The Hellfire Club

by Jake Tapper

  He had to consider his own motives. Why would he run to tell Kefauver about Sutton but blanch when asked to share the Boschwitz dossier with Bob Kennedy? Just because Kefauver had been nice to him? What kind of principle was that?

  “You seem like the kind of guy who thinks too much,” came a flat voice with a Bronx accent. Charlie turned around to see Roy Cohn, McCarthy’s chief counsel on his committee. With dark and deep eye bags that belied his twenty-seven years and a crooked nose that made him look like he’d been punched in the face a few times, Cohn exuded a confidence that perplexed Charlie.

  “Roy Cohn,” the attorney said, putting out his hand to shake Charlie’s. Charlie greeted him, trying to keep a neutral expression that wouldn’t betray what he thought of Cohn and McCarthy.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said reflexively. He could almost see Margaret’s disapproving face hovering in the background. “Charlie Marder.”

  “I know your dad,” Cohn said. “A good man. He gets it. He gets it.”

  In ’46, as a favor to a Wisconsin power broker, Winston Marder had hosted a fund-raiser for McCarthy’s first Senate race. When McCarthy was up for reelection in ’52, two years after he launched his crusade against Communists real and imagined, Winston continued his support for him out of inertia more than anything else. Or so he had rationalized it to Charlie.

  Over Cohn’s shoulder, Charlie noticed Senator Kennedy and Ambassador Lodge, opponents in a fierce U.S. Senate race two years before. They were smiling and warmly toasting each other with martini glasses. Bygones, Charlie supposed. A third man came up to Kennedy and Lodge.

  “That’s Joe Alsop,” Cohn told Charlie, following his line of sight. “The columnist. You know him?”

  “I know of him,” said Charlie.

  A waitress approached them. Charlie and Cohn swapped their empty glasses for fresh and ice-cold dirty martinis.

  “You might recall that Senator McCarthy called Alsop a queer in that letter to the Saturday Evening Post,” Cohn remarked.

  “I do,” Charlie said, still focused on Kennedy, Lodge, and Alsop, who were now joined by a tall man with a mustache and round glasses: Central Intelligence director Allen Dulles.

  “Part of our campaign to remove perverts from the government,” Cohn said. “Alsop is a queer, you know.”

  Charlie nodded and finished his martini, so cold it barely even had a flavor. He was supremely uninterested in Alsop’s sexuality, and he couldn’t help finding it odd that Cohn was pressing the issue, given the rumors he’d heard about the lawyer’s own private life.

  “They look like they’re up to something,” Charlie noted.

  “Maybe another assignment?” Cohn hypothesized. “Alsop went to Laos a couple years ago to do some work for Central Intelligence, then last year same thing in the Philippines.”

  “Alsop did work for Central Intelligence?” Charlie asked, stunned that a journalist would be secretly working for the government. Having first made his name covering the trial of the Lindbergh baby kidnapper and murderer, Bruno Hauptmann, Alsop was one of the most highly regarded newsmen of the day. He’d written a bestseller about FDR’s attempts to pack the Supreme Court, and three times a week he and his brother Stewart wrote a widely read column for the New York Herald Tribune.

  “Proudly,” Cohn said, spitting as he talked. “If I may quote Mr. Alsop, ‘The notion that a newspaperman doesn’t have a duty to his country is perfect balls.’ He’s a patriot. And a pervert. A patriotic pervert.” Cohn laughed at his own remark.

  Charlie did not know what to say. Homosexuality was not something he gave much thought to, other than when he heard rumors about J. Edgar Hoover or Cohn himself. The two men stood at the hub of the national security apparatus, so powerful that they thrived despite Eisenhower’s executive order from April 1953 that essentially banned homosexuals from the federal workforce, since they were regarded as susceptible to blackmail and were thus obvious security risks.

  “You see, Charlie, there are the domestic political fights we Americans have with one another, and then there is the common struggle against the Reds,” Cohn continued as if a microphone had been placed before him. “The Communist Party is not a political party, it’s a criminal conspiracy. Its object is the overthrow of the government of the United States by force and violence when the right time arises. The Communist Party’s most important work until then is espionage on behalf of the Soviet Union.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Charlie said, attempting to lighten the mood, “you hold in your hand a list of a hundred and twenty-three individuals in this room known to be members of the Communist Party?”

