Yet now, as he stared down at the Genessee notebooks piled beside the folded newspaper, he found himself strangely reluctant to plunge back into the work he’d set aside three days ago. He’d traveled to and from his River Styx. Like Charon, he’d carried the souls of the dead across the turbulent waters, and now he needed rest, peace. He had to get out from the lower world for a while.
And Genessee Industries was the lower world.
Or was it? Or was it, instead, only the maximum efforts of misguided men seeking reasonable solutions in unreasonable times?
It was only nine-fifteen in the morning, but Trevayne decided to take the rest of the day off. Perhaps one carefree day—one free of care—with Phyllis was what he needed.
To get the battery charged again.
Roderick Bruce threw the newspaper across the room and swore at the blue velour walls. That hard-on son-of-a-bitch had betrayed him! That Corn Belt butcher had waltzed him, and when the music stopped, kicked him in the balls and run back to the White House!
… the slaying lent considerable credence to Major Paul Bonner’s claim … assaulted prior to allegedly killing … caught in the crossfire of a gangland war … performed outstandingly …
Bruce swept his tiny arm across the breakfast tray, sending the dishes crashing to the floor. He kicked the blankets off the bed—his and Alex’s bed—and leaped onto the lime flotaki rug. He could hear the sound of the maid’s footsteps; she was running down the outside corridor toward his room, and he shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Stay out of here, you black cunt!”
He ripped his Angkor Wat night shirt—the silk sleeping gown given him by Alex—as he pulled it over his head. Naked on the soft rug, his foot touched the upturned coffee cup; he reached down, picked it up, and slammed it against the onyx bedside table.
He sat down at his desk and purposely straightened his bare back so that it was flat, hard against the chair. He kept his muscles taut, his posture rigid. It was an exercise he used often to discipline himself. To gain control of excessive feelings.
He’d shown Alex one night; a rare evening when they’d fought. Over some silly thing that was inconsequential … the roommate, that was it. The dirty roommate from Alex’s old apartment on 21st Street. The dirty, filthy roommate who wanted Alex to drive him up to Baltimore because he had too much luggage for the train.
They’d fought that night. But Alex finally understood how the dirty, filthy roommate was taking advantage of him, and so he called him up and told him absolutely no. After the telephone call, Alex was still upset, so Rod—Roger—showed him his bedroom desk exercise, and Alex began to laugh. It was a happy laugh; Alex was actually giddy. He told Roger that his exercise in discipline was almost pure Hindu Kantamani, an ancient religious punishment for young boys the priests found masturbating.
Bruce pressed his naked back harder into the chair. He could feel the buttons of the blue-velvet upholstery cutting into his flesh. But it was working; he was thinking clearly now.
Bobby Webster had given him two photographs of Trevayne and De Spadante together in De Spadante’s hospital room in Greenwich. The first photograph depicted Trevayne seemingly explaining something to the bedridden gangster. The second showed Trevayne looking angry—“disgruntled” was perhaps more accurate—at something De Spadante had just said. Webster had told him to hold them for seventy-two hours. That was important. Three days. Bruce would understand.
Then the following afternoon Webster had called him all over town, trying to find him. The White House aide was in a panic—as much of a panic as he allowed himself. He demanded the photographs back, and before he even heard the agreeable reply, began threatening White House retaliation.
And Webster had sworn to impose executive isolation if one word about Trevayne’s visit to De Spadante was even hinted at in print.
Roderick Bruce relaxed his posture, let his back fall away from the chair. He recalled Webster’s exact words when he asked the White House aide if Trevayne or De Spadante or the photographs would have any bearing on Paul Bonner’s murder charge.
“None whatsoever. There’s no connection; that stands as is. We’re controlling that on all sides.”
But he hadn’t controlled it. He hadn’t even been able to manage the Army lawyer defending Bonner. A Pentagon lawyer!
