Smith shrugged. “I always wanted to rub shoulders with the stars. Now, I’m getting my chance.”
“And?”
“It was less exciting than my mother told me it would be. You should be in your element tonight, Ken. Lots of good jazz to be heard.”
“Yes, I love it. Of course, you’ll have your addiction to opera satisfied, too.”
“That’s true, although as with any addiction, the craving only grows stronger after each ‘fix.’ How’s Leslie?”
“Fine. Under some strain, but still comes up smiling.”
Smith was two years Ewald’s senior. His body was cubelike, not fat but square, solid; he’d been a star linebacker at the University of West Virginia. Ewald’s tall, slender physique was more that of a basketball player; indeed, he’d been enough of a court performer at Stanford to make the Pacific Coast all-star team, second string, with the “second string” usually omitted from biographies prepared by his office.
Smith had shaved just before coming to the party, but a heavy five o’clock shadow said he hadn’t. His head was covered with a close crop of salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes were the color of Granny Smith apples. The nose was prominent, his chin jutting and strong. He looked at Secret Service agent Jeroldson and said to Ewald, “I could never get used to that.” When Ewald didn’t respond, Smith added, “Spending my life being watched.”
Ewald had been distracted by a couple who’d carried their drinks to the grand foyer and stood gazing up at the seven-feet-tall, three-thousand-pound bronze Robert Berks bust of President Kennedy. He gave his attention back to Smith. “I agree, Mac. Having these guys sleep with me is the only reason I ever considered not running.”
Smith smiled and looked down at his empty glass. “Think I’ll get a refill before the show starts.”
“That’s three hours away. You must be getting desperate. Where’s Ann?” Ewald asked. Annabel Reed had been Smith’s companion for a number of years.
“Out of town, Ken. The irony of it. Here I am involved with my first and last television extravaganza, and she picks tonight to be away on business. She’ll be watching at her hotel. See you later. And—break a leg.”
Ed Farmer, the rest of the Ewald family in tow, came to where the candidate stood alone. “Time to go to the hotel, Senator,” Farmer said. It was now six o’clock; the performance would begin promptly at nine. They’d taken a suite at the Watergate across the street rather than have to return home to kill time.
“Okay,” Ewald said. Then, almost to himself, he added, “I wish he’d change his mind.”
“Who?” Farmer and Leslie asked in concert.
“Mac Smith. He’d be a tremendous asset to us.”
“He already has been,” Leslie said.
“I know, I know,” Ewald said as they walked down the stairs to the foyer. “I was surprised he agreed to get involved at all, considering his disdain for vulgar politics. Maybe it will give him a taste of campaign excitement and he’ll decide to get more active with us. He’d make a hell of an adviser on drugs and other crimes. And a great attorney general.”
4
In another suite at the Watergate, Sammy Davis, Jr., was playing Pac-Man. The electronic game traveled with him wherever he went. A quart bottle of strawberry soda with a straw was at his side; half a case of it sat in a corner of the living room.
“I know how last-minute this is, Sammy,” Georges Abbatiello said from where he sat on a leather barstool, “but I really would like to accommodate Mrs. Ewald. She’s a nice lady. She called me a half hour ago and asked if you and Roseanna Gateaux would do a duet. She remembers seeing you do one at some benefit in Vegas a year or two ago. She said she was reluctant to ask because Roseanna had requested a last-minute change in the schedule and we turned her down, but then she figured nothing ventured, nothing gained. Would you be willing to come on again and do a duet with Roseanna? We’ll find time by shortening up on the jam sessions.”
“Hey, man, happy to. The lady’s a gas.” He continued to play the game.
Abbatiello smiled. He knew Davis’s reputation was that of easy cooperation, but he didn’t expect him to be this easy.
