Free Asterisk by Campbell Armstrong Page A

a place festooned with nets and harpoons and posters of old whalers. You were meant to feel nautical here; they hammered you with it. But the effect was wrecked by the gingham dresses of the waitresses, who looked like unwanted partners at a country square dance. He ordered a Campari and tonic from a waitress whose badge said Hi, I’m Cheryl .
    He sat near the window, watched the street. A rundown neighborhood, old storefronts and awnings, rusting fire hydrants, unemployed men lingering on corners with a kind of resigned irritation at the world. Most of the tables in the place were empty. Candles flickered bleakly in glass jars.
    When Erickson entered, looking like a store-window model in his dark three-piece suit, his hair fashionably long but not yet unruly, he came straight to the table and sat down. He was carrying a brown envelope under his arm in a rather protective fashion; he placed it on top of the table, laying his hands over it.
    â€œLike this place, John?” he asked.
    Thorne shrugged. “Is it where you people of fashion hang out?”
    â€œIt’s where we come when we don’t want to be seen, baby,” Erickson said. He asked for a scotch from Hi I’m Cheryl and he slid the envelope across the table to Thorne. Thorne took it, slipped it into his briefcase, locked the case.
    â€œDo we go through the charade of actually eating?” Erickson asked.
    â€œWe don’t have to,” Thorne said.
    Erickson sipped his drink and looked around: “I feel seasick. What is this? A goddamn trawler or something?”
    â€œYou chose it,” Thorne said. “Remember?”
    Erickson played with his solid-gold cuff links a moment. He was smooth, a well-oiled machine, a young man on the rise. He was personal assistant to Senator McLintock, who served on the Air Force Appropriations Committee.
    â€œWhat in the name of God do you want with that record anyhow?” Erickson said.
    â€œThe guy interests me,” Thorne said. “An old friend of my father’s.”
    â€œAnd recently dead, as I understand,” Erickson said.
    â€œRight.”
    They had two more drinks. Thorne watched a cop car slide down the block, cruising.
    â€œHe was pretty batty,” Erickson said. “I gather they thought he was something of a radical. You know the kind. Old major general. Gets close to retirement. No more promo for him. So he either goes the hard-line conservative route—letters to the editor, sees commies under the bed, or they flip out like Burckhardt and get a little touchy.”
    â€œLike how?”
    â€œHe was always writing to Air Marshal Howard, for one thing. Critical shit. This plane’s going to be obsolete in a year, so why build it? That kind of stuff. They had him pegged as a malcontent.”
    â€œAnd was he?”
    Erickson fingered the rim of his glass. “Your guess is as good as mine. What’s radical in the service is pretty tame outside. You know that.”
    They were silent a moment. Thorne finished his drink.
    â€œYou’ve got photostats in that envelope,” Erickson said. “I don’t want to know what you need them for, so don’t tell me. When you’re through with them, scrap them. They’d bust my balls if they knew.”
    Thorne understood. “Another drink?”
    â€œYou kidding? I’ve got McLintock all afternoon. He’s in a vile mood. I think he’s going through male menopause. Plus he’s teetotal. I’m going to suck LifeSavers.”
    Erickson stood up.
    â€œI owe you a favor,” Thorne said.
    Erickson smiled, clapped him on the shoulder. “I won’t forget it, either. Bet on it.”
    Thorne watched him go. He ordered another Campari and a plate of fried shrimp, picked at them, finished his drink, and left.
    A Pontiac Catalina, an insipid green in color, picked up his red VW on Memorial Parkway and followed it to the White House.
    Tarkington said to Lykiard: