by Leon Uris
“To do what?” she asked.
“Anything beyond this phone call. If we meet, where we meet, what we say is not taped or bugged or leaked.”
Greer mulled a moment. “I don’t know. What do you have in mind?”
“The President’s kicked ass on me. We’re trying to complete his campaign schedule, and we can’t ‘do it unless we agree on the debates.”
Bingo! Greer thought.
“All right,” Darnell said, “so we blinked first, but you know and I know every campaign pussyfoots around the debates, then always conducts them. The responsibility falls on both sides. And you know damned well, we’ll end up with debates.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“The President is really leaning on me. He wants it settled in the next couple of days.”
Darnell was calling from Washington. It was two in the morning there. Pretty late to clean one’s desk. Presidential urgency. They must have gotten late polls. Quinn was running neck and neck with Tomtree. Were they soft, or was T3 trying to set Quinn up?
“So, what’s the program?” Greer asked.
“Chicago is midway between Denver and Washington. We have a safe house there, or if you are too suspicious, you can set it up in a hotel of your choice. We’d send a charter jet for your negotiator.”
“And yourself ?”
“I’m authorized to cut a deal.”
“I’ll get back to you in a few hours, Darnell. If I come to Chicago, I can’t leave until tomorrow evening. It should be me and Professor Maldonado.”
“The governor’s father-in-law?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll be waiting for your call. It will be nice to see you again.”
Greer could not fall back to sleep, so she finally arose, yawned and stretched, and set the coffeepot into motion. Since the Iowa caucus in February, she had expected someone to tap her on the shoulder and say, “I know what you know.”
Every day her secret grew, like a tumor, and every day she ignored her own sense of propriety, it enlarged. Greer walked through her arguments again, but she found herself in the same place, with the madness of holding a secret. The fear of letting it go made her shiver.
Call Warren? Christ, she knew what he would say. He’d tell her to press her advantage, as in hostile takeovers. No prisoners.
“Oh, Christ,” she whispered and punched a phone number.
“Hello,” a dreary voice said.
“Hi, Rita, it’s Greer.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Are Mal and Quinn at the condo with you?”
“Yes.”
“Get them up. I’ll be over in a half hour.”
A God In Ruins
The three of them were draped around the living room,...
time of night, they were going to be talking “rotten apples,”
Greer came rumpled, and she showed the wear of executive decision making. “I got a call from Darnell Jefferson, two in the morning Washington time. They want to get together with us and nail down a debate.”
“They must be hurting,” Rita said.
Greer shook her head and, although it was a serious moment, she could not help but see how voluptuous and filled with Quinn Rita was. Greer felt a pang of jealousy.
“What did you wake us up to tell us?” Reynaldo Maldonado asked.
Greer took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and lifted her face. “Pucky Tomtree has been having an affair for two years.”
“Well, you’ve got this old boy’s attention,” Mal said. Both Quinn and Rita stared, puzzled.
“Go on,” Quinn said softly.
“I’ve personally known Pucky Tomtree fifteen, maybe twenty years,” Greer began. “She chaired an awful lot of community services from Boston. Committee to Save the Llamas, Committee to Bring Caruso Back from the Dead, Up the Symphony, Artists Against Starvation, Artists for Peace. She either chaired or served on the boards of a hundred national groups. We’ve been on a dozen committees together. I find her to be a lovely woman.”
Orange juice all around.
“Providence has a very active theater life. Sort of a bedroom community for Broadway. She loved to hang out in the garret scene. There were a few moot whispers about affairs. Nothing to write home about.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of this,” Quinn interceded.
“Shut up and listen,” Mal ordered his son-in-law.
“Okay, gang,” Greer said, “hand me the envelope, please.
And the winner is ... Aldo de Voto,” she said, “the reigning conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra. I worked with him before he moved to Washington, when he directed the New York Philharmonic. Events .. . committees .. . fundraising. He’s a very charming guy with wife and kids safely tucked away in Spain. No, we were never lovers, but Aldo and I were bosom buddies.”
