Ex Officio

by Donald E. Westlake

“Bird,” said George. “Bird word turd heard Mortimer Snerd.”

  Howard got to his feet and came over to put a hand on George’s elbow. “Let’s go, buddy,” he said. “You’ve had a busy day.”

  “Which way Marie?”

  “We’ll find her on the way out.”

  George started to his feet and lost his balance. Howard had his left arm, so when he fell back he fell crooked and landed on his right arm, painfully. “God damn it!” he said loudly, and looked up at Howard with amazement and irritation. “I’m drunk!”

  “That’s just what you are. Come on, I’ll do the driving on the way back.”

  “Marie is going to be upset.”

  “Worry about that tomorrow. Come on.”

  George came on. With Howard’s help he managed to get to his feet, and then insisted on walking unaided. He didn’t want Marie to see him shambling along on Howard’s shoulder. The result was, he ran painfully into the door jamb on the way out.

  People worry about their images too much, he thought, and shuffled down the hall rubbing his shoulder and wondering how many ways he’d meant that.

  5

  THE TEMPORARY PEACE. By Bradford Lockridge. 564 pp. New York: Random House. $11.95.

  by Albert J. Rutherford

  BRADFORD LOCKRIDGE IS A supremely political man, a politician the way Ernest Hemingway was a writer or Picasso a painter or Clarence Darrow an attorney, a man who sees virtually all of life within a political framework. This is both his strength and his weakness, because it could be said with some justice that his well-developed political instinct both carried him into the White House and then carried him back out again. The moments in life when something more than political skill is needed are rare, but they are critical.

  The current book (the fourth in Lockridge’s careful and valuable series of memoirs) is not concerned with the Lockridge Presidency, but with an earlier (and equally critical) period in American life, the transition in the decade between 1945 and 1955 from a post-war to a pre-war stance in America, the gradual development of the Cold War. Lockridge Was senior Senator from Pennsylvania during those years, and the emphasis in The Temporary Peace is quite naturally on the role of Congress in that decade in shaping the attitudes and fears of Americans. Senator Joe McCarthy is paraded before us once again, in his by-now-familiar guise of dancing bear, Lockridge being unable to resist (along with most other commentators on the period) the opportunity to have at McCarthy now that the dread Minnesotan is dead and buried and in no position to fight back.

  The Temporary Peace is a valuable book in just the same way that the three earlier volumes in Lockridge’s memoirs have been valuable. Politics is most clearly seen by a politician, and most honestly seen by a retired politician. Much of the intrigue of the Senate cloakroom in the postwar decade is clarified here, frequently in asides from the main thrust of Lockridge’s tale, as though he himself doesn’t realize exactly what he’s saying. But Bradford Lockridge always knows what he’s saying, and this manner of representing intrigue as though the representation itself were also intrigue adds a spice and liveliness to deals and discussions a quarter century old.

  It is disappointing, in a man who occupied the White House for four years, to find such little comment on the two occupants during the years under discussion. Surely Harry Truman and Dwight Eisenhower also had a great deal to do with the character of that decade, perhaps at least as much as Congress, but both men are severely slighted in this book. A man in Bradford Lockridge’s position has a unique standpoint from which to view the actions (and lack of actions) of his predecessors and give us his opinion of the correctness of their decisions as well as what he believes his responses might have been in specific situations. That he doesn’t do so is doubly disappointing considering the incisive portrait of FDR drawn in the earlier The Politics of Hunger, the volume of Lockridge memoirs concerned with the Depression years.

