She rang the bell. The door opened with almost suspicious celerity. The butler ushered her into a study painted in deep, rich red, where a fire was laid. She had time while waiting to study the photographs. Every Washington mansion worth its mortgage has a Wall of Ego, but this one was truly impressive. There he was with-she counted-eight presidents, going back to Eisenhower. Most of them were signed, and not with an autopen. Off to the side in a space of its own was another photograph, of a young man in a military uniform. He was smiling at the camera, holding a machine gun, a cigar clamped jauntily in his bared teeth. Was it… no, it wasn’t he. The uniform was of too recent vintage. On another wall, she found a picture, this one of him. He was in uniform, standing alongside a tall man with a large nose and a distinct kepi-style hat. Looking closer, she saw it was de Gaulle. The photo was signed. “A G.C., avec les sentiments respectueux de son ami C de G.” She remembered hearing at some point that he’d been in the OSS during the war; that he’d played a behind-the-lines role in advance of the Normandy invasion.
“Recognize anyone?” said Graydon Clenndennynn, standing in the open doorway.
“Impressive.”
The old man smiled. “It’s supposed to be. Sit, sit. What can we get you? You sounded distrait on the phone.”
“Did you learn that word from your pal General de Gaulle?”
“No, from my French nanny. Want a drink? I’m dying for one, so even if you don’t, be polite and keep an old man company. I’m not sure we have tequila.”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“Good. Two martinis, George. And perhaps something to nibble on.”
The butler returned with drinks and things made of hot cheese.
Graydon took a sip of his martini and emitted a soft purr of satisfaction. He was wearing a smoking jacket of the kind you see in old movies worn by Noël Coward or David Niven. As if reading Pepper’s thoughts, he said, “I’ve always been shamelessly Anglophile in the wardrobe department. So, Justice, to what do I owe the pleasure? And it is one. It’s good to see you again.”
Pepper opened her mouth and-burst into tears.
“Oh, dear,” Graydon said. He stood and came over and sat beside her on the couch. Held out his cocktail napkin. “Frette,” he said. “Hugely expensive.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to talk. We could drink ourselves into a stupor.”
Pepper laughed wetly. “Sorry, Mr. Clenndennynn. I didn’t… I don’t know what’s come over me. I’ll be fine.” Whereupon she burst into tears again.
“You really might as well call me Graydon. Although I must say, I actually do like it when young people call me Mr. Clenndennynn. My Anglophilia extends-strictly entre nous, now-to embarrassing lengths. I secretly yearn to be called Sir Graydon Clenndennynn. I was honorarily gartered by the Queen, for distinguished et ceteras. But you can’t call yourself ‘Sir’ back here. A mistake, if you ask me. I’ve got the Medal of Freedom. Nixon gave that to me.” He chuckled somewhat darkly. “Still, it’s not quite the same as Sir Graydon, is it? But enough of my honorifics. Wherefore this torrent, this cataract of dolor?”
“I’ve screwed everything up. Everything,” Pepper blubbered.
“It’s not every day we get candor of this quality in Washington. Go on.”
“Everyone hates me at the Court. There’s an FBI investigation because of me. And that’s made everyone hate the Chief Justice. Who’s got enough problems. There’s a constitutional amendment movement on account of me. And I’m voting on the side of criminals…”
“Not to mention making goo-goo eyes with the Chief Justice over the pasta.”
“I… You read about that?”
“Oh, yes. You’ve been a big topic of conversation. I was at Binky Slocum’s last night and we talked of practically nothing else.”
Pepper groaned.
“Well,” he said, “remember what Oscar Wilde said. The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. Most justices go through a period of adjustment. That’s not so unusual. Though I will say, normally they aren’t quite so… what’s the word…?”
“Tragic.”
“Tragicomical, perhaps. Shakespeare.”
“I know,” Pepper said sharply. “Why does everyone here think a Texas accent means you’re illiterate?”
“There are precedents. That’s right-you’re named for one of his characters, aren’t you? No, I wouldn’t say tragic. Though in this town, sometimes the tragedy can be comical, and vice versa. But did you come here for advice, or for my justly famous martinis? Or the cheese puffs? They are good, aren’t they?”
