“What happens when Captain Knight surfaces again? He’ll have a pretty story to tell.”
“He’s a fugitive. He tried to kill the Prez. He’ll be shot on sight. And I’d like to end this interview. I’m hungry. Can I buy you lunch?”
“Nah,” Isaac said, looking at the Bull & Bear’s eight-sided bar. He could have spent his life at this hotel, eaten here every afternoon, without Bull Latham. He’d fucked up, even with his alligator belt. He couldn’t damage the Bull. They were laughing at him.
He called One Police Plaza from the lobby of the Waldorf. He had to hold the line. The Commish wouldn’t talk to him right away. A concierge approached Isaac. “Will you be using your suite today, sir?”
He’d risen in the world, Sinbad-Sidel, who could move in and out of Cole Porter’s bed. He muttered, “Yes … no … yes.”
“Very good, sir. We’ll put chocolate mints on your night table. And some fresh fruit.”
Sweets jumped onto the line. “You can’t come to One PP. You’ll create a riot. Every cop in the building will want to shake your hand.”
“Meet me at the Waldorf.”
“Isaac, I have a press conference in—”
“Push it back. You’re the Commish. I’ll be waiting for you. In the Cole Porter Suite.”
“Isaac, you’re a downtown boy. What the hell are you doing at the Waldorf?”
“I live here … sometimes.”
Sweets sat down at the piano, played Cole Porter for Isaac Sidel. He was six feet six and he had to tuck his legs under the piano bench.
“I want you to close Barton Grossvogel’s shop,” Isaac said.
“Fire me, Mr. Mayor. Find yourself a yes man. I’m not getting involved in your duel with the Prez.”
“Bart’s a gangster.”
“I know … but I can’t flop him right now. You’ll compromise your own police department. The papers will call us Isaac’s little boys. I’m not playing presidential politics … who the hell put him in the captains chair at Elizabeth Street?”
Isaac shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t remember.”
“You did. It was the badlands. You wanted a rough cop. And the Prez picked Bart to bulldoze the area.”
“With corpses lying in the ground.”
“Who was his best soldier?”
“Young Doug.”
“No. Margaret Tolstoy.”
“She was on loan from the White House.”
“Isaac, you can’t have Bart without Margaret, White House or no White House. I shackle him, I shackle her. How does that sit with the future vice-president? … you brought me up here. Let me breathe in a little Cole Porter.”’
Isaac stood near the piano, and both of them sang “Begin the Beguine.”
19
He slept at the Waldorf, had monstrous dreams. A rat with blond hair was swallowing his arm like a python or a whale. Sinbad woke in the middle of the night. He sucked on a chocolate mint, ate a peach. Nothing could console him.
He dressed at five in the morning, walked uptown to his mansion with the sun rising around him, the river at his feet. Tugboats recognized Sidel, signaled to him with their foghorns. It was like a serenade. No one could grab his city, not Calder, not the Bull. He panicked. He didn’t want to live in D.C., have his own little office at the White House. But he had to avenge young Doug, or the ghosts of the Maldavanka would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Martin Boyle was waiting in the breakfast room.
“Boyle, did they let you out of the zoo?”
“Sorry, sir, I was on a bender.”
“Where’s Joe Montaigne?”
“With Marianna, sir.”
“Pamela indoctrinated you, didn’t she? She took away your brownie points, because you got a little too fucking close to Sidel. You’re supposed to save my life and spy on me … Boyle, tell the truth, are you ready to break the law?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Will you kidnap Marianna for me?”
“With pleasure, sir. I can’t survive without her cookies.”
“Neither can I … do you know where Clarice is keeping her?”
“I can find out.”
“From whom?”
“Joe Montaigne.”
“He’s loyal to us?”
“He always was, sir. But he’s assigned to Marianna. He has to be near her body.”
“And if I shut my eyes, Boyle, if I nap on the sofa, nod off for a couple of hours, because I feel like shit, will you wake me with a good surprise?”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
And Isaac did nod off. He dreamt of a strange perfume. Butterscotch. He woke with a smile. Marianna was in the kitchen, with her baking gloves that looked like catchers’ mitts. Joe Montaigne and Martin Boyle stood near the sink, like a company of dwarfs attending Snow White.
Isaac padded into the kitchen, hugged Marianna Storm.
