Fluke

by Blinder, Martin;

  “We find the defendant, Marco Torrino, guilty on all four counts,” intones the foreman, predictably.

  The packed courtroom buzzes.

  “Thank you, Mr. Foreman,” says the judge without affect. “The jury is dismissed. Defendant remains free on bail till sentencing, to be held . . .” He peers over his half-glasses at his clerk as she thumbs through the calendar.

  “March 18, Your Honor. 1:00 P.M.”

  “March 18 at 1:00 P.M.,” repeats the judge. He glares down at Marco. “I would suggest, sir, that you get your affairs in order. This court stands adjourned.”

  The courthouse steps are carpeted with reporters, for this trial was decidedly different. Since Prohibition, scores of bootleggers have seen their stills and bottles smashed, their trucks confiscated. Some are fined and jailed for a few weeks. The occasional egregious reoffender might be deported. But Marco bore the unhappy distinction of being the first to be headed for a federal penitentiary.

  H. L. Mencken and his cub reporter are among those gathering round the embittered felon and his attorney, who fends off questions with a raised hand and a question of his own. “I ask you, gentlemen, where is there justice in putting a man in prison for delivering a sound product to a willing buyer at a fair price?”

  Daugherty chooses that moment to scoot down the steps, hurrying past without so much as a sidelong glance. Marco glares at the rapidly receding figure. “Yeah,” he adds, pointedly. “While crooked politicians who don’t-a deliver, who break-a promises right and left, get away with murder.”

  “What promises?” asks the cub reporter.

  “What don’t they deliver?” asks another.

  And then, Mencken: “Precisely which politicians would those be, Mr. Turino?”

  Marco’s attorney whispers caution in his client’s ear. The Sicilian nods, then looks directly at Mencken. “I’ll have more to say to you about that when da time comes. A lot more.”

  27.

  The day for which my darling had worked so long and hard had finally arrived. From all over the world, everybody who was anybody came out to hear what he had to say about ensuring peace in this war-weary world. Can you imagine — his disarmament conference was so well-attended, the President had to personally pull strings in order to get me an invitation. Now, many years later, it’s become fashionable to characterize Mr. Harding as a “do-nothing” President — an amiable, empty shell of a man who never gave serious consideration to anything. I venture to say none of his critics were there the day he opened that remarkable convention.

  From every corner of the globe, diplomats and envoys have journeyed to Washington to sit beneath their nation’s flags on the stage of the first Washington World Disarmament Conference. Observing the unprecedented meeting along with Nan are members of Congress and the press, contributing to an audience of 3,100, all listening with varying degrees of wonderment as the once negligible senator from Ohio turned statesman, today in black tie, initiates the proceedings in the language of a world leader.

  “At this,” Harding intones, “the first international disarmament conference, all of us dedicate ourselves to a world of peace, a world where the smallest people shall be secure in freedom, a world where never again will sons of one country take up weapons against sons of another. Should we succeed, then never again shall our boys — or their boys — come home crippled and maimed — or not come home at all.”

  Monumental applause.

  But Harding has failed to captivate the entire house. Lodge and three of his isolationist colleagues, Senators Guthrie, Blair, and Paxton, sit stone-faced in the first row, arms across their chests. Seated off to one side, Wyoming’s Senator Burton Wheeler finds himself wedged between two oil industry lobbyists who are working him over in stage whispers, effectively competing with Harding’s speech.

  “Senator,” exclaims the first, “the issue isn’t so much who landed Teapot Dome — it’s just that Standard Oil was never given a crack at it. Mr. Rockefeller’s feelings are hurt.”

  “No competitive bidding,” moans the second. “One day it belongs to the navy. Next day old man Sinclair is in there pumping oil to beat the band.”

  Harding’s voice resonates through the public address system. “Today we take the first concrete steps to halt the arms race!”

  Senator Wheeler, a man of no small wisdom, ranks oil magnates a notch below Attila the Hun. “You’re asking me to shed tears for John D. Rockefeller? Standard Oil’s been shafting this country for years.”

