My King The President

by Tom Lewis

  From wall to ceiling were stacks and shelves neatly packed and labeled with old 33rpm records and more up to date CD’s; enough to be the envy of any critic or musicologist, but the turntable and player were nowhere in sight. Must be in another room. Remembering the Sibelius, I glanced at the “S” shelf: Saint Saens, C., Shostakovitch, D., Sibelius, J. ( Finlandia, En Saga, Symphonies 1-10, Violin Concerto) this jacket was missing. I also had the weird feeling that something was wrong here, but before I could figure it out, the Judge jumped up and said, “Let me show you my favorite room. My kitchen.”

  Which was the only room out of sync with the rest of the house. Its burnished, stainless steel practicality and its size would have delighted the chef of any four-star establishment. “All right,” he proclaimed. “Looks like this steer’s ready to eat.”

  Then it hit me. Koontz was stalling. Doing everything he could to keep us distracted from why we had come. “You boys go on in and sit down. I’ll carve this sucker and be right with you…”

  We ate, and I knew I would never again order prime rib in any restaurant. But throughout the fabulous meal, Judge Koontz still hadn’t alluded to our interview. “And I made a banana puddin’ that’ll melt in your mouth.”

  Good as it all was, I was careful not to consume too much of it, nor of the beautiful Cabernet he kept pouring. Walt, on the other hand, ate and drank like he had never had a meal! By the time we had finished, it was nearly nine. I decided to push things along. “Judge, you have any more of those cigars left?”

  “ ’Course I do, and Cognac to marry up with ’em. In the study.”

  Ezekiel Koontz’s study was by far the largest room in the house. Leather furniture, deep carpet, a massive oak desk, and walls not lined with books were covered with autographed photos of every President since LBJ, plus many well-known celebrities. Nursing the brandy and trying not to inhale the cigar, I waited for an opening.

  “…And this is me and old George Burns. One time, years ago, he came to one of my birthday lawn parties. Came with a male nurse who stayed in the background and a big-ass blond who didn’t. Brought me a box of good cigars and a package of porno films for presents!”

  I encouraged him to relate a few more personal anecdotes from celebs that had been his dinner guests over the years, then asked, “Judge, what was your favorite story about President Tyndall?”

  “I’d have to think about that one, son, but off the top of my head at this moment, I’d have to say it was the time he called that Jap ambassador into the oval office. Ambassador Yoshita came in a’ bowin’ and a’ scrapin’ and the General, I mean the President, bowed one time back and asked him to have a chair. Soon as they sat down, Buck told him, eyeball to eyeball, ‘Listen, you little yellow son of a bitch, I’m gonna hold your tiny little feet to a hot fire. I’m giving you and your miserable, ungrateful country exactly three months to even up this trade business. You have been ripping us off for over forty years, and I’m telling you it’s going to stop. Now. If I don’t see satisfactory results within ninety days, I am going to freeze every asset you have in our country, and you will never sell one more car, radio, or computer here again. And, if you think I’m bluffing, or that Amercian business and industry aren’t behind me, as well as all our people, just try me. This meeting is now terminated. Thank you very much for coming by.’

  “Poor old Yoshita never got to open his mouth. Lost a heap of face that day. It’s a wonder he didn’t trot right back to his embassy and commit honorable Hara-kiri.”

  Walt and I laughed. I had heard similar accounts of that same story before, and realized Koontz must have gotten his version directly from Tyndall himself. Gentle urging prompted the Judge to relate a few more Tyndall stories, and then he subtly changed subjects. “I’ve been remiss tonight, son. I read that book you did on the Mexican rebellion. Splendid work. I think you were the best the Post ever had. Wish you were back with ’em permanently.”

  “Thanks, Judge. It is good to be back, even for just this short stint. I’ve always wanted to do a piece on you, and this chance, circumstances notwithstanding, seemed irresistible. Historically speaking, do you consider Tyndall a good President?”

