Ex Officio

by Donald E. Westlake

  Evelyn couldn’t have said she liked Patricia, but she did respect her, which was more than she could say for Harrison. Still, respect was not enough to make her want to endure Patricia’s forbidding manner, so Evelyn kept to herself, back near the wooden steps up from the ground, holding Dinah in close to her legs. Toward the front of the platform, they were finally getting ready to start.

  The ceremony was boring, but not very long. Bradford gave a speech, a few stock paragraphs about progress and an ever-growing America. Two other men made speeches. Perhaps two hundred people stood around on the brown dirt where some day the City Hall lawn would be, and they clapped politely at the end of each speech, the sound of their applause frail in the clear sunlight, barely reaching across the open space to the platform. Bunting flapping in the slight dry breeze sounded more clearly on the air. The people were mostly family groups standing there, with children who grew restless and began running around amid the patient pillars of the adults before the ceremony was finished.

  There had apparently been some trouble deciding what the symbolic act should be at the climax of the ceremony. Cutting a ribbon would have seemed somehow inappropriate, and there was nothing to break a bottle of champagne against. For a finish, therefore, they asked Bradford to raise an American flag on the temporary flagpole attached to the platform. He smiled his agreement, and pulled the rope, and the flag fluttered up the pole. When the breeze took it at the top, Evelyn saw that it had thirteen stars.

  v

  AFTERWARD, THERE WERE DRINKS in the manager’s office in the temporary City Hall. The businessmen and their wives who had been on the platform stood joking together and holding drinks. Bradford was naturally the center of attention, and sooner or later everyone in the room managed to assure him they had voted for him both times, and to announce fervently that the country was a worse place for his having lost that second election. Bradford was long since used to this sort of thing, and went on smiling and nodding and making small talk throughout. He’d told Evelyn once, “I just go on automatic pilot. Inside there, my mind is fast asleep.”

  So was Dinah. The excitement of the day had finally become too much for her, and Evelyn had had to carry her down from the platform after the ceremonial flag raising. There was a brown leather sofa in the manager’s office, and Evelyn sat there now with Dinah stretched out beside her, the little girl’s head cradled in her lap.

  From time to time one or another of the businessmen came over to chat, being curious about her, not sure whether she was Bradford’s relative or secretary or mistress. Of the choices, relative was the most boring, naturally, so no one chatted very long. Evelyn didn’t particularly care. Bradford had brought her a gin and tonic—the one justification for this trip, she could have her favorite summer drink in February—and she sat there sipping at it and stroking Dinah’s hair and watching the faces.

  The little party lasted less than an hour. This was a Thursday, after all, a business day. The couples trailed out, only two of them bothering to detour to the sofa to say goodbye to Evelyn. And the wife of one of those gushed over Dinah till she woke her, and Dinah awoke cranky. The woman glanced sympathetically at Evelyn, as though to say, “Too bad you have one of those.”

  “She didn’t have her nap today,” Evelyn said defensively.

  “Of course. Poor little thing.”

  Finally they were all gone, leaving only members of the family. Harrison was seated behind the manager’s ornate desk, leaning back in the swivel chair, hands folded on stomach, pleased smile on face. His wife, the silent grim Patricia, stood at the windows behind the desk, looking out at the dusty brown landscape and its mock-New England buildings. Evelyn and Dinah were still on the sofa, and Bradford had seated himself in a matching brown leather chair in front of the desk.

  There was a little silence, as though the echoes of the strangers’ voices had to be allowed to fade completely away before family members could converse, and then Harrison said, “You know how I appreciate this, Brad. It’ll do us a world of good.”

  “I hope so,” Bradford said, and Evelyn looked at him in sudden interest, because his voice all at once had that slightly hesitant quality that meant he had something on his mind and was about to bring it into the open. But not directly, that had never been his way. He would approach the subject, whatever it was, on a long curving line.