Things had begun to fall apart in the last hours leading up to the telecast, and Georges and his staff were in a mad scramble to straighten them out. He was used to dealing with the quibbles of performing artists, but most of the problems were coming from the political side—politicians insisting they be onstage when Ewald and his family made an appearance, security people questioning arrangements they should have thought of days before, big egos clashing with bigger egos and lesser significance. He was glad he’d earned his ulcer in show business rather than the political arena. As he’d said to his wife a few minutes before, this was his first and last contribution to politics—anybody’s politics.
Davis lost the round. “I’ll beat this sucker yet,” he said, laughed loudly, and joined Abbatiello at the bar. “You want a soda?”
“No, thanks, Sammy.” Abbatiello checked his watch. “Give me a fast rundown of how the duet goes—timing and such. And the sheets. We need the lead sheets for the orchestra.” Davis’s musical director, who’d been dozing in a large leather chair, came to life and worked with Abbatiello on the changes.
At precisely nine o’clock, with the opera house filled with Ewald supporters and friends of supporters out for a pleasant evening—and maybe to be seen—the curtain rose, the orchestra launched into a spirited, jazz-flavored arrangement of “California, Here I Come,” and the musical gala in honor of Senator Kenneth Ewald began.
As it turned out, the impromptu duet between Sammy Davis, Jr., and Roseanna Gateaux was the hit of the evening. They romped through a medley of old and familiar songs like “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” and “A Bushel and a Peck,” the elegant and beautiful diva the perfect foil for the talented, manic, and considerably shorter Davis. Host David Letterman delighted the largely Democratic audience with barbed one-liners about the current administration, who was manning the Manning, etc., and roasts of the Republican party in general, and Joan Baez quietly transported those old enough to remember the 1960s back to that quaint period.
The finale was to be a jam session featuring all the jazz musicians who’d appeared in smaller groups. Just before Letterman announced that they would play Ellington’s “Take the A Train,” Ewald and his family were brought onstage. A restriction imposed by the Kennedy Center management was that there would be no overt political speech-making during the evening. Ewald, who had no intention of violating that, simply said, “The kind of artistic and creative energy displayed here tonight is symbolic of what this great nation has always spawned … in its excellence and diversity and community.” He turned and looked at his family, smiled broadly, and went on, “And all of us thank each and every person who has made this night so memorable. We are deeply grateful.” Then, on cue, he turned to the assembled musicians and said, “Okay, they said I could count this one off.” He tapped his foot and counted, “One, two, one, two, three, four.” Oscar Peterson began the intro, and the Ewalds were led from the stage to take their seats again in the front row.
The finale was slightly disjointed and cheerful, as such numbers tend to be, but well received. The party preceding the performance had been small, the guest list carefully considered. Now, the larger party began. Had the weather been nasty, the Grand Lobby would have been used. Because the weather had turned nice, it was held on the vast wraparound terrace of the Kennedy Center.
Mac Smith, who’d quickly grown weary of being congratulated for having helped put together the evening, got himself a scotch and soda and found a relatively private spot on the west side of the terrace. People were milling everywhere; a six-piece band played hyper-amplified rock and roll, and hundreds of guests, young and old, gyrated to the rhythms on a large dance floor. Smith was thinking of Annabel Reed and what she might be doing at that moment in New York when the bulky body and round face of Jody Backus circumvented knots of people and headed
his way. Ewald had insisted that all his Democratic rivals be invited, and most of them had showed up, including Senator Backus.
Smith had met Backus a number of times at social gatherings. Although the conservative senator represented few political and social ideas shared by Smith, he’d enjoyed those previous meetings, for Backus was a jovial, easy-talking conversationalist, with a bottomless reservoir of anecdotes and a tendency toward blunt truth.
“Hello, Senator,” Smith said, extending his hand.
Backus took it in one of his own large hands and shook his head. “Looks like you and my dear colleague from the Senate pulled off quite a coup here tonight, Mac Smith.”
“With lots of help,” Smith said.
“I’m impressed. Nobody helpin’ this ol’ boy has come up with anything this good.”
Smith laughed. “We had a few moments of inspiration, that’s all.”
