of sweet liqueur from the Grand Marnier decanter for Representative Zeke Miller. Behind him, he knew that the elderly Hankins had settled on the sofa across from Wayne Talley, while Miller remained on his feet, spread- legged, in the pose of a public speaker impatient to begin a harangue. Talley, Eaton had observed, still had two- thirds of his Seagram’s whisky, and required no refill.
About to take the two drinks to his recently arrived guests, Eaton, who had not been drinking, reconsidered his own need. The sight of the newcomers definitely left him with a bad taste in his mouth. To remove this taste, a counter-potion was required. Eaton studied the two rows of bottles on the shelves of his bar, brought down the Remy Martin cognac and an amber-tinted snifter that Kay had long ago purchased in Vienna, and he covered the bottom of the glass with the cognac.
His eye caught the Roman numerals of the early English lantern clock on the mantelpiece of the fireplace. It was twenty-three minutes after eleven, too late for this, and too late for Sally Watson. When Talley had come over, after dinner, they had quietly reviewed the entire Baraza situation, from start to the present, as well as the withholding of the single CIA warning from Dilman. They had justified their act, one to the other, and Talley had been reassuring about the safety of their position. Sally’s precious news that Dilman had found out, or at least suspected what they had done, had been useful in alerting them to possible trouble. However, more important would be the degree to which Dilman could confirm, through the Director of CIA, exactly what they had withheld. If Scott was uncooperative or vague, Dilman would have no evidence with which to endanger the peace of the country. (If new evidence came-better, worse-the problem could then be handled by them openly.) On the other hand, if Scott had been informative and explicit this afternoon, Dilman might be foolhardy enough to act both against Talley and himself, and against the Russians, and the rift in foreign policy would have to be taken to the public-T. C.’s public still, he trusted.
Eaton had hinted to Talley that Miss Watson had indicated she had means of learning what had transpired between the President and Montgomery Scott. Also, she had indicated that she might have the information for them this evening. Fortunately, Talley, who was anything but well-bred, had accepted this with delicacy. He had not questioned why Miss Watson should trouble to help Eaton, or, indeed, what her relationship was with Eaton. Of course, Eaton guessed, Talley knew about Sally Watson and himself. Eaton was never one to indulge in self- deception. There were few personal secrets anywhere between Foggy Bottom and the Hill. Yet, to Talley’s credit, he had behaved like a gentleman, an unnatural behavior no doubt induced by Talley’s realization that his own future was insecure and entirely linked with Eaton’s future.
Without discussing it further, they had waited, both of them, for Sally Watson’s telephone call. At eleven o’clock, when they were discouraged and had talked themselves out, the telephone had finally rung. Hopefully, Eaton had answered it, only to find that the caller was not Sally but Representative Zeke Miller. If Eaton had not known of Miller’s temperance, he would have thought him intoxicated, so excited and unrestrained had been his outpouring.
“Remember, Arthur, how I was telling you, after that there Nigra vetoed the minorities bill, that we were setting out to put him in a kennel where he belongs? Well, Arthur, we were dibble-dabbling here and there, digging up a case or two, when tonight we cracked it wide open. Yayss sir, my friend, cracked it open with a Jim Crowbar.” Miller had cackled with glee over the telephone. “We were having a caucus, five or six of us on the Hill, me and Bruce Hankins presiding, when this certain information about our Nigra President fell plumb in our laps, came right to us, dropped down in our laps like manna from the sky. Yayss sir. This is it, Arthur, and me and Bruce are scooting right over to Georgetown to share our intelligence with you in person.”
Eaton had meant to protest that he was expecting someone else, but then he decided that Sally would not be heard from tonight. Still, he was in no humor for Miller’s white-supremacy pipe dreams. “Zeke, I appreciate this, but it is terribly late. If this is some idea or plan of yours, can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Yet, considering the precariousness of his own position with Dilman, he had been unable not to leave the door slightly open to a possibly ally. “Of course, Zeke, if you are not being carried away by wishful thinking, if you have some information that is vital-”
“Vital and factual!” Miller had shouted. “Important enough to make our Nigra tender his resignation, and to make you, as next in line, the President of the United States.”
Eaton had winced at the bluntness of the last. Nevertheless, it had been useless to resist further. “Very well. You and the Senator come right over. I have Governor Talley with me.”