“Darling,” she said, “I can’t bake and kiss.”
“Sorry,” Isaac said, “sorry.”
“Why did you wait so long to rescue me? And where’s Alyosha?”
Isaac let the rat out of the shoebox. Raskolnikov looked at Marianna and leapt into the air with a whistling love song.
“Ah, Alyosha,” Isaac said. “We’ll find him.”
The guard telephoned from the gate. “There’s trouble, sir. It’s the Commish.”
“Jesus,” Isaac said. He coaxed Raskolnikov back into the shoebox and sent Marianna upstairs with Martin Boyle and Joe Montaigne to hide in the attic. He shut the door of the kitchen, but a butterscotch aroma had already invaded the house.
Sweets marched in and handed Isaac a sheet of paper. “I’m not covering for you. You have my resignation.”
Isaac stuffed the paper into his mouth and started to chew.
“That’s wonderful, a grown man eating a letter. But I can scribble another one, boss.”
“Did the Bull send you?”
“Is that a crime? Since when is the Bureau outlawed in New York City?”
“He’s the President’s man.”
“Shut up, or I’ll handcuff you. I ducked the reporters, Isaac. I sneaked uptown, but if you can’t produce Michael’s little girl in twenty-four hours, I will have to arrest you and that pair of clowns who are with the Secret Service.”
“Sweets, it’s the only way I can get Michael to react.”
“I told you, boss, shut the fuck up. How many times does Marianna have to get kidnapped in one campaign?”
“But she wants to live with me. She hates her mom and dad.”
“Then plead for her at Family Court … where’s the rodent?”
“What?”
“Isaac, you can’t keep a rat as a pet. Do you want to start another bubonic plague?”
“Sweets, I swear, he’s almost human. His name is Raskolnikov. He was young Doug’s bodyguard … in the badlands.”
“Shall I send for the exterminators, or will you give me the rat?”
Isaac took Raskolnikov out of the shoebox. The rat stared into Sweets’ eyes, and the Commish had to grab himself or he would have shivered to death. The fucking rat had all the sadness of New York City in his eyes.
“Damn you,” Sweets said, “put him back inside his cradle, and I’ll forget I ever saw him. I don’t want to have bad dreams. But if you can’t produce the girl, I’m finished with you.”
And Sweets left the mansion. Isaac brought his three fugitives down from the attic, and Raskolnikov danced between Marianna’s legs.
“Where’s Michael?”
“I’m not sure,” Marianna said. “Mom can’t bear to have him at Sutton Place. She’s too busy with Bernardo Dublin.”
“Could Bernardo find him for us?”
“I told you, darling. Mom’s voracious. She can never get enough of Bernardo Dublin.”
“Guys,” Isaac said to Martin Boyle and Joe Montaigne, “is there a brothel he uses, or what?”
“Well,” Joe Montaigne said, “I’ve tracke
d him a coupla times to Executive Suite … it’s like the back door to the Rainbow Room … ya know, billionaires, hotshot politicians, chairmen of the board—”
“And J. Michael Storm. Where is it?”
“It’s part of a health club at the Alhambra, a midtown hotel.”
The phone rang. Sinbad grabbed the receiver. “Sidel here.”
“You cocksucker. Don’t move.”
And J. Michael appeared at Isaac’s door. He dismissed his retainer of Secret Service men, banished them to the porch.
“Sinbad the Sailor. You son of a bitch.”
He socked Isaac in the mouth. And Sinbad landed on his ass again.
“Dad,” Marianna said, “don’t you dare hurt him.”
“Baby, are you all right?”
And Michael started to cry. “I can’t take the tension. I’ll abdicate.”
“Dad, you can’t abdicate. You’re not a king.”
“You,” he pointed to Isaac, “upstairs.”
And they retreated to the little library on the second floor.
“You’re an ingrate,” Michael said. “I lend you my daughter, and then you steal her from me.”
“J., I had to light a fire under your ass. I couldn’t even get an interview with you. Do you know how many times I asked?”
“I’m campaigning, you prick.”
“That’s the problem,” Isaac said. “You’re not … the Bull has put you in Sleepy Hollow.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s talked you and Clarice right out of the election.”
“Isaac, get rid of your spies. They stink.”
