Night of Camp David

by Fletcher Knebel

  Although he tried, he could not for long suppress the thought of becoming Hollenbach’s vice-president. He was “manful” enough, to use Chinky’s phrase, for a vice-president, but was he too boyish in appearance? People didn’t trust boys any longer around the nuclear war codes, the rockets, and the computers. Was Hollenbach serious? If he was, then Joe Donovan ought to know something. Donovan, the Democratic national chairman, might act out his role as the cynical politician to the point of exasperation, but he knew what was developing sooner than most. A little gossip with Joe might produce a clue of some sort.

  MacVeagh went to the hallway phone and looked up Donovan’s unlisted home number in his memorandum book of private Washington telephones. Donovan’s voice was heavy, sardonic, purposely slovenly in syntax. Joe had gone to Penn, but he detested Ivy League mannerisms. Save for his refusal to drink anything alcoholic, he played the role of the tough Irish politician, one of the boys, as though he were Patrick O’Malley—who didn’t act that way at all.

  “Hi, pal,” Donovan opened. MacVeagh could see the pale eyelashes almost meeting, alert, suspicious, and the studied curl in the corner of Donovan’s lips. “You got patronage problems? Call tomorrow. No, on second thought, don’t call us. We’ll call you.”

  “You can have the jobs, Joe,” said MacVeagh. “That last hassle over the Cedar Rapids postmaster cost me a thousand votes.”

  “We took your man, didn’t we?”

  “That’s just it,” bantered MacVeagh. “It turns out the guy has more enemies than stamps. Anyway, I just wanted to yak, nothing special.”

  “About what?” Donovan slurred the words intentionally, indicating suspicion.

  “Just gossip. What do you hear, Joe?”

  “Now, come off it, Jimmy.” Donovan was the only man in Washington who called him Jimmy, but he was not the only man who knew that MacVeagh didn’t particularly relish it. “You got something definite in mind, say it. I don’t blush easy.”

  “Well, some of us were talking about the convention,” said MacVeagh. “It’s only five months off, you know.”

  “Five months and seven days,” corrected Donovan. MacVeagh laughed at the echo of his exchange—minus one day—with President Hollenbach last night.

  “Right. So what do you hear about vice-president?”

  “We got a vice-president,” snapped Donovan, “or ain’t you heard the name Patrick O’Malley?”

  “But the word’s going around that O’Malley isn’t long for this world.”

  “You said it, Jimmy. I didn’t.”

  “Act your age, Joe,” chided MacVeagh. “You really think Hollenbach is going to keep O’Malley on the ticket after the Jilinsky thing?”

  “As national chairman, I’m sayin’ nothin’. As Joe Donovan, I think O’Malley’s had it. Does that answer your question?”

  “Partially. But if O’Malley’s out, who’s in?”

  “Why all the sudden interest on a Sunday afternoon?” Donovan’s tone was one of admonition, but then speculation, as it usually does with politicians, got the better of him. “Who’s in if O’Malley’s out? Mind you, I said if O’Malley’s out. Well, I hear a lot of names. There’s Karper and Nicholson, couple of governors, some fellows on the Hill. You know, the usual run.”

  MacVeagh probed casually. “Who do you think would run best with him, Joe?”

  “Me? Who do I think? Hell, I think we can run an Ay-rab with a goiter for second place, so long as we got Hollenbach at the head of the ticket.”

  “No favorites?”

  “No favorites. And if I did, what would it matter? Hollenbach picks his own men, always, and pays no attention to me. You know that. I don’t say he wouldn’t be better off sometimes if he’d listen to me. He just don’t. And the way he looks in the polls right now, maybe his judgment is best.”

  “Is the President mentioning anyone yet, Joe?” asked MacVeagh.

  “Never even brought up the subject, not directly anyway. Oh, I know he’s thinking about some fellows, because he drops names in connection with other things and asks me what I think of them.” Donovan paused, then fell into his man-to-man confidential tone, as though the walls were eavesdropping. “Matter of fact, Jimmy, he talked about you the other day. He asked me what I thought of your character. Character! That’s a hell of a thing to ask me.”

