A Cool Breeze on the Underground Read Online Free PDF Page B

perfunctory glance in the rearview mirror, and backed out of the slot. “I mean, the way we hear it, if you’d been at the Watergate, Nixon would still be President.”
    “Good thing I wasn’t there, then.”
    “Hey, you got that right.”
    Hey.
    “Where are we going, Rich?”
    “Newport. You ever been?”
    “No.”
    Lombardi wheeled the car into the light traffic. He made a few semi-legal maneuvers through the narrow downtown streets and then hit the entrance ramp onto I-95. If he was worried about cops, his foot sure wasn’t.
    “We’ll take the scenic route,” he said.
    The scenic route took them across two bridges that spanned Narragansett Bay. Sailboats danced on the blue water.
    “Welcome to Newport,” Lombardi said. He turned down Farewell Street, which ran alongside a cemetery, and drove on past the quaint houses that had stood since before the Revolution. The island town of Newport had seen many lives, having been a pirate haven, a fishing port, and a home for whalers and sea traders. Widows’ walks and carved wooden pineapples attested to the maritime tradition. The captains’ wives would stroll the widows’ walks, scanning the horizon for the sight of a sail that might be bearing their husbands home. These stalwarts, once home, and not having been with their mates in maybe two years, would place a pineapple on the front steps when they were ready to leave the bedroom and receive visitors. Eventually, the carved pineapple became a symbol of hospitality. Or fertility. Or sexual satiation.
    There was actually zoning in certain parts of old Newport that would demand the houses be painted only in colors available in Colonial times. The BMWs could be any color, though.
    Around the turn of the twentieth century, Newport became a playground for the old and new rich, whose mansions lined Bellevue Avenue and the Cliff Walk and were just “summer homes.” These cottages, each about the size of Versailles, were inhabited by their owners for about seven weeks in the short Rhode Island summer. They survived the bitter, windswept winters, the corrosive salt air, and the autumn hurricanes, only to succumb to the mundane but lethal assault of the graduated income tax. Most of the larger places had become museums or junior colleges. Few survived intact. One of the few was the Chase home.
    Lombardi entertained Neal on the drive with a description of Allie.
    “Allie Chase,” he had begun, “is one messed-up kid.”
    “I sort of figured that out.”
    “Alcohol, drugs, whatever. Allie has done it. Last time I searched her room in D.C., I found enough stuff to stock a Grateful Dead concert. Allie doesn’t care if she goes up or down, just as long as she goes.”
    “When did this start?” When did this start? Christ, I sound like the family physician. Neal Welby, M.D.
    “Allie’s what, seventeen? Around thirteen, I guess. Call her an early bloomer.”
    If they noticed it at thirteen, it means she really started at eleven or twelve, Neal thought.
    “Make a list of the best boarding schools in the country,” Lombardi continued, “and title it ‘Places Allie Chase Has Been Thrown Out Of.’ She’s had at least one abortion we know about—”
    “When?”
    “A year ago last March, and affairs with at least two of her teachers and one of her shrinks. Title their book Men Who Will Never Work Again, by the way.”
    “Are you telling me all this so Mom and Dad won’t have to?”
    Lombardi laughed. “A big part of my job is to spare the Senator any embarrassments.”
    “And Allie’s a big one.”
    “The biggest. Cops and Reporters I Have Bullied or Bribed, by Rich Lombardi. Drugs, minor in possession, shoplifting … all gone without a trace.”
    “Congratulations.”
    “A lot of work, my friend. Still and all, I like the kid.”
    “Yeah?”
    Lombardi looked startled for a second, then laughed. “Oh, no, babe. Not me. I like my job. You have a suspicious mind, Neal.”
    “Yeah, well…”
    “Comes with