  Cohn’s face twisted into something that seemed half smile, half snarl. “Cute,” he said.

  Charlie was done trying to be polite to a man who made his skin crawl. He looked away from Cohn. Nearby, four guests—two slick business types and two young women in tight sweaters—laughed uproariously. Senator Kennedy was on his way to the door. The old desert tortoise was helped up from his seat by the young woman whom he had snared earlier. Les Paul and Mary Ford’s “Vaya Con Dios” filled the air.

  Now the hacienda’s dark, the town is sleeping, they sang. Now the time has come to part, the time for weeping.

  “Vaya con Dios, my darling,” Carlin bellowed from across the room, where he was sitting on a plush leather chair fit for a king and surrounded by hangers-on, his own personal court. “Vaya con Dios, my love.”

  One of the young women began mimicking a Mexican dance, raising her dress above her knees dramatically. Carlin’s toadies began shouting, “¡Olé, olé!”

  “Look at them, celebrating how they’re letting more spics come into the country,” Cohn said. “No doubt with some Reds among them. Disgusting.”

  Charlie didn’t disagree with Cohn’s estimation of Carlin and his court, but the ethnic slur shot a bolt of adrenaline and anxiety into his stomach. He hadn’t known many Mexican-Americans in his life except for Private First Class Rodriguez.

  “I wish my old army buddy Manny Rodriguez were here so you could say that to him,” he finally said.

  “Why isn’t he?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Under your command, was he?” Cohn said smoothly. He signaled a waitress for another drink. “Look at the headlights on this one,” he said a little too enthusiastically as the young woman approached. The Rubenesque waitress, barely staying within the confines of her outfit, handed highballs to Cohn and Charlie. Someone bumped into her and she jostled Charlie; her long red hair swept across his neck and cheek but she kept the drink tray steady.

  “Arpège,” Charlie said. “By Lanvin.”

  “Huh?” said Cohn.

  “Very impressive,” said the redhead, a slight Southern lilt in her voice. Charlie smiled.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Cohn. “Ar-pej?”

  “It’s my perfume,” she said. “I didn’t even put any on today.”

  “I have an unusually keen sense of smell,” Charlie said.

  “Wow, like a superhero,” said the waitress. “That must be quite a gift.”

  “If this were a world where there were more of you than of him,” Charlie said, motioning to Cohn, “it might be.”

  “Evening, Roy,” Bob Kennedy said, approaching them. Recognizing Charlie, he nodded. “Congressman,” he said.

  “Charlie Marder,” Charlie said, not sure if Kennedy remembered his name. In Washington, Charlie had noticed, people tended to avoid names in case they got them wrong; they tended to say “Nice to see you” instead of “Nice to meet you,” in case they had met you before. New social rules for an egoistic town where every monument and street was named for their predecessors.

  “Right, of course,” said Kennedy. “We met you and your lovely wife at Martin’s Tavern. I just heard you’re working with Estes on the upcoming juvenile delinquency hearings.”

  Cohn choked on his drink. It turned out he was laughing.

  “You’re part of those
bullshit comic-book hearings?” He guffawed dramatically.

  Kennedy grinned and looked at Charlie apologetically. Charlie was not particularly amused. He’d had enough of Cohn’s abrasive company by now.

  “You were asking me about the Commie symps in this room, Congressman,” Cohn said. “Well, they worry me more than Wonder Woman does.” He took another swig of his drink and stared out the window. “But none of them concern me as much as the Commie symps over there in that big white building,” Cohn said, motioning with his chin toward the White House. “What must the world look like from that address? Must look upside down. Goddamn Ike protects the Commies and fucks with Senator McCarthy.” Cohn looked at Kennedy. “He’s terrified Joe will run for president, you know. Joe could beat him too.”

  “Joe McCarthy could beat President Eisenhower?” asked Charlie incredulously. “Beat the smartest general we’ve had since Sherman?”

  “Smart? MacArthur called Ike the best clerk he ever had!”