“You’re a wise man,” Pepper said, blowing her nose into the Frette napkin. “I could use some wisdom.”
“I’ve dispensed it all. I’m all out. But please don’t tell the clients of Graydon Clenndennynn Corporation. It would ruin our bottom line and make the board of directors very unhappy. One does run out, you know. You have to replenish. It’s been a long while since I’ve had the chance to do that. I’ve been… coasting for years. Lucrative years. Though I wonder to what end? No family to leave it to. Why does one work so hard at this age? To leave it to my foundation? I suppose it beats boredom and golf. Look now”-he patted her hand-“you’ll sort all this out. I wouldn’t have gone along with it, you know, if I hadn’t thought you’d make the whistle. I liked you from the start. But I did warn you that the bull was an arm-jerker.”
“You did, and it is.”
Pepper, eyes now dry as the martini, sipped and let the gin do its thing. They talked for a while of politics and elections. Feeling relaxed, she pointed at the photograph of the young man in uniform and said, “Who is that?”
“My son.”
“What does he do?”
“He was killed in Vietnam. Not long after that was taken.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t…”
“No reason you should have known. His name was Everett. His mother wanted to name him Graydon, but I said, ‘No, let’s give that a rest for a generation.’ The other soldiers in his unit-he was with the Special Forces, the Green Berets-they teased him about it. Soldiers can be rather merciless. I don’t suppose Everett was a common name in the army.”
“His mother…”
“She died. Not in Vietnam,” he sipped the last of his martini, “though it played its part. So now you’ve seen the family album. It’s Sunday. Let’s have another.”
“I should go,” Pepper said. “I’ve got a ton of work.”
Graydon pressed a button, summoning the butler. “Oh, stay. Unless you and the Chief…”
“It’s not that,” Pepper said.
“Good. Anyway, if you went back to work, you’d only make another pig’s breakfast of things.”
“Well, kiss my…”
“Now you’re getting the hang of it,” he grinned. “Ah, George, another pair of these lovely see-throughs, if you would. And we’d better have some more of Annabelle’s cheese puffs. They seem to be rather a success with Justice Cartwright.”
Pepper, suddenly aware that she’d eaten the entire plate, blushed, and then laughed.
CHAPTER 25
Donald Vanderdamp found himself in the one-thousandth- or was it the two-thousandth?-greenroom of his political career, reflecting on the strange vicissitudes that had brought him here while wishing, with every fiber in his Ohioan being, that he was back at the Wapakoneta Lanes. He imagined the feel of the kidskin soft leather glove as he pulled it on, the shoes that fit like ballet slippers, the ambient rumble of balls going down polished lanes, the rattle of the pins being struck, of the pin setting machines, jubilant cries of “Strike!” and groans of despair, of the buttery aroma of popcorn, the mouthwatering tang of broiling hot dogs and sizzling burgers, of ice-cold beer, the huggy cluster of grandchildren as you explained how to score… If there was an afterlife paradise, surely it looked something like this. Keep your heavenly choir of archangels. Meanwhile, here he was, very much this side of paradise, preparing to go ons
tage to debate former Senator Dexter Mitchell, President Lovebucket, for a prize that he, Donald Vanderdamp, did not even want. How, he wondered, had it come to-this?
His campaign manager was talking to him. Perhaps he should listen? Though why, really? Well, one had to be polite.
“Right,” the President said. “Good point.”
“Sorry, sir?” the campaign manager said.
“What you were saying. I agree. I’ll hit that point hard.”
“Right,” the campaign manager said diffidently. “Probably best to stay off the POTUS thing. It could open us up to the, well, the Cartwright… you know. Now, on the border mining,” he said. “The numbers are pretty clear there.”
The President, suddenly alert, said, “Charley.”
“I know sir, but-”
“I don’t care what the numbers are.”
