The Hellfire Club(46)



A foggy day in London town…had me low and it had me down.

They sat in silence for one minute. Two minutes.

“How’s the baby?” Charlie finally asked.

“She’s good,” Margaret said.

“She?”

“He. It. Whatever.” She rubbed her stomach. “He-she-it is great.”

Charlie smiled sadly.

“Good,” he said, his gaze drifting out the darkened window.

“Honey?”

“I’m okay. I knew he wasn’t going to make it.”

“It’s horrible. Just awful.” She stood and embraced him. But he patted her absently on the back and broke away.

“I have to go to a meeting,” he told her.

“A meeting? At eight thirty at night?”

“A reception. At the Mayflower.”

“Really?” she asked incredulously.

“Believe me, it’s the last thing I want to do.”

She stared at him as if she didn’t recognize him.

“Thanks for waiting up to tell me about Mac,” he said.

They were maybe five feet away from each other, but it felt like a mile.

“What’s the second thing?” he asked her.

Through the fog of his grief, Charlie could sense Margaret wanting to say more; her disappointment in him had lingered between them for weeks now. It was a conversation he would not be able to face tonight.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Okay,” Charlie said. He went upstairs, changed into his tux, came back down, and grabbed his car keys from the counter.

And without another word to his pregnant wife, he walked out of the room, down the stairs, and back onto their chilly Georgetown street.



The Mayflower was a popular venue for DC events, and Charlie had already been there half a dozen times. Its first-floor bar, the Mayflower Lounge, was nicknamed the Snake Pit; on Friday nights, it became a rogues’ gallery of politicians, lobbyists, captains of industry, and local women eager to make their acquaintance. Until tonight Charlie hadn’t known the hotel had a penthouse, and what he encountered when the elevator deposited him there made the Snake Pit look like a Boy Scout meeting.

Standing in the foyer, facing two immense oak doors, Charlie could hear the muted blare of a trumpet and the deep roar of a party in full swing. A young curly-haired woman dressed like a chorus dancer at a burlesque show greeted him with a smile and asked him to remove his shoes.

“My shoes?” he asked

“Yes, please, sir,” she said. “Connie feels it helps everyone relax.”

Charlie reluctantly surrendered his shoes and, feeling surprisingly disarmed by their loss, squared his shoulders as she opened the door, flashed a bright and possibly flirtatious smile at him, and ushered him inside.





Chapter Fourteen





Thursday, March 4, 1954—Evening


Mayflower Hotel, Washington, DC



The immense room was dark and rich with a bouquet of sinful aromas—cigars and cigarettes and grain alcohol and fruity cocktails being enjoyed by a roomful of older men and younger women. Thanks to DC’s restrictive 1899 Height of Buildings Act, the Mayflower stood as the tallest building in the neighborhood, so the ceiling-high windows offered revelers a clear panoramic view of the city at night—the floodlit Capitol Building on the far left, the glorious White House straight ahead, the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial farther toward the horion. A dozen or so beautiful waitresses—nubile was the word that sprang to Charlie’s mind—glided around, tending to the men’s drink and food and conversational needs. Charlie accepted a martini and made his way into the room.

Je cherche un millionnaire, avec des grands Cadillac car, sang Eartha Kitt through the hi-fi speakers.

“I wish I knew French,” said an unusually gregarious Chairman Carlin, sidling up to Charlie. “That Eartha Kitt is something else.”

“She’s singing, um, ‘I’m looking for a millionaire with big Cadillacs,’” Charlie translated. He paused, took in more of the lyrics. “‘Mink coats, jewels up to the neck, you know?’ I think that’s the gist.”

“Sounds better when she says it,” Carlin said, lighting a cigarette and flagging down a waitress. “Darling, can I trouble you for another Glenfiddich single-malt?” She smiled and touched his cheek affectionately. “Man, I do love Connie’s parties,” Carlin said, more to himself than to Charlie.

“All this just to thank us for helping him get cheap Mexican labor?”

Carlin shrugged. “He likes his braceros. I prefer to think of it as a demonstration of appreciation from a constituent. And with hotels all over the country, he’s basically everyone’s constituent.”

Abruptly, Carlin looked at Charlie with an expression close to a sneer, then walked away. Charlie looked around to see if someone other than himself had been the focus of that disdain. Nope. Such an odd man, Charlie thought.

He stepped deeper into the throng. Members of the House and Senate mingled with business leaders and young women who were cocktail waitresses or guests. There was a slight undercurrent of carelessness, an atmosphere even freer than the Snake Pit twelve floors below them. They were safe—no journalists, no gossips, no wives, no one uninvited.

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