The Generals of October

by John T. Cullen

  Out on another side patio, Maxie introduced him to someone he thought he knew from somewhere, but didn’t quite recognize. It was a strange man, an emotional effusion, wringing his hands, then David’s. Not a bad looking guy, white, late 30’s, David’s height, with wavy black hair. Wearing a gray suit, black shoes, could be a banker. “Meet Vern Consiglio. You’ve seen him in the news.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Captain Gordon. Thanks for coming.”

  David shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t--”

  “Vern Consiglio,” the man said pumping David’s hands some more. “Assistant Chairman of CON2.”

  “Oh!” David said. “Now I remember. Yes.” Maxie excused herself, having provided the social glue. “Why of all people did you want to speak with me? And here?”

  “That’s just the point. May I call you David? Call me Vern. The point is, nowadays you don’t know whom to trust. Clandestine meetings are always safer, unless the parties are wired. Are you empty?”

  “I’ve seen enough spy flicks to know what you mean. Yes.”

  “Unfortunately it’s no longer a spy movie, David. It’s real. I was speaking with a mutual friend of ours and he said you’re doing an investigation--”

  “Whoa,” David said backing away. “You have the wrong guy. I’m just a little infantry guy with two broken feet, trying to hang on to his three hots and a cot.”

  “No, no,” Vern said, “it’s your show just as much as mine. David, don’t you see what’s going on here? I can’t reason with Stan Mattoon.” Mattoon was the Chairman of CON2, a retired U.S. senator from California, and a lifelong advocate of modernizing the Constitution. Consiglio was a little-known conservative lawyer from upstate New York. As one columnist had written, if this were a generation ago, Mattoon would be a Democrat, and Consiglio a Republican. Both those parties were in the trash heap of history. Today’s Middle Class Party, the only remaining super-party in a sea of splinter parties, was an alliance of desperation.

  Consiglio said: “Mattoon is so intent on guiding this convention down a middle path that he doesn’t want to hear that more and more voters are becoming opposed to it, there are more threats to it, and dammit, I’m willing to think there may be people waiting in the wings to do something desperate if Mattoon can’t manage the convention.”

  “I understand what you mean, but I don’t have what you want.”

  “A list, our mutual friend said.”

  “Already been gotten to.”

  “By whom?” Consiglio mirrored shock.

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Is that being looked into?”

  “Of course.”

  “Bellamy didn’t know that.”

  “There is a breakdown in communication on every front.”

  “You can say that again.” Consiglio slapped himself on the forehead. “Aw for God’s sake. This gets worse by the minute.” He pulled out his business card. “I’ve already decided we should have never had this convention. I can’t convince Chairman Mattoon of that. He’s the only person who could get it called off; start a recall landslide from the states. Only one state--Vermont--has actually recalled its two delegates. If you learn any more on your end, will you call me immediately?” He offered the card. “Call me day or night. Give me some ammunition so I can go to Stan Mattoon and prove to him that he’s got to call off CON2.”

  David reluctantly accepted the card. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “When you accepted your commission,” Consiglio said hotly, “you swore to uphold the Constitution--” Then he backed off. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to lecture.” They shook hands, and Consiglio added: “Whatever you do, keep a tight lip. We never met, okay?”

  David was glad to get back to the table where Maxie and Tory sat. Jack Standish was just having another double scotch. His collar was open, and his tie loose. “Yes, gotta outflank, outfox, and outfart the whole stinkum rabble,” Jack was just declaiming.

  “Jack,” Maxie said through gritted teeth.

  Jack waved to some Russians. “Da! Nyet! Spasibo! Your Aunt Tillie!”

  “Time to get out of here,” Tory suggested.

  “Jack,” Maxie ground again.

  “Aw yer Aunt Tillie.”

  “David,” Tory said nudging.

  “A man’s duty,” he sighed. “Jack, I’m takin’ you in, pardner. You gonna come peaceful-like, or do I have to shoot you off yore hoss?” He whispered in Maxie’s ear: “Where do you find these guys?”

  After a brief protest, it was ordained that David would take Jack home, while Tory would take Maxie out for a drink someplace, just the girls.