  “Forever,” says Harding, his voice filling the room, and bringing him another round of applause. “To the American Congress and to all nations of the world,” he continues, “I shall be proposing a fair, practical, and equitable formula for dismantling some of the most terrible weapons of war.”

  The second lobbyist keeps his eye on the ball. “Standard Oil has never shafted the people of Wyoming, Senator. Montana and Utah, possibly. Never Wyoming.”

  “I’ve never given you bastards the chance,” hisses Wheeler. “Why do you think I’ve kept Teapot Dome in navy hands all these years?”

  “Today,” promises Harding, “we replace the arms race — with a race for peace!”

  The first lobbyist has to shout over the applause Harding brings down. “Well, the navy doesn’t own Teapot Dome any more. Leland Sinclair does. My client has asked me to remind you that in the United States of America, even a ruthless son-of-a-bitch oil billionaire like John D. Rockefeller is entitled to a level playing field!”

  Still applauding, much of the audience scrambles to its feet. Harding, in his glory, smiles back proudly at the standing ovation. It lasts for three minutes, perhaps the most exhilarating three minutes of Harding’s political life.

  With the stage lights directly in his eyes, he cannot see that Senator Lodge and his clique remain glued to their chairs, or that Senator Wheeler, profoundly troubled by what he has just learned, has summarily left the conference.

  28.

  H. L. Mencken, his indomitable Model-T Ford covered with 2,100 miles worth of dust, chugs up to an Albuquerque newsstand. Leaving his motor chattering, he hops out, pays his two cents for a copy of the Albuquerque Herald, and scans the front-page story — “Wheeler Inquiry Into Teapot Dome Oil.” I’m missing all the fun, he muses.

  He turns to the paper-seller. “Any idea how to get to the Three Rivers from here?”

  The paper-seller points. “Al Fall’s place? Easy. Stay on this road another, oh, quarter mile, then take the left fork. Due east. Just keep going straight. Along the creek bed. Run right into it.”

  “Thanks a lot. Even a city boy should be able to handle that.”

  The paper-seller eyes Mencken’s Maryland plates. “Looks like you’ve been driving apiece. Didn’t think there was anything that important happening in these parts.”

  “Maybe there isn’t,” replies Mencken. “Maybe there is.” He climbs back into his car and shifts into gear.

  Another bone-jarring twenty minutes, and Mencken pulls up to the gateway of the “THREE RIVERS” spread, its name branded on a new wooden sign, along with “ALBERT FALL, PROP.” He clambers out of the car and tries the gate. Locked. He looks around, doesn’t see very much, and is about to climb back behind the wheel when a fully-loaded cattle truck lumbers up, driven by an ancient cowboy. The cowboy hits the brakes, then with arthritic care slowly lowers himself out of the cab and limps to the gate. “How ya doin’?” he asks, over a cacophony of cattle sounds.

  “Stayin’ even,” Mencken replies. “Some handsome animals you got there. Make for a hell of a barbecue.”

  “Don’t think you’d want to do that — not at a thousand bucks a head.”

  “Wow! Damn expensive steak.”

  The cowboy nods. “These big fellas come all the way from Argentina.”

  “You don’t say! Argentina?!”

  “Prize breeders.
Mr. Fall — he goes first class or he don’t go.” He pauses, getting just a bit suspicious. “Somethin’ I can help you with?”

  “Yeah — well, I heard a guy could pick up some fine land around here. Still real reasonable. Thought I’d check it out. You know — a chance to get out of the big city rat race . . .”

  “Used to be.”

  “Used to be?”

  “Used to be cheap. No more. Last six months Mr. Fall bought up damn near all of it. You lookin’ for a starter spread you gotta head north. Around Alameda’s your best bet.”

  “That far. Okay. I’ll give it a look-see. Thanks for the tip.” He returns to his Ford. “Seems like your boss is doing real well for himself.”

  The cowboy nods. “Best year in a long, long time.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Oh yeah. A while back, I didn’t think the ranch was gonna make it.”

  Mencken shifts into gear, and tips his hat. “Amazing how fast things can turn around.”

