The Last Virginia Gentleman

by Michael Kilian

  “I’m a big supporter of the president,” Bloch said. “He’s my man.”

  “Are you working with your friends in the business community to get them behind the treaty?” Spencer smiled, as though this were all perfectly innocent.

  “I’m not a politician. I tend to my affairs.”

  “I suppose you’re spending a lot of time with your horses. I understand you’ve become quite the sportsman.”

  Bloch glared at him. If he were describing it in a column, Spencer would have called the look “murderous.” Spencer just kept smiling.

  “Who are you?” Bloch asked.

  “I’m the eyes and ears of the American people.”

  Bloch grabbed his wife’s arm and marched off down the hall, leaving Deena on her own with the reporters. His wife caught her foot on the hem of her gown, nearly tripping.

  “Who was that?” said one of the newswomen at Spencer’s elbow.

  “That’s Bernard Bloch, the Baltimore billionaire,” said another woman. “Donald Trump without hair.”

  “Does he have some connection with Mexico?”

  “None at all,” Spencer said. “He’s here because the president’s his man.”

  There is no head table at state dinners. The ten or eleven round tables set up in the state dining room, each seating up to ten, were arranged without precedence, although the president’s table was at the center, near the huge portrait of Abraham Lincoln above the room’s huge fireplace.

  Normally, Moody sat with the president’s party, but this night had taken pains to be seated next to Bloch’s wife at a table over to the side. As he feared, Sherrie had arrived more than half in the bag, and he didn’t want to trust any of his aides to see to her good behavior. As it was, it was all he could do to get her through the meal. She talked very loudly, and scattered pieces of lettuce from her salad onto the table-cloth around her plate. Thunder rattled the windows, adding to her nervousness. Soon they could hear the thud of heavy rain.

  As it turned out, Bloch was the only horseman they’d been able to get at the dinner, despite the honor of the invitation. Two had declined immediately; Lynwood Fairbrother had called late in the afternoon to say that only his wife would be attending. Lenore was at a table toward the center of the room. She ignored Moody completely through the evening.

  After dinner, the custom was for the guests to stroll about the White House’s long Cross Hall and other public rooms, as waiters served demitasse and liqueurs, before proceeding into the East Room for the evening’s entertainment, which this night would be an operatic soprano singing numbers from Carmen. The president and first lady in the meantime received the official Mexican party in the Blue Oval Room, posing for pictures with the Mexican president, Pablo Marantes, and his very beautiful wife.

  Usually, that was where Moody stationed himself, but now he instead went searching through the crowd for Lenore Fairbrother, finding her finally in the Red Room beneath the oil portrait of Angelica Singleton, Martin Van Buren’s coquettish daughter-in-law.

  Lenore was with General St. Angelo, and was being very charming. She wore a long, midnight blue, off-the-shoulder gown easily as expensive as Deena’s low-cut sequined Arnold Scaasi dress, and far more elegant. Lenore wore little jewelry, in contrast to the Tiffany window displayed on Deena’s ample chest. She had her hair swept back and up, exposing her long and regal neck. To Moody’s surprise, she greeted him effusively, complete with a kiss on the cheek.

  “Hello, Chiefy darling,” she said. “I’ve just been learning what a terribly important man you are around here.”

  St. Angelo gave Moody an embarrassed smile, then slipped away.

  “I’ve never been here before,” Lenore continued. “Isn’t that amazing? Of course, I’ve been to the palace simply zillions of times.”

  “The palace?”

  “Buckingham Palace, dear boy. And a weekend at Balmoral. My previous husband was knighted, though of course he did absolutely nothing to earn it. Simply slept around with the wives of the right members of the cabinet, and when it came time to draw up the honors’ list, there he was.” She looked around the room. “This is all very nice, of course. Very American.”

  “You’re American.”

  “Not really, darling. I’m a Virginian.”

  “Where’s your husband tonight? He stood up the president.”