“All the better. See you in a jiffy.”
And now they were here in his living room, awaiting his full attention. Wondering what was so “vital and factual,” Arthur Eaton carried the lacquer tray of drinks to the sofa. He held the tray out to Senator Hankins, and followed the elderly lawmaker’s horny hand as it took the Jack Daniel’s and brought it up to his pickerel face. Eaton did not know Hankins intimately, but only as a thirty-year public legend on the Hill who had been at once a thorn in T. C.’s side in matters of domestic legislation and an asset to T. C. and Eaton himself in matters of foreign policy.
Hankins wore a wavy gray toupee, so cheap that the hairpiece appeared pasted on with schoolboy’s glue. His ancient sad eyes, moist nostrils, flaccid puckered lips were surrounded by curlicues of deep wrinkles. The broad black silk ribbon to which his pince-nez was attached dangled from under his high starched collar. Unlike the younger Zeke Miller, he was not vocal. He was a senior citizen given to long silences and grave nods, which had conferred upon him the mistaken reputation of having wisdom. Since he had a son and grandson serving the government abroad, and because he enjoyed Congressional junkets to London, Madrid, Tokyo, he had come to consider himself a specialist on international affairs. He led foreign-aid programs and treaty agreements and was pleased to read often that he was a progressive Southerner. Where he was not progressive, however, was in his attitude toward the Negroes in his state and in the Black Belt beneath the Mason-Dixon line.
For Senator Hankins, the elevation of Douglass Dilman to the nation’s highest seat had been a trauma that would have been comparable only to seeing General William Tecumseh Sherman ascending to the Presidency of the Confederacy. To Hankins, the nigger President was beneath human contempt, an abomination and eyesore on once-beautiful America.
Yet, until now, he had not led his colleagues in the fight against Dilman. It was as if he would not dignify Dilman’s position by voicing his disgust. He permitted the yeasty young Miller to lead the Christian forces, letting it be known that he was in his palace, ready, available to come down into the field to administer the final coup.
“Well, Mr. Secretary,” he said now to Eaton, after gingerly tasting, then relishing, his Jack Daniel’s, “looks like you been to Tennessee to oversee the proper distilling of this celebrating libation.”
“You feel we have something to celebrate, Senator?” Eaton asked, as he took the tray to Zeke Miller.
Senator Hankins nodded. “As I was relating to Governor Talley, I’m a mighty cautious old coot, Mr. Secretary. These eyes of mine and ears of mine have seen and heard too much fable to be unwary of those bearing good tidings. But what I witnessed and heard a few hours back gives me hope we will be able soon to see the last of our nigger tenant on Pennsylvania Avenue, and restore prideful Christian government to this land of the Founding Fathers. Zeke there, he’ll tell you what is in our possession, and like ourselves, you will sleep easier tonight… Tell the Secretary, Zeke. Tell him and the Governor.”
“Well, goldarnit, Senator Bruce,” Miller said, “I’ve only been waiting for Secretary Eaton’s undivided attention, like not wanting to open a Christmas present till everyone’s all assembled round the tree.”
Miller had taken the liqueur glass, and without tasting it had immediately put it down on the coffee table. His lipless mouth curled apologetically at Eaton as he slicked his bald spot. His wiry frame appeared to dance with eagerness and restlessness, although he remained stationary on his spread legs.
Dismayed by this unattractive pair, yet increasingly curious as to what they had learned, Eaton set the tray down, retaining his cognac, and then sank into the sofa beside Talley, opposite Hankins.
“I am quite ready for you now, Zeke,” said Eaton.
Talley bent forward and pleaded, “Make it good, Zeke. For the country’s sake, we need something to control our-our President.”
Zeke Miller’s thin nostrils jumped, and he grinned, baring his yellow teeth. “This is no lasso we found, to tie our Nigra down. This here is a regular blowtorch we got, to singe his black behind and send him high-tailing back where he come from.”
“Tell them, tell them,” Senator Hankins grunted, “before my kidneys give out. This isn’t the House Chamber, Zeke. Make it short and sweet and
Zeke Miller moved a few feet nearer to Eaton. “While I deplored, much as you, that assassination attempt, it