“And tons a’ bucks, I’d say. Good thing Ken’s daddy made all those millions out in California. All that talent really work for nothin’?”
Smith nodded. “They were the only people who worked for nothing. You’re right, Senator, it cost quite a few bucks.”
Backus and Smith looked out over the crowd. “That’s one thing about us Democrats that the Republicans don’t have,” Backus said.
“What’s that, Senator?”
“The ability to have a hell of a good time.”
“You ought to make sure that it’s written into this year’s platform,” Smith joked. “A good time will be had by all, and twice in every pot.”
Backus thought for a second, then laughed. He shook Smith’s hand again and said, “I just want you to know, Mac, that if I don’t manage to get me the nomination in July, your man has my support one hundred percent, and he can count on it.”
Smith started to say that Ken Ewald was not exactly “his man,” but decided to hold off. Backus waved, walked away, and Smith was joined by a plainclothes friend who was part of the Center’s security staff. Together, they enjoyed watching the characters and the dancing, some skillful, some merely animated. During the slower numbers, Ed Farmer danced sedately with a gray-haired woman, the wife of the majority leader, but was interrupted after a few minutes, naturally, by a phone call. Ken Ewald and his wife made a comfortable portrait of grace in motion and drew applause. The beat changed and the volume increased. Andrea Feldman, the young woman on Ewald’s staff who’d been so helpful in setting up the gala, had captured the attention of others on the dance floor as she expended frenetic and somewhat erotic energy with a tall, handsome young blond man who’d removed his suit jacket, and who wore red, white, and blue striped suspenders over his white shirt. Andrea’s purple silk dress closely followed every contour of her splendid figure. Around her waist was a vibrant belt, more a sash, created of multicolored feathers from exotic birds.
“I’d like to see you out there dancing like that, Mac,” the security man said.
“I would, except Annie isn’t here.” He smiled at the image; he had little taste whatsoever for most of today’s popular music, and preferred his dancing to be quiet and pleasant, bodies gently touching, a soothing melody and subtle beat in the background.
The band ended the “song” it was playing, and Farmer took the microphone. After congratulating everyone who had played a hand in creating the evening, he asked for a warm round of applause for the “next president of the United States, Ken Ewald.”
The applause he wanted was forthcoming, and Ewald bounded up onto the bandstand and took the microphone. As he began, Mac Smith thought, He’s an effective speaker in any situation, no doubt about that, and always natural. And in a nation that thought itself suspicious of oratory, what a wonderful—and critical—ability that was for anyone seeking office … seeking success in any endeavor, for that matter. This night, Ewald almost threatened to burst with honest enthusiasm, and when he’d finished his brief talk, the applause was twice as loud as when he’d been announced.
Suddenly, a detonation of Vesuvius fountains and Catherine wheels sprayed broad strokes of lacquered, multicolored light—greens and reds and yellows—across the black sky, the vividness of the colors dissipating as they trickled down the canvas to the horizon. All eyes turned in the direction of the fireworks; “ooohs” and “aaahs” blended with the snap, crackle, and pop of the display.
The sky show lasted ten minutes. As the last traces of sulfurous smoke wafted toward the party and the applause by a few overzealous souls continued, the band began playing, the dancers flocked to the floor, the portable bars were surrounded once again, and the party moved back into high gear. Washingtonians were often ready to party, Smith thought, for what they did by day was no party. For the party, perhaps, but no fiesta.
He waited until he felt it was appropriate for him to leave—a few minutes before midnight on his watch—and sought out those to whom he should say good-bye. He started toward the Ewalds, but they were busy. He thought of Andrea Feldman, but saw that she was in a shadowed area of the terrace talking with a man who looked like Ed Farmer, and although Smith could not hear what they were saying, their faces and body language suggested that theirs was not a pleasant chat. He found a few others he was looking for, then left the Kennedy Center, enjoying the pristine night that had displaced the wet weather of the previous day.
As soon as he entered his Foggy Bottom home ten minutes later, he threw off his raincoat and called Annabel at her New York hotel.