  The game room in Sinclair’s Georgetown mansion is dark, save for a single Tiffany lamp hanging over the billiard table. Albert Fall and Leland Sinclair play the game with considerable finesse. Sitting in the shadows next to a silver spittoon is Bobby Burns. He is content to observe; finesse has never been his strong suit.

  “These are all old colleagues of mine, gentlemen,” Fall insists. “Christ — I served on Wheeler’s committee. Now Standard Oil’s biting Wheeler’s ass, so he’s agreed to a hearing, that’s all. That’s what congress does when it’s got a problem. Hold hearings. Till the problem goes away. This problem will go away.”

  Sinclair drops the seven into a corner pocket as he addresses Burns. “Whadya think?”

  “Wheeler might go easy,” Burns replies, “but that old guy, Walsh — he’s a fuckin’ bulldog. They say once he gets hold of something, he don’t let go.”

  “Well,” Sinclair replies, “you just make sure there’s nothing there for him to sink his jaws into.” Burns nods, pops in a couple of aspirin and crunches down. Sinclair looks at him. “Why do you do that — chew all those damn aspirin?”

  “Rotten teeth.”

  Sinclair shakes his head, slams the eight ball. It caroms twice and goes nowhere. “Shit,” says Sinclair.

  The following morning, a golf ball rolls merrily across a huge map of the world spread over the rug of the Oval Office, and drops into a cup floating on the Caribbean. Harding, enjoying a private game of miniature golf, pats himself on the back, then tees off London.

  I ought to say right here that despite increasing criticism coming his way, there were still many moments when my darling truly enjoyed being President. Those first months of 1923 he took increasing satisfaction, if not in his own innate abilities — he never did give himself proper credit — then at least in what the office of the presidency could accomplish. After the big disarmament conference, he started to relax a little, taking time for himself, even sneaking off once or twice a week to play poker with Mr. Fall and some of his other old pals. And our lovemaking had become quite magical, the two of us losing ourselves in the other, traveling off to distant galaxies. It was, in fact, an especially happy period for him, I think. And for us.

  But sadly, it was not to last.

  There’s a knock, Harding’s door opens, and Mrs. Samson accompanies a solemn Dr. Sawyer into the room, his arms wrapped around a carton of files.

  “Surgeon General, sir,” she says, then returns to her ante room.

  “Come right in, Doc, come right in. Been waiting for you. Look at this — found a painless way to learn geography. A week ago, I couldn’t tell Bermuda from Bosnia. Put that stuff down and give this putter a try.” Sawyer crosses the room, gingerly negotiating Harding’s global golf course. “Watch where you step,” warns Harding. “Uh — careful of India there. Don’t want to rile the British . . .” He sees that Sawyer is not smiling. “What is it, Doctor? Is — is it the Duchess . . . ?”

  “Florence is fine, Warren. Just fine.” Sawyer drops his carton on Harding’s desk and starts lifting out files. “But I’m afraid you’re gonna need to take a look at these, Mr. President. A good long look.”

  That night Harding and Sawyer, both dressed casually and incognito, slip into the Bethesda V. A. Hospital, accompanied by a solitary Secret Service man. He hangs back discreetly as Sawyer leads Harding through the wards. Harding’s spirits are nearly crushed by the interminable rows of hopeless men with wrecked bodies, and by their appalling care.

  The two men’s journey into the Great War’s dreadful aftermath ends with a visit to an astonished Zachary Cartwright. Harding embraces his old neighbor with his usual warmth, but minutes later, as he and Sawyer charge down the hospital steps toward Sawyer’s Plymouth, he is, perhaps for the first time in his life, speechless with anger.

  29.

  Commerce Secretary Herbert Hoover waits alone in the deserted foyer to the President’s Oval Office. It’s well after hours, the Secret Service are off duty, and even Mrs. Samson is long gone, her desk bare, save for a jar of pencils and the desk calendar.

  Hoover paces, looks at his watch, paces some more. Then, after a brief tussle with his Quaker conscience, he snoops a little, checking Samson’s appointments for the day. There’s his name at the bottom of the page, right after Charlie Forbes’. He shakes his head. Hoover, whose initial skepticism about Harding has turned to warm admiration, was himself known to work twenty-five hour days, eight days a week, but how many other people in government, he wonders, no less heads of state, schedule meetings from eight in the morning until ten at night?

