The Last Virginia Gentleman

by Michael Kilian

  “I’m not after recognition. I just want to make a difference.”

  “This will make a difference. Think it over. Get back to me tomorrow.”

  Showers put the memo in his breast pocket, just as Sadinauskas turned to greet three men who were coming by their table. One was a congressman. The other two were lawyers—in Washington, another term for lobbyists—for a firm that represented a very large oil company. They carried on as though they all had been friends since grade school. Showers, as always, was polite.

  Moody, as was his habit, took his lunch at a small table set up beside his office fireplace. He ate hurriedly, then returned to his desk, resuming his work before the waiter from the White House mess could clear away the dishes.

  On his expensive, leather-bound blotter was a single piece of paper—what had been the president’s schedule:

  8:00 A.M.

  The president receives intelligence briefing with the chief of staff and the national security adviser. Oval Office.

  8:15 A.M.

  The president receives national security briefing with the vice president, the chief of staff, and the national security adviser. Oval Office.

  8:45 A.M.

  The president meets with the chief of staff. Oval Office.

  10:00 A.M.

  The president attends cabinet meeting. Cabinet Room.

  11:50A.M.

  The president telephones school pupil who has “saved a blade of grass” in nationwide environmental crusade.

  2:00 P.M.

  The president participates in briefing for regional reporters. Room 450, Old Executive Office Building.

  3:00 P.M.

  The president meets with treasury secretary. Oval Office.

  3:25 P.M.

  The president participates in presentation of the national education goals poster. Oval Office.

  3:30 P.M.

  The president participates in ceremony to honor winners of elementary school recognition program. South Lawn.

  4:30 P.M.

  The president meets with chief of staff. Oval Office.

  Except for the morning meeting with Moody and the telephone call to the school pupil, an Illinois boy who had won a prize for a science project involving organic mulch made from bathroom waste, the president had canceled the entire schedule. But Moody had not canceled the events. Enlisting the vice president to undertake the ceremonial chores, he had himself presided over a meeting of the cabinet and the briefing sessions, and would shortly undertake the one-on-one with the treasury secretary, who was worried about the strain that global pollution-control measures would place on the International Monetary Fund. Moody would tell him to shut up and do as he was told, like a good member of the team.

  In a magazine article appearing years after the Ford administration had slipped into history as a footnote to Watergate, former White House chief of staff Donald Rumsfeld had listed a set of rules for those who followed him into that job.

  One was, “When in doubt, you have no choice but to move decisions up to the president.”

  Moody had never once been in doubt.

  Another was, “Don’t play president—you’re not. The Constitution provides for only one president.” The Constitution had not provided for a president who would cancel important cabinet meetings and national security briefings so he could pen a short note of condolence to the widow of an old school chum.

  Another of Rumsfeld’s rules was, “Be able to resign. It will improve your value to the president and do wonders for your performance.” Moody saw no need whatsoever for improvement in either his value or performance, and could conceive of only one circumstance under which he would be willing to leave his job.

  He had been thinking about it for months, but never had the possibility so concentrated his mind as it had that day, ever since the moment when he’d learned of Hollis’s death.

  For all its power and responsibility, its endless hours and toil, its enormous risks and constant testing, the job of White House chief of staff led nowhere. For anyone who harbored presidential ambitions—and, deep in his or her soul, anyone who’d ever been elected to anything harbored at least some wild fantasy of that—the most direct route to the president’s chair lay through the inconsequential and often ridiculous office of vice president. For a public official like Moody, who’d never had the exposure of a run in national politics, the best hope of gaining that lay in cabinet office.

  Thomas Jefferson and Martin Van Buren had first done duty in the cabinet before ascending to the vice presidency, and thence to a greater glory beyond. Rumsfeld and James Baker, who’d virtually run the country while serving as chiefs of staff, had both chafed at the thanklessness and anonymity of that post, and had craftily switched to the cabinet—Rumsfeld to secretary of defense and Baker to secretary of state—where both had performed brilliantly and became at least presidential contenders.

  Like Baker, Moody meant to become vice president, and knew that meant becoming secretary of state first. The president had been elected on the single issue of the environment, and had staked his all on the success of his treaty initiative. If Moody could deliver his boss that, he could ask for the world and the president would give it to him. Moody had been surprised—indeed, stunned—at the depth of loyalty and affection the president had maintained for Skip Hollis. But now Hollis was dead, and the way wide open. Ratification of the treaty could clinch everything. He had no other way.

  Showers’ newspaperman cousin Jack Spencer was only a few years older than he, and, unlike Showers, his hair still retained much of its natural sandy color. But he seemed a considerably older man. Early in his career, Spencer had been a police reporter; later, a foreign correspondent. Between wars and crimes, he had walked in a lot of blood. If some stories about him were true, he had even killed a couple of men—a government soldier in El Salvador and an Irish Republican Army Provo in Ulster, the latter as he was attempting to bomb Jack’s hotel in Dunmurray.