  “The best since Truman.”

  “You served as advisor to him, didn’t you?”

  “Well, it’s been my greatest pleasure in this life to have known and been asked by every man since Carter for a little advice now and then. Some of ’em even listened.” He turned to Walt. “Hey, would you like to get a shot of me standin’ by this picture of the General? It’s my favorite.”

  Neat. Adroit. But there was no way I was going to let him derail me now. While Walt took two or three shots, I said, “What I meant was, you were his chief advisor before his election, weren’t you?”

  Koontz’s eyes narrowed. He fixed me with a stony glance, rolled his cigar between his lips for a moment, then stared at Walt. “Why don’t you go on down to the game room and play yourself a game or two of pool, Walter. Here, take the bottle with you. We’ll call you back up shortly.”

  I nodded to Walt, who beat a hasty retreat, then faced my Tiger shark again. “I’ve got enough material for three articles, Judge. Let’s stop all this dancing. I didn’t come out here to do a piece for Gourmet or House Beautiful. I know all about you and your seven dwarfs.”

  “Really. I reckon I must be slipping some in my old age. I’d nearly forgotten you are some kind of cross between an octopus and a pit bull. Got feelers out all over hell and back, and when you get hold of something, you never let go of it. Now you listen to me, you insufferable pen pusher. I invite you out to my home, go to some trouble cookin’ you and your friend a damn fine dinner, out of respect for a great President, a decent newspaper, and a man I thought was a reasonably bright young writer, and you up and ask me a whole bunch of nonsensical questions. All right, so be it. This is off the record now. Back then, the country needed a hero in the worst way. Besides, old Barney Quinn was all set to buy the presidency. You must remember that. He was buyin’ up newspapers, radio and television stations like Monopoly properties, and he had more money than Bill Gates and Buffett put together. Made poor old Ross Perot seem like a penniless choirboy. If it hadn’t been for me and a few friends of mine, he might have got away with it, too.”

  What he said was certainly no lie. “True, and whoever was responsible for talking Helene Fordham into switching parties and running with Tyndall was a stroke of political genius.”

  “Hellfire, I think Buck would have beaten Quinn even with Ronald MacDonald as a runnin’ mate. Anyway, what’s the use of bringing up those old days? Over and done with. Closed book.”

  “Fine. What about now? What about your new commission? Off the record, do you personally think there was a conspiracy behind Tyndall’s murder?”

  “You’re gettin’ awfully close to pissin’ me off now, son. What the hell are you tryin’ to get at? Do you think there was?”

  It was time for my bluff. I kept my face straight as I could. “I’m sure there was.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have the diaries.”

  “What diaries?”

  “The same ones that told me about you and your dwarfs. Robert McCarty’s personal diaries. They’re very revealing. Judge Koontz, is there anything else you’d like to tell me, off the record?”

  I watched his face. If I’d managed to scare him, he didn’t show it. He smiled at me, like a player with a winning hand, then called and raised. “Sure, I do. You don’t have jack shit, Willard. And I’ll tell you something else. This interview is over. You have disappointed me mighty bad here tonight. First thing I’m gonna do Monday mornin’, I’m gonna call that asshole editor, Latham, and if you or he print one word of what we talked about tonight, I’ll break your balls. Both of you. And I can do it, too. I know the law better’n you know your alphabet. Now, call that photographer back up here and get the hell out of my house. You’ve given me a bad case of indigestion.”

  Walt was hardly in condi
tion to drive back to Washington, so I took the wheel. Five minutes out of Vienna, he said, “Some dinner. Did you get enough material?”

  I stopped whistling long enough to say, “Oh, yeah. I got everything I wanted, and then some.”

  Around midnight, I was in the shower and didn’t hear Liz let herself in with the extra room key I’d given her. I didn’t hear her open the bathroom door, either. The only thing I remember hearing, when she pulled the shower curtain back, naked as me, was, “You’re not married or anything, are you?”

