The Hellfire Club(63)
The New York Times business pages reported that an executive from Zenith named Ira Boschwitz had been fired amid rumors he would be called to testify before McCarthy’s committee. That was fast, Charlie thought. He’d only given the Boschwitz file to Kennedy on Friday. He showed the story to Street, who shook his head.
“How much do you think the U.S. is actually under threat of Communist takeover?” Charlie asked as he soaked his white toast in the yolk of his sunny-side-up egg.
“Not at all,” Street said. “The papers sure do a good job of scaring the crap out of everyone about it, though.”
Charlie barely heard his answer; his initial relief that there was no mention of the car crash in the papers gave way to a sudden anxiety that the police were holding back information from the press as they gleaned more clues and investigated the matter.
“Gentlemen!” came a friendly voice.
Charlie looked up to see Congressman Pat Sutton approaching their table accompanied by Abner Lance, one of Chairman Carlin’s top aides. Lance had just returned from the Korean War, but he didn’t like talking about it. He didn’t much like talking about anything, as far as Charlie could tell. With hair so blond it almost looked white, a ruddy complexion, steely black eyes, and a catlike gift for the silent approach, Lance cut an imposing figure when he showed up at Republican conference meetings.
“Y’all coming to poker tonight?” Sutton asked. “Should be a good time. At ten, we’re going to take a break to watch Strongfellow on This Is Your Life!”
“That’s airing already?” asked Street. “I thought he just taped it a few weeks ago.”
“It’s tonight,” Sutton said. “You gotta come. Strongfellow deserves to be honored! And razzed too, of course.” He grinned. Veterans often had mixed emotions when one of their own was recognized, Charlie had observed over the years, an odd combination of envy and pride leading to hazing and resentment.
Street raised an eyebrow at Sutton, then turned to Charlie. “Shall we?”
“I’ll try to be there,” said Charlie. “Sounds fun.”
“Sutton’s an odd bird,” Street said as they walked from the diner to the U.S. Capitol for a morning vote. “And why the hell is he challenging Kefauver in a primary? Fool’s errand.”
“Kefauver’s a little effete for Tennessee, maybe,” Charlie said.
“Oh, bull,” said Street. “He plays good ol’ boy with the best of ’em.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Charlie said. “He’s not even my party.”
They often compared notes on their colleagues, those they feared, those they respected, those they disdained. Sometimes they invented their own superlative awards. Charlie had privately identified the stupidest member of the U.S. House of Representatives; he had watched him walk into a broom closet during a hearing, then bashfully walk out, in full view of the packed room. Street was convinced that a certain committee chairman from the Northeast was the most corrupt; he had actually seen several hundred-dollar bills sticking out of the silver rim of his briefcase. There were the members of Congress who were not only old and infirm but also in the throes of dementia whose staff members and wives paraded them around from event to event, riding the train of their stature until the very end of the line, confident that constituents would never know and journalists would never tell. The incomprehensible mumblings these members made on the House floor would be “translated” by staffers for the official Congressional Record and for press releases to be read by the folks back home.
“You know what they say,” Street said. “You spend your first six months in Congress wondering just how the hell you got here and the next six months wondering how the hell everyone else did.”
Charlie chuckled, smiling for the first time in a while. “One of the best I’ve met was MacLachlan,” he said.
“Agreed. He was a damn fine card player, he served honorably, and he seemed an eminently decent man.” He paused. “We never—”
“Hello there, Congressmen!” Sheryl Ann Bernstein materialized by Charlie’s side as he and Street made their way up the stairs of the Capitol.
“Bernstein!” said Charlie. “My best student! Were you just outside pounding the erasers for me?”
“No, but you should feel free to go pound sand,” she said with a grin.
“That’s quite a student you have there,” Street said. “I’d hire a taster before partaking of any apples she brings you.”
“She’s great,” said Charlie. “Don’t let the Lauren Bacall sass fool you; she’s brilliant.”
“He just says that because I love his book,” Bernstein said as they began walking up the stairwell to the second floor of the Capitol.
“Ah, you’ve cracked the Charlie code.” Street laughed. “Your brilliance is proven in your appreciation of his.”
“You know, I’m right here,” Charlie reminded them mildly.
“By the way, speaking of brilliance, or our lack thereof, we never did figure out who the hell Jennifer is,” Street said.
“Jennifer?” asked Bernstein.
“It was MacLachlan’s last words to us. He mentioned someone named Jennifer,” said Charlie. “Only we don’t know who he was talking about.”