  “Well, what did you tell him?” MacVeagh tried to say it casually, but he felt a quickening of his heartbeat.

  “None of your business. I don’t repeat conversations with the President.” Donovan paused again. MacVeagh knew he was relishing the suspense. “But I don’t mind telling you what I think in general, Jimmy. They’ve all been speculating Karper. I don’t buy it. Karper is smart and he’s a Jew. The voters will take a Jew maybe, but they don’t want no smart Jew, believe me. Nicholson would be all right, but he’s not the President’s type. Frankly, I think Nick bores the stuffing out of him. So that leaves lots of guys. Like I said, we could run an Ay-rab with Hollenbach this time. If it happens to come up you, well, that’s all right with me. You got the looks, youth, messy black hair, and a nice way with the dames.”

  “Thanks,” said MacVeagh. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Oh, you got more than that,” continued Donovan. “Sincerity, integrity—all that jazz.”

  “You sound overwhelmed,” said MacVeagh. He was brusque. Sometimes Donovan carried his cynic’s role to juvenile lengths.

  “I’m trying to give it to you straight, Jimmy. If I had to guess now, I’d say Hollenbach is considering maybe a dozen men. Maybe you’re on his serious list and maybe you’re not. Either way, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  MacVeagh knew that Donovan was trying to be objective, trying to tell him as much as he knew—or sensed. MacVeagh softened. After all, he was the one who was trying to pump the national chairman.

  “Thanks, Joe. And I mean it. I just got to wondering about the whole situation.”

  “You haven’t heard anything, have you?” Now it was Donovan’s turn to probe.

  “Not really,” replied MacVeagh, fencing. “I just got word from a source that maybe Hollenbach had thought about me, and naturally I was interested.”

  “Natch.” Donovan was sympathetic. “If I hear anything more, I’ll call you. I’ve got a hunch Hollenbach is going to break it off in O’Malley any day now. I can’t blame him, of course, but, jeez, I hope he doesn’t make me do the dirty work. I like Pat, arenas or no arenas. But I guess Hollenbach will do the job himself all right, and if you ask me, I think he kinda has a hankering for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aw, Mark is sore at O’Malley. Thinks he let the party down, loused up his own defense, and left some fingerprints on the White House wallpaper. Like I say, I can’t blame him. Pat didn’t help us none.”

  MacVeagh thought of the President’s outburst against O’Malley the night before. “Did you get the idea,” he asked, “that the President thinks O’Malley intentionally botched his own defense in order to hurt the administration?”

  “On purpose? Oh, no, I don’t think so. He’s just mad as a bastard at O’Malley. Well, I’d hate to bet on Pat’s summer replacement. On that one, I’ve got no solid dope.”

  “Thanks for talking to me, Joe,” said MacVeagh. “And, by the way, I liked that commercial you got last night from the President.”

  “You mean about me not touching the stuff?”

  “Yes. And listen, I’d like to get a good, sober man on my side. I’d be different, I’d pay attention to what he recommended.”

  Donovan laughed. “Maybe we can work out a deal someday. So long, Jimmy.”

  MacVeagh walked back to the living room, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on his scuffed loafers. And so he was in the running and he had a chance, however small, to be nominated in August at Cobo Hall in Detroit by the Democratic party as its candidate for vice-pr
esident. What a zany game, politics.

  Six years ago he was just a lighthearted state representative in Iowa who had inherited an insurance agency from his father. The agency yielded a good living without undue work—the clients trusted the son as they had old Jamie MacVeagh—and his political chores were not onerous. Then came the revision of the state tax laws with young Jim MacVeagh chairing the subcommittee on reform. He worked for five months—hard as a hired hand for a change—and, wonder of wonders, the new tax law pleased almost everybody: farmers, businessmen, teachers, the little guys. So when the wheels of the Democratic party in Iowa asked him to run for the Senate, he accepted without too much thought. The campaign would be a novel experience, and even if he flopped, it would probably help his insurance agency. He started the campaign as a lark, worried only the last week—chiefly because a newcomer appeared ill-matched against a two-term incumbent—and then swamped Elmer Jencks, the Republican candidate. Elmer was solid and dull, two qualities admired in many country precincts, but he looked dour and he’d picked up a shoulder twitch in Washington which apparently the voters mistrusted. And so now, a flicker of a chance to be vice-president. He had to tell Martha.

