by Stuart Woods
“You know what I mean: What if Betty Stanton has something on the side.”
“That would be the very least of our problems,” Moss said. “The question is still on the table: Does Stanton have something on the side?”
There was silence in the room.
Will broke it. “Surely, someone asked him.”
“I asked him the more general question,” Tom Black said. “You know: ‘Is there anything in your life we should know about?’”
“Well,” Moss said, “if it happens, it happens, and we’ll just have to deal with it.”
“I hope not,” Will replied.
AT TEN O’CLOCK, a cast of media, congressional leaders, White House staff, and invited guests assembled in the East Room and watched as a Supreme Court justice swore in Martin Stanton as vice president of the United States. Hands were shaken all around, and, after the president and his new vice president and the justice had left the room and the president had walked the vice president to a waiting helicopter, the press secretary distributed the release concerning the divorce of the vice president.
There was, of course, a clamor of questions from the press, but the press secretary reminded them that the vice president and his wife had requested privacy, and that, anyway, the vice president was already in the air and unavailable for comment.
27
VICE PRESIDENT MARTIN STANTON HAD HOPED FOR AIR FORCE TWO TO WING HIM west, and he got that, but not in the form he had expected. Air Force Two turned out to be not the Boeing 747 he had anticipated but a Gulfstream III. His disappointment must have been apparent when he alit from his limousine, because the Air Force pilot had rushed over, introduced himself, and apologized.
“Mr. Vice President,” the man said, “I’m very sorry about the equipment today, but one of our 747s is down for an unscheduled engine change and the other, of course, has to be held for the president, should he require it.”
“Of course, Colonel,” Stanton replied. “I understand perfectly, and I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable.” Stanton walked up the stairs to the airplane, turned, and waved to the crowd, which consisted of two mechanics in coveralls and a pool television cameraman, there in case he should die on the way to the airplane.
Stanton briefly inspected the tiny private cabin at the rear of the airplane, which contained a single bunk and an uncomfortable-looking chair, then took a seat at a desk just outside the cabin. At least, he thought, this was an improvement over his California State aircraft, a short-legged Citation that had to stop and refuel on its way across the country.
Stanton took a look at the papers. Then, as the jet climbed to cruising altitude, he learned that he was not, even in the smaller airplane, incommunicado. The phone on the desk in front of him rang. He hesitated, then picked it up. The pilot must be calling him.
“Vice President Stanton, this is the White House operator,” a woman’s voice said.
“Good morning,” Stanton replied, surprised to be in touch with Earth.
“I have a gentleman on the line named Jacob Friedman, who claims to be your attorney and who insists on speaking with you.”
“I know him, I’ll take the call,” Stanton replied.
There was a click, then a male voice said, “Hello?”
“Hello, Jake,” Stanton said.
“Oh, Governor?”
“Not anymore.”
“Sorry, Mr. Vice President.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you when you’re . . . Where are you, anyway?”
Stanton looked out the window. “I guess that’s Virginia down there.”
“Then you’re on Air Force Two?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Wow, that must be impressive.”
“What’s going on, Jake?”
“Henry Wilcox—that’s Mrs. Stanton’s attorney—has just written to me, saying that they’re appointing a forensic accountant to go over your finances.”
“Yes, Betty told me that last night.”
“This is not a good thing, Gov . . . Mr. Vice President.”
“You can call me Marty, Jake.”
“It’s not a good thing, Marty. This could hold up a decree for months while this guy runs up as many billable hours as he can, all to no avail, of course, since you reported all your assets and liabilities on your financial statement.” He paused. “You did report all your assets, didn’t you?”
“I did. If I think about it hard, though, I might be able to come up with a few more liabilities. Tell Wilcox that Betty can have half of those.”
“Heh-heh, very good. I’ll put that in my petition.”
“What petition?”
“My petition to the court to suppress the appointment of a forensic accountant.”
“On what grounds?”
“Ah, too late in the process, no evidence of hidden assets, harassment, unreasonable delay, that business about new liabilities, and, of course, malice. A woman scorned and all that.”
“Don’t mention malice and a woman scorned. Let’s not make her angrier than she already is.”
“Frankly, Marty, I think what’s behind this is Wilcox is trying to get more for her than they had agreed to in the draft settlement. Maybe if we give them something else they’ll go ahead and sign, and we can get this thing over with.”
“Did you have something in mind?”
“Well, Wilcox obliquely referred to that old Cadillac, the one you were born in.”
“Betty said something about that last night. She seems to think it might be worth a lot of money.”
“I did some checking around. A mint Cadillac of that vintage might bring as much as fifty grand at the right auction.”
“I was going to donate it to a car museum in L.A. and get a tax deduction of twenty-five grand,” Stanton said.
“So all it would cost you would be whatever the tax savings would have been. That would be a good deal to get us out of this.”
“Oh, hell, if it will get her off my back, give it to her, but be cagey. Tell Wilcox how reluctant I am to part with it and how it might bring a hundred grand at auction, because of the connection to a vice president.”
