Carlson’s research had produced a sheaf of documents, all the usual material. There were grade reports from elementary school, transcripts of high school and college scholastic records, a battered college annual, photostats of newspaper clippings, several photographs of Hollenbach and his boyhood home and a bibliography of books and magazine articles which mentioned the President’s early life.
MacVeagh had skimmed through it all. Now, as the hot sun flooded the room, Jim turned to Carlson’s typewritten account of his interviews and began to read carefully from the first page:
Memo to JFM from RC.
Interviews on the Rising Mark.
Tuesday. Arrived Tampa in late morning, rented car and drove down to La Belle. Right? This town is on the Caloosahatchee River, halfway between Lake Okeechobee and the Gulf of Mexico and about the same distance between the 19th and 20th centuries. Sign on highway coming into town reads, “La Belle, Birthplace of Mark Hollenbach,” but that’s one of the few new public improvements since the war. Went to Glades Motel, noisy air conditioner, ice machine, but no pool. Got room for $5 single. (It’s only $6 double, but I worked so hard in La Belle, I didn’t have time to meet any broads.) Town is flat, dusty, scrub palmetto, live oaks with Spanish moss, natch, yellow brick courthouse. Some hot nights, the sheriff takes prisoners out of the county jail and lets them sit outside. La Belle actually is the intersection of Routes 80 and 29, with about 1,300 people gathered around to watch the traffic. Hasn’t changed much since Mark was a kid. No big developments like the coastal cities. Everything sleepy. Guys clomp around in levis and cowboy boots—snakeproof on account of rattlers out in the brush. Went right to work, starting with the names I had. Right?
AMOS PALMER. Auto repairs. Playmate and grammar school friend of Hollenbach. Find Palmer at shop. Wizened old face like a conch shell. Cracker. Real smart. Cagey too. Wipes hands on overalls. Drinks Coke. Doesn’t offer me one. Oh, one of them, he says. Says been pestered by three, four writin’ fellows. Okay, though, he says, fire away. So, what kind of a kid was Hollenbach? Skinny as a bamboo fishing pole, he says. Had good times. Fished, played ball, sneaked swims in the Caloosahatchee. But Mark didn’t break no rules much. Maybe because his daddy was head of the county schools and pretty strict. When they got older, maybe seventh, eighth grades, Mark takes to swallowing books like a heron snatches pinfish. He keeps way ahead of the other kids in learnin’. Broody sometimes. Remembers him once by river swimming hole, skeeters thick as mangrove roots around him, readin’ some damfool book. Rest of kids was swimmin’. Mark tries hard at everything, but not much at sports. Always wants to be first in everything, but only manages to be tops in studies. Says got to quit talkin’ now and finish the clutch on this car. What did he think of Mark in those days? Same thing as now, he says. Kind of have to admire him, but never felt none too close to him. Mark was more of a loner. From what he hears, still is, ain’t he?
PHOEBE HENDRIX. 77. Nice old dame. Spry. Never married. Lives in little white frame house with Key West tin roof. Musty old-maid smell inside. As young girl out of teachers’ college, she had Mark in first grade. You never get over the first class you teach, she says. Remembers all the kids in it. Hollenbach the smartest. Had to quit calling on him because he always knows the answers and it makes the other kids afraid to speak up. Once he cries because she won’t call on him when his hand is up. (Not sure, but maybe the poor kid wanted to go to the john, but I don’t mention this to Phoebe.) He could read like a third-grader at end of that first year. Nice, quiet boy, but sulky and irritable if he isn’t first in everything, spelling, arithmetic, music, the works.
WINSTON E. GROVER, ins., real estate broker. Big, heavy, slow guy. Full of bull. High school graduate with Hollenbach. Praises him like he was always name-brand genius. Knew he’d be president, etc., etc. Grand fellow, Mark, gracious, gentleman, solid. Grover talks like he’s making a recording for the National Archives. Not much help. I learn more about Grover than about Hollenbach. Says he tried to give 25 acres of prime road property on the main road to Fort Myers—road to river—to Hollenbach. Good publicity for town, especially if Mark retired there. But President wouldn’t take it. Sends Grover a letter with a little lecture about conflict of interest and accepting gifts, as I get story. Grover keeping letter. Says it will be worth lots of money someday. No, he won’t show it. He laughs and slaps his leg and says ol’ Mark still knows how to tell a fellow off. Reminds him of one night at high school dance when Hollenbach blows his top at another guy over a girl. Nope, won’t tell. Just as well these things aren’t said about presidents. But would be great story, if he could tell it. But why rake up that kind of stuff? Phooie.