  Half an hour later, the dilemma of who was going to sleep where was solved. I had no problem with the “not married” part of her question, but the “or anything” part bothered me a little. Just a little. Certainly not enough to stop.

  Chapter 7

  Sunday was no day of rest. I would have liked nothing more than to have spent the whole of it in bed with Liz, but I knew if I did, I’d never be able to shove her out of my mind—or my sight—and I had work to do. When I gently explained my plan to her, she didn’t argue, although I couldn’t tell if her tears were caused by gratitude or something else. I gave her time to get packed by going to Cal’s room, asking to borrow his Chevy again. He wanted to know why, and I had to tell him. He fished in his pocket for the keys, tossed them over with a frown and said, “I swear, Jebediah Willard, you have a habit of picking up stray girls like an old maid picks up stray cats. Anyway, I think you’re doing the right thing this time. When will you be back?”

  “Sometime tonight, I guess. Maybe by dinnertime. Then I’ll tell you all about my shark baiting.”

  The drive from Washington to Chapel Hill took longer than I thought it would, and it was already dark by the time I left Liz in the care of my long-retired journalism professor, Max Johnson and his wife (along with a very large “scholarship” check.) I knew she would be safe; too busy transferring transcripts, managing late enrollment in the UNC graduate English program, and shopping for new clothes to think much about the night before. Or me. Or us. I kissed her on a wet cheek, promised I’d call her soon, then got back into the Chevy and started back to Washington, thinking I’d use the down time to mentally go over my rip sheet thoroughly.

  Fat chance.

  Also please look after Liz.

  Last night I was certain I’d have guilt feelings the next day. I didn’t. It had all seemed so natural, somehow. Making love with her had been like one of those fascinating time-lapse films of flowers blooming; one soft, lovely movement at a time. Unhurried, delicate, a beautiful thing growing, unfolding, enveloping. To have tried to stop it happening would have been like trying to hold back a sunrise. Or trying to stop a cloud moving across the sky.

  Father Flaherty had told me Liz never stayed still long enough to cast a shadow. Well, she had this time. Long enough to cast a pastel cloak of sensual poetry over my soul. A sweet-scented haunting that was not going to wash away like a piece of driftwood in a rip tide. No, the only bad feelings I had were those of banishing her to a distant academic prison, and my visiting days wouldn’t come for some time. That had taken a lot of willpower, believe me.

  It took even more of the same for me to push those thoughts of her to the back of my mind, and concentrate on my larger problem. Just north of Richmond, I stopped for gas and made two phone calls:

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Johnson, this is Jeb. I just thought of something I forgot to ask Liz. Is she handy?”

  “Sitting right here, Jeb. We’re going over a game plan for her. Just a moment.”

  Liz came on. “Jeb? Is anything wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong. Just that I forgot to ask you about something while we were driving. I was kind of distracted, I guess. Anyway, one time Mac mentioned a man he called ‘Old Sarge.’ Any idea who he might have been talking about?”

  “Sure. That would be Joe. Master Sergeant Joe Mackenzie.”

  “Joe Mackenzie. What connection did he have with your family?”

  “None at all with our family. He was Buck Tyndall’s personal driver before he was elected.”

  “Oh. Any idea where he might be now?”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen him in years. Why? What about him?”

  “Nothing important. How’re you getting along with the Johnsons?”

  “They’re terrific. Both of them. And so are you. I miss you already.”

  “Same here. I’ll call again soon, okay?”

  “Okay. Bye, Jeb.”

  I hung up, shook my head to clear away growing fatigue and the image of her face. Dialed another number. “Walt? It’s Jeb. Sorry to call you at home.”

  (I knew what his response would be.)

  “No problem, Jeb. What’s happening?”

  “Feel like a fishing expedition tonight?”

  “Sure. What kind of fish?”

  “Some dead sharks and one unknown species. Got a pencil handy?”

  “Yeah, shoot.”