  Of course, this decision not to explore Truman and Eisenhower as he had earlier explored Roosevelt is itself an indication of the instinctively political animal that Bradford Lockridge still is. The Depression is, after all, ‘history’ now, whereas the Cold War is still very much with us. (The portraits of FDR and Truman in Lockridge’s volume on the Second World War, The Trumpets of War, were already skimpier, as Lockridge made the transition from the safely historical to the controversially-recent past.) There was a rumor going the rounds in Washington this past summer that Lockridge was considering running once again for his old seat in the House of Representatives, thus being the first ex-President in the House since John Quincy Adams. Like most political rumors, this one turned out to have no basis in fact, but that such a rumor could still circulate about a man who stepped down from public office nine years ago is itself the clearest indication of how totally political a person Bradford Lockridge is. (It’s still possible that the rumor will turn out to be self-fulfilling, another frequent event in Washington, and though such a move back into the political arena would be a bit bolder than Lockridge’s usual style it would be a supremely political move, which for a man like Lockridge might be enough in itself to recommend the step to him.)

  Great men—and though Lockridge will never be a statesman, he is without question one of America’s great men—are not necessarily great writers, but so long as ghost writers are impecunious this needn’t be much of a problem. The writing in The Temporary Peace, like the writing in the three volumes preceding it, has the bland anonymity of a TV dinner, the smoothness of a stone touched by many hands. There are advantages in this—one’s attention is never distracted by an awkward phrase or a botched description—but there are disadvantages as well, chiefly the loss of the individual flavor of an individual mind.

  One comment about errata, from which no book of this scope could hope to be entirely free. The Temporary Peace is more careful about detail than most books of the type, but here and there a few errors do creep in. The ‘D. J. Houghton’ mentioned in chapter seven, for instance, is probably M. F. Houghton, who was in Washington at that period. The Army post variously called ‘West Lake’ and ‘West Gate’ in chapter three seems not to exist. And the index, while generally quite good, commits two or three howlers of which the third entry under ‘Hydrogen’ is the most striking.

  Albert J. Rutherford, junior Senator from New Jersey, is author of Versions of Victory.

  ii

  EVELYN WAS COMPOSING A Letter To The Editor at four o’clock that afternoon, when a maid came to tell her she was wanted on the phone. She was furious, and transferred the fury to the interruption, demanding, “Who is it?”

  “I believe it’s Mr. Pratt, Miss.” Robert was well known around here by now.

  The fury drifted, suddenly robbed of its destination, and Evelyn looked uncertainly at the sheet of paper in her portable typewriter. She had been composing an enraged letter, dripping with scorn for Albert J. Rutherford, The New York Times Book Review and the world in general. She had known she would never mail it, but that wasn’t the point. The point was, for years she had used this method to relieve her feelings whenever what seemed to her a particularly unfair attack had been mounted against Bradford in the public prints, writing an angry letter of protest which never managed to get mailed. But the writing itself eased the pressure of her outrage.

  Now she was being asked to interrupt the letter in the middle, and she had the troubled feeling that once she broke the concentration of her rage she’d never pick it up again. A letter completed but not mailed would ease her feelings, but a letter cut off in mid-boil might simply leave her more angry and frustrated than before.

  Oh, well. There was no choice really, the notion that she could call him back later really wasn’t a good one. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll take it next door.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Today was Tuesday, the second of October. Evelyn’s first date with Robert had been on Friday, the tenth of August, which meant they’d been seeing one another nearly two months now, and it was probab
ly Evelyn’s irritation with the review and the never-to-be-completed letter that made her reflect now that Robert was taking his own sweet time about getting anywhere with her. Normally she was perfectly content that he didn’t seem to be in any hurry, that though the good night kisses had grown more protracted over the last two months they hadn’t led anywhere, but today she was prepared to be grouchy and short-tempered over everything. Damn that review!

  She picked up the phone and said hello and heard the click as the maid hung up in some other room of the house.

  “Evelyn? You sound grumpy.”

  “I am grumpy,” she said. “I just saw The New York Times book review of Bradford’s new book.”

  “The Times? In today’s paper?”

  “No, next Sunday.”

  “Next Sunday! This is only Tuesday.”

  “They print a week early,” she explained. “Publishers get them the Monday before. Howard’s here, he brought three copies with him. He’s in with Bradford now, assuring him it isn’t really that bad.”