MRS. FREDERICK (MAE PAULINE) RICHARDSON. Married to banker, but used to have some dates with Hollenbach in high school. Plump—no, fat—gentle and hospitable, but inclined to chirp and twitter. Oh, yes, Mark was a perfect gentleman. Took her to dance once. Got in fight with Ed Broyle over her, but don’t print that in book, please. Her husband Fred would be embarrassed. Ed’s dead now, but he gave Hollenbach a cut lip. All a mistake. Ed cuts in on dance floor and Mark won’t yield, and accuses Ed of trying to flirt with his girl. (All this same dance Grover talking about? I dunno.) Boys rag Mark because he enunciates so well, almost like an actor on stage or something, and he never drawls like everybody else in Hendry County. Some thought he was stuck up. Had a right to be. Oh, Mark never changed. She knew that when she saw him on television, during campaign, pleading for excellence. He was just about perfect in everything he tried. But would it be fun to live with a perfect man? She giggles. Never saw him after he went off to Denison because he worked in the North summers and came home only a few times. Hollenbach’s dad was strict, but the boy more so, and that’s funny, isn’t it, to be stricter than the parent? Made his own high standards and rules. Now, don’t put my name in that book. I’ve talked too much already. What’s the First Lady like? (Come to think of it, she’s not unlike Mae Pauline Richardson. Right?)
No more people in La Belle who knew him well. Adults at that time mostly dead now. Most of his classmates all moved or died (two steady occupations in La Belle) except three who couldn’t even remember what he looked like. No use writing down their names. Waste of time interviewing them.
Wednesday. Working on Denison University annual, with first preference for his fraternity brothers in Beta Theta Pi. Most in Ohio still. Drove to Miami and turned in rental car. Flew to Cincinnati, tourist. Saved you money.
HOMER RIDENAUER. Saw him Wednesday night at home in Cincy. Lawyer. Lots of dough. Although Republican, he thinks Hollenbach a great president and will vote for him this fall. Wants to talk current policy. Hard time getting him back on campus. Says Hollenbach different, very different. No smoke, no drink, no cusswords, no frittering away time in front of console radio-phonograph in fraternity house or in all-night bull sessions. Only sees him take drink once, when sophomore, and Mark spits that out. Mark doesn’t mind others drinking, but Ridenauer says Mark can’t waste his own time. Always calm, cool, good judgment. Gets mad only once, when chapter falls below fraternity average in grades. Raises Cain at chapter meeting. Gets very excited, but doesn’t do much good. Mark is no good at team sports, but pretty fair golfer, tennis player, and an average miler at track. Plugs away at the mile, wins a few dual meets. Solid citizen even then. Ridenauer says he’s anxious to read book when finished. Thinks nobody’s really pegged what makes this great man tick.
Thursday. Columbus, O. PETER MCCREARY. Star auto salesman. Big, husky, breezy guy. Captain of football team and treasurer of fraternity chapter when Hollenbach was president of Betas. Says Mark excellent student, fine man, very mature for years. Knew he’d go far. Praises him highly. Can’t explain why, but get clear impression McCreary never likes Hollenbach. Nothing he says. His inflection, maybe.
Still Columbus. TOM (SPIDER) CRAWFORD. Hotel manager. Small, dapper guy. Doesn’t look like spider, but says he used to. Says Mark was drivin
gest boy he ever knows. Lots of self-discipline. Hits the books late at night. Felt sometimes Mark was all stretched out tight as a drum and would have done him good to relax, get drunk or something. But only time he takes a drink he knows of, he spits it out. (Same scene as with Ridenauer. Right?) Spider no pal of Mark’s. Says he likes the free-and-easy kind better. Maybe that’s why he’s in hotel business. You see plenty in a hotel. Winks. Still, he guesses he’s glad Hollenbach’s running the country. Sounds like grudging concession to me.
Saw two other fraternity brothers in Columbus area, but they contributed nothing. Not worth mentioning.
