The Last Virginia Gentleman

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The Last Virginia Gentleman Page 24

by Michael Kilian


  “I hate the man,” she said quietly. “He’s my father’s oldest friend and he’s a slimy sonofabitch. He introduced my father to the … to the woman who’s now my stepmother.” She studied her cigarette. “Excuse me. I shouldn’t be saying such things. I hardly know you.”

  “I work for your father, in a sense. I’m with the State Department. I’ve been reporting to him on this environmental treaty we’re working on. I’m afraid your father has involved himself in the matter of the horse. It was he who made the offer to me—on Bloch’s behalf. It’s put me in rather a difficult position.”

  “You mean he’s leaning on you, as he would put it?”

  “It’s an apt word.”

  “And a man was killed in that fire?”

  “It was very bad. We were lucky to save the horses.”

  “Oh God.” The words came out in a stream of smoke. She shook her head, then wiped at the corner of an eye, smudging her mascara slightly. The floorboards above them creaked. Then stopped.

  “The young man who bothered you the night of the auction,” Showers said. “His name’s Billy Bonning. He used to work for me. He’s … he was Becky’s husband. He works for Bloch now. He’s caused us some trouble here. Last night he gave Becky a beating. The sheriff put him in jail for the night, but he had to let him go when Becky wouldn’t press charges. I’ve warned him to stay away—I made a rather serious threat—but I’m worried. Bloch seems to want that horse very badly indeed.”

  She covered her eyes with her hands, keeping them there until she had recovered her composure. Finally, pushing her hair back from her face, she took them away, staring sadly at the tabletop.

  “Every goddamned thing I try to do …” Her words embarrassed her. She turned away, looking out the window.

  “I’m really sorry to be intruding on you with all this,” he said. “I just wanted to explain why I felt it necessary to move the horse. It’s in hiding, really. It’s a terrible shame. I don’t mean to cause any problems with your father.”

  “There’s nothing you could do that would make that any worse.” She put out her cigarette and started to take out another. Hesitating, she put it back.

  “I’d rather you didn’t discuss this with him,” Showers said.

  “We don’t talk.”

  “I’ve declined his offer. In writing.”

  “Can he do anything to you? In your job? He’s got a terrible temper.”

  “No. Of course not.” It was a necessary lie. “I’m protected under civil service laws. There’s nothing for you to worry about. But I’m going to keep the horse hidden away for a while. I’ve started an investigation into its papers. When I get enough information, I’m going to take legal action. A lawsuit, to clear up the title. If you don’t mind, Miss Percy and I would like to make you a party to the suit. I mean on our side of things. It would help enormously. You’re the biggest victim in this, in a sense. You’re out a lot of money.”

  “Money?”

  “The only legal alternative would be for Alixe and me to sue you, and that’s a dreadful idea. This is an awful muddle. If you’d join us in this, just sign a court brief, we’d take care of everything. You wouldn’t be bothered any further.”

  She sighed, then turned back to him. “No, Captain Showers. I don’t want this to go any further. I’ll take back the horse.” She reached into her purse and took out a checkbook. “Just tell me how much you want.”

  “Want? I don’t want anything. My intention is to pay you back, for all your trouble.”

  “I’ve caused all the trouble.” She began writing. “Just sign the papers over to me and tell me where I can send someone for the horse.”

  “But Miss Moody. Where would you keep it? You’re staying in Washington?”

  “I’m in one of the little apartments on Capitol Hill the theater keeps for actors. I moved my things in yesterday morning. I was looking forward to a lovely little vacation before I start rehearsals. Another plan gone to hell.” She tore the check from the pad. “Here’s five thousand dollars. Will that cover what you’ve spent?”

  “Miss Moody, please!”

  May stood up, staring at the check, her eyes blurring with the beginning of tears. She barely knew this good man, but was dead certain that he’d never accept her money, that he’d insist on working his way out of this mess she’d visited upon him on his own, that she was only getting in his way.

