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and my cordovan loafers I was fit for permanent display. My gun was tucked away on my right hip out of sight. I thought about getting a tweed holster but decided it would jeopardize my credibility.
    The bar was uncrowded and I got a small table near the window where people passing on Arlington Street could look in and assume I was closing an important deal. Cosgrove hadn’t arrived yet. When the waiter came I asked for a Rolling Rock Extra Pale in the long neck bottle. They had none. I had to settle for Budweiser. Even the Ritz bar must disappoint occasionally.
    I had finished the first bowl of peanuts and managed to choke down three Budweisers when Cosgrove showed up. He was wearing the same outfit he’d had on earlier except he’d added a long plaid woolen scarf. He carried a big thick manila envelope.
    ”Sorry I’m late,“ he said. ”Knowing it was the Ritz I had to go home first and brush my teeth.“
    ”I don’t mind,“ I said. ”It just meant more peanuts for me.“
    Cosgrove sat down and handed me the big envelope. The waiter appeared. Cosgrove said, ”Martini, stirred not shaken, twist of lemon.“
    ”No olive?“ I said. ,
    ”Only a fucking beast would have an olive in his martini,“ Cosgrove said. ”Olives are packed in brine, ruins the taste.“
    ”I figured the gin and vermouth had already done that.“
    Cosgrove shrugged. ”No accounting for taste,“ he said.
    ”You prove that,“ I said. ”What’s the scarf for?“
    ”Strangling muggers,“ Cosgrove said. ”You still working for Meade Alexander?“
    ”You’ve been busy,“ I said.
    ”Are you?“
    ”Yes.“
    ”That why you want the Browne stuff?“
    ”No comment.“
    The waiter brought Cosgrove’s drink and a fresh bowl of peanuts. He looked at me. I shook my head. I’d only been redeemed for a half an hour.
    When the waiter left, Cosgrove took a sip of his martini, looked pleased, put the glass down, and said, ”No fucking comment? You work a week for a politician and you’re walking around saying no fucking comment?“
    ”You’re right,“ I said. ”It’s embarrassing. Ask me again.“
    ”You investigating Browne for Alexander?“
    ”I don’t want to answer that question,“ I said, ”and if you ask it again, I’ll beat your teeth in.“
    Cosgrove nodded. ”Better,“ he said. He drank some more martini. ”How’s Susan?“ he said.
    ”She’s away,“ I said.
    Cosgrove started to speak, looked at me, stopped, and then said, ”I wouldn’t have thought Meade Alexander was your style.“
    ”I don’t think he is,“ I said.
    ”On the other hand,“ Cosgrove said, ”who is your style, except maybe that goddamned African assassin you hang around with.“
    ”Hawk,“ I said. ”I’ll tell him you said that.“
    ”That was on deep background,“ Cosgrove said. ”How come you’re working for Meade Alexander?“
    ”Best offer I had.“
    ”How’s Mrs. Alexander?“
    ”Fine.“
    ”Hear she drinks a little.“
    ”Don’t we all,“ I said. ”Know anything worth telling about the Alexanders?“
    ”We having dinner afterward?“
    ”Sure.“
    ”I’ll think on it,“ he said, and sipped more martini.

Chapter 9
    We ate in the cafe.
    ”Ronni Alexander drinks. We both know that,“ Cosgrove said. ”She drinks too much and when she does she gets boisterous, and sometimes mean. When I was in the Washington bureau it was sort of a common joke.“
    ”I picked up some of that,“ I said. ”Why haven’t I ever read about it?“
    Cosgrove ate some scrod. ”We do news, not gossip. Or we try to. The fact that a congressman’s wife’s a boozer isn’t news unless it involves her in something that is news, you know?“
    ”And I gather it didn’t.“
    ”Not that I ever knew. They live in Georgetown. She didn’t spend much time in public with him. When she did usually she’d be on good behavior. And the staff was very alert.“
    ”No other scandal?“
    Cosgrove shook his head. ”Nope.“
    ”What kind of