Friday. HOWARD RENTZSCH. Celina, Ohio. Jolly guy, hard worker. Runs small department store. First man I ever meet who has seven consonants and only one vowel in his name. Celina nice town. Big, wide main drag. Houses with pillars set way back. Turn of the century atmosphere in this part of town. Rentzsch says he was good friend of Hollenbach, he thought. Brought him home couple of times. Admired his ability, but thought Mark ought to loosen up and have some fun. Hard to get close to the guy. They’re no longer friends. Rentzsch says he doesn’t know what happened, but after Hollenbach got into politics, didn’t seem to have time for old acquaintances. Written him couple of times, but only gets one formal White House Christmas card two years ago. No note, no nothing. Rentzsch says he never really figured Mark out in school, although he tried, but if I really want to know what Mark was like as college boy, try and contact Tina Faraday, the former TV actress. Says she used to go with Mark and, from what he hears, give her a couple of drinks, and she’ll talk your ear off. Used phone in Rentzsch’s store to call Miss Faraday in L.A. Got her after long delay and made date for Saturday. Rentzsch pleasant fellow. Bought blouse from him for a girl—when I find one.
Saturday. (Pardon the typing. This written Sunday morning, coming back on plane to D.C. from L.A. Portable hard to use on knees in a jet.) TINA FARADAY. Former TV actress, 58. Real maiden name, Ida Jones. Married names in rotation: Lomax, Jacobs, Pinckert, Stacey. Divorced all four. Lives alone, with maid and cook, in Santa Monica. Big house, somewhat deteriorated, on cliff overlooking Pacific. This interview worth whole price of tour. Wait’ll you read it.
Spend six hours with Tina, until 3 a.m. Sunday. She gets plastered. I get swacked too, but keep old brain cells alert, I hope. Wildest dame I ever meet. Cusses worse than Joe Donovan. More exotic in choice and range of profanity. Chin sags despite face-lifting, but still attractive in kind of beat-up, vulpine way. Good word, vulpine. Right? She wears black, slinky thing which wraps her hips tight and leaves one shoulder bare. Open-toed shoes. Shoes gold. Toenails painted green. Honest. Or maybe emerald. Bright as hell, anyway.
(Pause while I call stewardess for aspirin. Take two. Feel better. Back to report.)
Tina drinks beaucoup gin-on-rocks. First two had some vermouth, but after that straight gin. Lose count at eight. She spends couple hours quizzing me. How many books have I written? Where do I live? I say Omaha. (Well, Council Bluffs is close enough. Right?) Do I know the God-love-’em screwball somethings in Omaha? Get out of that one, just barely, but she remains suspicious until fourth drink. Then can’t make her stop talking if I’d wanted to. Talks like Niagara Falls, gushing and cussing and slogging the stuff down. She was transfer to Denison from University of Toledo, so she only knew Mark in junior and senior years. Decides he is smartest man in school and she is going to have him for hers, maybe marry him.
She is hot article then. Proves it by old picture. Jesus, yes. A knockout—all willowy curves, wide, sexy mouth, and a white chest with two honeydew melons. Makes your mouth water. She is in Spanish class with Mark. Starts by asking him to help her with the Spanish. He does. Plenty of nights. But he only kisses her once and then not with much bejazz. Takes her to some fraternity dances. She presses against him. (Tina illustrates all this by the indoor fountain with bullfrogs. I mean she has bullfrogs in the fountain.) But Mark pulls away, always dances proper. So after couple of months, she gets mad. (She illustrates this too. Wonderful display of rage. Great actress.) Denison campus built around the football field, which is sunken like a real bowl into the earth. One night Tina and Mark are lying on the rim of the bowl. The stars are out and it’s soft, murmuring spring with the divine scent of God-love-it clover in the air. (That’s what the woman says.) She nestles close to Mark and this time they kiss very feelingly, she says. (No illustration here, though. Too bad. She’s terrific with a bullfrog chorus in the background.) They kiss some more, and get real pash like college kids should. All of a sudden, he rears back and says, “No more,” or words to that effect. (Tina acts out this scummy double-cross by our lover.) He starts to preach her a lecture on purity, morals and conduct, etc., and gets going like a goddam (censored) (censored) circus tent revivalist. He’s all hopped up and waxing eloquent while she’s doing a slow burn. Finally, she hauls off and cracks him in the God-love-it mush with both fists, one, two, plop, plop. His nose starts to bleed. (Worse than the cut lip in La Belle, I gather.) He’s trying to stop it with his handkerchief while she stalks off, haughty and proud. (Another little off-Broadway drama by the fountain.)
Next day he apologizes in Spanish class for being such a prude, but says he can’t help himself. She scorns him. Now it’s the reverse and he’s after her. She holds him off awhile, but then they begin to have dates again, very quiet, sweet, soulful affairs, all full of the longing of youth and stuff. You remember? Right?
