by Warren Adler
Of course, that was exactly what gave Davis the edge. He was far more practical on how to skillfully maneuver his sloop through the political shoals, a nautical expression he would hardly understand.
The California trip was, as all of Davis’s logistical packages, a monument to logic. Three seats were booked on a TWA first-class 747 to San Francisco for Barnstable, myself, and Karen. One seat of the three was taken in the name of Senator James.
The objective of his strategy of deception was to dodge the press. Davis briefed us.
“The senator will leave with Lou in the back of the car under a blanket.”
“Like cops and robbers,” Don said.
“The rest of us will leave in one car soon after. I want to move quickly down the driveway. If the press has done its homework, it will have picked up the flight booking out of National. Schwartz’s Lear Jet will be waiting at the Friendship Flying Service hangar at the Baltimore International Airport. It will take us to Carmel Airport. Bob Brogen will pick us up and take us to Mrs. James’s house, where everything will be set up and waiting for us to tape the show.”
“Will Schwartz be on the plane?” Don asked.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“You mean, I’ll have to listen to his nonsense for five straight hours?”
“Four and a half,” Davis said.
“The man’s a bore.”
“He’s the best fundraiser we have,” Barnstable said. “We need lots of bores like him. Hell, he was nice enough to lend you his plane. He’s promised me that he’ll stand by you through thick and thin. The least you could so is to be friendly to him. He’s already raised three million dollars for you with lots of promises for more.”
“God knows what he’s promised everyone,” Don said.
“The promise is always implied,” Davis said. “That’s the way it should be. You wouldn’t want a quid pro quo. It would one day come back to haunt you.”
“I know,” Don sulked. “It’s such a goddamned trial though. You have to take a lot of shit from a bunch of ignorant slobs.”
Max Schwartz was a simple man. He had made, from the most humble beginnings, upwards of $50 million in oil and real estate. And, yet, if he were shrewd and hard-driving, it never showed through what appeared to be a very sweet and humble exterior. His home on the topmost hill of Beverly Hills was overflowing with both rare works of art and more than one hundred plaques given to him, “for humanitarian service,” meaning money, by both religious and help organizations throughout the country. His gluttony for plaques and publicity was well known, and most times he was humored and pampered, but satiation eluded him.
When it was apparent that there was no place more to go in charitable causes, expecially since he was “honored” to the point of embarrassment, he took a fling at politics on his own, running in a senatorial primary in California at the same time that Don made his run for that office. To come out tenth in a field of ten after investing $2 million of his own money in an astonishingly inept campaign in print and television was a blow that shattered even old Max’s ego, but only temporarily. One TV spot was a pan of all the plaques on his wall, with a deep voice booming high-blown prose, describing each honor ad nauseam. After that spot was shown, the joke around the California political jungle was that the final campaign windup gimmick would show Max walking all the way to Catalina Island followed by the heads of all the organizations who had ever given him a plaque, culminating in being met at the Catalina pier by JC himself, who would congratulate him and make a brief supporting statement.
A joke to everybody, including his wife, Max, nevertheless, could be induced to raise huge sums of money. His only tangible reward was to be—like the proverbial Jewish mother caricature—needed. Don was reminded to call him at least once a week, and when he came to town the senator was always available for dinner. It seemed a small price to pay. Until now. For Max, at last, was really needed and, of course, would rise to the occasion armed with vats of psychic chicken soup.
The “escape” to the airport was remarkably simple, partly because the ranks of the reporters had thinned considerably. As Davis had predicted, the story was losing its momentum nationally. It was still on page one, but reduced to speculations and inconclusive ramblings gleaned from rummaging around Rehoboth and interviewing the locals. The young policeman to whom we had reported Marlena’s disappearance finally got his picture in the paper, although none could pry a word out of him. There were some political vultures screaming for investigating the circumstances of the drowning, but these came mostly from Delaware politicians, noted for their holier-than-thou stance, which made it impossible to take them seriously.
Barnstable’s staff had prepared a compendium of newspaper clippings and television comments, Xeroxed neatly and bound together in a red cover, marked “Confidential.” Don wouldn’t read it, but I couldn’t resist seeing it. Like the country itself, the coverage was split down the middle on the basis of political persuasion. The more conservative media reveled in implied licentiousness. The more liberal media seemed restrained, more “factual” and classically journalistic. God knows how many editors and desk men were biting hard on their pipes, while pencils, like surgical knives, sliced skillfully at over-extended prose. If you knew how to read the stories, you could almost see the stitches, as the liberal news surgeons patched their stories. The conservatives, on the other hand, gloried in the blood of an impaled Senator James. You could almost see the intestines slithering like a barrel of snakes along the butcher’s floor. The important point was that the media had shot the whole wad right at the beginning. Follow-ups would lose their bite as the so-called facts dissipated into thin air. Our policy of deliberate vagueness had begun to pay off.
There were photographs of Marlena, cap-and-gown pictures from her college yearbook that made her look featureless in the third-generation newspaper reproduction process. The summary, written by Al Simon, at the end of the report read, “The study of these clips cumulatively reveals a complete lack of objectivity on the part of most reporters.” Who didn’t know that!
