The Parnell Affair Read Online Free PDF Page B

who don't like me,” Tobias said, with a grin and a chuckle.  He accepted a glass from Joe, who then refilled his.
    “Correct me if I'm wrong,” Joe said a moment later, resting both hands on the back of his chair, facing Tobias.  “But you're the reporter known for going off the record so often?  I'll abuse the privilege to make a confession: I'm bored to death by golf.”
    Tobias laughed.  “But, unfortunately, it's replaced drinks at the club as America's working pastime.”
    “You're right and hence the clubs,” Joe said, cocking his head and then sitting down.
    “You're not alone,” Tobias said.  He tried the tea: unsweetened.  “I will say, though I don't take in a game unless asked, I do like the driving range.  On a Wednesday afternoon, if not too crowded, it's a good place to swing and think.”
    “Which is where I'm going later on,” Joe said, nodding.
    A moment passed with both men sitting silently, drinking their tea.
    “Off the record,” Joe said musingly.  “Off the record; not to be recorded, printed.”
    “That's the idea,” Tobias said.
    “How does it help you?” Joe asked.
    “Points me in the right direction,” Tobias said.  “If a vote is coming up on this or that, say, and a Senator meets unexpectedly with the other side's, I don't know, industrialist, a staffer might let me know off the record—and he'd be suspected if the meeting was only known to a few people.  In doing so, though, I now know to nose around the industrialist's part of town; get a secretary or driver to let something slip.  Even try the fake out: ask the industrialist to comment upon his recent meeting—he does and he becomes the source,” Tobias said brightly.
    Joe chuckled soundlessly.  “Ever gone back on it?” he asked.  “Printed something you said you wouldn't?”
    “Never,” Tobias said.  “No matter how juicy a story, it's only today's story.  I'm not about to slit my throat just for today and then lose all my tomorrows.  Never seen a story I thought big enough to tempt me.”
    Joe nodded, looking down into his glass.
    “Standards are a little higher for me,” Tobias said.  He felt Joe's anxiety—wrapped up in velvet though it may have been—and desire for confession.  He wanted to enhance that atmosphere, somehow.  “I admit I've got a bit of a reputation for discretion.  Sounds good, right?  But it ups the ante.  A journalist with no special reputation for discretion bends a confidence a little, well,” he said, dragging out the word with a shrug, “you know what these reporters are like.  But for me?”  He shook his head.  “I'd never be forgiven.  I'd have reporters out after me .  It's like when a baseball team has a .400 hitter: not a lot of homeruns but steady base hits and RBIs, year in year out: then, one year, he tries swinging for the fences, knocks in 35 homers but his average drops to .290—and every fan and sports writer starts talking retirement.  A kid coming up to the majors could build a career on one season with 35 homeruns and a .290—but for Steady Sam and his .400, it's a death sentence.”
    Joe looked up, nodding his head, absently making stripes in the condensation down the side of his glass.  He won't be responsible for “going to the press,” Tobias realized.
    “Was it this hot in Niger?” Tobias asked.
    “Yes,” Joe said.  He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.  “I'm not sure, but perhaps it's psychosomatic: perhaps I expect it to be milder here—and shouldn't, DC has sweltering summers.”
    What did he find out, where did he find it, Tobias thoughts raced, wait, why was he there in the first place?
    “What brought you out there?” he asked.
    “I'm not quite sure I'm ready to talk about it,” Joe said.  “I no longer work in government, it's true, and so they have no hold over me.  However—” he began but trailed off.
    “Something is worth talking about in all of this,” Tobias said.  “But let's just