  “No he didn’t, Chiefy. He stood up you. He wouldn’t think of coming. Not for a moment. Not after what you did to poor Captain Showers.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We all know what happened, Mr. Moody. Everyone in Dandy-town thinks it’s just despicable that you’d punish our local hero that dreadful way just because he wouldn’t sell your slimy little Baltimore friend a horse. That sort of thing just isn’t done, you know. It’s considered very low. If these were olden times, Captain Showers probably would have called you out by now, with Lynwood glad to be his second.”

  “Called me out?”

  “A duel, dear boy. Wouldn’t that be fun? Far more fun than this dull, dull dinner. Thank heavens I’m going to something far more amusing afterwards. Would you like to come, Chiefy? It would be fun to have you there. I don’t think anyone there will have ever met anyone like you.”

  “Mrs. Fairbrother. David Showers resigned. He was given a transfer. He refused to accept it. That was his decision, not mine. I had nothing to do with it. And I’ve nothing to do with that horse. That’s all between Showers and Bernie Bloch.”

  “Not true, Chiefy.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Fairbrother, but just how the hell would you know?”

  “You’d be simply amazed, Mr. Moody, at how much I know. How much we all know. Just because we own a few pickup trucks doesn’t make us rednecks. My father was an ambassador, y’know. He’s the one who got David into the State Department. My husband owns a rather large bank just up the street from here. The place next door to ours is the country retreat of a United States senator. That girl over there, who works in your press office? Her aunt and I came out together.”

  “Came out?”

  “Debutantes, dear boy. Don’t they have them where you come from?”

  He could feel the red in his face. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Fairbrother.”

  She took his arm, pulling him close.

  “Have I upset you, Chiefy? I didn’t mean to. I’m just teasing. Really. I’m sure that when you’re not being so important, you’re actually a very nice man. The same way that David is a very nice man, when he isn’t being so insufferably noble.”

  She looked up at him, staring into his face as though deeply fascinated. He couldn’t ignore the wicked curl to her smile, however.

  “We really ought to be friends, don’t you think?” she said, then kissed him on the cheek and swept away. He heard her shout “Darling!” to a tall man in glasses, someone from the U.S. trade office.

  The military ushers were encouraging people to move into the East Room for the entertainment. Moody started down the hall, but was caught up from behind by Deena. She looked angry, a mood with which he’d become very familiar in recent days.

  “You’ve got to do something about Sherrie Bloch,” she said. “She can barely stand up.”

  Moody glanced among the crowd for Bernie. He was by one of the marble pillars, talking with a congressman.

  “I’ll get Bernie,” he said.

  “Don’t bother him.”

  “Don’t bother him? She’s his wife!”

  “She might start yellin’ at him. Cause a terrible scene. Do you want that? They were quarreling on the way over.”

  “I shouldn’t have invited them.”

  “He shouldn’t have married her. God, what an awful woman.”

  “Look, I’ve got to join the president. You deal with her.”

  The entertainment segment of the evening proceeded without too much untoward incident, except for Deena and Sherrie Bloch taking their seats late, and Sherrie giving out a loud belch in a quiet moment
before the soprano began singing. A Secret Service man or someone also managed to knock a candlestick off a table in the rear during the president’s brief remarks at the conclusion. The president showed no irritation, however. On the contrary, he seemed quite ebullient. He and Marantes—a well-educated gentleman with perfect manners—had hit it off nicely. During their afternoon meeting, which Moody had attended along with acting Secretary of State Richmond, the Mexican had agreed to support American policy in Belize fully.

  Moody wasn’t cheerful. On top of everything else, he’d noticed Jack Spencer standing among all the women reporters in the press pool allowed to attend the “mix and mingle” that followed the dinner. Moody had thought he’d deep-sixed the man for good.

  He would talk to the first lady’s press office to make sure this didn’t happen again. Press pools shouldn’t be open to everyone, certainly not enemies of the administration.