  “Is it?”

  “It’s awful,” she said. “It’s a really stinking review, full of snide comments and unfair parallels. He objects to Bradford concentrating mostly on what Congress was doing instead of what the White House was doing, when for Heaven’s sake Bradford was in Congress then, not the White House! He isn’t writing a history of America, he’s writing his own memoirs!”

  “You sound to me like you’re really peeved.”

  “You should see the Letter To The Editor I’m writing.”

  “Is that wise? From a granddaughter of the author?”

  “Oh, I won’t send it, I never do. But I’ve got to do something to let off steam.”

  “How about taking me to dinner? I’m done for the day, I could be there by six. We’ll take the kid along and go to Rochetti’s and let her wrap herself in spaghetti.”

  That was a favorite treat of Dinah’s, who had a total crush on Robert and an endless passion for spaghetti. Evelyn had been tentative about bringing Robert and Dinah together, mostly because she didn’t want Robert to think a child was being flung at him to play surrogate father to, but Robert had suggested it himself, saying that Dinah would feel a lot easier in her mind if she knew who the man was that her mother kept going out with, and it had worked very well the four or five times they’d all had dinner together.

  But Evelyn said, “You have a ten o’clock tomorrow morning. You can’t drive all that way.”

  “Why not? I’ll get there by six, we’ll have dinner, bring Dinah home by eight, eight-thirty, go out somewhere ourselves for a while, I’ll drop you off at midnight, be home before two, I’ll have a full seven hours sleep.”

  “With four hours of driving.”

  “You know I could drive forever, I love to drive.”

  “I know that’s what you say. You just want to come down because you think I feel bad about the review.”

  “Well, don’t you?”

  “Not that bad. I’ll write my Letter To The Editor, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “Anyway, what do you think I was calling for? I had this in mind all along.”

  “Liar. You never come down on a Wednesday, not during school. You were just calling to talk.”

  “Prove it. I’ll be there at six.”

  “I don’t want you to come,” she insisted.

  “Now who’s a liar? I have to hang up now, if I’m going to get there by six.”

  “Robert.”

  “What?”

  She very nearly said I love you. It was what she wanted to say, it was what expressed the tenderness and the gratitude she was feeling toward him right now. But it wasn’t possible. He hadn’t said anything of the sort to her, and the rules were that the woman couldn’t say it first, not without scaring the man away forever. So there was a little silence, and then she said, “. . . You’re very nice.”

  He laughed, pleasurably. “See you at six,” he said.

  iii

  HOWARD CAME OUT FIRST, and Evelyn was waiting for him in the hall. She had gone back to her letter, but not successfully, it had all sounded too juvenile and foolish when she’d tried to write more of it after talking with Robert. But she was still angry, and she said, “Are you going to write a Letter To The Editor?”

  “The worst thing we could do,” he said. “Did you talk to him again about that title?”

  He meant The Final Glory, the title Bradford had dropped so unexpectedly into the middle of that interview with George back in August. Howard had spent most of the month of September trying to get Bradford to explain what he’d meant by that, what The Final Glory would contain, but he’d been just as obstinate with Howard as he’d been with George, so finally two weeks ago Howard had asked Evelyn to take a stab at prying the information out of him.

  It was more than simple curiosity on Howard’s part. Random House, in its ads for Bradford’s books, always listed all the titles in the seven-volume memoirs, those completed and those projected. Now Bradford was insisting that this new title be inserted between The Servant of the Nation and Toward Tomorrow, and he wouldn’t tell anyone what the book was supposed to be about.

  “Well, he finally said something,” Evelyn said now. “Not much, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll take crumbs,” Howard said. “Quick, he’ll be out in a minute.”

  “He said, ‘Well, it would mean I’m going to do something, wouldn’t it? And I have to keep my options open beforehand, that’s why I don’t want to say anything about it.’”