  But the phone rang, calling him from the faded rose sofa. He kicked away the newspapers and went to the hallway again.

  “I lost a bet with myself, Jims.” The voice was low, cottonsoft. “I thought you’d call right after the Gridiron dinner.”

  “Rita,” he said with a trace of annoyance. She should have better sense than to call him at home. It had never happened before and he felt a twinge of disloyalty hearing her voice in this house with Martha’s possessions all about him.

  “Don’t worry your Puritan heart, Jims,” she comforted intuitively. “I read the papers too. Mrs. MacVeagh and her daughter are in Iowa for a week.”

  “I know but…”

  “Are you coming over?” The voice continued low, but the tone taunted.

  “For God’s sake, quit using that boudoir throat like the weather girl on the radio.”

  “Are you, Jims?”

  “Are I what?” He sounded flustered and this time his irritation was directed at himself.

  “Coming over. It’s only twenty minutes from McLean to Georgetown, even in Sunday traffic.”

  “Listen, Rita. I’m beat. I stayed up until all hours this morning and my stomach’s fluttering.”

  “Have a drink, darling.”

  “I had one.”

  “Have another. You’re always better when you’ve been drinking.” It was her factual voice now, as dry and as uninspired as a bookkeeper’s. It always excited him, for reasons he had yet to fathom.

  He hesitated. The day of reckoning, the day when he should close the books on the Rita affair could be tomorrow. It didn’t have to be tonight, did it? It could be done later, tomorrow or Tuesday or…

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll see you after a bit.”

  He puttered for a few minutes, brushing his teeth again, running an electric shaver over his beard, and making two trips to the kitchen for short drinks of Scotch, straight. Then he stood by the phone and thought of calling Des Moines, but the idea of talking to Martha or Chinky just then repelled him. Instead, he wondered what would be his excuse if Martha called while he was out. Oh, he’d figure out something later, a meeting, a formal conference. Somebody was always conferring about something in Washington, even on Sunday.

  In the Ford convertible, he turned the heater up high and drove without thinking. He was over Chain Bridge and speeding past the leafless maples and oaks lining Canal Road before he realized that it wasn’t just the junior senator from Iowa who was going to an evening tryst, but a man who might be under consideration for vice-president. Good Lord, driving to see Rita when his name was in the hat! He ought to have his head examined. But there was the old tingle in his muscles and the course of desire deep within him.

  The room was dark, the musk of perfume lay in the air like overripe fruit, and Rita’s body, slack and smooth, lay against his. Her head rested on his bare shoulder, her hair faintly tickling his skin.

  “You fell asleep for a few minutes,” she whispered. “Gurgles with the snores, yet. Such noises.”

  “Uh-huh.” He closed his eyes again and felt the luxurious fatigue of consummation. How long had this thing with Rita been going on now? Three years since he met her in the campaign, wasn’t it? There had been no seven-year itch with him. Instead, it was an eleven-year itch. Rita had been Joe Donovan’s secretary then and when Donovan, Mark Hollenbach’s campaign manager, became national chairman, Rita Krasicki moved into K Street headquarters with him. For a long time Rita and Jim flirted casually, on the phone or when MacVeagh called at Donovan’s office. Then came occasional dinners at Paul Young’s or Le Bistro, and finally, last fall, Jim spent his first night at this apartment. Suddenly the affair gained force like a mounting fever.

