The Hellfire Club(9)
Bernstein cleared her throat. “I have to tell you how much Sons of Liberty meant to me,” she said. “It made me love history in a way I never had before; to be honest, it set me on my current path. I’m going to pursue a PhD.”
“Thanks,” said Charlie, “it’s kind of you to say that. What are you going to focus on?”
“Colonial history, I think. I’m doing my senior thesis on the propaganda techniques of Sam Adams.”
“What a scoundrel,” Charlie said. “Him, not you.”
“Thank you, Sheryl Ann,” Leopold interjected, dismissing her. “Congressman, I’ll set up your meeting with Senator Kefauver, and I’ll let Congressman Strongfellow know you’ll be in attendance Monday evening.”
The two women turned to leave. Leopold slowed her pace until the intern was out of earshot, and then she turned again to face Charlie. She drew back her shoulders and smoothed her sensible tweed skirt.
“Congressman, I say this in the spirit of what we discussed earlier, about my helping you,” she said. “I wouldn’t push the Goodstone approp issue. And if you want me to alert the chairman’s office that you’ll be backing off, I’m happy to do so in a discreet way.”
Charlie’s jaw clenched slightly. His voice was firm: “No.”
“This is a man who will kick you off the committee just for spitting on the sidewalk.”
“I’ll be polite,” Charlie said. “But I’m not going to back down.”
Chapter Four
Friday, January 15, 1954—Afternoon
U.S. Capitol
Sheryl Ann Bernstein’s eyes were bright and she seemed to be trying hard not to bounce in excitement as she followed Charlie into the wicker coach. “Thanks for inviting me to tag along,” she said as they boarded the monorail from the Capitol to the Senate Office Building. “This contraption is amazing!”
“Don’t get used to it, Bernstein,” Charlie teased as they sat down. “We can only use this train when I have an actual appointment with a senator.”
“Why don’t members of the House have an underground train to reach the Capitol? Why do you guys have to walk?”
“You need to ask?” he said. “We’re serfs. Lucky the senators deign to even acknowledge us.”
“Well, you have to admit,” she said, “members of the House can be rather unsavory.”
“Malodorous?”
“Opprobrious.”
Charlie smiled, but he felt he should steer the conversation to something more educational. “Pop quiz: What do you know about Kefauver?”
“Let me see,” Bernstein said, her eyes darting skyward as if that’s where the information was stored. “He ran those organized-crime hearings a few years ago. He’s incredibly popular with Democrats. He was on TV shows like What’s My Line? and such. He ran for president in 1952 and won the New Hampshire primary.”
“Correct,” said Charlie. “Beating President Truman and essentially chasing him away from the idea of running for reelection.”
“Really? I thought ol’ Harry was already planning not to run.”
“Revisionism. Truman would have run, but Kefauver cleaned his clock,” said Charlie, which prompted a loud chuckle from the tall senator in the cart in front of them. Charlie looked and realized they were seated behind Senate minority leader Lyndon Johnson, Democrat of Texas, who looked back at Charlie, smiled, and winked, then returned his attention to the Washington Star.
“Kefauver then went on to run the table in the primaries,” Charlie said in a more hushed tone. “So why wasn’t he the Democratic presidential nominee?”
“Party bosses thought Stevenson a better candidate?” Bernstein guessed.
Johnson folded his newspaper and twisted his body to face Charlie and his intern. “There’s a few reasons for that, young lady,” LBJ said in his thick South Texas drawl, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Some of the party bosses liked Truman, who sure didn’t like Estes. Some of the bosses are big-city Democrats who didn’t much care for Senator Kefauver looking into organized crime in the big cities. For reasons you might expect.” He chuckled.
Charlie stole a glance at Bernstein, who was quite obviously stunned to be getting a history lesson from the Senate Democratic leader.
“I never thought that old egghead Adlai would win,” Johnson said. “I bet on a different horse, Dick Russell, in the primaries. But the thing about Estes is, he’s a lone wolf. He’s not on a team. You can’t win without allies, not in Congress, and not if you’re tryin’ to get to the White House.” Johnson turned around and reopened his newspaper.
Bernstein took a Camel cigarette from her petite clutch bag, prompting Charlie to reach into his pocket for his German lighter. A paper scrap was sticking to it: the note he’d found in the desk that morning. Once again, he thought of the late congressman Martin Van Waganan and wondered what had happened to him, how a man so admired could throw it all away for petty corruption, meeting such a sordid and grotesque end.
“What’s that?” Bernstein asked him.
“Nothing,” Charlie said, tucking the note into his inside jacket pocket and lighting Bernstein’s cigarette for her.