MITCH WAS never good at hiding his frustration. "Look, I don't know, okay?" He was steadily losing his patience, as evidenced by the tone and volume of his voice. "I don't know who these people are. I don't—I just don't know anything. Can't you get that?" Mitch felt as though his words were meaningless as he stared at the unwavering facial expression of Detective Lenny Knight.
"Why the hostility?" Knight asked with an inquisitive tone which seemed to confuse Mitch a little.
Mitch couldn't tell if it was mild sarcasm, or if this aging police detective was simply asking with the purpose of observing Mitch's reaction. But as they sat, staring across the desk in Mitch's office at Merriam University, sizing up one another; Mitch felt his frustration pulse in his head as he grew more irritated and confused. He had no idea why a dead man he didn't know had been recording his telephone conversations. He had no idea why this dead man had a connection to a wealthy and powerful woman who had a newly-established connection to his friend Ray, who had recently been hastily and unexpectedly appointed to the United States House of Representatives, filling the vacant seat left by the late Arnold Jenkins, who had been assassinated over a year earlier. And he certainly had no idea how the late university president, George McFarlane, was involved with any of it either.
Mitch simply had no idea.
"I'm not hostile," Mitch said with a strong exhale. "I'm just feeling a little confused, and frankly a bit cornered right now. I still don't know what this is all about."
"Tell me about Ray Doyle," Detective Knight said, leaning back and propping his right leg up across his left.
"Hm," Mitch chuckled uncomfortably, shaking his head. "Well, I can tell you about the guy I used to know, but that may not be the most current information."
"Oh yeah?" Knight replied, showing a bit of interest. "Please elaborate."
"I guess," Mitch began, looking around his office for no reason in particular, "the truth is, we haven't spoken in several months. Had a bit of a falling-out, I'm afraid."
"Oh, really? About what?" Detective Knight leaned forward, returning both feet to the floor and leaning his elbows on his knees.
"Mitch sighed a regretful sigh, closed his eyes, and shook his head. "A difference of opinion," he muttered cryptically
* * * * * * *
"Why are we here?" Mitch said, mildly frustrated that his friend half-begged and half-demanded that they meet at their customary bar stools at their customary sports bar. "Do you realize what today is?" Mitch's patience with rate lately had been growing shorter and shorter. As of late, Ray had become quite withdrawn, quite secretive, and extremely depressed, except when standing in front of an eager pack of reporters.
"I know," Ray said apologetically, "and I'm sorry for that. I know you and Ana have Valentine's Day plans tonight, but I just needed to talk." He looked at Mitch, hoping his old friend would give him a look of support, a look of compassion, a look of sympathy; instead, he was only met with a look of expectancy.
"If you're looking for my advice," Mitch said, pausing for effect, "I'm pretty sure it's a bit late for that. I don't know what the hell you've been thinking."
Ray inhaled to reply but Mitch didn't give him a chance.
"I mean seriously," Mitch continued, somewhat loudly, not caring if his surrounding sports bar patrons heard him or not, "I've heard your voice more at press conferences and television interviews than I have on my own phone, and especially not in-person. We haven't spoken in weeks and suddenly you want to talk? How do you even get in a position that the governor would give you such a sudden appointment to Congress? Why didn't you come to me then? Why didn't you ask my opinion then? Wouldn't that have been a pretty fucking good time to ask for my advice? Do I even know you anymore?"
"I'm not even sure I know me anymore," Ray replied with a hint of self-pity.
"Oh shut the f—"
"My divorce was finalized today," Ray said, interrupting Mitch's inevitable explicative.
"Valentine's day. Bummer."
Both men smiled a little, subtly appreciating Mitch's gratuitous Ghostbusters II reference.
"Yep," Ray said as the grin fled his face.
"Damn," Mitch said regretfully, "divorced on Valentine's Day. That is kind of a kick in the balls."
"Indeed," Ray said, nodding subtly.
Both men stared forward across the bar in silent contemplation. Then Ray spoke again.
"I'm accepting the appointment and in November, I'll campaign to stay there."
"November is the election," Mitch said matter-of-factly, "so you'd better start campaigning long before that — like, now."
"This I know," Ray replied.
"I still don't even understand how this even came about," Mitch exclaimed, feeling himself rev-up for another diatribe. "You haven't talked to me in — I don't even know how long, and you used to tell me that you'd come to me with any question about politics, and I was happy to help as long as my role in your campaign was incognito. But, shit man, I've gone from incognito to nonexistent. So now, all-of-a-sudden, you're taking this huge political leap, and you haven't said word-fucking-one to me. So my question is, who the hell have you been talking to? How the fuck did all this shit happen?" He gave Ray a look implying that no response could be swift enough or even remotely satisfactory. "Well," Mitch continued, "it sounds to me, based on what you told me a while ago, that you're in the pocket of some PAC. Sound about right?"
Now, Ray was ready to object. "It's not like that!" he said quickly. "It's not like that at all!"
"Oh yeah?" Mitch said mockingly. "Well, how is it then?"
Ray said nothing. He said nothing because, deep down, he knew it was exactly like that. He sometimes wondered if perhaps he didn't fully comprehend this point, or if, perhaps, he simply didn't care.
"Look," Mitch said, "never mind. I don't even care. It doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters," Ray said with a mild plea.
"No," Mitch said, "it really doesn't. I don't feel like I even know you anymore. You more-or-less disappeared, you don't return phone calls — all of a sudden, you're too high-and-mighty for me." Mitch paused and gave Ray a look which subtly whispered fuck you in the silence. "Sound about right?"
Ray lowered his eyes; Mitch narrowed his.
"And now," Mitch continued, "you come to talk to me when you seem to be having some sort of moral crisis? And I'm supposed to help you sort it out?" He paused, searching Ray for any kind of reaction or expression, but Ray's face remained devoid of emotion. "Fine," Mitch said, picking up a thin cardboard beer coaster from the bar, flipping it over to its blank white side. Taking a pen from his pocket, he placed the blank coaster and the pen in front of Ray, then stood up. He forced his barstool backward in a forceful manner, making a labored dragging sound across the floor.
Ray sat up suddenly, startled by the sound.
"Here, I'll give you the same thing you've been giving me lately." Mitch pointed to the pen. "I'm not available. Leave a fucking message." And with that last drip of sarcasm from Mitch's bloodied blade of frustration, he turned around and walked briskly toward the exit of their favorite sports bar. "Bastard," Mitch whispered loudly as he walked, hastily zipping up his jacket and putting on his faded navy blue Red Sox cap; he made sure his whisper was audible to Ray.
"And then some," Ray replied, but only to himself.
Mitch allowed the door to slam behind him as he left.
* * * * * * *
"If you want to know about Ray Doyle," Mitch said firmly, leaning across his desk toward Detective Lenny Knight, "then go ask Ray Doyle." Mitch paused. "Because anymore, you know as much as I do."
Lenny Knight was not satisfied with this answer, but accepted it as the best he was likely to get from Mitchell Bradley. So Lenny thanked Mitch, shook his hand, and left the office.
Mitch looked down at the office phone on his desk. He felt confused about why someone would care about his mundane office phone conversations. He felt violated because someone had been listening to his phone calls for — he had no idea how long. But most of all (and annoyingly so), he was curious; he was curious about what made him worthy of being recorded. What did he say that was worth hearing? What did he know that was worth knowing? And who wanted to know what he knew?
On this cool mid-May morning, Mitch decided to take a walk around the Merriam University campus and give it some deep contemplation. His final exams were graded, his finalized grades were submitted to the university registrar, so Mitch was thankful for a clear schedule and, most of all, a clear mind.