Bobby Webster hadn’t lied; he’d lost his clout. He was helpless. He used strong threats, but he hadn’t the muscle to carry them out.
And if there was one thing Roger Brewster of Erie, Pennsylvania, had learned in the cosmopolitan world of the Washington orbit, it was to take advantage of a helpless man, especially one who’d recently lost his muscle. Specifically, one who was helpless and had lost his muscle and was close to power and closer still to panic.
Behind such a man was usually a hell of a story. And Bruce knew how to get it. He’d made copies of the photographs.
Brigadier General Lester Cooper watched the man with the attaché case walk down the path to his car. The Vermont snow was deep and the path not shoveled well. But the driveway was fine. The snow plow had done a fine job all the way out to the road. And the man’s car was a heavy automobile with huge snow tires. He’d be all right.
Such men were always all right. Men who worked in skyscrapers for other men like Aaron Green. They moved in cloud-high offices with soft carpeting and softer lights. They spoke quietly into telephones and referred to complex figures—most often with decimal points and percentages within those decimals.
They dealt in the subtleties Brigadier General Lester Cooper abhorred.
He watched the large automobile turn around in the small parking area and start off down the drive. The man waved, but there was no smile, no sense of friendliness. No thanks for having been treated hospitably in spite of the fact that he had arrived without warning, without announcement.
The subtleties.
And the news he brought to the Rutland farmhouse was a subtlety Lester Cooper felt he would never understand. But then, they didn’t ask him to understand, just be aware of, follow instructions. For the good of everyone. The Pentagon would benefit more than any other area of the government; he was assured of that.
Andrew Trevayne, President of the United States.
It was incredible.
It was preposterous.
But if the man from Aaron Green said it was a realistic consideration, Andrew Trevayne was halfway to his inauguration.
Lester Cooper turned away from the path and started back toward the house. As he approached the thick Dutch door he changed his mind and veered off to the left. The powdered snow was lying loose above a hard base, and his feet sank in up to his ankles. He had no boots or galoshes on, but the cold wetness didn’t bother him. There was the winter of forty-four, when he hopped off tanks into the snow-cold mud, and it hadn’t bothered him then either. Patton, George Patton, kept yelling at him: “… Cooper, you stupid son-of-a-bitch! Get the goddamn regulation boots on! We’re barrel-assing into a Kraut winter, and you act like it was springtime in Georgia! Take that shit-eating grin off your face!”
He’d yelled right back at George; always smiling, of course. Boots inhibited his tank driving. Shoes were fine.
Patton.
This would have been beyond him, too.
Cooper reached the end of the backyard lawn, fully covered with virgin snow. The sky was dull; one could hardly see the mountains in the distance. But they were there, and not treacherous, and he would look at them every day for the rest of his life—in a very short time.
As soon as he organized the logistics of Aaron Green’s strategy—his part of it, the military end. It wouldn’t be difficult; the combined services were all aware of the enormous contributions of Genessee Industries. They were also aware that the future held the greatest military promise in history if Genessee became—as they wanted it to become—the true civilian spokesman for all of them. And if Andrew Trevayne was Genessee’s candidate, that was all that mattered.
The word would be passed throughout every post, airfield, training center, and naval station in the world. No identification yet, only the alert. The advance cue that a name would be forthcoming, and that name was the man Genessee Industries and the Pentagon wanted as President. Schedules with proper allocations of space and time should be prepared, allowing for indoctrination courses for all officers and enlisted men and women. Under the heading of “Current Affairs,” of course. Separate facilities for regular and reserve personnel, as approaches would vary considerably.
It could be done. None of the uniformed services wanted to slide back to the days before Genessee Industries was such a large part of its line of supply.
And when the order came to release the name, Xeroxes and printing presses and mimeograph machines in all parts of the earth where the American serviceman was stationed or at sea would be activated around the clock. From Fort Dix, New Jersey, to Bangkok, Thailand; from Newport News to Gibraltar.
The military could deliver over four million votes.
