Arnold swiveled his head and stared at his smoky reflection in the mirror.
‘Why not go to the cops, the FBI?’
‘Like I got such a good working relationship with the law enforcement community. They’re going to jump up and salute when I walk in the door.’
Charlie picked up a limp onion ring, inspected it for a second, then let it drop back in the basket.
Arnold said, ‘Next thing you should’ve asked me but didn’t is, how come I chose you. Why the hell didn’t I call up the New York Times, Washington Post? Shit, anybody would kill to get this story.’ Arnold took off his glasses, wiped his eyes, put them back on.
‘You like how I write.’
‘Fuck, no. What do I know about writing?’
‘So why?’
‘’Cause of that Sugar Bowl, ten years ago. Way you played that night.’
‘Aw, Christ.’
With a corner of his paper napkin Arnold blotted the catsup from his lips.
‘Yeah, I know,’ Arnold said. ‘People bring it up all the time, you’re sick of hearing it. But that’s the truth. I remember that game fondly. Then like I say, one of my people showed me your byline in that piece-of-shit paper you write for, what’s it called?’
‘The Miami Weekly.’
‘Yeah, yeah. But it was basically the Sugar Bowl. Jesus, that was a classic. Smallest guy on the field, but every fucking play, there you were batting down a pass, squirting through the line with all those corn-fed linemen trying to crush your ass. Man, it hurts my ribs just thinking about it.’
‘So you called me up. And here we are.’
Arnold selected another onion ring, held it in front of his lips and said, ‘So let’s hear what you know about him, kid. Tell me.’
‘Oh, come on. A pop quiz?’
‘I need to know if I’m talking to a schmuck or what.’
Charlie Harrison shook his head, closed his eyes again. Lawton had to hold himself back from reaching over and smacking a little common courtesy into him. The young man leaned back in the booth, got a bored sound in his voice.
‘He lives in Palm Beach, runs MicroDyne Corporation. Used to manufacture computer hardware, silicon chips, all that shit. But six, seven years ago they were losing their asses to the California heavyweights, profits slipping, so his sexy daughter drops out of MIT, swoops in and saves the day.’
‘Sexy?’ Arnold said.
The kid rolled his eyes.
‘Yeah, Arnold. How you think she got on the cover of Forbes, Fortune?’
‘By being smart.’
‘There’s lots of smart girls. Except most of them have thick ankles and thicker glasses. Morgan Braswell’s a babe. Photogenic as hell. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.’
‘She didn’t save the company with her looks.’
‘She comes swishing into a room full of five-star generals, I bet she makes an impression.’
‘She’s a smart girl. It’s not about her appearance.’
‘Hey, Arnold. You want to know if I’ve done my homework. Well, okay. The fact is, yeah, I’ve invested some time in this already. One thing I found out, MicroDyne doesn’t actually manufacture anything. What they do is coat stuff with some hot-shit enamel or metallic powder or something. It’s all classified. Some kind of glaze that goes onto the chips and microcircuitry modules that run the telemetry systems and onboard computers for military weapons and fighter jets. All that hardware comes in the front door, they zap it with their coating and send it back to McDonnell Douglas or whoever, and those other guys build the planes and missiles.’
‘And that’s what you know. The sum total.’
Charlie frowned. He reached into his shirt pocket, came out with a little notebook, and flipped through the pages until he found the one he wanted.
‘F-22 Raptor, the Bell V-22 Osprey helicopter, AIM-120 C missile guidance systems. The ALQ-99 jammer carried by the F/A-18F Super Hornet, and the Sanders situation awareness integrated system that regulates all deception countermeasures for the Hornet, the expendable decoys and signal and frequency emission systems. Those are a few of the systems coated with this shit.’
He flipped the notebook closed and put it back in his shirt pocket.
‘Satisfied, Arnold? Do I get an A?’
Arnold was staring down at his thick hands spread out on the tabletop.
‘That’s good, Charlie. That’s good stuff. Very specific.’
‘I’m pleased you’re pleased.’
‘But you still got some more digging to do.’
‘I’m aware of that. I just got started.’
‘You study up on the rest of the family?’
Charlie sighed.
‘Braswell’s wife was a suicide, ten, eleven years ago. That what you mean? Went into a funk after her son died and jumped off a chair with a rope around her neck. Not very creative.’
Arnold swallowed and looked across at the television.
‘So you know the story about the son, Andy Braswell, how he died.’
‘A fucking marlin ate him, that’s what I read.’
Arnold turned his head and looked at the kid.
‘It didn’t eat him,’ he said. ‘It drowned him.’
‘Okay, okay. So, what’s your point, Arnold? You think all this personal bullshit goes into the piece? What? Like Braswell’s son dies, that’s supposed to excuse the bad shit he’s gotten into?’
Arnold popped the onion ring into his mouth, then reached out and thumped a solid finger on Charlie’s forearm, munching while he spoke.
‘Braswell’s a decent guy. He got derailed from all the suffering he’s been through. I think that’s the slant you take.’
‘I’ll figure out my own goddamn slant.’
Charlie put his elbows on the table and leaned forward.
‘What is it, Arnold? You change your mind? Decide you don’t want to do business with me? All right, fine. So just take your goddamn envelope and your prototype and slither back under your rock. I got other stories. But don’t jerk me around.’
Arnold topped up his beer mug from the pitcher, then leaned forward quickly to suck away the overflowing foam.
Eyes on the wrestling match, Arnold said, ‘That was some kind of fucking night, that Sugar Bowl. Unassisted tackle record still on the books. You were golden, kid. You were ten feet tall and you fucking glowed.’
‘We lost the game, that’s what I remember.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Arnold said. ‘But you gotta keep in mind, kid, like they say, it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s whether you cover the spread. And you did, Charlie. You covered it just fine.’
‘I made you some money.’
‘You made me a shitload, Charlie. But that’s not why I’m here. Reason I’m here is ’cause I like guys with grit, tenacious little pricks like you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I like ’em, mainly ’cause I can trust ’em not to give up their sources.