House. I’ve forgotten the date and occasion, though.”
“Must be cool, getting invited to the big house.”
“It was, believe me. I bought a special dress for the occasion from a well-known designer”—she named him —“and believe me, I don’t do that very often.”
That didn’t cut much ice with me. I had seen her closet, which was about the size of my apartment. I kept my mouth busy with my pork chop.
We went on to other subjects, split a dessert — she had exactly one bite — and lingered over a coffee and liqueur. She palmed the tab expertly, and I let her. My guess was that the dinner and tip had run to at least $250. She was used to it. No doubt Carlo would have stuck her with the bill, too.
When we left she put her arm around my waist. “Where are you staying in New York?”
“With friends. That way I can pocket the per diem.”
“Would they miss you if you didn’t go there tonight?”
“Might telephone in a missing persons report. I’m willing to take a chance, though, if that was an invitation.”
“It was.”
Oh, boy. Willie was going to get an earful.
When we got back to the hotel there were two uniformed cops and two plainclothes dicks standing in front of the penthouse elevators checking credentials. It looked to me as if I got the bugs shifted just in time. They also gave the story I told Dorsey more credibility.
Sex with Dorsey was always a workout. She was one of the new moderns who believes that a woman’s sexual satisfaction is her own responsibility, so she went after hers with a will. Of course it was fun for me, too, since she was trim and tuned up and filled out in all the right places.
After the first round of bedroom gymnastics, she played with my chest hair and took another shot at my reason for being in New York.
“Hey, babe, a terrorist incident this week is a risk no one in government is willing to tolerate. The town is packed with feds and fuzz and badge-toters from all over.”
“But you’re not FBI.”
“I go where I’m told. Have to to keep getting paid.”
She left it there, and we got after it again.
I sneaked out of Dorsey’s room at six in the morning while she was still asleep. Waking up alone would be hard for her ego, but I’d had enough of her company. I got a cup of coffee and a bagel from a street-corner vendor and went around the block to the van, which was locked up and empty. I went inside and locked myself in. Willie must have got a cab or train back to New Jersey last night.
They were awake and playing politics in Royston’s suites by nine. He got telephone call after telephone call, and I listened to his side of the conversation. He had a deep, gravelly voice, so I quickly learned to pick it out no matter how many conversations were going on in the room.
Tuesday was the first day of the convention. The platform committee had a large faction, I quickly learned, with an agenda that didn’t match the president’s. Royston spent the morning on that issue when he wasn’t meeting the heads of state delegations who came to call. I suspected Royston was going to be talking to delegations all week.
Each and every one asked Royston who the president wanted on the ticket with him. Royston was coy. If he knew, he wasn’t saying. After I heard him dance around the issue for the fifth time, I decided that he probably didn’t know. He did, however, ask each delegation what they thought of Zooey.
That was more for show, I figured, than anything else. The presidential nominee was going to get whoever he wanted to join him on the ticket. True, years ago a Missouri senator was announced as the presidential nominee’s selection, then dumped by the nominee, George McGovern, when it became plain that the senator’s mental health history worried the delegates. McGovern apparently dumped him on the theory that if the delegates were worried the voters would be, too. Of course, the voters turned out to be extremely worried about McGovern, so the veep choice didn’t really matter. Yet it might have.
This president hadn’t announced his choice, and no doubt he would not until the very last minute. Royston was merely taking temperatures and weighing support.
Yet when he had mentioned her name to eight delegations by eleven o’clock, I would have bet my pension, if I live to collect one, that Zooey Sonnenberg was going on the ticket with her husband. Dorsey was going to be thrilled.
I wondered why. I’d spent a lot of time with her during our torrid affair a couple years ago, and she had never once mentioned a single political issue. I didn’t know her party affiliation or if she was even registered to vote. If I had been forced to guess, I would have labeled her a nonpolitical independent who voted her conscience. She certainly didn’t need to vote her wallet.
The idea that she supported Zooey because she had met her was ludicrous. With her money Dorsey got invited everywhere in Washington. She had met everybody worth meeting at one time or another. Rubbing shoulders with the smart and powerful hadn’t changed her much, from what I could see.
I was listening to Dell Royston and wondering how much of anything we were going to get out of all this political wind when my cell phone rang. I checked the number before I answered it. Sarah Houston.
“Yo.”
“I heard you spent a hot night with Dorsey O’Shea.”
Ol’ Willie. Can he keep his mouth shut or what? “We need to know what she knows,” I said.
“So you were pumping her. Jerk!” The connection broke.
What was she hot about? It’s not like she and I had something going.
Willie Varner arrived around noon. He greeted me with a giggle and “Hoo boy, what a night you had!”
‘Being a gentleman on a mission, of course you listened all evening to Royston’s suite.”
‘When Dorsey wasn’t moanin’ and tellin’ you what a stud you are, yeah, I channel surfed to Royston’s station. Big political stuff goin’ on there, lots of drinkin’, no women.”
“Great. And you called Sarah to give her the hot news about where I was spending the night.”
Actually she called me. Said you had turned off your phone. Wanted to know where you were. She’s got the hots for you, too, you lucky devil. How in the world do you manage to walk down the street carryin’ your cojones?”
“Gimme a break, goddamnit!”
“Royston and his bootlickers came poppin’ into those suites about ten minutes after you left. You cut it mighty fine.”
“Yeah, that’s the way I do things.”
“At least ol’ Dorsey says what you got is mighty fine.”
“Hey, it was in the line of duty, man! As your friend, I ask you to say no more about it.”
“Tough shit, Carmellini. I’m goin’ to talk about it ever’ chance I get for the next fifty years. She says you’re a real stud, big guy, and I think you oughta go with that endorsement. Take it to the bank. She’s a prime piece of ass and you did a good job fuckin’ it. Be proud. Be happy.”
I let him have the last word. It was the only way to shut him up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On Wednesday amid much pomp and circumstance the convention nominated the president to run as their party’s candidate in the election that fall. Actually they nominated three men, the president and two favorite sons, then dragged the speeches out for most of the afternoon and didn’t get around to the voting until prime time, when the proceedings were televised. Surprise, the president received most of the votes to be the standard-bearer, then someone moved that the convention make the nomination unanimous, which was done by yeas and nays.
Throughout the afternoon Royston hung out in his suite and received a steady stream of visitors — governors, senators, con-gresspersons, cabinet secretaries, big party donors, and people who wanted to be governors, senators, congresspersons, and foreign ambassadors. It was quite a parade and boring as hell to listen to. And
