A Maidens Grave

it. You mean, set her down in the river.”
    “ Course that’s what I mean. Where’d you think, land in some fucking toilet somewhere?”
    “I’ll see about it. If there’s a sheltered cove it might work out perfectly. But you’ll have to give us more time.”
    You don’t have more time.
    “You haven’t got any more time.”
    “No, Lou. Pontoons’d be perfect. It’s a great idea. I’ll get on it right away. But let me buy some time. Tell me something you want.”
    “A fucking helicopter.”
    “And you’ll have it. It may just take a little longer thanwe’d hoped. Name something else. Your heart’s desire. Isn’t there something you can think of you want?”
    A pause. Potter thought: guns, X-rated tapes and a VCR, a friend busted out of prison, money, liquor . . .
    “Yeah, I want something, Art.”
    “What?”
    “Tell me ’bout yourself.”
    From out of left field.
    Potter looked up into Angie’s frown. She shook her head, cautious.
    “What?”
    “You asked me what I wanted. I want you to tell me about yourself.”
    You always want the HT to be curious about the negotiator but it usually takes hours, if not days, to establish any serious connection. This was the second time in just a few hours that Handy had expressed an interest in Potter, and the agent had never known an HT to ask the question so directly. Potter knew he was on thin ice here. He could improve the connection between the two or he could drive a wedge between them by not responding the way Handy wished.
    Be forewarned  . . . .
    “What do you want to know?”
    “Anything you wanta tell me.”
    “Well, there’s nothing very exciting. I’m just a civil servant.” His mind went blank.
    “Keep going, Art. Talk to me.”
    And then, as if a switch had been flicked, Arthur Potter found himself desiring to blurt out every last detail of his life, his loneliness, his sorrow . . . . He wanted Lou Handy to know about him. “Well, I’m a widower. My wife died thirteen years ago, and today’s our wedding anniversary.”
    He remembered that LeBow had told him there’d been bad blood between Handy and his ex; he turned to the intelligence officer, who had already called up a portion of Handy’s profile. The convict had been married for two years when he was twenty. His wife had sued for divorce on the grounds of mental cruelty and had gotten a restraining order because he’d beaten her repeatedly. Just after that he’d gone off on a violent robbery spree. Potterwas wishing he hadn’t brought up the subject of marriage, but when Handy now asked what had happened to Potter’s wife he sounded genuinely curious.
    “She had cancer. Died about two months after we found out about it.”
    “Me, I was never married, Art. No woman’ll ever tie me down. I’m a freewheelin’ spirit, I go where my heart and my dick lead me. You ever get yourself remarried?”
    “No, never did.”
    “What do you do when you want a little pussy?”
    “My work keeps me pretty busy, Lou.”
    “You like your job, do you? How long you been doing it?”
    “I’ve been with the Bureau all my adult life.”
    “All your adult life?”
    My Lord, an amused Potter thought from a remote distance, he’s echoing me. Coincidence? Or is he playing me the way I should be playing him ?
    “It’s the only job I’ve ever had. Work eighteen hours a day a lot.”
    “How’d you get into this negotiating shit?”
    “Just fell into it. Wanted to be an agent, liked the excitement of it. I was a pretty fair investigator but I think I was a little too easygoing. I could see both sides of everything.”
    “Oh, yessir,” Handy said earnestly, “that’ll keep you from moving to the top. Don’t you know the sharks swim faster?”
    “That’s the God’s truth, Lou.”
    “You must meet some real fucking wackos.”
    “Oh, present company excluded of course.”
    No laughter from the other end of the line. Only silence. Potter felt stung that the levity had fallen flat and he worried that Handy had heard sarcasm in Potter’s voice and was hurt. He felt an urge to apologize.
    But Handy just said, “Tell me a war story, Art.”
    Angie was frowning again. Potter ignored her. “Well, I did a barricade at the West German embassy in Washington about fifteen years ago. Talked for about eighteen hours straight.” He laughed. “I had agents racing back and forth to the library bringing me books on political philosophy.Hegel, Kant, Nietzsche . . . Finally I