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Page 32.

Chapter 18

There was still no sign of Shoob the next day. David and Tory had lunch and agreed not to fall in love, but to begin with in like. In really, really like—a whole lot, he added.

Late in the day, Maxie phoned. “How would you like to start meeting some Washington people tonight?” It was her euphemism for the swirling social set that made the capital a modern, urban Versailles. Social events bored David, but Maxie tried to talk him into going.

“No.”

“Do it for Tory, David. She’s been moping around, worrying about her friend the NCO.”

“Maxine, there is something more to this.”

“Oh all right, you stubborn elk. Someone very important wants to speak with you.”

David felt a tingle up his spine. “Does this have something to do with—?” He stopped. The phone might not be secure.

“Not directly,” she said. He heard in her tone that she knew he’d been about to say Ib. “It’s someone who has to be very discreet.”

“What are you getting mixed up in, Maxie?”

“Nothing. I just know people. People know me. Don’t forget, my little ol’ family has been active in this town for over 200 years. When people want something indirectly, they start thinking about who they can go through.” She added: “I’m going to coax your girlfriend into going, so that ought to give you motivation.”

“Now, Maxie—”

She laughed brightly. “I just thought you’d like to hear that term girlfriend. Been a long time for you. Too long. Time to take advantage of a good thing, and get your mojo humming.”

A six-piece orchestra played jazz and chamber music in one corner of the ballroom, and ten or twenty couples danced. David danced by turns with Maxie and Tory, as did Jack Standish. “Some crowd, huh?” Maxie whispered in his ear. “There must be five or ten thousand people dancing. Oh not all here; they drift from one party to another all evening long. I couldn’t do it all the time, could you? But business gets done. Lobbyists show up at these things if their senator does.”

At one point David, on his way to the men’s room, heard Standish declaiming amid a knot of smokers on a side patio, from the side of his mouth: “... It’s the next war, folks, seriously, this country’s got to take back what it gave up. That’s why we’re in the shape we’re in. No twenty cent camel jockey gas, no cheap gold from South Africa. This President doesn’t know up from down. Gotta go in there, team up with the Russkis, contain Germany, contain Europe. Then ya gotta pit the Japs against the Chinese, break up the Orient. That’s the only way.”

Back in the ball room, David was offering Tory ice cream and finger wafers, when Maxie returned from a brief, mysterious excursion, and nudged him: “There is someone who wants to meet you.”

“Oh?” His mind raced in overdrive, searching for that address.

Maxie dazzled and disarmed with her crinkly smile. “Hey, it’s what I do best, maybe the only thing, connect people with each other.”

“You’re also one hell of a nurse,” David reminded her.

“Ha,” she said, “I always forget that part. Come on.” Signaling Tory to stay, she led David across the ballroom. Women all around were perfumed and tanned and white-toothed, their smiles and eyes and their very posture languid with the insouciance of having. The men were charming, tough, with darting predatory eyes, fighters, top of the heap. Like their golf or their drinking, this was part of their job and they were the best there was.

Out on another side patio, Maxie introduced him to someone he thought he knew from somewhere, but didn’t quite recognize. It was a strange man, an emotional effusion, wringing his hands, then David’s. Not a bad looking guy, white, late 30’s, David’s height, with wavy black hair. Wearing a gray suit, black shoes, could be a banker. “Meet Vern Consiglio. You’ve seen him in the news.”

“Pleased to meet you, Captain Gordon. Thanks for coming.”

David shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Vern Consiglio,” the man said pumping David’s hands some more. “Assistant Chairman of CON2.”

“Oh!” David said. “Now I remember. Yes.” Maxie excused herself, having provided the social glue. “Why of all people did you want to speak with me? And here?”

“That’s just the point. May I call you David? Call me Vern. The point is, nowadays you don’t know whom to trust. Clandestine meetings are always safer, unless the parties are wired. Are you empty?”

“I’ve seen enough spy flicks to know what you mean. Yes.”

“Unfortunately it’s no longer a spy movie, David. It’s real. I was speaking with a mutual friend of ours and he said you’re doing an investigation—”

“Whoa,” David said backing away. “You have the wrong guy. I’m just a little infantry guy with two broken feet, trying to hang on to his three hots and a cot.”

“No, no,” Vern said, “it’s your show just as much as mine. David, don’t you see what’s going on here? I can’t reason with Stan Mattoon.” Mattoon was the Chairman of CON2, a retired U.S. senator from California, and a lifelong advocate of modernizing the Constitution. Consiglio was a little-known conservative lawyer from upstate New York. As one columnist had written, if this were a generation ago, Mattoon would be a Democrat, and Consiglio a Republican. Both those parties were in the trash heap of history. Today’s Middle Class Party, the only remaining super-party in a sea of splinter parties, was an alliance of desperation.

Consiglio said: “Mattoon is so intent on guiding this convention down a middle path that he doesn’t want to hear that more and more voters are becoming opposed to it, there are more threats to it, and dammit, I’m willing to think there may be people waiting in the wings to do something desperate if Mattoon can’t manage the convention.”

“I understand what you mean, but I don’t have what you want.”

“A list, our mutual friend said.”

“Already been gotten to.”

“By whom?” Consiglio mirrored shock.

“I wish I knew.”

“Is that being looked into?”

“Of course.”

“Bellamy didn’t know that.”

“There is a breakdown in communication on every front.”

“You can say that again.” Consiglio slapped himself on the forehead. “Aw for God’s sake. This gets worse by the minute.” He pulled out his business card. “I’ve already decided we should have never had this convention. I can’t convince Chairman Mattoon of that. He’s the only person who could get it called off; start a recall landslide from the states. Only one state—Vermont—has actually recalled its two delegates. If you learn any more on your end, will you call me immediately?” He offered the card. “Call me day or night. Give me some ammunition so I can go to Stan Mattoon and prove to him that he’s got to call off CON2.”

David reluctantly accepted the card. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“When you accepted your commission,” Consiglio said hotly, “you swore to uphold the Constitution—” Then he backed off. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to lecture.” They shook hands, and Consiglio added: “Whatever you do, keep a tight lip. We never met, okay?”

David was glad to get back to the table where Maxie and Tory sat. Jack Standish was just having another double scotch. His collar was open, and his tie loose. “Yes, gotta outflank, outfox, and outfart the whole stinkum rabble,” Jack was just declaiming.

“Jack,” Maxie said through gritted teeth.

Jack waved to some Russians. “Da! Nyet! Spasibo! Your Aunt Tillie!”

“Time to get out of here,” Tory suggested.

“Jack,” Maxie ground again.

“Aw yer Aunt Tillie.”

“David,” Tory said nudging.

“A man’s duty,” he sighed. “Jack, I’m takin’ you in, pardner. You gonna come peaceful-like, or do I have to shoot you off yore hoss?” He whispered in Maxie’s ear: “Where do you find these guys?”

After a brief protest, it was ordained that David would take Jack home, while Tory would take Maxie out for a drink someplace, just the girls.