Greer went on that Crowley Media kept a company apartment at the Watergate where Aldo de Voto lived. They spent a lot of time rapping, as friends, each having the key to the other’s apartment.
“Why did you think you needed a key to his place?” Mal asked.
“Because my place often looked like the interstate, with the Crowder people coming and going and a line of politicians at the door. Aldo seldom came home until very late, and I could hide out there. Washington trips ain’t no fun, folks.”
To this day, Rita found discussions of infidelity discomforting, but she tried not to show her reaction. Quinn seemed to be hardly listening, while Mal cleared every sentence in his mind.
“I hadn’t been to Washington for about three months, and after the FCC hearings I had the bird dogs on me, even from my own network. I gave Aldo a ring, but his voice machine said he was in Philadelphia. Anyhow, his key still worked. I stretched out on his couch for a while, then went to freshen up. There was a cosmetic bag at the vanity mirror with the top opened. Have you ever noticed the jeweled Japanese fighting-fish brooch Pucky wears?”
“Yeah .. .” Mal sighed.
“It was there in the cosmetic bag as well as her lipstick, an initialed notepad, her perfume, et cetera. And, a name tag.”
“It would be impossible for anyone to plant it,” Mal said.
“Particularly a brooch worth several hundred thousand dollars,” Greer said. “There were a few other things in Aldo’s closet that a lady would wear for an afternoon tryst. Her size.”
“What about her Secret Service detail?”
“She drives her own damned car sometimes. Pucky is an independent lady.”
“Didn’t we stop all this with Clinton?” Quinn asked in disgust.
“It’s been eight years without a whisper of scandal in the country,” Rita said. “Do you think the American people even care?”
“Look, daughter, the President can ball any alley cat he gets his hands on. But the First Lady! The Capitol dome would fall to the floor,” Mal said.
“Adultery is a man’s misdemeanor and a woman’s felony,” Greer said.
“Who knows?” Mal asked. ;.
“We and the principals. They do not know that I.know. My educated guess is that Tomtree is oblivious of it.”
Quinn saw Rita shaken up by it all. His hand pressed her shoulder. “That’s all we need to hear,” he said. “We are going to do absolutely nothing except to vow to each other to do absolutely nothing. Done. End of discussion.”
“That is extremely decent of you, Governor,” Greer exploded. “But do you have any idea of the broadsides these people are going to fire at you on the Internet and TV and in the press? And don’t tell me the American people can tell the difference.”
“Quinn, if Tomtree found out, he’d want to keep a lid on it until after the election. Then he’d let it fly. This is a real ace in the hole. We squeeze just a little bit on the debate negotiations,” Mal said.
“I said no, and I mean no. Maybe I’ve come this far on the dead bodies of those kids in Six Shooter Canyon. No, no, no, no!”
“Vintage O’Connell!” Greer snapped.
“Woweeeee!”
The four of them gasped at each other, as fighters who had gone a nonstop round.
“Maybe it is vintage O’Connell,” Rita said. “Maybe a lot of people out there are beginning to understand what kind of man he is. Maybe he’s the last honest politician the world will ever see. Maybe the thought of hurting me makes it too difficult for him to bear. Maybe he is self-destructing. But he’s a Marine. Take him or cut bait.”
Oh, man, did Rita chill them out.
“I need your promise you’ll never mention Pucky or your resignation,” Quinn said.
“Shit,” Mal groaned. “All right, include me in. You’ve my word.”
“It remains between us,” Greer promised.
At the last moment Greer decided she needed Rae O’Connell with her and Mal in Chicago. Rae, a successful, computer oriented businesswoman, had run the electronics at her dad’s Denver headquarters. After she gleaned and analyzed the incoming messages, she gave them to Greer, in order of priority.
The last time Greer had been on the road without Rae, her work had backed up unmercifully.