“Gotcha. I’ll call him back as soon as we’re off the phone.”
“Don’t be hasty, Jake. Let him stew until tomorrow.”
“Okay, Marty. I’ll get back to you when I know more. In the meantime, do I have your permission to file the petition?”
“Sure, go ahead whenever you think the time is right.”
“Bye-bye, Marty. Say, does Air Force Two have a bedroom?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Stanton replied. “Good-bye, Jake.” He hung up.
Stanton, for the tenth time that morning, thought about Barbara Ortega—specifically, Barbara Ortega naked in his bed. He reflected that the past few weeks had been the longest time in his life that he had gone without sex, but he had suspected that Betty had put detectives on him, so he had been good, as much as it had hurt. Now he was going to see Barbara at Rivera’s swearing-in, and he was going to have to work hard not to seem to want her. It was going to be tough.
He hoped to God that Betty took the Cadillac; he had been paying five hundred bucks a month to garage it, since there wasn’t room for it at the mansion, and he couldn’t afford it anymore.
28
BARBARA ORTEGA LOOKED AROUND THE ROOM THAT HAD BEEN HER OFFICE FOR THE past three years. The walls were bare of her diplomas, her law license, and the collection of photographs that had followed her life from childhood through high school and college and through law school. Four boxes of files stood ready for transfer to the state archives, and another two held her personal files. Everything was ready for the movers, so when Mike Rivera’s swearing-in ceremony was over, his chief of staff could move immediately into the office.
Barbara sat down on the sofa and began remembering the first time she and Marty Stanton had made love—on that very sofa. Not that it was making love; it was just straight f
ucking, and she had loved every second of it. Lovemaking came later, at a friend’s apartment and various other locations, none of which they had used more than once. God, she thought, they had been careful. No one had twigged their affair, least of all Betty Stanton.
Now she would be on her way to Washington, to start the new job, if she was lucky, and to look for another, if she wasn’t. If Justice didn’t work out, Marty would help her find something else good, she was sure of it. Her apartment looked pretty much like her office, she reflected. She had thrown away or donated everything she could do without, sold her furniture, and arranged for the utilities to be disconnected soon.
Barbara Ortega had burned her bridges.
MARTIN STANTON’S ARRIVAL in Sacramento was much better covered than his departure from Washington. Every political reporter who had covered him for seven years was there, cameras were pointed, TV lights switched on. He paused at the top of the boarding stairs and tried to look surprised, then he walked quickly down to where a microphone had been set up.
“Good afternoon,” he said to the crowd, and they hushed. “It’s great to be back in Sacramento, even if only for the day. After I left to go to the Democratic Covention in New York, events took a sudden turn, and my feet have hardly touched the ground since then. In the space of a very few weeks I have become the Democratic candidate for vice president, then appointed to the unexpired term of the great George Kiel, then confirmed by the Senate, then, this morning, sworn into office. No politician has ever had such a roller-coaster ride. I want to thank all my friends in Sacramento and in all of California whose unwavering support of me over the years made all this possible. Any questions?”
“Gov . . . Mr. Vice President, have you resigned from the governorship?”
“I faxed my resignation to the secretary of state early this morning, and I’m delivering the original document to him today,” Stanton replied, patting his inside pocket.
“How long have you and Mrs. Stanton been planning the divorce, sir?”
“That’s a private matter, not connected to my government service, either in Sacramento or Washington, and I won’t be answering any questions about it. Neither will Mrs. Stanton, whom I hold in high regard.”
Barbara Ortega suddenly appeared at his side. “That will be all the questions,” she said. “The vice president has an inauguration to attend.” She guided him into the governor ’s limousine, and once the doors were closed, pressed the button that closed the window between the driver and passenger compartments.
“It’s good to see you,” Stanton said, reaching across the seat and squeezing her hand.
“And you, baby,” she replied.
Stanton glanced at the driver, as if to warn her.
She nodded and handed him a sheet of paper. “Here’s your schedule: first the swearing-in, then some dinner and an appearance at Mike’s inaugural ball, which will be at a downtown hotel, then this limo will whisk you to San Francisco, where you’re in a big suite at the Ritz-Carlton for the night. I’d like to join you there.”
Stanton shook his head. “This is the only time we’re going to have alone. It’s important that you be seen at the ball tonight after I’ve gone.”
She nodded. “I know, I was just dreaming. I’ve packed up your office and shipped your personal files to the house at the Naval Observatory. I’ve packed my things, too.”
“You’ve already resigned?”
“Simultaneously with you. Mike has his own chief of staff, and, anyway, he wouldn’t want me around here. I’ve sublet my apartment, and I’m leaving for Washington on Monday.”
“You got the job already?”
“I’ve been told I’m a serious candidate, but if I don’t get it I’ll find something else. I’ve got a pretty good résumé, you know.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“You’ll help me, if I need it, won’t you?”