  Money. Always money. It had haunted her life like some dread inherited disease. She’d tried to escape her father’s money by making her own, but it had caused just as many problems. Maybe more. Her mother had never cared for money, never depended on it. She’d confronted the miseries that came her way without recourse to it, and so had survived them, ably. She was even happy, out there in West Virginia. May wondered what it must feel like, being that happy.

  “Very well,” May said, taking back the check. She gathered her things up and put them in her purse. “I have to go back now. I’m sorry.”

  “Please stay. I know Alixe would like to see you. If you like, I’ll take you to see the stallion.”

  “No point in that. I’ll find some way to get my father off your back. I have a friend in Washington. He’s with a bank. I’ll have him work things out with you about the horse.” She started toward the door.

  “Will we see you again?”

  “Goodbye, Captain Showers.”

  He hesitated, then followed her outside. She got into her little car and started the engine. He got there in time to put his hand on the door before she could drive away.

  “Miss Moody …”

  “You’re a nice man,” she said. “Sorry you were unlucky enough to have someone like me cross your path.”

  She stared at his hand. Realizing his discourtesy, he removed it. May ground the car into gear and sped away, fleeing to no place she wanted to go.

  Eleven

  US. Postal Service express mail had no special priority in a White House where communications marked SECRET and TOP SECRET sometimes languished unread for days unless they were marked with special priority codes. Showers’ letter, delivered before ten A.M. to the White House mail room in the New Executive Office Building on 17th Street, did not reach Chief of Staff Moody’s desk until late that afternoon. Because it was not in any official envelope, it was almost routed to the general correspondence section, where “Dear Mr. President” letters arrived in the hundreds every day. But one of the White House secretaries remembered Showers’ name from the clearance sheets for the intergovernmental council meetings on the treaty and saw to its expeditious delivery.

  Moody, returning from a National Security Council conference chaired by the president, glanced at it, pushed it aside to attend to his phone messages, then snatched it back, deciding he wanted to get this little extracurricular problem behind him as soon as possible.

  He read the one-line message, leaned back in his chair, and swore. At least the sonofabitch had gotten directly to the point, instead of meandering around it with the long, mealy-mouthed, cautious obfuscation that might be expected from most of his State Department colleagues.

  But Showers wouldn’t play. He had sent Moody a “Fuck you.” Moody didn’t like those. Not from deputy assistant secretaries.

  He reached for his phone, prepared to raise hell with every minion at State until Showers was brought onto the line, then recalled that the man was out in Virginia, taking days off. It occurred to him that he really didn’t want to talk to Showers anyway. He had done what Bernie had asked—a little more than he’d asked, actually—and now he’d get out of it. Some things, to paraphrase Bogie in Casablanca, didn’t amount to a hill of beans. Moody had a country to run.

  He called Bloch’s private office number, but got his secretary. She said Bernie was in his Rolls, headed for Baltimore, and gave Moody the number of his car phone. Moody swore again. The only thing less secure than a car phone was fucking skywriting.

  “Good to hear from you, Bobby,” said Bloch, his voice surpr
isingly loud and clear. “Sooner than I thought, or don’t you have anything to tell me?”

  “Nothing good. The ‘captain’ won’t go for it. His answer amounts to what McAuliffe said to the Germans at Bastogne.”

  “Did you …?”

  “Everything we discussed. No dice.”

  He could imagine Bernie chewing furiously on his cigar at this moment.

  “Can you talk to him again?” Bloch said. “You know, no more Mr. Nice Guy?”

  Bernie was asking too much. It was one thing to yank the string of some obscure political appointee ambassador off in Iceland without explanation. It was something else to mess with a veteran government official with connections when he was expecting trouble, no matter how far down the ladder he was. There were a lot of diabolical things Moody could arrange to do to Showers—he’d done a lot worse to much higher-ranking people who’d crossed him—but he’d have to be damned careful about it. And it would take time. He had no more time for this.

  “No can do. Not now.”