  She was a big girl, built like a peasant, with a broad bottom and cushion breasts that always made men look a second time. Her skin had a light olive tint and her eyes matched her hair as exactly as a pair of ebony earrings. Rita’s mother was Italian, her father Polish, and she grew up in the dreary, wood-frame Polish section of Buffalo, a city she never revisited if she could help it. Rita excited men. Even bent over her typewriter, in Donovan’s outer office, her body evoked visions of the urgency and the solace of sex. Visiting politicians never minded being kept waiting by Donovan. “Joe’s sex annex,” they called the outer office, but Rita’s appraisal of her body and the yearnings it inspired was too candid for jokes. Rita Krasicki assumed that men and women were born to mate and that passion was a fact of nature. Since she was a Catholic of reasonably faithful habits, Jim MacVeagh often wondered what she confessed to the priests at St. Matthew’s Cathedral where she missed Mass only occasionally. Once, in a moment of intimacy, he asked her. “I don’t confess things outside the church,” was her only reply. Jim never mentioned the subject again.

  Why Rita hadn’t remarried after the death of the young husband to whom she never referred, MacVeagh couldn’t imagine. He assumed she would someday, but she was thirty-one now and seemingly in no hurry to find another legally certified partner. Was she in love with him? MacVeagh really didn’t know. Weren’t all women in love with somebody? All he knew was that her willing passion, the ever-renewing lure of her great, smooth body fascinated and consumed him in a way that Martha never had. With Martha there was none of the slow, swelling surge of lust he knew with Rita, an emotion so complete that it left them spent and speechless. Why? Was that really fair to Martha? Jim wondered vaguely whether subconsciously he didn’t approach Martha with restraint, inhibiting her by his own standards of what a wife and mother should and should not do. Whereas with Rita, his lust, boastful and challenging, compounded hers. But Jim pushed the comparison away, as he always did when he felt his thoughts verging on anything deeper than surface self-analysis. Introspection was a distasteful trait. He was what he was and he felt what he felt, and that was that.

  He shifted under the bed-sheet, moved her head gently, and placed his hands behind his own head, swinging the elbows lazily. How many times had he been in this bed in the narrow Georgetown apartment with its copper-colored wallpaper, its tiny shaded lamps on the dresser, and its heavy scent of perfume? Ten? Twelve? And would he be here again, or was this the last time? As a man who had a chance to be a vice-presidential candidate….Vice-President…Good Lord!…

  MacVeagh sat upright so quickly that he yanked the sheet off both of them. She pulled it back, swathed her full breasts in it, and turned to him.

  “Who shot you?” she asked. “Or is your usual moral hangover coming in instant packages these days?” She was pleasantly derisive, for after their lovemaking, he usually fretted until he was dressed, as though the whole MacVeagh family—and its Swensson in-laws—were suddenly to march through the door and find him naked, shorn of the decorous ga
rments of fatherhood.

  “No, it’s not that,” he said. “I just thought of something I keep forgetting, something that happened last night.”

  She waited quietly, cupping a hand at the black curls which hung in disarray about her head. MacVeagh slid out of bed, pulled on his shorts and began fussing with his socks and pants.

  “Politics?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “In that case, let’s be formal. I’ll put on something too.”

  They dressed and then MacVeagh sat at a pink, plastic-topped table in the little kitchen while Rita made coffee. Her coral shirtwaist made a vivid contrast with a full, gray skirt, faintly figured. Her olive legs were bare. Thong sandals exposed the crimson tint on her toenails which blended with the blouse. The painted toenails reminded Jim of their first night. He had fondled her toes and remarked idly that red against flesh was an exciting combination. Now it was a ritual with them.

  He knew he would tell her. With another woman in Washington, relaying a conversation with the President would be the act of an innocent. A man might as well make an announcement at a press conference, for the word would be all over town in twenty-four hours anyway. But Rita was a political pro. She knew everything Joe Donovan knew and sometimes more. She was full of political gossip, much of which she shared with Jim, and her discussion of past events helped him to store away the small miscellany of people, dates and places that enable a politician, like a squirrel in autumn, to prepare for an uncertain future. But Rita held her tongue, never repeating what Jim told her in the intimacy of her O Street apartment. In return MacVeagh honored her confidence. The compact was unspoken. Even to mention the necessity for secrecy would have been a rebuke to their code. In a word, they were politicians.

  “Mark asked me up to Camp David last night after the dinner,” he said. “The surroundings were kind of spooky, but not the subject.”

  She laughed, low in her throat. “You mean the lights-out bit and the ghostly view of the mountains in the wee hours?”