XXXIII
Max was waiting for us at the plane’s gangway. He embraced Don, who accepted it stoically.
“We’re going to fight this thing, Don.”
“Right, Max, all the way.”
The second car was right behind us. Max embraced Karen. Then he shook hands all around, and we were whisked into the plush interior of the Lear jet.
There was a certain ritual connected with all relationships involving Max Schwartz. He was an insatiable sponge for compliments. It was the staff of his life. Don performed it admirably.
“I want you to know, Max,” he said, so that all of us in the interior of the cabin could hear it, “I don’t think any of us can ever forget your generosity to us in this hour of our greatest need. We’ll know who our friends are. And Max, we know you’re our friend.”
Tears welled in Max’s eyes. He was an emotional man. In varying degrees, all the so-called fat cats were cut from this mold. Their hobby was politicians. They never asked much. They had everything money could buy. All they wanted was to be looked upon as insiders. They always exaggerated their own importance to their friends, anyway. And their friends were not people who could dispute them. It was simply a game of one-upmanship.
The seats of the jet were arranged easy-chair style. Don sat between Davis and myself and began reading the speech. When we were airborne, Davis took a paper from his jacket pocket and thrust it on top of Don’s speech manuscript.
“Schwartz is essential to keeping the fundraising apparatus intact. I recommend that you use this opportunity to persuade him that you are a victim of circumstances. Make him come up with the notion that he must fly around the country in your name to convince others that they must stay with the team, that we will ultimately recover from this setback.”
Don read the note and handed it to me. He knew all about Max’s basic sentimentality. Switching seats, Don sat down beside Max and held
his forearm in a comforting gesture.
“Max, I want to ask you one question,” Don said.
“Anything, Don.”
“You’ve read all newspaper reports. Without my giving you my side, I’d like you to tell me what tentative conclusions you’ve made. Now I know this is a tough question, but it’s important to both of us that you answer it accurately from your point of view.”
Max looked at his fingernails and swallowed deeply. His hesitation was enough of a clue to his answer. He also looked around to see if Karen was far enough from earshot. She was dozing in the far corner of the plane. Max bent low over us.
“I think you were having a party and there was—there was an accident.”
It was extremely painful for Max to say this. Don shook his head and feigned injury. He was particularly good at that expression. It had served him well in many a debate and would come in handy during the next few days.
“I want you to believe this, Max.”
“If I’m wrong, tell me.”
“I’m being hanged for a crime I did not commit. This does not mean that I am as pure as the driven snow. I’ve outlined in my speech in my hand the real story of last weekend’s episode. Only my closest staff has seen it. I am going to show it to you, Max, because I know you are a great and compassionate human being.” Max seemed to puff up like a blowfish.
“Here, read it.” Don thrust the speech at him, winking at me as he did so. He looked at Max’s face as he read the speech.
“Do you think people will believe me?” Don asked when Max had finished reading. His eyes were filled with moisture. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
“I don’t know about other people, Don, but I believe it.”
He grabbed Don’s forearm again and squeezed it. He was reveling in his role.
“Do you think you might be able to tell our friends that you believe me?”
“Of course, Don. I won’t let you down.”
“I know that, Max.”
Throughout the plane trip, Don worked busily at his speech, underlining words for emphasis. At times, he lay back and dozed, thinking who knows what thoughts. His strength had returned. That was apparent. But there was another quality, a texture intruding into my observation of him. Or, perhaps, it was in the way he was moving through these events. I couldn’t get a firm hold on my own feelings about him. It was just an indescribable tugging. Something about him was different, or getting different. It was like those little toy kaleidoscopes made years ago. You turned the rim of the lens and the colorful designs rearranged themselves into something else. Don seemed to me to be rearranged or, at least, rearranging.
Davis was busy going through a huge pile of Xeroxed papers. I sat down beside him at the seat Max had vacated.
“Letters,” he said. “I asked for a sample of letters. We’ve got them collated into ‘Total Support,’ ‘Total Rejection,’ ‘Questioning,’ ‘Hate,’ and ‘Crank.’ ”
“What’s the score?” I asked.
“Support and rejection are about fifty-fifty. The hate letters are running high. They haven’t calculated it. Here’s a typical one.”
I looked at the carefully written copy. “Dear Senator: I am a constituent, a God-fearing woman, who has raised a family and given three sons to serve in the armed forces of our great country. I want you to know that I think your actions are a total disgrace to the flag, the worst part being your being in bed with a goddamned nigger. You and all your pinko commy friends can all go to hell. I won’t vote for you ever.” I took another one from the pile. This one was even more explicit.
“It’s one thing to fuck around with black action. It didn’t change your luck, did it? I hope they throw you out of Washington, you cocksucker.” Some were more intelligent. All professed varying degrees of distress and confusion. One theme seemed to dominate all the letters: betrayal. How could the senator do this to them? After a while, the letters got boring. Don had no interest in them at all. But Davis, like a tiger, was reading every one of them in the pile on his lap, making notes, and carefully refiling them in their place within the pile.