  He had been working for some years now as a columnist for one of the smaller supplemental wire services in Washington, and his time at this had aged him more than anything—the craven hypocrisy of what he called the spectacle of the American people trying to govern themselves engendering a contempt and cynicism that had lined his face far more deeply than any of the fearsome violence he’d experienced. He’d once been married to a rich, frivolous woman who had made him miserable, but he was just as miserable now that they were divorced. Another woman he’d loved deeply had been murdered. He later discovered that she’d been a Central Intelligence operative who had been using him, but that only worsened his grief.

  He no longer sailed. Off or on duty, he now spent much of his time in bars. Showers met him in the Round Robin, just off the lobby of the Willard Hotel. Restoring the lounge to its turn-of-the-century antique magnificence, the hotel management had hoped it would attract the newsmen and women from the nearby National Press Building, as it had in the days of Mark Twain, but heavy drinking was an anachronism with such people nowadays, and the bar’s customers ran largely to hotel guests and tourists. Spencer preferred it that way. No one bothered him.

  He was as tall as Showers, and even thinner. Standing hunched over the bar, he seemed smaller than his true size. He looked askance at Showers’ cane.

  “Is this a new State Department affectation, or did you take another little tumble out there in horseman’s paradise?”

  “The latter,” said Showers. “The whole weekend was a shambles. A horse was killed. One of the riders broke his leg and is out of action for good. And a trainer and her husband died of a drug overdose.”

  “Sounds pretty typical for your set. Did you win anything?”

  “One small race. I lost the Valley Dragoon Chase, the one my father always wanted to win. I sprained my ankle in the process.”

  “Tragedy all the way around. My mother always said you people were stark, staring mad. I hope you got laid at least.”

  Showers said nothing. Spencer was dr
inking a manhattan, and not his first. He was the only person Showers knew who still indulged in those things. Showers ordered a Diet Coke.

  “You said you needed my advice,” Spencer said.

  Showers handed him the memo Sadinauskas had given him. Spencer lighted his pipe, and read through it carefully.

  “Is this real?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “If it is, it means the president is about to demand that the Japanese start buying Zenith television sets. I know his head goes ding dong when he shakes it, but is he this nuts?”

  “I haven’t talked to him. This was passed on to me by someone in the administration. They want me to find some suitable Japanese diplomat and let him see this—get the message across that way. It’s intended as an encouragement to get the Japanese to sign the Earth Treaty.”

  Spencer handed it back. “I don’t know what advice I can give you. I don’t know any suitable Japanese diplomats. I don’t know any diplomats who are suitable for much of anything—yourself excepted, of course.”

  “That’s not the problem. I know a fellow in their fisheries section. The thing is, I don’t think I want to do it.”

  “Show him this memo?”

  “That’s right. I suspect it’s a bluff. I think they just want to make use of the credibility I have with these people to make them think the threat is real.”

  “How lucky for the White House to find an actual honest man in Washington. Honest men tell the best lies.”

  “An honest man wouldn’t do this.”

  “Did they order you to?”

  “No. It was all very unofficial, more like a request for a favor.”

  The bartender brought Showers’ Coke. Spencer pointed to his now empty glass.

  “Do you think this could help with the treaty?”

  “Yes. I suppose it could. I have to be honest about that.”

  “So you’re left with a rotten choice, eh? Stick to your principles and maybe hurt the treaty, or do the sleazeball thing and help the worthy cause.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell you, cousin. If that’s the way it looks to you, you probably ought to say the hell with your job and sign up with the Sierra Club or the Fund for Animals. Nothing sleazy or slimy about those guys. They always stick to their principles. That’s because they don’t have to make any choices.”

  “Why should I resign? There’s nothing in my job description about this sort of thing.”

  “You know what I’ve always said about wars? They’re not won by heroes and great generals. They’re won by the fools who make fewer dumb mistakes than the fools on the other side. Well, treaties and laws don’t get passed by heroes, either. They get passed by sleazeballs who make fewer mistakes than the other side’s sleazeballs.”

  “If I want to make a difference in this I have to become a sleazeball, is that it?”

  “If you want a nice word for it, call it pragmatism.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Well, that’s my advice. Let me see that memo again.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to look at that name.” He read it aloud. “Peter Napier. Never heard of him.”

  Moody was in the carpeted main hallway of the West Wing, talking to one of the president’s legislative aides, when his secretary came up to tell him Bernie Bloch was on the line. Moody didn’t mind his friend calling him at the White House, as long as it wasn’t very often and Bloch was careful about what he said. But he didn’t like being summoned to the phone. And he was sure he wouldn’t like what Bloch had to say.

  He thought for a moment of telling her to take a message, but he didn’t want Bloch any more angry with him than he doubtless already was.

  “Hello, Bernie. I hope this is important.”