“I’m only pointing out that-”
“Charley. I don’t care if every citizen, man, woman, and child, of Texas, of New Mexico, Arizona, California, or Guam for that matter is in favor of mining the gosh-darn border with Mexico. The United States Constitution says, in blazing neon letters, that individual states may not engage in their own foreign policies. It’s just not up for discussion.”
“That may be, sir, but four states legislatures are about to-”
“Make fools of themselves.”
“Agreed. All I’m just suggesting is that we… that a little tactical ambiguity would go a long way toward-”
“ ‘Tactical ambiguity’? Charley. Is that what you think of me?”
“No, sir. Never mind.”
“I appreciate what you’re doing for me, Charley. I do. I know it’s an unusual campaign.”
“When you go out onstage, you’ll walk toward each other, meet midstage, shake hands, go to your respective podiums. Now, he may try to pat you on the back or the shoulder. We have made it clear to his people that we do not want any pitty-patting, but I don’t trust them. So when you shake his hand, do it face on so he can’t reach your shoulder.”
“Why don’t I give him a kiss,” the President said. “Full, on the lips. Our tongues melting into each other’s, our bodies touching, becoming as one, heaving…”
Charley stared.
“I read that in a book when I was fifteen years old,” President Vanderdamp said. “It was a spy novel. Not a very good one. Pretty awful, actually. But at the time I thought it was the sexiest, steamiest thing I could ever imagine. Now, my Lord, you can’t turn on a television without seeing bodies writhing. I love this country, Charley, but I worry for it. What young people today see… Well,” he smiled, “I’ll try to restrain myself from making mad, passionate love to President Lovebucket.”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“This campaign, honestly? It’s the most bass-ackward thing I’ve ever worked on. I don’t get it. But however it turns out, I want to say, it’s an honor working for you. You’re a decent guy.”
“Well, thank you, Charley,” the President smiled. “In the unlikely event they ever give me a statue, I’ll have that put on it. A decent guy.”
An aide opened the door and said, “Ready, Mr. President.”
President Vanderdamp stood, buttoned his jacket, patted his necktie.
“Battle stations. I used to say that in the navy. Course, those were only exercises, but it always gave me goose bumps. Battle stations…”
“Oh, on that…”
“Um?”
“The Nimitz thing? Maybe best to avoid…”
“Yes, Charley,” the President said.
I KNEW THIS was going to lead to dessert,” Pepper said. “Man does not live by entrée alone.”
They were in a hotel. A nice one, in out-of-the-way Foggy Bottom. Pepper, having a net worth approximately twenty times Declan’s, had made the reservation on her credit card. They had arrived half an hour apart so as to avoid being spotted together. If it had a furtive aspect-and it did-it was for a reason: photographers, alerted by the item about their cozy dinner at Stare Decisis, had begun staking out Declan’s Kalorama apartment and Pepper’s on Connecticut Avenue near the zoo, in hopes of getting a shot of the two of them emerging together early in the morning; perhaps holding hands or sharing a foamy latte.
“Does this feel at all… dirty to you?” Pepper said.
“I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Declan said. “But it certainly feels strange.”
“Feels ‘strange’ to me, too. Well, shall we get out legal pads and analyze it?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to be here,” Declan said, staring out the window. “I mean I’m practically bursting with intent.”
“There’s just nothing sexier than making love to a lawyer. Makes me all over quivery.”
Declan blanched.
“What’s wrong?” Pepper said.
“Tony said something like that to me once. And I couldn’t”-his cheeks now filled with color: red-“perform.”
“Honey, she was gay. I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself.”
“Maybe we should analyze it. Maybe a little discovery is in order.”
“Maybe a little getting under the covers is in order. Baby?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to take off your overcoat? Feels like making it with a flasher.”
“Good point. Jesus, Pep,” he sighed soulfully.
“Keep taking off the coat. That’s it. Now how about the jacket? There you go…”
“Six months ago I was happily married.”
Pepper rolled her eyes. “Married, okay. Happily? Let’s look at it. But could we maybe be in the now instead of the then?”
“Sorry, I’m so damned awkward sometimes. Do you like the top or the bottom?”
