Dead Man's Thoughts by Carolyn Wheat

thought of sobbing in the back pew like the Other Woman in a goddamn Bette Davis movie.
    â€œThe ex-wife was there,” he said. “She looked more disgusted than grief-stricken. And there were the two sons. And Nathan’s father.”
    The Communist. I wished I had gone to the funeral, if only to meet him.
    â€œHe was pretty pathetic,” Flaherty went on. “A shaky old guy. He broke down at the cemetery. Refused to leave the grave site. Said he couldn’t abandon his son when it took so long for them to find each other.”
    â€œI wonder what he meant by that?”
    â€œMilt said Nathan and the old man were estranged for a long time. Nathan didn’t approve of his father’s politics, I guess.” So Flaherty knew, I thought. It still struck me as odd. I guess it would anyone of my generation. We, not our parents, were supposed to be the radicals.
    The image stuck with me long after I’d hung up the phone. The old man standing beside his son’s grave, unwilling to leave lest that leaving become abandonment, forgetting.

T HIRTEEN
    â€œM r. Parma will see you in a moment, Miss Jameson,” the receptionist said. “Please take a seat.”
    I was on the fifty-seventh floor of the World Trade Center. Looking out the window, I felt distinctly queasy. There are 747s that fly lower than this.
    I sat on the imitation leather couch and waited for Parma. I’d pushed hard to get this appointment on such short notice, calling the first thing Monday morning and then taking the day off work. I was glad I had. The Special Prosecutor could give me a lot of information if he wanted to. The trick would be to make him want to.
    Maybe the whole concept of a Special Prosecutor is unique to New York City. And Watergate, of course. The thing was, after Serpico blew the lid off the Knapp Commission hearings, it was clear that there were judges and D.A.’s up to their asses in corruption. And how are you going to get those D.A.’s to prosecute and those judges to convict their own? Answer: you appoint an above-suspicion type guy to be Special Prosecutor, give him a hand-picked staff of incorruptibles, let him present all his cases to a Special Grand Jury to be heard by a Special Judge. And so Del Parma’s little hit squad came into being. They didn’t always get convictions, or even indictments, but the mere mention that they were investigating someone struck fear and terror into plenty of hearts. He got so good at tainting reputations without backing it up with evidence that he was under considerable criticism even from people who wanted to see corruption unmasked. You can imagine what the people who didn’t thought of him.
    â€œMr. Parma will see you now.” I looked up from the week-old People to see a fortyish woman with dyed red hair and a generous mouth. As I followed her down the corridor to the master office, I noticed that her straight black skirt and hot pink angora sweater were just a shade too tight. Fifteen, even ten years ago, she must have looked as perfectly ornamental as the girl at the reception desk, but now it was an uphill fight. There were fine lines around her eyes and the clothes that once would have been showy now looked a little cheap. She seemed an odd choice for private secretary to a man as concerned with appearances as Del Parma. I wondered why he hadn’t traded her in for a new model.
    Parma’s office was spacious, carpeted in royal blue with a vast, white-topped, empty desk. It was a mark of his status that although there were two spectacular views—one of the harbor and the other of Lower Manhattan and the bridges—the desk faced away from the windows. The implication was that the views were purely for the tourists; the Great Man was too busy to take notice of their panoramic beauty.
    The secretary announced my name and slipped away, leaving me alone with the Special Prosecutor. Parma paced the room like a cat, all