Nothing Lost by John Gregory Dunne

stopped. He still appeared to be napping. J.J. tapped him on the shoulder. “Charley.” Again. Louder. “Charley?”
    Harold Pugh hung up. “It’s time. The governor’s faxing over the order. We can bring in the witnesses and proceed with . . .” His voice trailed off. “I’ll get Darrow; you and Dr. Buckles—”
    â€œI think Charley’s dead,” J.J. McClure said.
    CHAPTER FIVE
    Poppy blew J.J. a kiss from her perch on the bed when he opened the bedroom door. She was resting against a wall of pillows, as always in black—black lace slip, black stockings, and black Manolo Blahnik slingbacks—and as always a cell phone was plugged in to her ear. “Willie, can we fit in the Rural Caucus brunch Thursday at nine.”
    Willie Erskine, sitting cross-legged next to her on the bed, punched up Poppy’s calendar on her laptop. “No. The issues-and-answers coffee is at nine. And there’s also the Republican mayors’ pancake breakfast.”
    â€œShoes off the bed, Willie,” J.J. said.
    Willie Erskine looked at Poppy. She glanced quickly at J.J., then motioned Willie off the bed.
    â€œI’ll make all three,” Poppy said into her phone as Willie Erskine slid into the chair next to the bed. “Meet and greet, the basic ‘Hello, how are you, Bud. Randy. Phyllis.’ No pancakes, no brunch, no bagels, just tea with lemon, forget the sugar, then out of there, ‘Good to see you all, I’ll nail all those Washington do-gooders, count on it, count on Poppy,’ and on to the next stop.”
    She dropped the cell phone into her lap. “So what happened?”
    J.J. contemplated himself in the mirror. Poppy’s mastery of political choreography still impressed him. It confounded him in equal measure. Most things about Poppy did. He ran his nails over his stubble. He needed to shave, shower, and change his clothes. No time for a catnap. He had promised Wormwold he would have the Toledo package in time for the Worm’s noon press conference. Involuntary manslaughter, three-to-six, out in eighteen months with good time. The Worm would hate it. Murray Lubin would think he had died and gone to heaven. Think of the upside, he would tell the Worm. A guilty plea and Tone Vaccaro is in the ground. What he would not say is that it might deflect questions about the Darrow fuckup. In the mirror he saw Poppy waiting for an answer. “He died.”
    â€œWhat of ?”
    â€œBeing seventy-three years old. A hundred pounds overweight. Heart disease. Five packs of cigarettes a day. Emphysema. Maybe he hated George Bernard Shaw, too.” Willie Erskine looked up quickly, as if his handiwork had been challenged. “Charley didn’t much like anyone from out of state. And maybe he just didn’t want to see another execution. He was at the last one. I didn’t know that. It’s funny what you learn about someone a half hour before they die.”
    â€œWhat did you learn about Percy Darrow?”
    â€œElectricity kills. It takes a long time. In this case two and a half minutes.”
    â€œThat doesn’t seem long,” Willie Erskine said.
    â€œMaybe you had to be there,” J.J. said. “Put your finger in a light socket, Willie. See how long you can keep it there.”
    No one spoke.
    Poppy’s cell phone broke the silence. “Congressman McClure.” She listened for a moment. “You tell him if he’s still interested in keeping his seat, he’d better get his ass home from Maui and start dialing for dollars. While’s he’s learning the hula, his numbers are heading for single digits.” She rang off Poppy style, without a goodbye. “Willie’s got something to ask you.”
    â€œAs long as you’re here, J.J., can I say you’re running with Poppy tomorrow?”
    J.J. looked at him.
    â€œHispanic Circle’s Winter 5-K Fun Run. You and Poppy.