by Sally Quinn
“He’s one shrewd son-of-a-bitch, that’s for sure,” said Downs.
“Darling, I see you got a chance to talk to the Senator,” said Lorraine. “But you mustn’t let him take all your time. And Walt, office gossip is not allowed. Allison, your toast was adorable. Archie will never get over it.”
“Hell, Archie thought he’d died and gone to heaven,” chuckled Downs, looking down at his glass. “Look at me—I’m empty.” And he stood up and headed toward the bar.
Allison glanced at Walt. It was probably for the best. She wasn’t exactly sober. She would do better to interview him later.
Allison glanced across the room and noticed with amusement that Edwina was all over Jones Barrett and Claire was practically in Ali’s lap. She looked at Lorraine pointedly, then back at the two women.
“All right,” said Lorraine. “You were right. Don’t rub it in.”
“What do those women want?” said Allison, suddenly serious.
“Anything but what they have, my dear.”
“But they have what they wanted.”
“Ask your friend Ali. There’s an old Arab saying I picked up in London. ‘You get what you want and you pay for it.’ ”
Allison thought for a moment of Des. “And pay and pay and pay,” she said quietly to herself.
“I believe,” said Jones, who was approaching the two with a wicked grin, having pried himself away from Edwina, “that you wanted a ride home.”
“Yes,” said Allison. She had almost forgotten.
He crooked his arm and looked down at her.
“Whatever the lady wants the lady gets.”
* * *
The next morning, shortly after Jones had left, the doorbell rang. Allison threw on her robe and ran down the two flights of stairs. The man at the door was dressed in a black chauffeur’s uniform.
Double-parked in front of her house was a shiny new dark blue Mercedes with a beige leather interior. The man handed her a thick ecru envelope.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A Mercedes, madame,” he replied in a heavy accent, and turned and walked quickly down Olive Street, disappearing around the corner.
Inside the envelope were a set of car keys and a note. In strong, heavy black ink was scrawled: “Now you won’t have to depend on the kindness of strangers for a ride home. Ali.”
Was he serious? Could he possibly have intended to give her this car? No. It was not possible. But here was this bloody Mercedes in the middle of the street. What the hell was she supposed to do? And the note. She actually had sort of sneaked out with Jones because she had pretty much agreed to let Ali take her home before Jones made his move. She closed the door and turned to the phone on the counter in her tiny kitchen. She got the number of the embassy through Information, then explained patiently to the secretary that she had to speak to the Ambassador immediately.
“Ah, Cinderella, good morning.” His voice was cheery.
“Ali,” she said, trying to be calm, “there’s a brand-new blue Mercedes double-parked in front of my house.”
“Is it blocking your car?”
“My Fiat is parked around the corner.”
“I see.”
“Ali, what am I supposed to do with this Mercedes?”
“I would suggest you park it before the neighbors call the police and have it towed.”
“And then what am I supposed to do with it?”
“Drive it with pleasure. Frankly, I cannot bear the idea of a beautiful woman like yourself driving around in a pathetic little Fiat which you told me yourself is always breaking down. What if you stalled in the middle of the night on a dark street?”
“My mechanics’ bill would be considerably less than if it happened in a Mercedes.”
“I don’t want you to worry about the mechanics’ bill. I will take care of it.”
“Ali!”
“Yes?” His voice was innocent.
“For Christ’s sake, will you send somebody over and get this car immediately!”
“Why? It’s yours.”
“Don’t be naive, Ali. You know perfectly well that I cannot accept a car from you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a journalist and you are a potential source and it would be a conflict of interest. That’s why.”
“Then I will never discuss business with you again.”
“That’s not the point and you know it. I can’t accept gifts, period. That’s a rule.”
“You mean reporters cannot accept gifts from people they go out with, not even birthday and Christmas presents?”
“That’s different.”
“Frankly, Sonny, you are offending me, whether you know it or not. I consider myself a potential suitor, not a potential source. In my country it is the custom to give presents to people we admire. By refusing my gift you are insinuating that I am trying to buy you off in some way, and that is the worst possible insult. You question my sincerity, my generosity, my motivations.”
The humor was gone from his voice. He really was offended.
“Listen, Ali, it’s just that we have different customs in this country, and the appearance of conflict, even if it wasn’t the case, could ruin my career—don’t you understand that?”
“No, I don’t. Why don’t you try to explain it to me a little better over dinner tonight? I will pick you up at eight thirty. We will eat at the embassy. Goodbye.”
He hung up.
“Shit,” she said out loud. “What am I going to do with this fucking Mercedes?”
But before she had even finished her sentence she knew perfectly well what she was going to do with the Mercedes. She was going to drive it.
The drive over to the Omani Embassy was bliss. She had put the sliding roof back, and the warm September air blew her hair across her eyes as she glided down P Street and up Florida Avenue toward Decatur Place. God, what a fabulous car!
She could feel the wave of depression come over her as she pulled through the black iron gates and into the brick courtyard of the embassy. She jumped out and rang the doorbell. A uniformed man came to the door, and she plunked the keys into his hand and walked quickly away before he had a chance to say anything.
