I. Sarah Booth Conroy, “A Peek at Privilege: Inside the Alibi Club,” The Washington Post, June 22, 1992, https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifestyle/1992/06/22/a-peek-at-privilege-inside-the-alibi-club/e18847d4-49d6-4f1c-81ec-23b9149acba2/.
The Laws of the Alibi
Now these are the laws of the Alibi,
Unwritten, unpublished, unsung,
And he who is wise will observe them,
Ere at noon from the yardarm he’s hung.
Alibi-ites are a strange breed of cats
Whose origin is a marital mess,
So don’t bring up your fancy begats,
We don’t give a damn and care less…
Reserve the club for your private use.
Take care this privilege you not abuse,
And invite to your party whomever you wish,
Be it lady or woman or own private dish…
Don’t let your party spill into the street
And create a noisome hubbub,
But maintain the aura of a gentlemen’s retreat
Though we’re licensed as a “bottle club.”
Nothing will cause more trouble quicker
Than an angry woman loaded with likker
So remember that Shakespeare wisely warned
That “Hell hath no fury like a woman corned.”
Once, a lady was rejected by her lover was ejected
From the center window second floor.
Despite her description the police blotter inscription
Read, “attempted suicide,” but no more
But the facts of the case by the girl laid bare
That she was preceded by a bottle and followed by a chair.
So leave by the door no matter how tight.
Grasp firmly the handrails to left and right.
If the iron steps are out of place,
If the sidewalk comes up and slaps your face,
Don’t fight the problem when the cops come by
To ring in “A drunk from the Alibi.”
Go quietly with them to Number Three
Where Captain Pyle for a modest fee
Will provide you lodgings in good company.
Now these are the rules for the Alibi
Authentic, brief, and complete,
And he who is wise will observe them
Or land on his arse in the street.I
I. If I tell you how I obtained this, I might have to kill you.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Cate stands outside of a dilapidated antebellum town house: red brick, muddy green shutters, and an old streetlamp by the front door. A government VACANT sign sticks to the inside of a blurry glass window lined with velvet green curtains. The house is surrounded by modern glass high-rises.
Cate texts, I’m at the address you sent and all I see is a creepy government vacancy sign. Where r u? She spins around; the White House is just a few blocks away, secret service officers with their bulletproof vests and AK-47s, tourists taking selfies.
Come to the door, Doug replies.
Cate turns around like she knows she’s being watched as the door of the town home creaks open. A strong whiff of mothballs fills the already polluted air—a sour, rusty smell like the breath of Thomas Jefferson risen from the dead.
As she walks in, a Black steward in a bow tie appears from behind the door like a ghost and closes it behind her. He says nothing, then lifts an old car horn to his lips and blows. Cate jumps from the penetrating noise—“Jesus!”—plugging her ears. The steward lowers the horn to his side and stares ahead as though Cate were invisible.
Cate pokes her head around the corner into the drawing room. A Victorian chaise and Welton dresser rest on a Persian rug fit for a king. What is this place? Leather-bound law books and old encyclopedia collections fill the built-in bookshelves. A crystal service bell waits on the antique burl-wood coffee table. Crossed swords hang on the opposite wall among other historical tchotchkes. It looks like an epic yard sale with American fairy tales hidden in every corner and crevice.
“Come upstairs,” Doug says from the top of the single staircase, which hugs a wall soaked in damask wallpaper dating back to the Middle Ages.
Established as a secret institution in the aftermath of the Civil War, the club guards the ghosts of men from the grounds of Oak Hill and Rock Creek cemeteries, who are commemorated in the upper hallway in gold-framed photos of CIA directors, Supreme Court justices, secretaries of state, and presidents. The round table in the dining hall is set with pewter plates and goblets and Windsor chairs—like their very own American Knights of the Round Table. General Robert E. Lee’s uniform hangs on a mannequin in the corner, still encrusted with his blood. The Alibi Club is the oldest, most secretive fraternity in all of America, where bipartisan power brokering is done and Saudi royals are entertained. Because the institutions of Washington live longer than the average male, the passing of the Alibi torch becomes the ultimate legacy.
Doug leads Cate into what is known as the poker room, filled with square tables, its walls covered in Japanese scrolls; legend has it that this is the room where General Eisenhower called for Operation Neptune—World War II’s invasion of Normandy.
“Why did you have me come meet you at a museum?” Cate asks, annoyed.
“It’s not a museum, it’s an exclusive club, Cate,” Doug says, defending himself and all of his choices in the history of his entire political career.
A workman enters carrying boxes of twinkle lights and several Christmas wreaths.
“Excuse me, we’d like to have some privacy,” Doug says, shooing him out of the room, then turns back to Cate. “What’s going on? Where’s Walter?”
“He resigned, did you not check your e-mail?”
“He RESIGNED?”
It’s no secret Cate’s fighting for a rise in status, and Doug knows it. “Jesus Christ, what did you say to him?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed since—since we haven’t been seeing each other”—she pauses—“he has had an affinity for grazing my nipples and other inappropriate behavior.… The press was onto him, so I gave him a choice: resign with dignity or—”
“Is this the fucking emergency?!” Doug panics. Never mind that his press secretary was being sexually harassed and assaulted. He walks
