The Pelican Brief by John Grisham Page B

see around corners. His territory was the West Wing, where he had been cleaning for thirty years now. Cleaning and listening. Cleaning and seeing. He picked up after some terribly important people who were often too busy to watch their words, especially in the presence of poor old Sarge.
    He knew which doors stayed open, and which walls were thin, and which air vents carried sound. He could disappear in an instant, then reappear in a shadow where the terribly important people could not see him.
    He kept most of it to himself. But from time to time, he fell heir to a juicy bit of information that could be pieced together with another one, and Sarge would make the judgment call that it should be repeated. He was very careful. He had three years until retirement, and he took no chances.
    No one ever suspected Sarge of leaking stories to the press. There were usually enough big mouths within any White House to lay blame on each other.It was hilarious, really. Sarge would talk to Grantham at the
Post
, then wait excitedly for the story, then listen to the wailing in the basement when the heads rolled.
    He was an impeccable source, and he talked only to Grantham. His son Cleve, the cop, arranged the meetings, always at odd hours at dark and inconspicuous places. Sarge wore his sunglasses. Grantham wore the same with a hat or cap of some sort. Cleve usually sat with them and watched the crowd.
    Grantham arrived at Glenda’s a few minutes after six, and walked to a booth in the rear. There were three other customers. Glenda herself was frying eggs on a grill near the register. Cleve sat on a stool watching her.
    They shook hands. A cup of coffee had been poured for Grantham.
    “Sorry I’m late,” he said.
    “No problem, my friend. Good to see you.” Sarge had a raspy voice that was difficult to suppress with a whisper. No one was listening.
    Grantham gulped coffee. “Busy week at the White House.”
    “You could say that. Lot of excitement. Lot of happiness.”
    “You don’t say.” Grantham could not take notes at these meetings. It would be too obvious, Sarge said when he laid the ground rules.
    “Yes. The President and his boys were elated with the news of Justice Rosenberg. This made them very happy.”
    “What about Justice Jensen?”
    “Well, as you noticed, the President attended thememorial service, but did not speak. He had planned to give a eulogy, but backed out because he would have been saying nice things about a gay fella.”
    “Who wrote the eulogy?”
    “The speechwriters. Mainly Mabry. Worked on it all day Thursday, then he backed out.”
    “He also went to Rosenberg’s service.”
    “Yes, he did. But he didn’t want to. Said he’d rather go to hell for a day. But in the end, he chickened out and went anyway. He’s quite happy Rosenberg was murdered. There was almost a festive mood around the place Wednesday. Fate has dealt him a wonderful hand. He now gets to restructure the Court, and he’s very excited about this.”
    Grantham listened hard. Sarge continued.
    “There’s a short list of nominees. The original had twenty or so names, then it was cut to eight.”
    “Who did the cutting?”
    “Who do you think? The President and Fletcher Coal. They’re terrified of leaks at this point. Evidently the list is nothing but young conservative judges, most of whom are obscure.”
    “Any names?”
    “Just two. A certain man named Pryce from Idaho, and one named MacLawrence from Vermont. That’s all I know about names. I think they are both federal judges. Nothing more on this.”
    “What about the investigation?”
    “I haven’t heard much, but as usual I’ll keep my ears open. There doesn’t appear to be much going on.”
    “Anything else?”
    “No. When will you run it?”
    “In the morning.”
    “It’ll be fun.”
    “Thanks, Sarge.”
    The sun was up now and the café was noisier. Cleve strolled over and sat next to his father. “You guys about finished?”
    “We are,” Sarge