I smiled back, half at McGuire’s one-upmanship and half to admit that he knew his job. “Assuming those idiots in Records haven’t lost the Lasko file,” I said, to remind him that nothing was perfect. His smile strained wider. It was a good time to leave.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“No.” McGuire looked at his watch. “I’ve got Mary Carelli at ten o’clock.”

It didn’t ring any bells. “Who’s she?”

“Mary Carelli is special assistant to Chairman Woods.”

“And?”

McGuire surprised me by sounding defensive. “Look. All our cases have to be approved by a vote of the commissioners who run this place. They stop approving, we stop prosecuting. The Chairman runs the other commissioners, and Woods is just over from the White House staff. Lasko’s the President’s friend. If we hurt Lasko, it hurts the White House, and that hurts us. So I tell Chairman Woods what we’re on to. We have to get along or my program goes down the drain. So,” he concluded, “don’t fuck up.”

I considered that. “Maybe you’d better clue me in, Joe. Who’s running this case-us, Woods, or the White House staff?”

McGuire looked stung. “There’s nothing wrong with talking to our own Chairman,” he snapped. Technically, he was right about that. But the repetition of the words “White House” seemed to diminish him. The restless body slumped. For the first time I wondered whether McGuire wanted to be a commissioner.

McGuire snapped out of his reverie. “You’re to get along with Miss Carelli. I’ve put you on this because you’re good. Don’t screw it up.”

He had said that before. “I haven’t yet,” I answered quietly.

He knew that was true. Some other people knew it too. It was the main fact that kept me sitting in McGuire’s office instead of cleaning out my own. But the problem was bigger than Hartex or I. Something had gone sour in McGuire’s psyche. The drive to achieve had turned into an addiction to praise. His staff aped him and outsiders plied him with obsequies. It was as if McGuire was presiding over his own memorial service. Newsweek had done him in.