Sinbad seized Michael’s collar. “I could strangle you. I wouldn’t mind a prison term. I’d welcome it … J., you were the best. I was proud of you, even when I was a policeman on the other side of the barricades. The whole country watched you on the tube … you read from Spinoza, John Donne. You said that education wasn’t an instrument of national policy …”
“Isaac.”
“That words themselves were part of the revolution.”
“It was centuries ago, in sixty-eight.”
“That’s the problem. We’re moving backwards all the time. If we’re not careful, we’ll be bumping into another Stone Age.”
“You can afford to be romantic. You’re only my running mate.”
“Stop it. You made a deal with the Prez.”
“Let go of my collar … I’m gonna shove you off the ticket. Get rid of you. You’re a walking calamity.”
“Michael, listen to me. The fuckers can’t hurt you. You stole from your law firm, who cares? We’ll call it a loan. The Prez had a man killed. The Bull was involved. I’ll nail their asses if they go near J. Michael Storm.”
“You? You can’t even protect a mouse.”
“Don’t give up on us.”
“Isaac, they have all the evidence. I was a stupid fuck.”
“Fight him, J. Please. The Prez will fall. Fight him.”
“I can’t. But you can have Marianna until the end of the month. And be careful. They got tons of crap on you too.”
He kissed Isaac on the forehead. “Crazy man, you were the best rabbi I ever had.”
And he vanished from the mansion, with his retainers dragging behind him, while Isaac muttered to himself, “President Storm, President Storm.”
20
Calder could have met with Michael in San Diego or another Republican stronghold, but he wanted to drive the first debate into the heart of Democratic country. He chose the Grand Ballroom at the Waldorf. He could ride right down to the debate from the Presidential Suite. Fuck the polls. He was the most powerful man in the world. Michael had to give in to all of his wishes. Tim Seligman didn’t say a word. There would only be one bandleader at the debate. Renata Jones, a black political journalist from the Kansas City Star. She would pose all the questions, time the two gladiators, cut them off if they were verbose. It was a great coup for the Prez. A black woman from middle America who couldn’t be considered hostile to J. Michael Storm. Calder was going to press his urban crusade, crush Michael …
He slept in the White House, with Margaret Tolstoy’s wigs and high heels in his closet. He wasn’t a fetishist. But he loved the smell of shoe leather, Margaret’s shoe leather. He invited reporters to breakfast. He had a soft-boiled egg with cameras in his face. The cameras followed him to the South Lawn, where he and Pamela Box got on the presidential helicopter, Marine One, and rode to Andrews Air Force Base. He chatted with his National Security Advisor and his favorite generals, who boarded Air Force One with him and Pam, accompanied the Prez to JFK. He wasn’t reclusive. He hopped onto a bus leaving the airport, rode into Manhattan with the passengers, sang campfire songs, while the Secret Service went a little crazy trying to protect Calder Cottonwood. He kissed everyone on the bus, handed out ballpoint pens, arrived at the Waldorf around noon, and lunched at the Bull & Bear. He was in a battling mood. He didn’t even bother to nap. He rehearsed the debate with his advisors, had Pam play Renata Jones, and let a tough young undersecretary be Michael Storm. The generals clapped while Calder fielded questions. Bull Latham arrived. They hovered over coffee in the sitting room. The Prez showered, changed clothes. His technical crew told Calder about the microphones in the Grand Ballroom. A team of makeup women prepared him for the cameras. He giggled, sang songs with them. The generals were amazed. They hadn’t seen Calder so ebullient since his first weeks at the White House.
“A big win,” they muttered. “He’s gonna grab the whole goddamn cake.”
The vice-president arrived, Teddy Neems, a bagman and bill collector for the Republican Party. Calder wanted to drop him, add Bull Latham to the ticket, but it might have looked as if he was scared of Sidel. And Bull was much more valuable to him at the Bureau. Bull was almost like a shadow vice-president. Bull could wear a gun in public, like Sidel. And he had the aura of the Dallas Cowboys.
Pamela coached the Prez one last time. “Mr. President, he’s a skinny little prick. Look J. Michael right in the eye. You’ll wither him.”
She brushed lint off the President’s suit. He growled at her. “Quit pawing me.”
One of his undersecretaries wagged his head. “Sir, the pigeon’s landed. Michael’s in the hotel.”
