked her husband. “Hey, watch your mouth, mister. I got some soap inside,” she chastised him. “Or you’ll be talking to Father Meeks through the little screen.”
    O’Hanlon chuckled and walked across the street.
    “See ya later,