The next fall, their senior year, she invites him to her home in Columbus for the weekend. Ohio State is playing a home game and the town is football crazy again as usual. They go to game, which she thinks Ohio State wins. After game, they go to her home, but it turns out her folks are away. Actually, they are in Europe for a couple of months, which she knows all the time. She plays slow music. They dance. She sneaks a couple of shots of straight gin in the kitchen (this broad has noncorroding copper piping), then chews gum furiously because he’s death on alcohol for fair sex. Gradually she works things so they’re in the bedroom upstairs. (Why don’t these things ever happen to me?) She tells him he can undress in the bathroom and he goes in there. She sheds her dress and whatever she has underneath, which probably isn’t much, judging by her body profile last night by the bullfrog pond. Anyway, she climbs into bed after a slosh of cologne. She waits and waits and then she waits some more. Wonders if he’s sick or something. Finally, the door opens and Mark comes out—with all his clothes on. His eyes are damp. “I can’t,” he moans, very agitated. “We’re not married.” With that he hurries out of the room, clatters down the stairs and out of the house. She wants to throw the dresser out the window at him, but instead she has herself a nice, long cry—and then a few belts of gin.
They’re not in any classes together this last year, so she sees him only occasionally and then avoids him. He never asks for another date, and if he had, she’d have whopped him again, she thinks. The last time she sees him, they are lining up for graduation in caps and gowns and he comes close to her while trying to find his place in line. “Married yet?” she asks in sarcastic, viperish whisper. He looks at her, throws her a saintly, pitying smile, according to her, and shakes his head. She hasn’t seen him since and what’s more, she doesn’t vote for him. Thinks he’s a (censored) (censored) ass. Later, she hears he gets married to a Colorado girl named Evelyn Willett (the current First Lady) and she hears this is a homey, sweet type girl who doesn’t need much in the love department, which, she says, serves Mark right. Thinks from glitter-eyed pictures of him she sees in the papers, he gets about as much loving as Tibetan monk.
From 2 to 3 a.m., I hear about her God-love-’em four husbands, none of whom, it seems, majored in fidelity, but guess you don’t want any of that. We’re now over good old Iowa and the stewardess is bringing me one more aspirin with coffee. I may live, but my head won’t. After reading over this last part, I’m not sure whether you should keep it for the book, seal it for 75 years at the Library of Congre
ss or burn it. Right?
Your private private eye,
Flip.
MacVeagh chuckled, then laughed aloud. Carlson, red-eyed and jittery, had delivered the typewritten sheaf to him an hour earlier, then implored Jim not to phone him until evening after he’d had some sleep. Jim could imagine Tina Faraday, in gold shoes and green-lacquered toenails, swaying on the edge of a fountain while she portrayed love scorned. The image reminded him of Rita, wrathfully exploding over the telephone, and he wondered whether any woman ever accepted rejection gracefully.
Then he thought of the youthful Mark Hollenbach and tried to piece together a picture of the boy: proud, lonely, tormented by rigid, self-imposed standards, determined to excel, a natural student who nevertheless drove himself, obsessed with self-improvement, aloof, unable to form close, relaxed friendships, stirred by sexual guilt, yet a leader who earned the admiration and respect, if not the affection, of his fellows. Add almost forty years to the picture of the college boy, thought MacVeagh, and had the tone and shading changed much? Isometrics was unknown when Mark was at Denison, but had it been practiced, Jim could imagine young Hollenbach flexing his fingers and tightening his biceps, even as he did now.
Jim’s mind went back once more to the sessions at Camp David, to the eerie half-light, the volcanoes of anger over O’Malley and Spence, the talk of a conspiracy to ruin the President, and the gaudy, spangled vision of a super-union with Mark Hollenbach as the prime minister of everything from Bering Strait to the Baltic. The sun poured through the open window, warm as fire, but Jim felt the chill of fear as he had when riding back from the Catoctin Mountains the week before. He sensed that something was radically wrong with the man who sat in the White House, but he was at a loss as to what to do. Was he the only person in Washington who felt this? Rita had heard Mark erupt purposelessly over Davidge, the banker, but she dismissed it as an ordinary temper tantrum. Was MacVeagh alone in his surmises? And were they valid hunches, or was he beginning to fabricate and imagine a pattern that did not exist?
Night of Camp David Page 13