  Harrison apparently hadn’t noticed the change of tone, because he went right on with the conversation, saying, “I know it will. You saw them taking your picture, they were from the Los Angeles papers.”

  “Yes, I noticed them,” Bradford said. He’d given up cigars five years ago, but occasionally he still forgot and dipped into his jacket pocket for one. He did so now, and frowned in brief self-annoyance, and said, “You know, we still get reporters at home sometimes.”

  “Well, of course you do.” Was Harrison really presuming to condescend? “You’re still an important man, Brad.”

  “Had a reporter just yesterday,” Bradford went on. His hand, without a cigar, was resting again on the wooden chair arm. “From out here, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh?” Harrison was only pleased, still not wary. “Wanting to know about this place? We didn’t make any secret about you coming out here, you know.”

  “He did ask me about it, yes.” Bradford glanced over at the nearest window, then looked back at Harrison. “Asked me about water, mostly,” he said.

  Harrison sat up, suddenly frowning. He put his hands on the desktop. “No matter what you try to do,” he said angrily, “there’s always some damn fool spreading rumors. I hope you put him in his place.”

  “I wasn’t sure exactly what his place was,” Bradford said quietly. “Particularly since he told me there’s talk the state may look into the situation here.”

  “That’s poppycock. The county government has checked this whole—”

  “I believe,” Bradford said, his voice quiet but nevertheless effective in shutting Harrison off, “I believe most of the county government was just in this room.”

  Harrison’s eyes shifted, and his hands came up to make vague gestures, palms up. “Not most,” he said. “Naturally, there are some—”

  “The strength of the county government,” Bradford said. “Shall we say the clout?”

  Harrison was very much on the defensive now. “That only stands to reason, Brad,” he said. “You know that better than I do, for God’s sake. My partners were the chief land owners in this county, and anywhere you go the chief land owners are going to tend to be involved in local government. Look at Dad, back in the old days in Pennsylvania. The fact that a man is a county commissioner and a successful businessman doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a crook, you know.”

  “Harrison, tell me the truth. Will the state find things the county government for one reason or another didn’t notice?”

  “The state!” Harrison said in contempt. “Let them stay in Sacramento, let them do something about the welfare rolls! The Mexicans! Let them do something about the real problems in this state!”

  “Will they find anything?”

  Patricia had turned around from the window when Bradford’s questioning had begun, and had watched with an increasingly grim expression on her face. Now, before Harrison could splutter out a reply, she snapped, “Bradford, that’s none of your business.”

  Harrison twisted around in the chair in sudden irritation. “Dammit, Patricia, don’t you go making things worse!”

  “He isn’t God,” she told her husband angrily. “He isn’t even your father. He’s just a man, like anybody else.”

  Harrison wasn’t meeting anybody’s eye. “Nobody said he was anything else,” he cried desperately. “Naturally, he’s concerned, Patricia. Naturally, if it looks like there’s any kind of static going to come out, Brad wants to know about it, he wants to be in a position to help.”

  “Help?” Patricia glared at her husband’s profile. “Is that what you call it?”

  “Of course!” />
  Bradford, still speaking quietly, said, “Patricia, if Harrison is involved in selling homes to people in a community that doesn’t have the natural water supply for the number of families contemplated, I think he needs help. And so do the people who are buying the houses.”

  Harrison was on his feet, slapping his palm on the desk. “Dammit, nobody has the right to say such things! The county itself paid for a study of the water table, the county cleared our plans, there’s never been any question—”

  “There is now,” Bradford said.

  Patricia glared at him. “Only from you,” she said.

  “Not just from me. The state is asking—”

  Harrison, in a sudden rush, leaned over the desk, staring at Bradford, and said, “That can be taken care of, Brad. Do you think the men I’m dealing with are fools? That can be taken care of. There’s publicity-hungry little twerps up there in Sacramento, but they’re only twerps, Brad. Don’t you think we can handle them?”

  Bradford looked sad. He shook his head and said, “What about the first time someone in this town turns on his cold water faucet and nothing comes out? Can you handle that?”