Overnight bags packed and ready to go, Greer had the charter jet switch to Colorado Springs in order to avoid a possible media alert.
Their red-eye express set down in the private-plane section of Midway Airport, where a limo pulled alongside, and they drove off to the Schweitzer Mansion on Lake Shore Drive, a Republican half-way house, and site of secret rendezvous.
The mansion was century-old-mahogany- and tapestry-clad. Each bedroom held a ponderous four-poster, and each bathroom had a freestanding sink, pipes to heat towels, and crested linens. It said “robber baron” all over it. The present Schweitzers lived magnificently on the old fortune. They were Chicago denizens of high order.
Alma, a robust former mezzo soprano greeted them and ushered each to their suites. Kurt Schweitzer was in Washington until after the election.
Darnell Jefferson would be arriving at dawn. A meeting in Mr.
Schweitzer’s study was called for ten in the morning.
Greer, Mal, and Rae went into power sleeps, after which they loaded up on orange juice and danish followed by a large transfusion of coffee.
Ten o’clock.
Darnell spilled out of Mr. Schweitzer’s chair.
“Greer!”
Jesus, he looked great, she thought. The wiry, bubbly white hair against his milk chocolate skin. Even in relaxed clothing he appeared like a model.
“Hi, handsome,” she said, running her fingers through his hair and giving him a hug and peck. “This is Professor Maldonado, and this is Rae O’Connell, the governor’s daughter.”
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Darnell said to Mal. “I have a pair of your figurines in my home.”
“Really? Which ones?”
“Russian ladies.”
Mal smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah.”
“I asked Mrs. Schweitzer last night,” Rae said, “to set me up as close to you as possible on a secure phone. I’ll have to run messages to Greer during your meeting.”
The study was pure Teddy Roosevelt, with stuffed heads of boars and lions and buffalo staring down at them and photographs of safaris, killing safaris. . good trip, fine .. .
“You know,” Darnell said, “every campaign plays hide-and seek on the debate, maneuvering for an edge. In the end there is always a debate. I hope we can hash it out.”
“We know you are ready to shotgun the country with ads saying Quinn was the one refusing to debate,” Greer said.
“Our attitude here, now, is that you really don’t want the debate,” Mal said.
“I refer to one debate,” Darnell said, “because two simply can’t be fit in. Here is our proposal for site and rules.”
“And here is ours,” Greer said.
Darnell’s paper ruled out university campuses. Universities were too volatile and apt to be too liberal. The cities suggested were San Diego, Portland, San Antonio, St. Paul, Baltimore, and Montgomery.
The debate would last ninety minutes, and there would be alternative moderators.
Three minutes on each new subject. Three-minute rebuttal. The last fifteen minutes, questions from the audience.
Rae came in from the adjoining office and laid a half dozen notes before Greer. She scribbled on two of them and set two aside. “This should excite you, Darnell. We have just qualified for federal matching funds for the balance of the campaign.” “The proposal?”
“Bullshit,” Mal said characteristically. “Montgomery, St. Paul, Portland. Why don’t we hold it in the middle of the Amazon? Besides, your October 11 date could well be during a World Series game. Otherwise, there is absolutely nothing we agree with in the balance of this proposal.”
Darnell held his hand up to be able to read the counterproposal. Rae came in with a half dozen more notes, two for Mal.
Darnell set their proposal down. “Are you serious?” he asked.
“Well, your proposal was pretty sanitized.”
“And yours, revolutionary.”
“All we are trying to do,” Mal said, “is bring the art of debate up to where it was a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“Those kind of debates are won by artful dodgers,” Darnell said.
“I’d say both of the candidates qualify,” Greer said.
Darnell glared down at the paper on the desk. They would vie for a single three-hour debate with a twenty-minute break in the middle. Only one venue was proposed, the Celeste Bartos Forum Hall in the New York Public Library.