  “Bobby, your daughter’s been talking to him.”

  “May’s in Washington? How do you know that?”

  “I’ve got friends in Dandytown. They saw her out at his place. Old yellow Volkswagen, right?”

  She’d had that car five years. No movie star Lamborghinis for a Cumberland, Maryland, girl. Or maybe junk wheels had become Hollywood chic.

  “I want you to leave May out of this, Bernie. This is the last time I’m going to tell you.” Moody wondered how much of this his secretary might be catching. He should have sent her on some errand before placing the call.

  “I understand. But it would sure be appreciated, you know, if she could help us out a little here.”

  Us? “No go, Bernie. The way things stand, I doubt she’d help me out of the pits of hell.”

  Bloch didn’t respond. Moody drummed his fingers on the phone base. This was taking too long.

  “Tell you what,” Bloch said finally. “Why don’t you and Deena come out to my beach place this weekend?”

  “Negative. I’ll be with the president at Camp David. I’ll see you at the state dinner, remember? It’s not that far off.”

  “Yeah, right. My big night at the White House.” He didn’t sound happy about it.

  “Big night. You can talk horses with all the Mexicans.”

  “You know, Bobby. If you can’t do anything for me, I’m going to have to take care of this myself.”

  “Whatever. I’m in kind of a hurry now.”

  “Okay, my friend.”

  “Just remember what I said. Leave May alone.”

  “Not a hair of her head, Bobby. We’ll see you.”

  Moody sat quietly for a moment after hanging up. He didn’t want to think about this anymore. There was too much else going on. On top of everything, the bastards in Belize were shooting off guns again. With the president’s permission, he and St. Angelo had asked the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to send in more marines.

  He clicked on his intercom.

  “Where’s General St. Angelo, damn it? I need him now!”

  Showers came back to Washington much sooner than he had planned. Becky had fallen into a sullen funk from which she refused to emerge, and Showers had found it impossible to stay around her. It didn’t matter that she spent most of her time in the cottage or stable. The threat of another explosion became oppressive. She’d come to remind him of a very dangerous horse he’d once owned. It would be compliant, if irritable, for weeks on end, and then of a sudden turn violent and try to throw him. He’d kept it, uselessly, for nearly a year. Alixe had urged him to have it destroyed or sold to a slaughterhouse, but he’d resisted, only to have it kill itself by throwing a tantrum in the stable yard and running out into the road in front of a car.

  He wanted desperately to help Becky, but simply didn’t know how. While in Washington, he thought he’d have a talk with her parents. He’d have to work himself up for that, just as he would to pay a call on May Moody at the theater.

  There was a small surprise waiting for him at his apartment. In the pile of gathering mail was a letter from his National Guard unit. He’d had to skip his last two monthly meetings because of work on the treaty, and he feared this might be some official notice that he’d gotten himself in trouble. Instead, it was merely a reminder that his two weeks of summer camp was coming up at the end of the month. He’d be spending July Fourth at Fort A. P. Hill north of Richmond, where the support company he ostensibly commanded was to take part in a field exercise.

  It might be a godsend. He could get away from everything there. But first he had a lot of business to attend to, most of it to do with that beautiful bay.

  He reached the owners of the stallion’s sire and dam. The Pennsylvania woman was rude and difficult at first, but both told him exactly what he’d expected to hear. The foal of that breeding had indeed had only two white stockings, unlike the bay, and it would now be a five-year-old. They knew nothing at all about the purchaser. The colt had been sold at auction as a yearling. They’d heard nothing of the New Jersey outfit before or since.

  Moody had let his letter go unremarked. Showers’ superiors at State said nothing out of the ordinary. Showers continued to go up to Capitol Hill when summoned by senatorial staff. He participated in his intergovernmental council meetings, including one held in the Roosevelt Room in the White House. Moody had dropped in at one, sitting quietly in a corner for a few minutes, glancing at Showers only once. Then he’d left, leaving no summons or message for Showers when the meeting concluded.