“It was a wonderful show, Mac,” she said. “I loved every minute of it.”
“Thanks. From a pragmatic point of view, everything worked, everyone seemed to be happy with it, we’ll pay the bills, make some money, advance the candidacy, and I’m glad it’s over. As little as I had to do with it, it still took too much of my time. How are things with you?”
“Fine. My dinner with the investors went well. Damn, Mac, I am sorry I couldn’t be there, but you know that—”
“Annie, when you have serious investors from Europe who tell you the only time they can meet is for dinner one evening, you don’t beg off because you have a party to go to. Of course I understand. I’m just glad it went well. When are you coming home?”
“I’m shooting for the noon shuttle. I’ll go directly to the gallery.”
“I’ll call you there.”
“Call me every minute. I miss you, Mac.”
“I miss you, too, although I have to admit that what I missed most was not being able to do the funky chicken with you.”
“Mac, are you …?” She started to laugh, wished him a good night’s sleep, and they ended the conversation.
Eleven o’clock was Smith’s usual bedtime. This night, however, he found himself wide awake, and picked up where he’d left off reading Edmund Wilson’s The Thirties. He finished a series of entries on the famous Scribner’s editor Max Perkins, and looked at the Regulator clock in his study. It was almost four in the morning. Smith marked his place with a bookmark and said to Rufus, “Come on, it isn’t often you get to be walked at this hour.”
He put on a George Washington University windbreaker, slipped the choke chain over Rufus’s head, and they went out to the street. It was a beautiful night—or morning; Smith breathed deeply, and a smile crossed his face. He was one of those people who was profoundly affected by the weather—hating the hot and humid summers, growling about the icy winters that sent inexperienced D.C. drivers sliding into each other with frightening regularity, and loving times like this, feeling good and doubly alive because of them. “Come on, Rufus, let’s move and get some air in our lungs.”
There was no such thing as a brisk walk with Rufus. The Dane was too interested in stopping to smell territorial markers left by previous visitors. They meandered, stopping-and-going, in the direction of the Kennedy Center, where only hours earlier there had been so much activity, so much gaiety. Now, everything was still. Lights from the Center shone brightly in the black night.
They had to wait at a corner as a D.C. cab careen
ed past them viciously. “Dumb bastard,” Smith snarled as he watched the red taillights disappear around another corner, but decided nothing must spoil his mood. He looked left and right, then set off at a trot across the broad avenue separating the Center from where they’d stood.
The man and the dog slowed to a walk and went up the ramp leading to the Center’s front entrance. Smith had never walked Rufus there before, but, then again, he had never been out quite this late with his best friend before.
There was little for the nosy canine to investigate on the ramp. They stopped to look down over the Potomac for a few minutes, then turned and retraced their steps back in the direction of the house, walking this time on the far side of the fountain.
Smith hesitated in front of a massive horizontal relief that was the centerpiece of a small, parklike area, the relief called “War and Peace.” A plaque on it read AMERICA 1965–1971—DONATED BY THE GOVERNMENT OF THE FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY. Funny, Smith thought, how much of the Kennedy Center had been given by other governments, other nations. The intimate Terrace Theater had been a gift of Japan; the huge chandelier in the opera house was from the people of Austria; marble lining the grand halls came from the citizens of Italy; paintings from Peru; meeting rooms through the generosity of Africa and Israel; sculpture from Great Britain—foreign tributes everywhere to the American arts center that had been conceived by President Eisenhower, nurtured by Lyndon Johnson, and eventually designated as the only memorial in the nation’s capital to the slain John F. Kennedy. Smith had taken the tour of Kennedy Center more than once, and had been privy to many of its inner dimensions at meetings and social events. No matter how many critics had taken aim at Edward Durell Stone’s long, horizontal architectural approach, Smith was glad it was there, and that he lived near it. It was, in effect, the centerpiece of his neighborhood, and he always felt particular pride in what it symbolized.
Murder at the Kennedy Center Page 3