  He glances back at his watch — he’s been waiting for nearly thirty minutes now. Harding has always personally ushered in his late-night visitors. Perhaps he’s forgotten this last one.

  Cautiously, Hoover knocks on the President’s door. A moment later he hears a loud thud, followed by Harding’s voice, suffused with rage: “Those men put their lives on the line for this country, you crooked son of a bitch?”

  Reflexively, Hoover opens the door a crack, pokes his head in, and sees the President of the United States holding his Director of Veteran Affairs up by the throat, and banging him against the wall.

  “How much was your kickback?” thunders Harding as he slams Charlie again. “Five cents on the dollar? A dime?” Another wallop and Charlie’s glasses go flying. “You ask me for Veteran Affairs. Fine. You’re my oldest friend. You want it? It’s yours. This is how you thank me?!”

  Wide-eyed, Hoover quickly pulls back unnoticed and silently closes the door.

  Moments later it again opens and a shaken Charlie Forbes stumbles out, clothes and hair askew; he rushes blindly past Hoover and on down the hall.

  All is quiet again.

  Hoover tiptoes over to Harding’s open office door, listens a few seconds, then knocks on the jamb. “Mr. President?” No response. “Mr. Pres . . .”

  “Herbert? Come in. Sorry you had to wait.”

  Hoover enters. Harding is sitting in an icy calm at his desk, hands clasped together, eyes straight ahead. “I had some — last business with Charlie.”

  “Er, that’s fine, sir. Perhaps I should come back . . .”

  “The man’s a thief, Herbert. A common thief. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hurt — so angry in my life.” He shakes his head. “My pal. Almost forty years, if you can believe that. We used to play baseball together. Every Sunday. Back in Marion.” He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly as he turns to Hoover. “I understand you had a matter of some importance.”

  “Uh yes, Mr. President. But I’m sure it can keep till . . .”

  “No. It’s all right.” He motions to an adjacent chair. “Please — .”

  Hoover takes the designated seat. “I’m afraid I have more — disheartening news, sir.”

  “Well, better to have it all at once. No sense ruining two evenings. It’
s Lodge again, isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir.” Hoover pauses. “The Senate, they’re conspiring — I’m sorry, there’s no other word for it — conspiring to kill your initiatives, no matter how many might benefit from them.” Another pause. “There’s even been a little talk of impeachment in the house . . .”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Of course. But now with this Teapot Dome inquiry . . .”

  “I’m sure Al Fall has excellent reasons for everything he did,” says Harding, stiffly.

  “Still, Lodge will use it against you if he can. Thinks Congress should be running the country. The man is vengeful. Very nearly killed Wilson.”

  “I know. And I helped him do it.” He sighs. “Something else I have to make up for.”

  Harding rises, turns, and looks out the window at the Capitol Building, all aglow against the dark blue night. “The People — I’m one of them. An average American. Very average — I know it. They know it. So we talk easily, one to another. Always have. Herbert, I’m going to take my case directly to them. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do.” He turns back to Hoover. “To hell with the Senate. I may fall flat on my face but damn it, I’m not some two-bit political hack from Ohio. I’m goddamn President of the United States!”

  Everything is low key and genteel in the Senate hearing room as the Harding administration’s Secretary of Interior, Albert Fall, winds up his confident, righteous testimony on the second day of the Teapot Dome Inquiry. The committee investigating the matter is chaired by Fall’s old friend, Burton Wheeler, assisted by a decidedly less cordial co-chairman, the venerably irascible Democrat, Francis Walsh, some congenial Republican colleagues, Dan Paxton amongst them, plus the inevitable contingent of stenographers, clerks, and assorted aides.

  A navy petroleum depot in rural Wyoming is not exactly the stuff of front page news; the gallery is barely one-quarter full, and would most probably be empty were it not for H. L. Mencken’s dogged curiosity, and the crying need of some impoverished, elderly citizens of Washington for a little levity in their lives, reliably provided them by Congress entirely free of charge.