  “You know what it’s about.” He sounded surprisingly calm.

  “I’m really sorry about having to leave like that last night, Bernie, but we had a few fires to put out here. First things first, you know? Anyway, I had one of my guys call Deena. Didn’t she get hold of you in time?”

  There was a pause on the other end.

  “Not in time, Bobby. The horse went to someone else. Your daughter.”

  “May? You’re kidding.”

  “Not kidding. She and the horse took off to someplace I don’t know where. And I’m fucking stuck.”

  “Bernie, this is a White House phone.”

  “I really wanted that horse, Bobby. Had my heart set on him. I figure maybe she did it because I’m your friend. It was a way to put the screws to you.”

  “I never talked to her, Bernie. She took off before I could even say hello. I’m sure she had no idea you had an interest in that horse.”

  “I’d like to get in touch with her, Bobby.”

  Moody was not about to let that happen. May was hostile enough as it was.

  “I can’t help you. She hasn’t spoken to me in three years. She lives out in California, you know.”

  “I know. Her phone’s unlisted. I tried. I thought maybe you could give me her number.”

  “Sorry. She moved some time ago. I don’t know where she is now. She might still be in Washington.”

  “Maybe Geneva could help me find her. Do you have Geneva’s number out there in West Virginia?”

  “She won’t give it to you. She won’t even talk to me. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, Bernie. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll catch you later. We have a few things going on here right now.”

  “Bobby, I’m asking you as a friend, as your best friend.”

  One of the first things Moody had learned about Washington was that every time you picked up a government phone, you ran the risk of a tape recorder clicking on somewhere.

  “You’re my friend,” Moody said, “but I’ve got a boss, too. We’ll talk about this later. All right?”

  “Not so all right.”

  This horse racing was getting to Bloch’s head.

  “Later, Bernie.”

  To Moody’s surprise, Deena was exceedingly nice to him when he got home a little after nine that night. She didn’t bring up the weekend in the country at all, and didn’t object when he asked to skip a party at the British embassy she had been looking forward to attending for weeks.

  In bed, she gave him her full special treatment. Afterward, settling softly into sleep, he indulged himself for a moment with a thought of what it would be like to be serviced in that manner by Lenore Fairbrother. He suspected she wouldn’t be cold and aloof and passive, as he had once thought was the case with all women of her class. She’d be different from Deena, though; not so skilled and clever, more wild and crazy.

  “Bob?” said Deena, moving close to him. “I’ve been thinking about May.”

  “You and Bernie. He called me at the White House today. It’s a little weird. May bought that horse he wanted.”

  “I heard. But that’s not what I was thinking about.”

  Moody lay there, fully awake now. May and Deena had once had a nearly violent confrontation, before his divorce from Geneva had come through—back when May was still buying vodka by the half gallon, and topping it off with pills.

  “It was a real shock running into her out there,” Deena said.

  “That it was.”

  “She’s still as beautiful as ever.”

  “Maybe more.”

  “This may sound crazy, but I think she’d like a reconciliation. I think she’d like to end this war between you two.”

  “Not a chance. You saw how she ran off.”

  “But why did she come to Washington, then? This is your town.”

  “She’s going to do a play at the Shakespeare Theatre, like it said in the Post.”

  “But why Washington? Why not New York or some other city?”

  “She’ll be near her mother.”

  “Nearer to you.”

  “You’re dreaming, Deena. If she wanted to make peace with me, she would have called. I think she took this Shakespeare job just because she wen
t to Juilliard. The theater has a big connection with Juilliard. A lot of kids from Juilliard do plays there.”

  “I’d like to call her, Bob. Someday, I’d like her to accept me as your wife.”

  Deena had a big thing about movie stars. She loved being around them. Having one as a stepdaughter—a stepdaughter who didn’t treat her like dirt—would be a big deal for Deena.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I’d like to try. What can it hurt?”

  “No, Deena.”

  She sat up. “I’ll write her a letter. Do you have her new address?”

  Moody wanted to get to sleep. “She gets mail through her agent. Nick Aaronson or something. He’s with Coast Talent Associates, in Santa Monica. But she won’t answer you. I guarantee it.”

  “Thank you, darlin’.”

  She lay back and curled up against him, her flesh warm against his side. She only snuggled with him like this when she was very pleased with him.

  Six

  It took Showers several days to reach his decision. In the end, it was so simple he felt foolish. The treaty would mean little without ratification by the United States. It would mean just as little without the Japanese. He would do what was asked of him. No one had suggested that he commit murder. It wasn’t as though he was in the bombardier’s seat aboard the Enola Gay, bound for Hiroshima. He had merely to lie, and he might find a way to avoid even having to do that.

  He arranged to meet his friend Mr. Kurosawa of the Japanese embassy for lunch at the Gangplank Restaurant, near Capitol Hill on the embankment of the Washington Channel marina, the closest thing the District of Columbia had to a city waterfront.