  “If it happens,” Harrison said, straightening again and holding a finger up in a declamatory posture, “and I say if it happens, there’s always water elsewhere in this state. Water can be piped in from a reservoir, it’s done all over the—”

  “Water from where? There isn’t a water source for three hundred miles that isn’t already spoken for, mostly by Los Angeles. Harrison, you know I do my homework, so don’t try to kid me. What are you going to do when this town runs dry?”

  Patricia, half-hidden behind Harrison now that he was standing, said, “That’s none of your business.”

  “Patricia, please!” Harrison, looking pained, spread his hands and said to Bradford, “Excuse Patricia, she’s just upset.”

  “What are you going to do, Harrison?”

  Harrison glanced around the room, as though looking for an answer, or an escape, and when for a second his eyes met Evelyn’s she was startled at just how much fear was looking out from in there. She felt suddenly very nervous, as though she had all unknowingly entered a dark cave where there was something moving.

  Bradford wouldn’t let go. He never would, that tenacity was part of what had brought him the Presidency. And part of what had lost him the Presidency again four years later. He would never let go. He said, “Harrison?”

  Harrison stopped his trapped search, and met his brother’s eyes again. “I swear to you, Brad,” he said, “I swear to you there’s water for ten years. A minimum of ten years. I swear that, by all that’s holy.”

  “And ten years from now?”

  “Brad, ten years from now none of us may be alive.”

  “The people who bought the houses will be alive. And let’s say you are, too.”

  “Brad, I’ll be so far out of all this ten years from now, nobody will even mention my name. Herbert and I need capital, that’s all it is, that’s the only reason we’re in this.” Then, in a much calmer tone, “Herbert’s sorry he couldn’t make it today.”

  Bradford ignored the aside. He said, “Harrison, you’re selling garbage and calling it gold.”

  “Well, that’s the American way, isn’t it?” Harrison’s attempt at humor was brittle, nearly hysteric. “Put a pretty package on and jack the price, isn’t that how we do it?”

  “This isn’t soap, Harrison, it’s homes. People’s homes. You can’t knowingly do this, Harrison.”

  Harrison flung his arms out in exasperation. “What am I supposed to do, will you tell me that? This chance came along and I grabbed it, and so would you if you were in my position. You think you’re the only one that lost, nine years ago? You think the Defense Department likes me as much now as they did when you were in office? In the last four years, Brad, I haven’t sold a slingshot to a boy scout. I’m hurting, Brad, the civilian market just won’t support the kind of operation Herbert and I had set up. We need the money, I need the money. This thing came along, and I leaped in with both feet. What do you want me to do, give these cretins their pennies back and go live on the beach?”

  “I want you to get out,” Bradford said quietly.

  Patricia, still back by the window, snapped, “That isn’t for you to say. All you have to do is keep out of our business.”

  This time both men ignored her. Harrison, lowering his voice, said, “If you want me out, why’d you come here? Why go through the opening?”

  “Because,” Bradford told him, “this way you can still maybe get out with clean skirts. I obviously have no axe to grind here, no money to make. And no one would believe my brother would knowingly use me for a shill in a con game.”

  Harrison flinched, and put a hand up as though to protect himself from a thrust. “Brad, it isn’t—”

  “This way,” Bradford said, over-riding him, “it can look as though you knew nothing about the truth. A week from now, or two weeks from now, you can announce a temporary halt in the selling of new homes, while rumors about the water supply are checked out. There’s enough water for the people already here, and maybe some more. You scale down the operation, scale it right down to fit the water supply.”

  “My partners wouldn’t go along with that for a minute, Brad, and I wouldn’t blame them. You know, two of the principal land owners in this project haven’t realized a penny in plot sales yet, we’ve been concentrating on the north end of town. People don’t like to be isolated, so we’ve been building and selling one area at a time.”

  “It’s a lucky thing you did.”