  The last scheduled event of the evening was the dancing in the Grand Foyer, begun by ritual with the marine band playing “Shall We Dance?” and the president and first lady taking a few turns around the floor before inviting the others to join in. Not aware of the protocol—or much of anything else—Sherrie Bloch tried to drag her husband onto the floor at the same time. One of the military ushers discreetly held them back.

  Finally, the president nodded to the vice president and his wife. As they swept out onto the floor, the other guests did the same. As was expected of them, so did Moody and Deena. Her eyes were fixed on Sherrie Bloch.

  “You’ve got to get her out of here, Robert. She’s going to fall down.”

  “You do it,” he said. “Get them both out of here. You’re all so goddamn inseparable.”

  The Mexicans were leaving. Moody hurried to join the president as he escorted them out the door and down the front steps to their waiting motorcade. Marantes made a point of shaking Moody’s hand among all the others. The violent thunderstorms had passed and the warm night air was drying, though lingering puddles glistened on the pavement.

  As the cars sped away, the president paused on the steps.

  “This went splendidly, Bob,” he said. “Quite splendidly indeed. You were very helpful this afternoon.”

  “I’ve just kept abreast of things down there.”

  “Much better than Richmond.” He put his hand on Moody’s shoulder. “I’ve decided you should make this Far East trip. I’d like you to leave as soon as you can. If I know you, you’ve already made preparations.”

  “Yes sir.”

  They returned inside. The president took his wife by the arm, waved to the guests, then started up the grand staircase to the family quarters. They seldom lingered longer than the first dance.

  Moody looked for Deena to tell her the president’s decision. He was relieved when he couldn’t find her. He’d sprung the news that they might be traveling to Asia on her a few days before, and she’d not received it happily.

  “I don’t want to spend my vacation eating rice and bowing to a lot of women in kimonos,” she had said.

  “It’s important, damn it. If he lets me go, it’s because he wants to see how I’ll perform. I could damn well use your help.”

  “I’m not a geisha girl.”

  “You want to be Mrs. Secretary of State, don’t you? Well, this is a big part of the job.”

  “You don’t have the job yet. The way you’ve fumbled around getting Bernie back his horse, I’m surprised you have the job you have now.”

  “If the president says yes, we go. We both go.”

  They hadn’t spoken much since.

  Looking vainly among the dancers, Moody supposed Deena had gone off with the Blochs. The last time she’d done that, she’d stayed with them for the night in Baltimore.

  Moody felt an arm in his.

  “Shouldn’t we be going, Chiefy?” said Lenore Fairbrother.

  “What do you mean?”

  “To the party I told you about?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Dance with me.”

  “I thought you were mad at me.”

  “I am, darling, but that shouldn’t interfere with our having a good time.”

  He hesitated, then took her into his arms. He was a clumsy dancer, capable only of a minimal sort of two-step, but she managed to follow with considerable grace. She looked up at him seductively.

  “You were in the military, Chiefy?”

  “Yes. In Vietnam.”

  “An officer?”

  “Of course. I’m a lieutenant colonel in the reserves.”

  “That’s simply marvelous, Chiefy. I’ll introduce you as ‘Colonel.’”

  “Introduce me to whom?”

  “To the people at the party. You’ll love them. There’s a royal French princess, though I’m not sure whether she’s House of Orléans or one of the Bourbons. And Lady Sansome. And Harold Cooper, the press lord. And Jeffrey Esterhazy the painter. And just scads of divinely decadent people.”

  “Here in Washington?”

  “Yes, right here in deadly dull Washington.”

  General St. Angelo was watching them. So was Jack Spencer, leaning against a pillar, a notebook in his hand.

  “You’re joking,” Moody said.

  “I never joke about parties, Colonel darling. And anyway, I need a ride. It’s at an ambassador’s house, so it would be in the line of duty. You’re quite the diplomat, I hear.”

  Spencer was grinning at them.

  “It would be a crazy thing to do.”

  “It’s good to do something a little crazy once in a while.”