The flight was smooth and quiet as the Lear knifed through the sky on its westward journey. Karen stared quietly out of the window, deep in herself. I hadn’t thought much about Karen since we returned from Rehoboth. After her initial outburst, she seemed to have stabilized, holding herself together, probably with tranquilizers. Karen was always big on pills.
I must admit I didn’t feel bad about Karen. Occasionally, when our eyes met, it was I who turned away.
Swiveling around, letting my vision wash over all the figures in the cabin of the plane, I saw us as a traveling road show, about to do our gig on the Coast. Everyone but Davis and I dozed.
“It’s all a dumb dream, Davis,” I whispered. “I think we’re all whistling in the cemetery.”
“I don’t agree. I think we’re coming out of this thing with great success.”
“I’d like to know why.”
“Two reasons. We’re in control of the scenario and the lead actor is functioning with skill.”
“You really believe that you can hoodwink the people.”
“We’re not hoodwinking. We’re just repairing a breach in our image. Hell, in retrospect the breach is not that tragic. The senator’s liberal credentials, his carefully worked-out posture over the past twenty years is impeccable. A personal peccadillo doesn’t wipe out the record. He’s just acting out every man’s nightmare. I’m not panicked anymore. And I don’t think the senator is.”
“You’re so damned cocksure about everything, Davis. God damn, I’ve never seen anyone so cocksure.”
“If you look at it like a science, if you use the scientific method, you move on the basis of certain theoretical conclusions. Move X will almost always get an X reaction. Move Y will get a Y reaction. We look at the options and make the moves, X, Y, or Z. The trouble with you and Barnstable is that you consider politics an art form.”
He was insufferable, this man Davis.
“You really think you’re a fucking genius, Davis.”
“Not at all. I just know my product. I chose my product. You didn’t choose me. I knew I made the right choice years ago. This little setback had me concerned, but I think now we’re over the hump.”
“What do you want, Davis?”
“Just what I have, Castle. Just what I have.”
We sat down in the airport outside of Carmel. Don had to be awakened from a deep sleep.
XXXIV
The president closed the last page of the news summaries, placed them carefully in a corner of the desk, leaned back, and lit a cigar. He puffed a few times, letting the smoke drift easily into the shafts of bright sunbeams that darted through the great bay window. He liked this time of the morning. Everything was orderly, muted. People had not yet begun to pollute the day, to fill air with their discharges, the obscene rumblings of their comings and going, the clack of their voices.
The hands of the antique grandfather clock jerked perceptibly as the hour moved inexorably onward toward seven-thirty, the time when Baum, his chief of staff, would arrive and the day would be staked out minute by minute, the time doled out like precious chunks of bread.
Picking up the milk china coffee cup with the presidential seal emblazoned, obtrusive and regal, along its side, he sipped carefully, sparingly, with measured movements. He allowed himself three cups of coffee a day, at precisely the same moment every day, all before 2:00 P.M. Any deviation in this schedule set his mind going when he knew it must be shut off, like a timed spigot at precisely midnight, when the last chime of the last hour struck in his bedroom. It was all conscious, practiced, studied, this measurement of himself, by time, by distance, each block of energy programmed.
Spartan training, he acknowledged. Self-discipline. It was his ultimate weapon, his personal strategy. Let them indulge their weaknesses. He’d outlast them all. Now Senator James, that arrogant young bastard, had gotten his comeuppance. Hi
s problem—he couldn’t keep his cock in his pants. He could feel the beginnings of a joyous shriek gnaw at his gut, wanting to come out. He felt it go off in his mind, a kind of wild hysteria of relief that could be indulged silently with equal release as if it had roared out of him like a jet screech.
Again he had bested them. Like a tennis game. He had waited for them to make a mistake, playing the easy lobs, the well-timed response, waiting, hoping that they’d show their mistake in whatever form—a ball bashed impotently into the net, an overshot, a missed step.
He had watched the flock of vultures circle overhead, the latest leader, this man James, his curved beak itching to sink its points into his flesh and tear him to pieces. Now they were dispersed, routed, and he could for the moment go on about his business.
If they only knew, he thought. You climb through the excrement and come to the top of the dung heap and you fight to stay there, while they lap at you from all sides, all juiced up with hate at the smell of your blood.
No one knew, except those that had been there before, and even their perception of the office was no longer valid. There was no way, no way to totally predict and control the fate of the ship of state, not yet. Technology boggled the brain.
They all talked like computers, an endless liturgy of inputs, scientific pep-talk. Boil it down, he urged. Boil it down. Let the mind absorb it. Give me options. Simplify! Give the essence. He always strove to get the essence. Then he would trust to his instincts. Hadn’t his instincts carried him this far? True, not every decision had been a winner. Around every corner was an unforeseen factor. The economists with their gobbledygook. The generals with their double talk. The social scientists with their bleeding heart garbage. One would think that with all the money spent on research, all the time wasted on talk, that they would give him foolproof alternatives. How could you trust any of them? You had to be a genius, to have a mind that absorbed facts like a sponge. His instincts were far more accurate. He had more confidence in his instincts than in all the warmed over bullshit. Where had it gotten any of them? Bureaucratic functionaries.