It would be an open debate. Either candidate could bring up any issue and argue it. Either candidate could rebut. The deadline would be five minutes. If a candidate ran under five minutes, he would be given credit for the time; if he ran over it, it would be deducted from his total speaking time.
One moderator.
“This is a prelude to a shouting match,” Darnell said strongly. “It’s a street brawl.”
“No,” Mal said, “we’re talking about getting truth to the people.”
“Truth is what we all seek,” Darnell thought, but declined to say it. They weren’t budging. Perhaps, he thought, they believed they had an edge. But wait! They have more to gain than we have. We’re out to neutralize this debate by cluttering.
Rae returned with an urgent message. Greer studied it, contemplated, then arose. “I have to take care of something,” she said. “It will take a few minutes, maybe more. You guys keep going and I’ll catch up.”
Mal faced Darnell, Darnell faced Mal. Darnell wondered if they were setting him up.
Knowing the Republicans were about to inundate the airways with nasty advertisements, Mal had formed a “Truth Squad” which had obtained copies of about half of the ads. Quinn would be ready to react instantly. Yet President Tomtree was still the power and owned the machinery to maul and grind under his opponent by sheer weight of numbers of dollars and had little appetite to be bound to the truth.
“I don’t think you get it,” Mal said.
“I think you’ve made preposterous demands. I won’t even show these to the President.”
“You intend to go through the motions of a debate reduced to no consequence and unleash your media barrage and turn the rest of the campaign into a fuck fest. Just skip the gutter and go straight down to the sewer. Okay, let’s play some sewer games.”
“I’d rather wait until Greer returns.”
“Sit still, Mr. Jefferson. Pucky Tomtree has been having an illicit affair with another man for over two years.”
Darnell’s mind ran a Pucky-check. If she had, she was extremely clever and careful. Would she? Little gossip bits had her with artists and writers, but that had been long ago, probably before Thornton. What seemed certain was that Maldonado would not try this if it wasn’t true.
“What are your intentions?” Darnel asked grimly.
“This campaign is not going into mud slinging. We demand a full, honest, open debate, without stunts. We demand decency in yo
ur advertising.”
Darnell had been scissored. He knew it. Yet Maldonado was not trying to shade his demands. Darnell had gotten to know Quinn with a lot of secondhand study. This was pure Quinn Patrick O’Connell, a sense of humility and honor that conveyed itself to the public.
“Who knows about this?”
“Greer learned about this first. She told the governor, myself and my daughter, who is Quinn’s wife. We are it.”
“The press?”
“Nada, nothing.”
“You are certain to be able to keep a lid on this till after the election, provided we remain in certain bounds?”
“I’m as sure as I can be about anything,” Mal said. “We’re dealing with three fine people. Greer doesn’t even know I’m confronting you. Quinn ordered us not to leak this at any cost. I’m taking it upon myself to offer it to you as a warning.”
“If I agree to carefully inspect our advertising and I agree to your debate conditions, will you give me the name of the gentleman?”
“Do you agree?” Mal asked.
“I agree, but how can O’Connell afford this gesture, a gesture that could deny him the presidency?”
“You just don’t get it, Mr. Jefferson.”
When Greer returned, Darnell watched the two very closely. Were they in cahoots, in a good-cop, bad-cop play, deliberately giving Mal time alone with Darnell so he could squash him while leaving her out? There was absolutely nothing in her demeanor to indicate she knew of Professor Maldonado’s revelation.
Through the next two hours of “negotiations,” Darnell began to “see” more and more merit to their proposal. He wondered out loud that it might even help Thornton. Two politicians facing each other honestly. Now, that’s a picture ... or an extended oxymoron.
Darnell won a few points in quibbling over this and that, and by early afternoon they broke camp to return to Midway Airport.
The final seal would be a simultaneous announcement with both candidates praising the honesty and openness of the debate.
Rae sat in the cockpit at the navigator’s desk, still directing the streams of information coming in.