The Hellfire Club(38)

Charlie leaned closer to Strongfellow and said in a low voice, “Phil, I need a favor.”

“Anything,” he said.

“I’m trying to find out about a Pentagon-backed study done at the University of Chicago,” Charlie said, reaching into his inside suit pocket to retrieve the notes Bernstein had handed him earlier that day. “Something to do with cereal grains and broadleaf crops. It’s blocked by wartime secrecy laws. I thought maybe your Armed Services Committee connections could help me get it unblocked.”

“Done,” said Strongfellow, seemingly unsurprised by the request and uninterested in its origins. Charlie imagined he was used to doling out random favors and just as used to calling them in when he needed to. Strongfellow took the paper Charlie handed him and slipped it into his inside suit pocket, nodded, and shuffled away to talk to someone presumably more important. Charlie took a seat and listened to the conversations fluttering around his head like a flock of startled pigeons:



I’m not going to do it if you’re not.

I said at least buy me dinner first if you’re going to fuck me, Mr. Chairman.

What do we care about cheap Mexican labor in Maine?

Technically he’s a socialist, not a Communist, but that’s an argument for him to make, not me.

My constituents couldn’t give a shit about Syria.

Doris Day, I think.

That hairdo might be the worst cover-up in political history.



MacLachlan eased himself into the chair next to Charlie’s; it creaked under the sudden weight. “How are you going to vote?” he asked.

“Not too many crops on the Upper West Side,” Charlie said.

“That’s fine if you don’t have national ambitions,” MacLachlan said. “Jack Kennedy’s going to get screwed in the Midwest in ’56 because of his hostility to my people.”

“Your people?”

“Farmers,” MacLachlan said. “Though I suppose this is all going to get wrapped into the farm bill anyway.”

“When you say these issues are all a distraction, the juvenile delinquency hearings, McCarthy naming names, this migrant debate,” Charlie asked, stealing a glance at the file folder on his lap, “you’re leaving out a key part of the puzzle.”

“And what’s that?”

“Distraction from what? You think this is all being done to keep our eyes off the ball. What’s the ball?”

Before MacLachlan could answer, Charlie heard a tumult above him. He followed the sound to the visitors’ gallery, where four tourists were brandishing a Puerto Rican flag.

“?Viva Puerto Rico libre!” they shouted. “?Viva Puerto Rico libre!”

Then came sounds—Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!—echoing throughout the House Chamber.

Charlie heard a colleague mutter something about firecrackers. But Charlie knew the sounds, as did MacLachlan. It was a gun. More specifically, a German pistol, probably a .38. Members of Congress and their aides were shouting, some running for the exit doors, others hitting the ground or seeking shelter behind chairs or tables.

Snapping back to wartime training, Charlie took cover, leaping behind a small oak desk used by House Republican leaders, and assessed the situation. One, then two bullets whizzed past his head.

The shots seemed to be coming from the visitors’ gallery, and they were clearly being aimed at members of Congress standing on the floor of the House Chamber. Were they targeting anyone in particular? He couldn’t tell.

He heard a grunt and turned around to see blood spreading across the chest of Alvin Bentley, a strapping Michigan Republican with a crew cut and glasses; he fell back on the floor, a confused look on his face.

Ben Jensen, whom Charlie had exchanged pleasantries with minutes earlier, fell forward abruptly, blood spurting from his right shoulder.

Shot after shot after shot streamed across the floor. It was all happening in just seconds but it felt endless. Where the hell are the Capitol Police? Charlie wondered.

The scene was chaos. Charlie watched in horror as George Hyde Fallon fell to the ground. Seconds later, Cliff Davis, the old Tennessee Democrat who was a former judge and Klansman, was shot in the leg and went down.

Charlie, crouched behind the desk, was getting his bearings and trying to figure out how to respond. He locked eyes with Congressman James Van Zandt, a Pennsylvania Republican and navy captain who had served in both world wars. Van Zandt pointed to the stairwell that led to the visitors’ gallery.

Charlie tapped his chest, then pointed up and swirled his finger to suggest motion; he would stand and distract the shooters.

Van Zandt nodded. They had a plan.

Three…two…one…

Charlie stood and looked up to the gallery.

All four of the Puerto Rican activists—three men and one woman, in their twenties and thirties—were brandishing firearms. An elderly tourist was frantically trying to grab one of the guns; he was weak but determined. One of the shooters hit him in the head with the butt of his rifle, sending him falling into the aisle. Two of the shooters spotted Charlie and took aim at him. Charlie faked left, then moved right. Van Zandt suddenly appeared in the visitors’ gallery and tackled one of them, and before the shooters could respond, a half a dozen Capitol Police officers entered the balcony and descended on them.

Charlie ran to Jensen; Isaiah Street was already checking his neck for a pulse.