“He also said it’s as easy to love a rich girl as a poor one, although I don’t think he had any experience to back that up. It was a naked assumption on his part.”
“Terrific.”
“So did you say yes?”
“I called because I think it’s time for you to tell me what is going on. Everything you know.”
“Don’t know much,” the admiral muttered, “and that’s a fact.”
“Everything you suspect.”
“All of it?”
“All of it. Who, what, where, when, why.”
“It’ll take a little bit.”
“Believe me, I’ve got nothing but time.”
So he told it. Dumped the whole load on me. When I hung up thirty minutes later I tossed the phone on the bar and sat watching the rain through the window. When the barman came around I asked if he had coffee. He said he could make a pot. And he did.
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was after midnight when I got back to the van. As I put my umbrella on the floor to drain, Willie sniffed and said, “Been drinkin’, huh?”
“If you were a better cook you’d make some lucky man a good mother.”
“So what’d she say?”
“She wants to marry me,” I said flippantly.
He snorted in derision. “That’ll be the day,” he said, turning back to the computer. “Royston got a call a while ago I think you should listen to. I got his end of it.”
“Who was he talking to?”
“You tell me.” He handed me the headphones, then went back to punching the keyboard. Rain drummed on the top of the van, making a pleasant sound.
I donned the headphones and got comfortable. A proposal from Dorsey. That’ll be the day! And yet, this was the day. Four hundred million genuine American dollars, half to me, and I told her I’d think about it.
If half of that pile wasn’t enough, Carmellini, just what was your price?
If Willie only knew the truth, my reputation as a corruptible bastard would be in jeopardy. Yet knowing Willie, he’d probably just tell everybody that Carmellini wanted to steal it, not marry it.
My ruminations were interrupted by Dell Royston’s gravelly voice in my ears.
“Hello.”
After mumbles and grunts and some long pauses, Royston said, “You’re going to have to announce your decision soon. Like tomorrow. Heston’s set to make the nominating speech, but he has to have a name to plug in.” Heston would be Senator Frank “Piggy” Heston, the senior senator from one of the smaller states — he got his nickname from his addiction to pork projects for his constituents. By reputation, he had never seen an appropriations bill he didn’t like.
Another long pause followed that comment, then, “I see…”
Finally, “I can hold the train in the station for a few hours, but by tomorrow afternoon it’s got to pull out… Sure. See you tomorrow evening.” Tomorrow evening, I knew, the president planned on making his acceptance speech to the convention, to be broadcast nationwide on all the networks.
Willie raised a finger and pushed a button.
I took off the headset.
“Well?”
“The president hasn’t made up his mind,” I said.
“His own wife! You’d think the bastard could say yes or no.”
Which left me speculating about the relationship between the president and first lady. Theirs was a political marriage, sure. But they had four years to figure this out!
Willie leaned back in his chair and scratched a scab. “Well, you ready to go back to Jersey and snatch a few winks? Or will you be sleeping over somewhere?”
“Maybe the president isn’t sure he could be reelected with Zooey on the ticket. Reelection is the first priority.”
“Bullshit!” Willie pointed to a stack of newspapers on a ledge. “The pundits say he’s a shoo-in. The economy is humming, he’s hell on terrorists, working on the Mideast thing… There’s a landslide shaping up.”
” ‘Dewey Defeats Truman!’ “
“Maybe he just doesn’t like the bitch.” The bitch he was referring to was Zooey.
“You think likes and dislikes matter in politics?” I mused.
“Oh, I know, these politicos would bend over and spread ‘em for the devil if he would deliver the sinner vote. But unless someone catches him in bed with a live boy or a dead woman, this president doesn’t need help. That’s my point.”
“Beats me,” I replied.
“Well, Jersey or what?”
“You go. Take a cab. I’m going to stay here a while.”
“At this time of night?”
“Get one in front of the hotel.” I dug in my wallet and gave him sixty bucks from my dwindling cash supply.
His parting shot was, “Try to stay out of trouble. I know it’s tough for you, but tonight, for my sake, give it your best shot.”
“Yeah.”
He took my umbrella and locked the door behind him.
But what, I wondered, if it came out that the president did a deal with the Russians, way back when? In that event, my guess was that he would need every vote he could beg, borrow, or steal. Say hello to the devil, folks!
I wondered what the Big Dog was thinking tonight as he sat in the White House.
The rain kept pounding on the roof.
An hour later I was having trouble staying awake. I sat watching the comings and goings on the penthouse floor of the Hilton on the monitors and listening desultorily to the conversations in the suites. And this convention was going to run on for two more days. Friday was the last day; the delegates couldn’t stay longer even if God asked them to. The television networks had other programming scheduled for the weekend and next week. The prez had to decide his choice for VP, get him or her nominated, and the delegates would vote on Friday. The cleanup people would work all weekend swabbing out the Javits Center, then next Monday a home products industry convention was opening there. Come hell or high water.
The crowd in Royston’s suite emptied out. A bunch of drunks were finishing a bottle of Scotch in one of the adjoining suites, and in the other some aide was getting laid by one of the true believers from Iowa, some woman who had something to do with the school system. No one in Dorsey’s suite on twelve.
Ah, me.
Just where was I going to be next week? Lodged in a jail someplace with a platoon of FBI agents shouting questions at me, or puking my guts out on a banana boat, sailing south under a false name? Wish I knew more about extradition treaties.
Of course, I could be making wedding plans with Dorsey, renting a tux and visiting lawyers’ offices and making big plans to spend a huge heaping pile of cabbage. On which the taxes had already been paid, thank you very much. Assuming the FBI didn’t latch on to me in the meantime.
What kind of yacht should I buy? What ocean should I put it in? Should I pop for gold faucets in the head? How big should the bed in the master suite be?
Say what you will about poor, rich Dorsey, the woman was flat-out dynamite in bed. Sure, she had been
