Free The Diehard by Jon A. Jackson Page B

except for towels over their shoulders. “You seem to be bearing up awfully well,” the young man said. “Everyone at the office thinks so.”
    “Do they?” Clippert seemed pleased. He stood under the roaring hot shower, allowing the stinging rain to soothe away the aches. “Well, you know what they say,” he shouted. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”
    A half-hour later the two men stood fully dressed in the bitter cold wind outside the Club. Their hair was still damp and seemed likely to freeze if they continued to stand there. Clippert winced and turned up his collar.
    “Are you coming back to the office, Mr. Clippert? I can give you a lift.”
    “No, thanks, Bob. I have my car. Anyway, I won't be in the office this afternoon. Tell Miss Carpenter that I'll give her a call with instructions.”
    “Certainly, Mr. Clippert. When would you like to play again?”
    Clippert looked at the young man and took him by the shoulder, affectionately. He was a good-looking fellow and reminded Arthur of himself at twenty-five. The boy was a real asset to the firm, Arthur thought. A damn good record in law school, and besides, a varsity football player at Arthur's old university. Not an All-American, as Arthur had been twenty years earlier, but Arthur conceded that it had been easier in his time. It had been a time of amateur sport. Today, everyone was a pro.
    “Come on, I'll buy you a drink, Avery,” Clippert said. They walked down Cass Avenue, hunched up in their overcoats. The first place they came to was a quiet neighborhood bar, but Arthur stopped in the vestibule. The place looked too dingy to him. They went back out and walked an extra block down to a cocktail lounge on Grand Circus Park.
    “It's been rougher than you can perhaps imagine, Avery,” Clippert said. They had not removed their overcoats, but merely unbuttoned them and stood at the bar, sipping bourbon and water.
    “Just the constant harassment of the federal authorities and the threat of indictment would be bad enough. But I can handle that. This thing with my wife, though . . . it's not just her tragic loss, but now I no longer have anyone to turn to for support and . . . well, comfort.” He shuddered, either from the memory of her brutal death or from the strongly mixed whiskey.
    He remembered something. “Incidentally, you can tell the kids at the office that we'll be closed on the day of the funeral.”
    “When will that be, Mr. Clippert?” Avery asked.
    “I'm not sure. As soon as the coroner's inquest is finished and the body is released. A few days.
    “It's curious,” he went on, “but the death of my wife seems to have worked against me. At least in the minds of some people. There seems to be an inevitable suspicion and prejudice that develops against the husband of a woman who dies . . . like Jane did. As if I killed her! Or at least, that I wasn't there to protect her.”
    “But that's ridiculous,” Avery protested.
    “I know, I know.” Clippert waved a hand. “I try not to think about it. God knows, I wish I had been there. It's a heartbreaking thing. But do you know the really funny thing? Some of the fellows in the business community who used to be my great good friends now seem distinctly cool toward me. I don't think it's the possibility of the indictment. They wouldn't let that bother them, if it was just that. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
    Avery nodded seriously.
    “If it was just that . . . hell, those guys know that an indictment is only an indictment. It isn't a conviction. And I haven't even been indicted!”
    “I don't think you will, now, do you, sir?” Avery said. “Imean, if they had anything against you, wouldn't they have indicted by now?”
    “I don't know, Avery. But God knows, I had no part in that mess at Fidelity Funding. I had no idea what was going on. I believe those people deliberately used my position and reputation for integrity as part of their front.”
    The young man was