“I’ll do everything I can without being seen to do it. I’ve already talked to Will Lee about you, and he’s sent a recommendation to the AG.”
“Oh, thank you, Marty. I’m more confident than ever now.”
“After the election, when I’ve got my feet on the ground in Washington, we’ll bump into each other somewhere.”
“I know the plan.”
“It’ll take me a while to get settled into the office, since I’ll hardly be in Washington at all between now and the election. They’ve got a schedule for me you wouldn’t believe.”
“What’s with the G-III?” she asked.
“The big Boeing was down, and they have to keep one ready for the president. I was comfortable, though.”
“You make them be nice to you, or I’ll have to come straighten them out.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be traveling in a campaign plane, a Boeing Business Jet, which will have room for press and staff.”
“What are you going to do about a chief of staff?”
“You know, I haven’t had a moment to think about it. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you running things for me.”
“All in good time,” she said. She looked out the window. “We’re here. You get out, and I’ll take the car on to the garage. I’ll see you at the ball. I have a date with Jimmy Saxon, the Silicon Valley guy.”
“I hope he’s gay.”
“Don’t tell anybody, but he is.”
Stanton got out of the car and began shaking hands.
29
WILL WRAPPED UP HIS DAY A LITTLE AFTER SEVEN P.M. AND WENT UPSTAIRS TO THE quarters. Kate was sitting on a living room sofa reading a newspaper.
“Not the Daily News, I hope,” he said.
“Somebody had tacked it to a bulletin board at Langley this morning,” she replied, not looking at him.
“I was ambushed,” Will said. “Surely you understand that.”
“I don’t like it when you’re ambushed,” she said.
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t like it when you let yourself be ambushed.”
“It was the crack of dawn. I was half asleep, and she came at me from behind.”
“From behind was not where you were grabbing her.”
“I told you, I was fending her off. Obviously, the whole thing was planned. She wants me to pardon Larry Moody.”
Kate dropped the newspaper. “I don’t believe it!”
“Neither do I, but that’s what she wants. The campaign has instituted a Charlene Watch to make sure she doesn’t get near me again.”
“Good luck with that,” Kate said. “She’s a very determined bitch.”
Will went to the bar, mixed her a martini and poured himself a bourbon. He sat down on the sofa next to her and handed her the drink. “Look at me,” he said.
“I’d rather look at the martini.”
He held on to the glass when she reached for it. “Look at me.”
She looked at him. “All right.”
“That’s enough about this incident.”
She blinked rapidly a few times. “Is it?”
“It is. Let’s not refer to it again.”
“All right,” she said.
Will released the martini to her, and they clinked glasses.
“I know assassins who could fix this problem,” she said.
“I’m not supposed to know you know assassins,” he replied.
“Well, I’m not absolutely certain about it, but I think I could scare up an assassin, if I had to.”
“You don’t have to. Have your people found that nuclear warhead?” he asked.
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I am.”
“We’re not supposed to talk business in the quarters.”
“I take it if there were any new developments, you’d apprise me.”
“I’d apprise you. How did Marty’s ceremony go?”
“Just fine. He’s in California for Rivera’s inauguration. He had to ride out there in a G-III, instead of Air Force Two.”
“I’ll bet he loved
that.”
“He has to get used to being number two. He’ll like his campaign plane better.”
“I had a meeting with somebody from Justice today, and he said that Marty’s chief of staff has applied for a big job over there.”
“That’s right. She gave me as a reference.”
Kate laughed. “Not Marty?”
“Marty is being very careful to remain hands-off,” Will said.
“Uh, oh.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, I think it would be a perfectly normal thing for a vice president to do, to help his former chief of staff get a Washington job.”
“I suppose so. What are you getting at?”
“Doesn’t he strike you as being a little too careful, if he’s not willing to recommend her himself?”
“You mean you think he’s been screwing his chief of staff, and that’s the reason for the divorce?”
“Would you be shocked if he were, Will?”
“Surprised, maybe, but not shocked. I’m a lot harder to shock than I used to be.”
“Nonsense. You’re shocked every time somebody does something the slightest bit venal or unethical.”
“Shocked, maybe, but not surprised.”
“If anybody knew the width and depth of your straight-arrow-ness, they’d be shocked.”
Will laughed. “Don’t ever tell anybody—it would impair my effectiveness. The press would start comparing me to Jimmy Carter.”
“There are more similarities than differences,” Kate said.
“There are more similarities between men and women than differences,” he pointed out. “Same number of fingers and toes, eyes and ears, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Sure. Different only in the important areas.”
“What time is dinner?” he asked.
“Any minute. You have something in mind?”
“After dinner,” he said.
“Hold that thought,” she replied.
MARTIN STANTON WAS ENSCONCED in his hotel suite in San Francisco, plugging in his secret cell phone, when it vibrated.
“Yes?” he said.
“I’m downstairs,” Barbara said, her voice husky. “Can I come up?”