Lester Cooper wondered if it would come to that. Would it really be Andrew Trevayne?
And why?
It would have been comforting to call Robert Webster and find out what he knew; that wasn’t possible now. The man from Aaron Green had made it clear.
Webster was frozen out.
Of course, no one was to be told anything yet. But Bobby Webster wasn’t even to be talked to. About anything. Cooper wasn’t to initiate or accept any communications whatsoever from Webster.
He wondered what Webster had done.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t even curious any longer, if the truth were known. He just wanted his part over with so he could come back to Rutland and spend the days at peace.
No more subtleties.
He just didn’t care; he’d do the job for Green—he owed him that. Owed it to Genessee Industries and all his memories, his ambitions.
He even owed it to Paul Bonner, the poor son-of-a-bitch. Bonner was a sacrifice, a necessary casualty, as he understood it.
His only hope was, of all things, executive clemency.
From President Trevayne.
Wasn’t that ironic?
The goddamn subtleties.…
41
“Mr. Trevayne?”
“Yes.”
“Bob Webster here. How are you?”
“Fine. And you?”
“A little shook up, I’m afraid. I think I led you into a rotten situation, a very bad scene.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Before we go into it, I’ve got to make one thing clear; I mean, I have to emphasize it … I’m the one responsible. Nobody else. Do you understand?”
“I do.… I think I do.”
“Good. That’s damned important.”
“Now I’m sure I do. What is it?”
“Your visit to Greenwich. To De Spadante the other day. You were seen.”
“Oh?… Is that a problem?”
“There’s more, but that’s primarily it.”
“Why’s it so serious? We didn’t advertise, that’s true; on the other hand, we didn’t try to hide it.”
“You didn’t mention it to the papers, though.”
“I didn’t think it was necessary. The office put out a short statement that violence wasn’t the answer to anything. That’s what they carried. Sam Vicarson issued it; I approved it. There’s still nothing to hide.”
“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. It looks as though you and De Spadante held a secret meeting.… There were photographs taken.”
“What? Where? I don’t remember any photographer. Of course, there were a lot of people in the parking lot.…”
“Not in the parking lot. Inside the room.”
“Inside the room? What the hell … Oh? Oh, good God! Jujubes.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.… What about the photographs?”
“They’re damaging. I saw a copy. Two copies, actually. You and De Spadante looked like you were engrossed in heavy conversation.”
“We were. Where did you see them?”
“Rod Bruce. He’s the one who’s got them.”
“Who from?”
“We don’t know. He won’t reveal his sources; we’ve tried before. He’s planning to release everything tomorrow. He’s threatened to make sure you’re linked to De Spadante. And that’s bad for Bonner, incidentally.”
“Well … what do you want me to do? Obviously you’ve got something in mind.”
“As we see it, the only way to deflate the story is for you to speak first. Issue a statement that De Spadante wanted to see you; you saw him two days before he was killed. You wanted the information public for Major Bonner’s sake.… Make up whatever you like about what was said. We’ve checked the room; there weren’t any bugs.”
“I’m not sure I understand. What’s Bruce’s point? How does Paul fit in?”
“I told you.… Sorry, it’s been a rotten morning over here.… Bruce thinks it’s another hook into Paul Bonner. If you and De Spadante were still talking to each other … it’s not very likely he was out to kill you a week ago as Bonner claims.”
“I see.… All right, I’ll issue a statement. And I’ll take care of Bruce.”
Trevayne held down the button for several seconds, released it, and dialed a number. “Sam Vicarson, please. Mr. Trevayne calling.… Sam, it’s time for Bruce. No, not you. Me.… Find out where he is and call me back. I’m home.… No, I won’t reconsider. Call me as soon as you can. I want to see him this afternoon.”
Trevayne replaced the phone on the bedside table and looked over at his wife, who was in her slip by the dresser, putting the final touches on her makeup. She watched him in the mirror.