  Chapter 19

  Fifteen minutes later, the two women were headed away, Maxie driving the growling Porsche. Tory couldn’t help but admire again the beauty of her friend as the city’s night lights played over her features. Maxie was every man’s desire, every women’s envy: by turns elegant, subdued, lively, poised. Inside, Tory sensed, was a more frail creature, not so self-confident. “Maxie, what was that all about?”

  “What, dear?”

  “You took David someplace.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Is it a national secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aw come on.”

  “Does he know yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he shocked?”

  “Well of course, Maxie. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Is he taking it in stride?”

  “He’s a sweet man. Very sincere. Very brave. He’s got guts. I don’t dare hope, but a man with that much character might be big enough to stay with me.”

  Maxie reasoned: “You’re beautiful, you’re passionate, you have a lot to offer. I keep telling you, sooner or later it’ll happen for you. David was so badly hurt, the poor thing. And you’re right, he’s really a straight shooter. He won’t hurt ya, Tory.”

  “Oh, it’ll be okay if he just lets me down easy.”

  “Give him a chance.”

  “I will.” She gripped Maxie’s hands, and Maxie gripped back. “I will!” They rocked from side to side snapping their fingers.

  A while later Maxie said, as she puffed on her cigarette: “Listen, kiddo. You’ve heard of Robert Lee Hamilton?”

  “Yes. Don’t tell me he’s a relative of yours.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “Max.”

  “I am serious here, Tory. You know we always have colonels on both sides of everything. Well, old Robert Lee Hamilton--I only met him once or twice when I was a teenager--he’s got Bodley relatives. All related to Robert E. Lee, of course. Of course, now maybe it’ll be generals on both sides. You see, there’s an Admiral Lee and a General Bodley, both on active duty. One is in California, the other is in Oregon.”

  “You’re chattering, Maxie.”

  “Yes, and I love it.”

  “So what’s the upshot?”

  “The upshot is that this country is in a hell of a lot of trouble, and I hope I didn’t make a mistake tonight.”

  “A mistake?”

  “I don’t want David to get hurt.”

  Tory held on as Maxie drove. She had a blurry glimpse of neon signs promising shopping and night life. The car shot down a ramp, bounced into an underground garage, and slowed behind a long limousine. Tory read signs: ‘The Riverside. Valet Parking. Formal Evening Dress Only.’ “Where are we going, Maxie?”

  “Someplace quiet. I want to eat, and I want to chatter mindlessly with you, and then I want to go disco dancing until our brains turn to gelatin. And I want to forget CON2.” Maxie grabbed her purse and wrap. “It’s on me.”

  “I brought my checkbook and credit cards just in case.”

  A young man in valet uniform drove the car off. Maxie and Tory followed a Persian carpet down marble hallways, with a potted palm in every corner, to a dusky vestibule. Waiting in the shadows were the Maitre d’ Hotel and his staff. “Bodley,” Maxie said.

  “Of course,” said the Maitre d’
, a handsome dark-skinned man in his fifties, with gray hair on the sides, as he checked a clothbound register, “party of two?”

  “Bodley,” Maxie said, nodding. She secretly cupped an unlit cigarette.

  “Maxie,” Tory chided under her breath.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “This way, ladies.”

  “And you a nurse.”

  They followed him through a dining room of about twenty round tables. Lots of white hair; red faces with bulging eyes; paler faces jealous. Wrinkles. Money. An Afro-American woman played piano with soul and subtlety. A big woman, black as ebony, she sang in a bluesy voice rich as an instrument of many fine woods. Even when her fingers crashed down on two octaves’ worth of keys at once, and her song became robust as a shout, her voice still carried languor and smoothness. And each time she backed off quickly, into a lovely reverie. “Martini,” Maxie said when the waiter came. “You hungry, Tory?”

  “Starved.”

  “The evening wasn’t so bad until Jack got polluted.”

  “Maxie, the guys you--”

  They ordered finger food to fill the empty spot. Tory ordered a Campari and soda on the rocks. It was light, it was dry, and it promised she wouldn’t wake up with a hangover. “Don’t overdo the martinis.”

