The Fool's Run

another, probing the cozy relationship between the generals and the industrial complex. Then he found a big one. A group of ranking Army officers helped a defense contractor cover up critical faults in a particular run of artillery shells. Correcting the problem would cost a bundle. The Vietnam War was obviously winding down. If it had ended soon enough, the defective weapons could have been routinely retired and nobody would have known. But the war didn’t end soon enough. A dozen grunts were killed by the friendly fire.
    Dace had a leak, a disgruntled colonel with some combat ribbons of his own. The story was big. A brace of generals—a total of three stars’ worth—and a half-dozen colonels found themselves looking for work. Dace was on his way. Or so he thought.
    But the Pentagon was tired of Dace Greeley. When another story surfaced, even bigger than the first, Dace had it cold and had it exclusively. The Post ran it big, and it turned out to be a figment of someone’s imagination. Supporting documents were fraudulent; sources denied their quotations.
    Dace was held up as an overstepper, a reporter more intent on success than on the truth. Watergate had come along by then, with Nixon’s attacks on the press. Everything had to be squeaky clean. The Post dropped Dace like a hot potato. Nobody wanted to hear about a conspiracy of military bureaucrats: who believes in that kind of fairy tale?
    He went West for a year, worked on a solid, smaller paper, but he wanted Washington. There were no newspaper jobs, so he wound up in public relations. He was bad at it, but he was cheap and persistent, and eventually built a semipermanent relationship with a sportsmen’s lobbyist group.
    “I can live with myself,” he told me over the first drink.
    “You ever think about a book? A solid piece of work? You could do it.”
    “Who’s got the time? I have to eat,” he said. “I’ve got alimony. I’m four or five months behind, but it’s out there. I’d need two years to do something right.”
    “I’ve got a project,” I told him. “It’s illegal. They could put you in jail if you were caught. I’ll cover for you, but there aren’t any guarantees.”
    “Doesn’t sound so good,” he said morosely, rattling his ice cubes.
    “There are two good reasons to do it,” I said.
    “Tell me.” He held a finger up to the waitress and pointed at our glasses.
    “One: we fuck over some of those guys who tore you up with the Post, or guys just like them. Two: you get a quarter million in cash. Nobody knows where it comes from, nobody knows how much. You can spend the rest of your life in Mexico. Do six books.”
    “Jesus, who do we kill?”
    “Nobody. You do research, take care of some logistics. Write some press releases and get them to people who’ll read them. Figure out a way to cover us, so nobody will know where they’re coming from. Do some light typing.”
    “What the hell are you into, Kidd?” His next drink was forgotten, and he was watching me closely.
    “First, tell me what you think.”
    He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “If it’s like you make it sound—I know you haven’t given me the details, but if it’s morally like you make it sound—I’d buy it,” he said. “I’d need to know the details.”
    The second round came, and when the waitress went away, I gave him a few.

Chapter 6
    T HE WHITEMARK JOB, if I took it, would be the first time I worked with a team. Teams are bad news; if a team is tracked and caught, there’s always the possibility that a teammate will turn. The police have powerful persuaders; talk can get you a free ticket out of jail; silence can buy you five to ten, if another player talks first.
    LuEllen was a solid choice. She was cool, action-oriented, decisive. A pro. She methodically calculated the possibilities and consequences of her work. She had rehearsed what she would do in virtually any situation. She didn’t have to rationalize what she was doing. She knew she was a thief; she focused on being a good one.
    Dace was a riskier proposition. He was good at what he did, but he lived on dreams. Dreamers lose track of what’s going on around them; dreamers try to outrun bullets and outshoot cops. They move from one act to the next with no assessment of consequences. In the phony story that killed him at the Post, Dace never stopped to think, “What if these people are wrong? What if this is all bullshit?” He had fame at his fingertips. He was