“I got the gist of that. Something tells me our day off, antique-wandering, just got postponed.”
“Nope. Fifteen or twenty minutes, that’s all. You can wait in the car.”
Phyllis walked over to the bed and laughed as she pointed her finger at the rumpled blankets and sheets. “I’ve heard that before. You’re a beast, Mr. Trevayne—you dash home from the office, ravish an unsullied maiden, of indeterminate years—plying her with promises; then, the minute your lusts are satisfied and you have a nap, you start telephoning.…”
Andrew pulled her down on his lap, feigning a melodramatic grab for her breasts. He touched them, caressed them alternately as she kissed his ear. Their laughter subsided as he gently rolled her off his legs back onto the bed.
“Oh, Andy, we can’t.”
“We certainly can. It’ll take Sam the better part of an hour.” He stood and unbuckled his trousers as Phyllis pulled up the sheet, flipping over a side, waiting for him.
“You’re incorrigible. And I love it.… Who are you going to see?”
“A nasty little man named Roderick Bruce,” he answered as he removed his shirt and shorts and got into the bed.
“The newspaperman?”
“He wouldn’t approve of us.”
* * *
Bobby Webster folded his arms in front of him on the desk. He lowered his head and closed his eyes and knew he was very close to tears. He’d locked his office door; no one could barge in on him. Half-consciously he wondered why the tears did not come. The semiconscious answer was so appalling he rejected it. He’d lost the ability to cry … to cry out.
Reductio ad manipulatem.
Was there such a phrase? There should be. The years of contrivance; the untold, unremembered, unaccounted for—hundreds, thousands?—plots and counterplots.
Will it work?
That was all that mattered.
The human factor was only an X or a Y, to be considered or discarded as the case may be. Certainly not taken for more than that, more than part of a formula.
Even himself.
Bobby Webster felt the welling of tears in his eyes. He was going to cry. Uncontrollably.
It was time to go home.
Trevayne walked down the thickl
y carpeted hallway to the short flight of steps underneath the small sign printed in Old English: “The Penthouse; Roderick Bruce.”
He climbed the five steps, approached the door, and pushed the button, causing inordinately loud chimes to be heard beyond the black-enameled entrance with the shiny brass hardware. He could hear muffled voices inside; one was agitated. Roderick Bruce.
The door was opened, and a large black maid in a starched white uniform stood imposingly, forbiddingly in the small foyer. She blocked any view beyond her.
“Yes?” she asked in a lilting dialect formed somewhere in the Caribbean.
“Mr. Bruce, please.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“He’ll want to see me.”
“I’m sorry. Please leave your name; he’ll be in touch with you.”
“My name is Andrew Trevayne, and I’m not leaving until I see Mr. Bruce.”
The maid started to close the door; Trevayne was about to shout when suddenly Roderick Bruce darted into view like a tiny ferret from a hidden nest. He’d been listening from a doorway several yards away.
“It’s all right, Julia!” The huge maid gave Trevayne the benefit of a last, unpleasant look, turned, and walked rapidly down the hall out of sight. “She’s Haitian, you know. Her six brothers are all Ton Ton Macoute. It’s a cruel streak that runs in the family.… What do you want, Trevayne?”
“To see you.”
“How did you get up here? The doorman didn’t ring through.”
“He thinks I’m seeing another tenant. Don’t bother to trace it down; my office arranged it. The other party doesn’t know anything.”
“The last time we talked, you threatened me, if I remember correctly. In your office. Now, you come to my office, to me; and you don’t look so menacing. Am I to assume you’re here to make a trade? Because I’m not sure I’m interested.”
“I don’t feel menacing; I feel sad. But you’re right. I’m here to make a trade.… Your kind of trade, Bruce.”
“You don’t have anything I want; why should I listen?”
Trevayne watched the little man with the small, deepset eyes and the confident, tiny mouth pursed in satisfaction. Andy felt sick to his stomach as he said the name quietly.
Scruff Page 40
