"He's got mob affiliation?"
"Oh, yeah, sure." Farrell said. "Been in the bag for years."
"And you think the mob's trying to put a hit on Alexander?"
Farrell shook his head. "No. But you can't be sure, and we gotta have somebody to handle security anyway. Every campaign has to have security. Why not get the best."
"A gentleman of discerning sensibility," I said.
"Yeah, sure. You want the job?"
"Who's doing it now?"
"Couple of Fitchburg cops on temporary duty to the campaign staff. They'll stay, but you'd be in charge."
"Alexander's from Fitchburg?"
"Yeah."
"What mob has Browne in its pocket?" I said.
Farrell shrugged. "Who knows?"
"If you don't know who bought him, how do you know he's bought?" I said.
Farrell took the bottle from me again without asking and drank. Then he passed it back. I drank a much smaller swallow than he had.
"What the fuck are you, the editor of The Boston Globe? It doesn't matter what I can prove. We're talking politics, asshole."
"You don't know me well enough to call me pet names, Fix."
Farrell paid no attention. He looked at his watch.
"What d'ya say. You want the job or no? Money's not a sweat. We can get together on the money."
I turned away from Farrell briefly and stared out my window at the dark street and the darkened window of the art director and listened to the sounds of my office. Did I have something better to do? I did not. Could I use the money? Yes. Would it kill time for me better than drinking Irish whiskey and looking out the window? Maybe.
"You have any trouble with Alexander's politics?" Farrell asked my back. I turned. "I have trouble with everybody's politics," I said.
"So what's the problem?" Farrell said. "No problem," I said. "I'll take the job.
Chapter 2
Meade and Ronni Alexander were holding hands when I met them. He was tall and sort of rural looking with a good tan. His gray-blond hair was combed straight back. He wore a dark blue three-piece suit of miraculous fiber, a maroon tie with tiny figures, and black boots that closed with a zipper up the side.