  “That’s what he said?” Howard scratched a knuckle against his jaw, thinking about it. “That means he hasn’t made up his mind yet. There’s something he might do, but he isn’t sure yet whether he will or not.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so. Bradford’s going to do something, for sure, or he wouldn’t say a word, he wouldn’t mention the title at all, not in public. I think he’s just got a decision to make about which something it is, there are two or maybe three different things he might do and he doesn’t know yet for sure which one to pick.”

  “Could be,” Howard said, as Bradford appeared at the other end of the hall. Under his breath, Howard said, “Keep at him.”

  “All right.”

  Howard turned and said to Bradford, “I was just telling Evelyn, actually he’s given us plenty of quotes, if we want to use them.”

  “We don’t,” Bradford said.

  “I know we don’t. The point I’m trying to make is that the review isn’t as bad as it looks right off the bat. His tone is unfortunate, but that’s Rutherford. There’s nothing to be done about the way the man sounds. But what he’s saying, once you get past the tone, is mostly complimentary.”

  “What he’s saying,” Bradford said, “is that nobody gives a damn about yesterday’s heroes. What he’s saying is that I’m an obsolete politician, I’ve run my last race, I’m out to pasture, all I am now is bedside reading. And he’s right.”

  “He couldn’t be more wrong,” Howard said.

  Evelyn said, “Of course he’s wrong. Wait till that interview with George is shown Friday night, and they all see just how contemporary you are, just how much you’re still an active important influence in the world. Won’t that review look snotty and silly when it comes out two days later!”

  Why did Howard look so odd when she said that? But she didn’t have the inclination to concern herself with his reactions, it was Bradford she was thinking about now. And Bradford merely shook his head and said, “No one will listen. And why should they? I don’t matter any more.” He smiled without humor, turning to Howard and saying, “You know, he even closed off the Congress to me. I could still have changed my mind again and made the race, it’s still a year till the election, but how could I do it now, and give Rutherford his self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “A month from now,” Howard said, “that review will be forgotten. You know that, Brad, you’re just being pessimistic. You can do whatever you want.”

  �
��Perhaps.”

  Howard said, looking at his watch, “I’ve got to get back. But don’t let this thing worry you, Brad. It won’t make a bit of difference in the sales or in the final estimation of the book.”

  “I know,” Bradford said, but bitterly.

  “It’s so stupid,” Evelyn said angrily.

  “True,” Howard said. “See me out, Evelyn. I’ll call you later in the week, Brad.”

  Evelyn was surprised that Howard took her arm and walked with her down the hall. She looked back at Bradford, who was also looking somewhat surprised, and who belatedly started forward, calling, “I’ll see you to the door, too, Howard. I may not be able to run, but I can still walk.”

  “Oh, of course,” Howard said, stopping at once to wait for him, sounding completely surprised. He smiled at Bradford, coming toward them, and turned to say quickly under his breath to Evelyn, “Lay off the interview.”

  “Why?”

  He gave her a warning look, and then Bradford was up to them and it was impossible to ask again. The three of them walked on toward the front door, Howard continuing to give Bradford reassurances about the meaninglessness of the review, and Evelyn with some distraction echoing his sentiments.

  They were outside, waving goodbye to Howard, when the familiar yellow Jaguar pulled in. Howard and Robert honked to one another in passing, and then the Jaguar had stopped where Howard’s Chrysler had just been and Robert was coming toward them, smiling, saying, “Hi, Evelyn. Evening, sir.”

  Evelyn smiled back. It was a sufficient reason for loving him that he couldn’t get used to calling her grandfather by his first name. Bradford had given up suggesting it by now, and merely accepted sir as a form of familiar address.

  “I’ll get Dinah,” Evelyn said, and turned away. As she went inside she heard Bradford say, “You do a lot of driving, Robert,” and Robert answer, “Yes, sir. I love to drive.”

  iv

  EVELYN SAID, “IS THIS the same bed—?”