* * *
Walt Fineman was in his office when she arrived at the paper.
“Well, it’s finally happened,” he said. He had a rather smug look on his face.
“What?”
“Wiley got canned this morning. They’ve found some obscure company to offer him a job. Allen is his replacement.”
“Jesus—I’m away from a phone for twenty minutes and I miss the biggest event in the last ten years. When did this happen?”
“In the last twenty minutes.”
“How’s Wiley handling it?”
“He resigned citing personal reasons. He is thrilled to have been offered the new job, anxious for the new challenge, anticipating making new strides, blah blah blah.”
“Allen must be wetting his pants. If I know him, he’s already moved poor old Wiley out of his office.”
Walt nodded toward the glass office where Wiley had held forth. Allen was standing in the middle of the room, his arms full of books and papers, and Wiley was directing him as to where to put them.
“God, what a killer. He actually makes me feel sorry for Wiley.”
“Spare yourself the emotion. Wiley’s an asshole.”
“So who takes over as Managing Editor?” Before she finished the question, she caught the grin on his face and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Walt, that’s fabulous. I was afraid to ask. I just knew they were going to give it to Worth Elgin.”
“You don’t have enough faith in me.”
“It’s not enough to be the best editor: you have to be a good politician too. Worth is always working overtime—not to mention Claire. And Allen is so hard-nosed. I never saw you as his type.”
“First of all, I have a feeling it was gently suggested to Allen. Secondly, Allen is at least smart
enough to recognize the fact that he’s not Mr. Congeniality. I’m a good balance for him, and I’m no threat. He knows that.”
“You could be.”
“You sound like Claire Elgin.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Which reminds me: I am the Managing Editor now and I would appreciate a little more respect from my reporters.”
“It depends on how you define respect. I never once told Wiley Turnbull to go fuck himself.”
“In that case all is forgiven. But let’s move on to more important things than my ascent to the top.”
“Next to the top.”
“Excuse me. I seem to have had an attack of ambition.”
“See, with a little coaching from me you might be able to ease Allen out of his job.”
Walt burst out laughing. “If I got to be the editor, would you marry me?”
“Sorry, Walt darling, I’m saving myself for Earl Downs, the distinguished Senator from Florida.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Don’t worry—I’m still intact.”
“I am worried. That guy is hot for you. But we need him. I think you ought to do a follow-up interview.”
“You should be more worried about Ali Habib.”
“How so? I thought you went home with Jones.” He wrinkled his nose. He was always jealous of her men.
“I did, but ungrateful wretch that he is, he just fucked and ran. Ali, on the other hand, is going the opposite route. This is a man who knows how to woo.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. This morning the doorbell rang and it was a tall, mysterious Arab at the door with… fill in the blanks… a diamond necklace; caviar; the keys to a Rolls-Royce.”
Allison was truly shocked.
“How the hell did you know?”
It was Walt’s turn to be shocked.
“You mean he gave you a Rolls-Royce? Jesus.”
“No, you asshole, it was only a Mercedes.”
“A Mercedes! What did you do with it?”
“I drove it, you idiot; what else?”
“Wait a minute, Sonny. We have a rule—”
“Right: you can’t accept gifts unless it’s something you can eat, drink, fuck, or drive within twenty-four hours.”
She could see Walt wasn’t finding this amusing.
“What’s he buying?”
“He would be deeply offended by that remark. We’ve already had the conversation. And you can relax. I drove it back to the embassy. Boy, was that a sacrifice. You should have seen me, Walt. I looked real good in that baby.”
“Now what?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to need him for the Oman story. So I’ve got to stay on his good side, at least for the time being. We’ll just have to keep the conflict-of-interest problem under control. He really doesn’t get it, either. This will be a neat trick. I know he wants to go to bed with me.”
“Well, you’re certainly not going to do that. As your editor, I can strongly advise you against it.”
“Gimme a break, Walt.”
“Well, shit, I’m not going to sit here and watch you throw your career down the drain.”
“I took the car back. What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
She started to blush. She knew he wanted her.
“I want the bloody story. That’s what I want.”
“I’ll call Earl Downs’s office right now and see if I can set up an interview. I’ll probably wait a couple of days before I hit up Ali on this story. Meanwhile I’ll see what I can pick up at the White House. Although everyone is pretty close-mouthed when it comes to Everett Dubois. They’re all scared of him. He apparently can be one mean son-of-a-bitch.”
“So go call.”
She smiled at Walt, who sat hunched over his desk. He looked defeated, even in victory.
“I’m very proud of you,” she said.
He smiled back at her and she thought he looked as if he were going to cry.
Her desk was a mess. One day she was going to clean it up. It would be nice to be able, at least, to find the Rolodex at will. She didn’t trust the computer enough to put all her numbers on it. The computer was always going down at the most crucial moment. Things disappeared in the machine as if it were quicksand, never to be found again. The Rolodex had to be there somewhere, unless another reporter had borrowed it and forgotten to put it back. That was not unusual. Allison had the hottest Rolodex at the office.