“Let him wait.”
Calder smoked a cigarette. He was dreaming of Margaret Tolstoy. She’d stopped telling him stories. He couldn’t seem to have an erection without Margaret. The chief urologist at Bethesda Naval Hospital had promised miracles, a painless injection that could give him a horse’s prong for a whole hour. But he preferred Margaret’s stories. Even the Bull couldn’t catch her. Margaret was floating somewhere between Pennsylvania Avenue and Carl Schurz Park, in one of her wigs.
Pam saw the sadness in his eyes. “Mr. President, please don’t drift.”
“Shut up … I’m ready for Michael Storm.”
They went down to the Grand Ballroom in three elevator cars. He kept Teddy Neems near the back of the entourage. He strode into the ballroom with his generals, Pam, and the Bull. There was a blitzkrieg of lights in his eyes. He waved his arm, and the lights disappeared. He saw Sidel. He could afford to smile.
“How are you, soldier?”
“Calder,” Isaac said, “don’t you think Marilyn should have stuck with Joe DiMaggio? Joltin’ Joe was the love of her life.”
The Prez grabbed Isaac’s elbow. “Soldier, I agree.”
Then he mounted the platform at the front of the ballroom and revealed his full height. There was a murmur in the balconies. The audience clapped.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Pam said, “the President of the United States.”
He was Lincolnesque again. He stood behind the podium with the presidential seal, saluted J. Michael, and rushed over to Renata Jones, shook her hand. Cameras clicked. He returned to his podium. J. Michael was already sweating under the klieg lights. He looked like a runt. Michael’s cheeks were pale. His tie was crooked. He didn’t seem to know wh
at to do with his hands.
Calder was delighted. Shithead, he muttered to himself.
Renata Jones stood to one side, tall, elegant, the Prez’s handpicked black beauty. She discussed the ground rules of the debate, introduced Michael and the Prez. The runt seemed lost behind his podium.
Renata turned to face Calder Cottonwood. “Mr. President, you have two minutes to make your opening remarks.”
He winked at her. “Mrs. Jones, if I babble too long, come over and spank me. The country would love to see a journalist spank the President of the United States.”
The entire ballroom laughed. He’d broken that terrible static at the beginning of a presidential debate. The audience belonged to him. Michael plucked at his collar. The poor son of a bitch was all alone up there.
“Wounds,” Calder said, “we have to heal the wounds. I’ve made mistakes. We all have. But I want to rebuild America, and I’m starting here, in the badlands of Manhattan, which Mayor Sidel’s own police force has helped me reclaim.”
He saw Barton Grossvogel in the audience, with a bandage under his eyes. He had to discourage Bart from joining the entourage. He couldn’t go around with a mutilated man. But he’d fix Sidel. A fucking rat had bitten off Bart’s nose.
“Candidate Storm,” Renata said, “it’s your turn now.”
Michael wiped his forehead. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’ll forgo an introduction … I might need those two minutes later on.”
Fucking fool, Calder sang to himself.
“Then we’ll begin,” Renata said. “Mr. Storm, there’s been much speculation about your past. I won’t beg the question. You were the chairman of a radical organization, the Ho Chi Minh Club, while a student at Columbia University. You seized the office of the university’s president, held him hostage. You damaged property, led a student revolt. Can you clarify the circumstances for us? I understand that it was a tumultuous time. But like my colleagues on the Star, I have to wonder if an ex-Marxist like yourself ought to be president.”
“Ma’am,” Michael said from behind his podium, “I wonder too. I did wild things. But I was never disrespectful to the soldiers and sailors and airmen of the United States. I wanted to bring them home, ma’am. I didn’t want them to die in Vietnam. I lost a brother in that war, two cousins. And I heard professors utter vacuous, inhuman remarks. I watched them run to the White House and the State Department with their silly advice. More soldiers, tougher diplomacy. But they weren’t willing to give up their own lives. I was. I would have stayed in that president’s office until my own doom caught up with me. Was I foolish? Yes. Wrong? Perhaps. But one man walked right through the barricades, faced the anger of my fellow radicals, risked his life, left his gun with another cop. That’s my running mate, Isaac Sidel, who didn’t want bloodshed, didn’t want to break students’ heads.”
Citizen Sidel (The Isaac Sidel Novels) Page 13