  “My wife …”

  “She left with your dear friend Mr. Bloch, and his loving wife.”

  “I can’t.”

  “The president’s gone to bed, darling. Are you a stuffy old early-to-bed bureaucrat, or a man who does what he wants?”

  She pulled herself snugly close to him. He could feel her breasts against his chest.

  “I’ll drop you off,” he said, “on my way home.”

  He dismissed his driver for the night and, locking his White House briefcase in the trunk of his black official car, took the wheel himself. She was fascinated by the glowing array of communications equipment beneath the dashboard and amused herself by pushing buttons until he insisted she stop.

  “Dear boy,” she said. “Are you afraid I might start a war?”

  The Northwest quadrant of the capital had taken a pounding from the storm. West of Rock Creek Park, a number of traffic lights along Massachusetts Avenue were darkened and still swaying in the wind. Tumbles of small branches and swaths of blown and rain-pressed green leaves covered large areas of the pavement. When, following her directions, he turned off into the dark, curving lanes that were the streets of the expensive residential district on the far side of the park, he found the going increasingly difficult. Huge old trees, felled by the winds, had fallen over the roadway in several places—at one point dragging down a menacing tangle of power lines. He had to back up several times, probing ever westward in search of an open thoroughfare.

  Moody became more and more uneasy about continuing with this adventure, and fought a compulsion to take Lenore back to Georgetown, where she said she was staying with friends, and then proceed directly home. But he was intrigued by everything about her, the expensive scent of her perfume, the mystical beauty of her classic profile glimpsed in the soft, faint light from the dashboard, the amazing fact of her sitting there beside him. He was excited. His experience with infidelity, begun in the last years of his first marriage, had been unexceptional enough—a couple of government secretaries in Annapolis thrilled to do it with the governor, a few frustrated wives of friends (including the then Mrs. Deena Atkinson), the occasional loose piece of ass like Vicky Clay. This woman was different. She had “special” stamped all over her. Hell, she’d been in the picture spreads of Town & Country magazine, and here she was playing seduction games with Bobby Mack Moody, born in a collection of shacks called Shivers Springs in
Jade County, West Virginia.

  Her directions led them to a narrow road that, with all the bordering house lights out, seemed to take them into a deep forest. At length they came to two large stone gateposts and she announced they had arrived.

  The driveway was blocked by a fallen tree some one hundred yards within, and the guests’ cars were parked in a disorderly jumble to either side of the asphalt paving, a few chauffeurs standing in a group, talking and smoking. Moody found an opening behind a long Cadillac and, with considerable difficulty, parked. He hit the button locking all the doors as soon as they were out of the car. It would take a safecracker to get into the trunk.

  A short, swarthy man who looked to be a servant guided them to the beginning of a path. Candles set in little plates had been placed along it, tiny beacons leading in zigzag fashion uphill through the trees and brush.

  “It’s rather like a fairy tale, isn’t it, Colonel?” she said, stepping lightly along the trail ahead of him. “A Grimm Brothers fairy tale. I love the Grimm Brothers, don’t you? So deliciously grim. Children eaten by witches. Ballerinas with their feet cut off.”

  One of the candles had gone out, and for a long stretch, they were completely in darkness, except for a glimmer of light falling between the treetops from a small sliver of moon. Tripping over a log, she lost her balance and fell against him. He caught her, his hand slipping to her breast.

  “Naughty, Colonel,” she said. “Naughty, naughty boy.” She lingered a moment tantalizingly in his arms, then slipped away, plunging on ahead. When she reached the light of the next candle, she ran in little leaps and bounds the rest of the way to the house, Moody stumbling along far behind.

  The house was huge. Their ambassadorial host represented a minor island nation in the Caribbean. Moody guessed he must be the wealthiest man in that country.

  He was standing at the front door, flashlight in hand. Lenore greeted him with a warm embrace, then turned to introduce her companion.

  “Sebastian, this is Colonel Moody. He runs the White House, I think, or possibly the world.”