  Sheriff Cooke made a promise over the phone to keep an eye on his and Alixe’s farms, and Alixe said he’d made good on it. No one in Dandytown had seen any sign of Bloch. Billy Bonning, according to reports, had moved into his girlfriend’s place in Charlottesville, apparently tiring of the housekeeping at the Raiders Motel. Lenore had gone off to spend a few days with friends—doubtless at least one of them male—in Saratoga. Lynwood was anxious to see a copy of the treaty, which Showers was not yet able to provide, but had not heard anything back from his horse friends in England. Showers considered having the embassy in London check through British newspaper files for stories of horse theft, but that would be an unpardonably personal use of official channels.

  In time, settling into an uninterrupted routine of long, dull hours at work and an occasional movie or drop-by at an embassy reception, he began to let his worries diminish.

  Then, on a Sunday morning, this lulling interlude came abruptly to a halt. He picked up his Washington Post and New York Times from the hallway and brought them out onto his small balcony overlooking a corner of the harbor. Filling his coffee cup, he began his ritual weekend read. There was not a lot of interest in the Post’s main news and world news sections, but when he turned to “Outlook” and its op-ed page, a column headlined TRADE WAR WITH JAPAN? jumped to his eye.

  He froze. It was a guest column, run as outside opinion. The author was Jack Spencer.

  It mentioned no names, but noted disapprovingly that reports were circulating in the capital about secret White House attempts to threaten Japan with trade embargoes and punitive restrictions and regulations if it didn’t support the world environmental pact. It alleged that the administration was even passing around an internal memo outlining the punitive measures to be taken.

  In Washington, this would go off like a bomb. The Japanese would read it. Moody would read it. Showers felt just as he had the moment Moonsugar had lost control going over that last jump. The ground was rushing toward him.

  Twelve

  “Do you have any idea what all this is about?” the president asked Moody.

  They were seated on the screened porch of his Camp David lodge. Moody had come over to join his boss for breakfast and a discussion of what might be accomplished at the routine conference that had been scheduled after the president’s morning tennis game. He accepted the folded newspaper page with a courteous nod, looking at the op-ed column that the p
resident had circled with his fountain pen, causing a slight tear in the paper.

  Moody gave a start. He knew the columnist Jack Spencer as one of the Washington press corps’ burned-out gang, a man who lived from day to day and drink to drink, not caring what he turned out anymore, as long as it filled the space. He hadn’t attended a White House daily press briefing in weeks. Moody had feared from the beginning that reports about the “Napier memo” might get into the press. Spencer was the very last person he’d expect to end up with a scoop.

  “Beats the hell out of me, sir,” he said, setting down the paper. “Somebody’s blowing smoke.”

  “How in heaven’s name could they print something like that?”

  “It’s an opinion page, sir. They run all kinds of crazy things there.”

  “I’ve never heard of this columnist. Do you suppose he could be related to the New York Spencers?”

  The monumental inconsequence of that particular almost made Moody laugh. “He’s one of the minor newsies. Not a major player. Shows up sometimes for the briefings. He works for one of the smaller supplemental wires. I think most of their clients are in the Midwest.”

  “The Midwest.” The president spoke the word as though it were some foreign, exotic place. “Do you suppose he talked to someone in the administration? Or is this just rumor-mongering?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but I’m going to find out.”

  “Well, you take care of it, then.” He glanced at Moody’s clothing—another dark business suit. “Now, will you be able to join us for tennis today? I’m told you’ve been taking lessons.”

  To the president, a person who didn’t play tennis was almost as alien a being as someone who didn’t sail. Moody’s inexperience as concerned the latter hadn’t been that much of a problem. When he went out with the president on his boat, all he really had to do was sit there, and occasionally yank on a rope—which the president insisted on calling a “sheet.” Moody’s inability to play tennis, however, had been a surprisingly embarrassing deficiency. He’d enrolled in a course of lessons, but found them so time-consuming he’d dropped out early on.

 

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