Free Fellow Travelers by Thomas Mallon Page B

first job—that friend of my father’s—fixed it up. The poor woman must feel I’ve got her on a lifetime retainer.”
    Beverly reached for her gloves. “Mary, you’re a catch. And I, personally, would kill to be—what are you, twenty-eight? Anyway, are things with this guy promising?”
    “I’ve got no idea. It’s only a second date.”
    “Okay,” said Beverly, a strong believer in realism in these matters, “when and where was the first date?”
    “About ten days ago. The last of those outdoor Watergate concerts, on the river. He’s been traveling since then.”
    “See?” said Mrs. Phillips. “You’re keeping track. You
are
interested.”
    “He hates politics,” Mary added.
    “Grab him,” said Mrs. Phillips.
                      
    The temperature was supposed to drop into the forties tonight, so Tim opened up the window to coax in whatever cool breeze might be on its way. After work he had stopped into church, and back here he’d fallen asleep on the couch. He had awakened only a few minutes ago and changed into a T-shirt and dungarees. Keeping the radio low, he now listened to
Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons,
as he opened up a can of soup. With most of his old programs turning into television shows or disappearing altogether, it was nice to know that this one could still be found on the air at eight o’clock on Friday nights.
    He added water to the pot and decided that once he got past a couple of paydays, he would call Bobby Garahan and agree to that dinner at Duke Zeibert’s. His old Fordham friend was now working for an insurance company down here and thought the two of them ought to go out one night and act like big knife-and-fork men to celebrate being grown-up wage earners who lived away from home. Bobby was sort of dull, but it might be some time before Tim made friends at work, given how the location of Senator Potter’s office put him so far from all the other Hill rats over in the SOB. Maybe when the subcommittee got back from New York, he’d get to spend more time over there.
    Mr. Keen’s voice was giving way to the announcer’s pitch for tooth powder when Tim heard a knock on the door. He turned off the radio. Could there really have been a complaint from someone? He was wearing socks, after all, and had hardly stepped off the thick braided rug. He moved quietly toward the door, which had no peephole—another sign of the apartment’s illegality—and cautiously opened it up.
    “You’re not ‘on the phone,’” said Hawkins Fuller, who placed his hands high on each side of the doorframe. A head taller than Tim, he smiled down as if from a crucifix.
    “I’m not even on the lease.” Tim could feel his face getting very red. He imagined he was smiling, but wasn’t sure.
    “Ah,” said Fuller, “a desperado.” He took his hands from the doorframe and put them on Tim’s shoulders, moving the smaller man aside so that he himself could enter the room. He sat down on the desktop and motioned for Tim to take the chair next to the hot plate.
    “Hey,” said Tim, laughing. “Whose place is this, anyway?”
    “Not yours, apparently.”
    “You’re right. But as long as I lie low, and don’t have any
visitors
…”
    On the desk beside one of Fuller’s flanneled thighs, Tim noticed the
Star
’s radio listings. Why couldn’t it be the serious novel that was open but unnoticeable at the foot of the neatly made bed?
    “What’s in there?” asked Fuller, pointing toward the hot plate.
    “Chicken noodle soup.” Grateful for something to do besides stare, Tim went over to stir the pot. “There’s probably enough for two.”
    He saw Fuller look at the Campbell’s can and make a face. “Why don’t you let me buy you supper someplace? You brought me a book, remember?”
    “But that was to thank
you.
Besides,” said Tim, swallowing the last inch of a glass of milk he had on the counter, “it’s a sin to waste food.”
    “Mortal or venial?” asked