  “And Ike said he studied drama under General MacArthur for four years.”

  Kennedy chuckled. “Now, gentlemen.”

  “MacArthur…MacArthur…” said Charlie sarcastically, pretending to search the skies for a reminder of the general so ignominiously fired by Truman three years earlier. “The name rings a bell.”

  “MacArthur is a great man, a patriot,” said Cohn. “I’m sure you have a Medal of Honor under your shirt there.”

  “No,” said Charlie. “Just some shrapnel.” He finished the rest of his drink. “Nothing like your paper cuts from the Battle of Torts 101.”

  An awkward silence hung like a noose. Charlie had surprised even himself with that one. Liquid courage, he supposed.

  Kennedy tried to break the tension. “Why do you think Joe would be a good president, Roy?”

  “If Joe were president, the first thing he would do would be to end the Cold War,” Cohn said. “He’d pick up the phone and call Joe Stalin and say, ‘This is Joe McCarthy, I’m coming over tomorrow to talk about things, meet me at the Moscow airport at one o’clock.’ When he arrived in Moscow, he would sit down with Stalin in a closed room. First he’d tell a couple dirty jokes. Then he’d look Stalin right in the eye and say, ‘Joe, what do you want?’ And Stalin would tell him. They would talk man to man, not like pansy diplomats. They’d find out what each of them wanted and settle their differences. But when Joe left, he’d tell Stalin, ‘The first time I catch you breaking this agreement, I’ll blow you and your whole goddamn country off the map.’”

  Charlie turned to Kennedy. “He can’t honestly believe this rubbish, can he?”

  “You little establishment punk,” spat Cohn, “you think you know anything about defending this nation?” He looked at Kennedy. “Isn’t this the same little shit whose daddy got him his seat? Who was trying to fuck with the General Kinetics acquisition of Goodstone?”

  Charlie and Kennedy were both taken aback at Cohn’s outburst; it was delivered with the virulence of a cobra strike, drawing attention from nearby guests.

  “Er, uh, that’s not quite how I would put it, Roy,” Kennedy said, patting him on the back, trying to calm him. “But, yeah. Charlie tried to stop the funding for Goodstone. It had something to do with bad gas masks they made in the war that cost the life of one of your men, right, Charlie?”

  “That’s right,” said Charlie. “Company made a cruddy product. Clear case of war profiteering.”

  Cohn waved his arms as if he were washing a car with two sponges. “Forest,” he said. Then he started pointing at imaginary items in the air. “Trees,” he said.

  “Pretty glib talk about the death of an American soldier,” Charlie said. “Though, Bob, I guess that kind of sacrifice is not a subject Mr. Cohn here could understand. Especially these days, when he’s busy maligning the army.”

  “You just don’t get it,” Cohn said, shaking his head and taking another swig of his drink. “Alexander Charleston, the CEO of Goodstone, is a patriot. Duncan Whitney, the CEO of General Kinetics, is a patriot. These are men who support Senator McCarthy’s work and the work of his committee. They can see the forest for the trees. The Reds are about more than the loss of one Mexican private.”

  “He wasn’t Mexican,” said Charlie. “He was born in New York.”

  “The Reds don’t care about the loss of one soldier,” Cohn continued. “One soldier? They slaughter millions. Are you defending that? I mean, you need to have a little respect for Senator McCarthy.”

  Charlie squinted, as if looking at Cohn through an adjusted lens would make sense of him. “I do have little respect for Senator McCarthy,” he said.

  Cohn’s eyes seemed to redden, turning bloodshot with his internal fury. Kennedy put his arm around Charlie. “I think this conversation has come to its logical conclusion,” he said. “Charlie, why don’t you go mingle, socialize for a while.”

  “I can’t wait to see this little snot’s face when McCarthy accepts the nomination in two years,” Cohn said. “We’ll make sure to put the New York delegation up front so the cameras don’t miss you all crying.”

  Charlie polished off the rest of his drink and locked eyes with Cohn. He handed his empty glass to Kennedy and slowly walked away.

  “Adios, amigo,” Cohn said.