Pepper stared. “This ain’t summer camp, and I ain’t a bunk bed. Now look here, Chiefy, we are two grown adults, we are colleagues, we have discovered a mutual attraction. We are neither of us cheating on anyone, inasmuch as our spouses filed for divorce. We are both heterosexual-”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a statement of fact intended to differentiate myself from your prior partner for the purpose of putting you at ease so as to… oh, c’mere… initiate foreplay… um… yes… so as to stimulate the… mmmm… stim… u… late… the senses in such a manner as… oh, yes… yes… see, you haven’t forgotten how to make a girl happy… oh… ohh… in such a… mmmm… lost my place… where was I… oh, yes… oh, yes… oyez…”
“Did you just say oyez?”
“Oh, yes.”
CHAPTER 26
Ifelt good about that,” Dexter said to Bussie Scrump and a half-dozen campaign operatives aboard the Freedom Express, the Mitchell campaign’s official bus, on its way from Memphis to Little Rock.
“You should. You were great. But this is an unusual situation. Attacking a guy who who just stands there going, Fine, don’t vote for me. You were good on defense, good on energy. On the Colombian situation, if it comes up again, and it will, maybe not do send-in-the-Nimitz. It felt a little flat. On border mining, I’m a little nervous about it. Maybe ease back on the throttle there.”
Dexter shook his head. “No, no, no. No. The nums, Buss, the nums. Eighty percent. The vast majorities of the people in the border states want mines on the border. The federal government has failed them. A government that can’t do borders? The people are frustrated. They’re angry. They want to hear boom-boom! They want to see wetbacks flying into the air. Is it a perfect solution? No. Is democracy messy? Sure. But it’s time to end the highfalutin philosophical discussions and come down off the Acropolis and get real. Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California. Tot it up. Ninety electoral votes. Out of the two-seventy needed to win. Who am I to say to the good, hardworking, decent-legal-residents of these states, ‘Uh-uh. Forget it. You’re just going to have to live with millions of foreigners swarming across the border, tromping across your lawns, crapping in the flower beds, having babies in your hospitals, sending t
heir kids to your schools for free English lessons, smashing into your car without insurance.’ Oh, fuck it. Border-mining is never going to happen, so where’s the harm in being for it? It’s a freebie.”
An aide came back and handed Dexter a printout. “ Minnesota ratified the term limit amendment fifteen minutes ago!”
“Excellent. Excellent news. What are we up to now? Twenty- five?”
“Twenty-six. Eight to go.”
Dexter considered. He asked for privacy with Bussie.
“Call Billy Begley,” he said. “Tell him to call the senate majority leaders and the speakers of the house in Rhode Island, Delaware, Wyoming, Oregon. Hell with it-tell him to call all eight. Tell them: on day one of the Mitchell administration, the OPEN FOR BUSINESS sign is going back up on the White House. Whatever they want. Dams, eel farms, Institute for the Study of How Many Gerbils Fit Up a Hollywood Actor’s Ass, a Museum of Lint, whatever. But Buss-tell Billy: we need the amendment now. Not after the election. Now. Tomorrow. Yesterday would be even better.”
“I’m on it,” Bussie said, flipping open his cell phone.
“Buss,” Dexter said. “We’re not the von Trapp family. Let’s not yell this from the mountaintop. And this did not come from me. What’s the most beautiful word in the English language?”
“Pussy?”
“The second most, then. Discretion, Buss. How do we spell it? D-i-s-c-r-e-t-i-o-n.”
“Dex. It’s my middle name.”
“Your middle name is Ellrod, Buss. But make the call.”
CHAPTER 27
SUPREME DISARRAY: COURT BESET BY LEAKS, FBI INVESTIGATION, AND NOW, INTERJUDICIAL ROMANCE
Intra, surely,” Declan said to Pepper. “Creeping illiteracy. And in the so-called ‘newspaper of record.’ ”
As front-page headlines go, it was not what a Chief Justice desires to wake up to in the morning. The third paragraph noted that public confidence in the Supreme Court as an institution was “sharply” on the decline. The story ended predictably with a reference to “quis custodiet.”
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