  “Okay!” Maxie put her imported Ovals cigarette on the tablecloth. Then she emptied part of her purse on the white linen, until she found her gold-plated lighter. “Seriously, you’re so rock-stable for me. Other women I’ve known, that are rich, I can’t go anywhere with because they put on airs.” Maxie certainly did not put on airs. Didn’t need to. At another table, a man with red cheeks and violent eyes stared hungrily at Maxie. His heavy, pretty wife with gray grandma bun looked pained. Tory whispered through her fingers: “I think that guy over there is wondering why he didn’t see you on the menu.”

  Maxie twisted her neck, and scoped the guy in one glance. “He’s making you, Tory, not me.”

  “No way.” Tory said. She was not a butterfly like Maxie. She frequently found herself stared after, but from a distance; men seemed threatened by the wall of pensiveness, the spark of danger she threw off. Except David. He'd seen through her.

  Maxie said. “We won’t make a scene.” She laughed quietly. “We could turn and stare at him. Make comments. Throw grapes.”

  Maxie stepped outside somewhere for a smoke, and returned minutes later. Their drinks came. “Sure. And get carried home on the shoulders of--well, no officers around, but hopefully some gentlemen.”

  “--who had to be declared such by an act of Congress. Cheers.” Maxie lifted her glass. Tory clinked with her. The waiter came with more drinks. “I envy you, Tory. How’s you and David?”

  “Me and David is 220.”

  “High voltage.”

  Tory squirmed in embarrassment. “Probably just a crush.”

  “--Awww--”

  “--I know, bummer, huh? But he’s sooo cute. Tall, dark-haired--”

  “--And handsome--” Maxie teased. “I don’t know about crush. He’s kinda like you. Very determined. Does he know?”

  “I told him.”

  “Brave you.”

  “It went better than I would have thought.”

  “So you put it all on the table.”

  “Yes. I figured it wouldn't be fair to him, or to me, to build up false hopes if he can't get past my problem. You know what he said?” She leaned close, and Maxie leaned close to hear. “He had to think about it, and I know it's not an easy thing for any man. He said--well, you know, don't buy puppies from a breeder, but adopt them at the pound.”

  “He said that?” Maxie sat back. “What a whole, entire guy.”

  “Yeah, he really is. I don't know how far it's going to go, but he is--”

  “You're so lucky. And I had to settle for Van Meeuwen.”

  Tory flicked glances right and left. “Maxie, you haven't settled for anyone, dammit. Maybe the date of your life is right here someplace, waiting to take you in his arms, if you'd only let him.”

  The singer bellowed and smashed the piano, then uttered a long wail, and finger foods arrived. Maxie ordered another martini and prepared for another quick outdoors smoke. The singer went on break and a nervous sixtyish white man came out and played Chopin and Liszt.

  “Maxie,” Tory said, “I wish you’d at least date other men while this guy jerks you around.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Tory.”

  Tory was cautious; didn’t want Maxie to drink too much and get bummed and start crying. “You’re great people, Max. Give yourself a chance with decent guys.”

  “You know I have a few drinks and I agree sincerely that men like Van Meeuwen were no good for me. And I don’t believe a word of it the next day. Can’t help it.”

  “In vino veritas.”

  “In vino wino. I’m going to quit smoking and drinking as soon as I’m fully air qualified. Then I’m going to meet Mr. Right.”

  “And dump Van Meeuwen? Does it have to be a doctor or a senator, Maxie, for crying out loud!”

  “Tell you what, Tory. I’ll get my parents to fork over another half million bucks for therapy and then maybe I’ll run away with a starving musician.” She stubbed her cigarette out. “Aw hell, let’s stop talking about me for a while. I sure like David Gordon. Take good care of him, Tory.”

  “You think he’s getting into dangerous waters.”

  “I hear rumors.”

  “Like?”

  Maxie shrugged her little freckled shoulders. “There are always rumors. It’s just--well, right now, there are a lot of angry people.”

  “People have been angry for years.”

  “Yes, but some people I know are sending their families out of town. We’re talking, like, pulling kids out of school suddenly. Wives taking unpaid vacation. People going far west to be away from here while CON2 goes on.”

  Dinner arrived, and their conversation turned light. A glass of wine for Tory, three for Maxie, and they found themselves laughing and forgetting their surroundings. The pianist left, and soft music trickled in through a p.a. system.