  Charlie paused but then decided to let it go; he made his way, stumbling somewhat, to the bar. He’d lost count of how many drinks he’d had by now. He wished Margaret were with him. Or Street. Even Strongfellow—a friendly face. Someone had dimmed the lights of the room even lower. A toxic cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke hovered over the crowd.

  Oh, my papa, to me he was so wonderful, sang Eddie Fisher over the speakers. Oh, my papa, to me he was so good…

  Charlie wobbled around the periphery of the room, taking in the scene as the guests marinated in free booze. An overweight senator from the Midwest had all but hijacked a waitress and was voraciously wolfing down canapés from her hors d’oeuvres tray as if it were his kitchen table. A powerful House member so old and shriveled he resembled a baked apple slow-danced with one of the cocktail waitresses, hands like talons edging their way down her hips. When the couple turned around, Charlie was surprised to see that her expression was nonchalant. Indeed, many of the women here seemed remarkably at ease among the powerful, drooling old men. At the far side of the room, four U.S. senators began singing “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” a cappella.

  “Charlie, I wasn’t sure if you were going to come! Pregnant wife and all.”

  Charlie turned around. It was Strongfellow, looking more urbane than ever, wearing a blue blazer over a turtleneck. He pivoted on his crutches, swung toward Charlie, and grabbed his hand in an enthusiastic hello.

  “Strong!” said Charlie, delighted to have some friendly company at last. “What is this place, anyway?”

  “Some sort of club. It’s kind of mysterious,” Strongfellow said. “Don’t know much about it other than you find out more when they want you to find out more.”

  Charlie looked around the room. “Pretty august company. Bipartisan leaders of, well, everything. Vanderbilts and Rockefellers. Powerful, impressive men. Plus you and me,” he joked.

  “Carlin told me to find you and bring you to the library,” Strongfellow said. “It’s this way.”

  Charlie followed Strongfellow along the outskirts of the room to two thick mahogany doors, which swung open to reveal a cocktail waitress—the same redhead from before. She smiled demurely at Charlie and held the door open for them. A hallway presented them with choices: a kitchen to the left, a library to the right, and who-knew-what straight ahead.

  “This way,” Strongfellow said, veering toward the library doorway, which was flanked by two small stone statues, a man and a woman, both holding fingers to their lips: ssshh! Between them, a man in a dark suit with sharp cheekbones and a high-and-tight haircut stood, blocking their path.

  “Do what thou wilt,” Strongfellow said to him, and the man stepped to the side, letting them through. Charli
e trailed behind his friend, wondering what the hell he had just said—was it a password?—and where he had heard it before.

  The library was smoky, the lighting low. One wall was occupied by floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with leather-bound books. The wall to Charlie’s left was dominated by an enormous fireplace with an ornate marble mantelpiece on which had been carved the words Hospes negare, si potes, quod offerat. “‘Stranger, refuse, if you can, what we have to offer,’” Charlie translated to himself. Around the fireplace hung twelve stained-glass images of various politicians and CEO types, each in an obscene pose with a naked woman. Given the medium, their identities were difficult to discern with precision, though they seemed to be depictions of specific individuals. One resembled Carlin. Another Ambassador Joseph Kennedy. The one on the far end appeared to be FBI director Hoover. The wall to the right was covered with portraits of U.S. presidents and women whom Charlie did not recognize, women wearing plunging necklines and sultry expressions.

  In the center of the room, a half a dozen men played cards around a green-baize-covered table, while others in various corners spoke in low tones over cigars and highballs. In his haze, before he knew what he was doing, Charlie was suddenly standing in the far left corner of the room by Senator McCarthy and Duncan Whitney, the CEO of General Kinetics, whom Cohn had just extolled as a great patriot. The two men were sinking into immense red armchairs facing the center of the room on opposite sides of a small round accent table on which burned a thick white candle.

  “Speak of the devil,” McCarthy said dramatically to Whitney. “Duncan, this is the congressman who made the stink about Goodstone.” He smiled at his friend, then at Charlie, who was disarmed by McCarthy’s almost palpable charisma. He recalled his father warning him that he would like the Wisconsin senator if he ever met him. Charlie had rolled his eyes at that, but now, in his presence, he could see what his dad had been talking about.