She finally gave up and dialed the number of the Capitol.
CA 4-3121. That number was engraved on every reporter’s brain—that and 456-1414, the White House.
She got Senator Downs’s appointments secretary right away.
“Ah, yes. Senator Downs was expecting your call.”
“I’d like to set up an interview with the Senator. He knows what the subject is to be.”
“The Senator asked me to explain to you that he would be happy to talk to you but he will be unable to see you during the day. He is booked up with meetings and out-of-town constituents. He wanted to know if we could set up something in the evening later this week.”
Allison was thrown. She had felt smug when the secretary said she was expecting her call. Now she could see he was putting one over on her. She wanted to sound firm, but all she could say was “Uh—I, uh, had hoped I might be able to catch him for breakfast.”
“I’m sorry.” The secretary’s voice was as firm as Allison wanted to be. “It will have to be after eight P.M. The Senator suggests you meet him when he comes off the floor.”
The little fucker. He had her. What could she say? Her male colleagues had had dinner with Earl Downs. His wife was never around. They thought nothing of it. It was a convenient way to get a source relaxed. Dinners were preferable to rushed breakfasts and lunches. A few drinks and people opened up. She, on the other hand, would have to contend with rumors, appearances, not to mention the fact that he would be trying to get into her pants all the way through the interview.
“That will be fine,” said Allison. “Dinner will be fine.” She hoped she sounded casual. “But I would prefer to meet the Senator at the restaurant.”
“The Senator has some documents in his office he would like to show you. He thought you might like to meet him when he comes off the floor. He hoped tomorrow night would be convenient.”
“Fine.”
After she hung up she felt like an ass. She picked up the phone and made a reservation at Duke Zeibert’s. A lot of journalists and politicians hung out at Duke’s. If she took him to Duke’s, put her notebook on the table, and took notes through dinner, there would be no mistaking what they were doing.
Allison went straight to Downs’s office instead of meeting him when he came off the floor. She didn’t like the way the Senator’s receptionist looked at her when she walked into the office. She was asked to have a seat in the outer office. When the Senator finally appeared, he was dripping with perspiration, mopping his brow with a damp handkerchief.
“Kinda hot, idn’t it,” he drawled. “You look like you could use a nice cool drink as bad as I could. C’mon in.” He motioned her into his inner sanctum, the walls filled, as she might have expected, with the Senator and every famous person he had ever met.
“Senator, your secretary mentioned some documents you wanted to show me.”
“Documents?” He looked surprised. “Well, honey, I was expecting to get some documents from the Senator from Louisiana, but I haven’t had any luck in getting him to turn them over to me.”
He mopped his pink face once more, and Allison’s skin crawled.
“I had reservations made at the Prime Rib,” he said.
The Prime Rib piano bar was where the out-of-town lobbyists took their bimbos.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “The bar is so loud and distracting. I was thinking of someplace quieter where we could do the interview. I took the liberty of making a reservation at Duke’s.”
“Forget Duke’s. Every journalist in Washington will be there. I don’t want to be nailed as your source. I’m about to give you some pretty confidential stuff, honey.” He winked.
“Let’s compromise,” he said. “We’ll go to the Intrigue. Nice and quiet, and no interruptions. We can talk in privacy to our hearts’ content.”
One-upped again. She couldn’t believe he was getting the better of her every time. She must be out of practice. But he had something she wanted. She was going to get it, but she was going to have to work for it. The Intrigue was quiet, dark, with little alcoves and cubbyholes. It was not the place you wanted to go with someone other than your spouse unless you had motives. It wasn’t worth fighting this time. She would have to be very much on her guard.
The Senator was well known at the restaurant. His table was in the rear, secluded. The service was discreet.
“Does everyone tell you how beautiful you are?” he whispered the moment they had been seated.
“I understand your wife is very beautiful.”
He looked sour. “Let’s order drinks. I’ll have a margarita. How about you?”
“Kir, very light, please.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s white wine with a touch of cassis in it. It was named after a priest who was Mayor of Dijon.”
“Boy, honey, you don’t miss a trick, do you?” He smirked.
He called the waiter “Garçon,” mispronouncing it, and fumbled with the wine list.
The minute their dinner came, Allison whipped out her notebook and slapped it on the table. Squinting in the gloom, she began asking questions.
“You don’t look nearly as pretty when you’re serious,” he said.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Senator, but I’m afraid I’m going to be serious for the rest of the evening.”
“Call me Earl.”
“I couldn’t. Senator just seems to suit you better.”
“I’ve ordered crêpes Suzette for dessert. I hope you like it.” The waiter was opening a second bottle of expensive wine. Allison was still nursing her first glass.
She was so close to walking out, she almost put her pad and pencil away. Yet something inside her managed to keep her distance. It was almost as though she were watching his behavior through a one-way mirror. If every reporter, male or female, walked away from a source because he felt insulted, the copy flow would be severely diminished. Ultimately she would get the better of him, and if she had to put up with him for a while, then she would. Besides, he was getting drunk. He would talk.