  “Brad, these men have money sunk in this. In the shopping centers, in the high school, in construction and publicity and salaries. They won’t stand for it, Brad.”

  “You can walk away from it, Harrison.”

  “Not broke. I can’t walk away broke.”

  Patricia came forward at last, to stand beside her husband and glare at Bradford. “Do you want to give us a million dollars? That’s what we need, you know. And why? Because you lost. It wasn’t Harrison who lost, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t anybody but you. You were too pigheaded, you couldn’t do what you had to do to win, you had to shoot yourself down in flames.”

  Harrison clutched at her arm. “Patricia! For God’s sake!”

  “Well, it’s true! Whose fault is it we need money? Is it ours? It’s his, and now he sits there, holier than thou, and tells you to walk away from the one thing that can save us. He doesn’t care, he’s well off, he’s got your father’s estate, he’s got all the money he needs. He can afford to be noble.”

  Everyone had been looking at Patricia, listening to the harsh sound of her voice, so neither Evelyn nor Harrison saw exactly what happened. But in the echoing silence that followed her outburst, they both looked at Bradford, to see what he would have to say, wondering why he hadn’t yet spoken. And Bradford, eyes squeezed shut, was toppling forward off his chair.

  2

  FRIDAYS WERE THE WORST. No matter how early he managed to leave, the traffic was already impossible. And it didn’t matter what route he took, over 33rd or down St. Paul or what, getting out of Baltimore on a Friday afternoon would try the patience of a saint. And, Dr. Joseph Holt told himself, I’m no saint.

  Of course, he didn’t really have to go through it every week. He was attached to Johns Hopkins on a purely consultative and more or less voluntary basis. He could simply rearrange his schedule and not come down to Baltimore at all on Fridays.

  But he was hesitant to do that, and the reason was, it was too easy. There was no requirement that he come to Johns Hopkins at all, ever. In fact, there were practically no true requirements of his time or training or talent, and at times that frightened him. It’s hard to maintain a belief in one’s worth when one isn’t actually needed anywhere, and in a professional sense Dr. Joseph Holt was one of the world’s least necessary medical men, or at least that’s the view of himself that he held. The closest thing he had to a purposeful
function in this world was his position as Bradford Lockridge’s personal physician, a role he’d held for thirteen years, ever since Bradford won the Presidency, and even that wasn’t so much the result of his ability as of the fact that Bradford Lockridge was his sister-in-law’s father. He’d been thirty-eight when he’d been given the post of chief White House physician, very very young for the job, and how the cries of nepotism had gone up. And properly so, of course, though Bradford hadn’t given a damn. Bradford had always been lush about spreading his luck around to the rest of the family, and if outsiders complained that was their tough luck.

  Holt, for the thousandth time, wished his own skin were that thick. Did Bradford ever worry about his self-image? Did he ever think of himself as useless, as parasitical, as a complete waste of self? Joseph Holt doubted it, he really doubted it.

  But of course, what Bradford had done he’d done on his own initiative, while what Joseph Holt had done had been handed to him by his uncle-in-law. And that was why Holt spent time at the clinic in downtown Philadelphia, and offered his services in humanitarian causes, and was a consultant at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. And why he would not rearrange his schedule to avoid the Baltimore Friday traffic jam.

  After trying a wide variety of routes in his first several months of commuting, Holt had finally given up all hope of beating the traffic and had resigned himself to joining it. These days, he drove down St. Paul and over North Avenue and Sinclair and Erdman to 95. After that, it was a straight run on superhighway all the way.

  This Friday he had a passenger with him, a student going home to Philadelphia for the weekend. The student was one of the severe new youngsters coming along as a reaction to the radical-hippie syndrome, these new ones being the antithesis in every way, from their strict crew-cuts and clean jaws to the rigid conservatism of their clothing. As Howard Lockridge had said recently, “Even at their most relaxed, they look like a bunch of poli sci majors taking a tour of a steel plant.”