  Tory said: “Hey, check out the guys.” She’d spotted a noisy throng of six or seven burly young men in tuxedos, waving champagne bottles. They were accompanied by an equal number of gorgeous, petite oriental women in pastel silk gowns.

  “Oh fuck.”

  “Max?”

  Maxie, her face contorted in pain and fury, stubbed out another cigarette. “The gorgeous one is Van Meeuwen.”

  “Aw geez,” Tory said.

  “Just sit tight,” Maxie said. Her face was a white mask of fury. “That’s him, third from the right.” She pointed to a handsome, scoffing young man with arrogant eyes, who looked very self-assured as he helped his date into her seat. That kiss on the mouth as he leaned over her ruled out any reasonable explanations, Tory thought. The men couldn’t see Maxie from their angle. In any case, Maxie’s slight figure was barely visible behind a large plant. Luckily, Tory was looking toward Maxie, so Maxie was looking away from Dr. Schmuck and Friends. Tory not only watched him frenching the girl, but actually checking out Tory as he did so. “Let’s split,” Tory suggested.

  “Just a minute,” Maxie said, downing her wine.

  “No.” “Yes.” Maxie picked up the pitcher of ice water.

  “Maxie.”

  “Okay.” Maxie put the pitcher down.

  “Let’s just--”

  “Follow me.” Maxie picked up her purse and gloves. Tory followed her to the boisterous table.

  “Good evening, Dr. Van Meeuwen,” Maxie said. Tory heard a plunk as Maxie dropped her engagement ring into his drink.

  The young doctor looked surly, as though he wasn’t sure how much energy he should expend, having been caught. “Maxie, I can explain.”

  “You don’t need to, Paul. You’re an asshole, and I never want to see you again.” Maxie strode off. As she turned to follow, Tory noticed the scoffing look as Van Meeuwen rolled up his eyes, and his friends
tittered. Tory managed to tip over a glass of wine into his lap in passing.

  She caught up with Maxie at the exit door. “Well said, Maxie.”

  Out in the garage, Maxie bawled her eyes out while Tory waited for the car. By the time the valet brought the car around, Maxie was wiping her swollen face with a hankie and appeared to be regaining control. She asked Tory: “Would you please drive? I think I may have to cry some more on the way home.”

  As they crossed town, Maxie said, “Thanks for being my friend.”

  “People love you, Max.”

  “I am so grateful you were there with me.”

  “You were incredible, kid.”

  “He stuck a knife in me.”

  “It hurts,” Tory agreed. “I hope you’re finally done with this eraser head. Or are you going back for more?”

  “You drive like I do,” Maxie said.

  “Dammit!”

  After a long silence, Maxie said: “I’m sorry.”

  Tory found herself yelling: “You should be sorry. What is it with broads like you? You pick these dingdongs, these nobodies, and you let them walk all over you, and then you keep going back for more. All because you’re scared. Or you’re lonely. Or you feel sorry for yourself. Especially after 600 martinis.” Tory was almost out of breath, but she still had a little yelling in her. “And so in the meantime, everyone around you has to feel sorry for you, and I’m sick and tired of it. Wake up! Get a life! Get a brain!” They sat in stunned silence all the way home. Tory cringed in her seat, wishing she could suck every word back into her mouth. Her ears hurt from the echoes of her sharp words. She cried a little herself.

  Maxie said as they arrived at the condo and got out: “You know what? I needed that. Next time I meet one of these dingdongs, I’ll picture you yelling at me and it’ll make me think twice. Look, I’m really sorry I made you sore.”

  Tory felt a gush of relief and embraced her. Maxie hugged back, small but made of steel cable. Tory made sure Maxie got to her bedroom all right. Maxie passed out on the bed fully dressed and Tory covered her up before closing the door. Minutes later in the peace and quiet of her bedroom, Tory fell into bed and drifted off to sleep. Somewhere in a dream, she stood on a river bank and yelled over the water. She kept reaching out to two men in a canoe, trying to warn them that they were paddling too close to the deadly falls. They only smiled and waved back, unaware of the great danger. One was Ib Shoob. The other was David.