  “This is a tough one, Walt, even for you. I want you to backtrack over the years since Tyndall was elected the first time, and find any nationally prominent and powerful men who have died between then and now. I’m looking for six or seven names. I already know one, but he’s still alive.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Salvatore Cancelossi.”

  “Wow! The Prince of Miami. Mr. Mafia himself!”

  “Right, and Walt, this next one may be tougher. See if you can hack your way into military files and dig out one Master Sergeant Mackenzie, Joseph, U.S. Army. May be retired by now. I need to find out where he is.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Thanks, Walt. You’re an Ace. Oh, almost forgot. Remember the Judge’s housekeeper? Hettie Keeler?”

  “I’ll add her to the list. Anybody else?”

  “That’s it. See you at the office tomorrow.”

  “You got it.”

  I paid for my gas and got back on the road, this time really enjoying a kind of second wind. Finally, I felt like I was back in the old saddle again, winging it the way I always had, and looking forward to tomorrow. I turned the radio on, pushed buttons until I found the nearest public radio station, and listened to the rest of somebody’s good performance of Brahms’ First, which lasted until the eight o’clock NPR news.

  “…And the entire nation is reeling yet again with the tragic news of the apparent suicide of former First Lady, Jean Tyndall. Information is still very sketchy at this hour, but police sources tell us the body was discovered around six o’clock this evening in the master bedroom of her Watergate apartment by a maid. Death was by hanging. We will certainly pass on further details as they become available. In other news…”

  I managed to get Cal’s Chevy onto the shoulder without wrecking it. It took me fifteen minutes more before my hands stopped shaking enough to drive the rest of the way to Washington.

  Chapter 8

  Thurmond Frye and one of his men were already in Ernie’s office when I got there at eight. I took one look at Ernie’s face, which was dark as an anvil cloud ready to explode. Something had come down, and it wasn’t anything good. I had no idea how bad it was until Ernie looked at the FBI men and said, “Gentlemen, would you mind stepping outside a few minutes? When I have to fire a man, I like it to be one on one.”

  I kept my mouth shut until Frye and his man took seats at a desk not more than fifteen feet from Ernie’s glass cage, their backs politely turned to us. “You’re going to can me before I write my first piece?” I said.

  “Before you write your first word! No, don’t bother taking off your raincoat and hat; you’re not going to be here that long. What the hell were you thinking about, threatening the Judge? In case you forgot, it’s not against the law to help get a President elected. Not only has Koontz burned up the phone lines all morning, he’s sicked the FBI on me—and you. Why didn’t you tell me you had McCarty’s diaries? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. I can’t tell anybody anything if I don’t know anything. Besides that, the owner
of this rag, unlike her saint of a mother, has no personal connection, political or otherwise to Ms. You-Know-Who, and even if she did, she’d still want your head on a platter. Maybe mine, too.”

  “I see. The reach of Ezekiel Koontz’s influence is as deep as it is long.”

  “And on top of it all, Jean Tyndall had to go hang herself last night! I got a heap of misery coming down on my head this morning without having to fend off a big lawsuit.”

  “There won’t be any lawsuit, Ernie. Koontz is bluffing. I got just the rise out of him I wanted.”

  “Yeah? Well, not at this paper’s expense. I’ve been told not to let you write one single word. You’re outa here. As she put it, if you darken the door of this newspaper again, I’m to be thrown out along with you, and neither one of us will ever find another job anywhere.”

  “Talk about the baby and the bath water. What about our other arrangement?”

  “Can’t be helped. You’re on your own.”

  Ernie Latham is the only journalist I ever met who could write and talk at the same time. During his tirade, he had scribbled a note, and turned it around so that I could see it.

  GOOD LUCK/STAY IN TOUCH

  As soon as he knew I’d read it, he deftly slid it under his desk calendar. “Those two guys out there were here an hour ago waiting for a piece of you, too. I think they mean business.”