“Well, Leslie, how does it sound to you?”
The wife of Senator Kenneth Ewald smiled at Ed Farmer, her husband’s campaign manager, an aide who seldom smiled himself. “Everything sounds wonderful, Ed. We all think we know about show biz, but I had no idea how much was involved in putting together an event like this. Ken will be delighted.”
“That’s because it’s a one-time event; everything has to be invented or imported for the occasion,” Farmer said in his characteristically flat tone. “There are very few genuine experts. It’s like a presidential campaign.”
The others in the Kennedy Center’s George Rogers Clark Room agreed that everything seemed to have been covered; everything and everyone was in place or would be. From above, ceramic birds and animals looked down on them as if holding a meeting of their own, or judging this one.
The Marshall Boehm family had donated the room to the Center, including the collection of ceramic wildlife, and it was a popular tourist stop; there had been more than 85 million visitors to the handsome, sprawling arts complex since its dedication in 1971. The Clark–Boehm Room was seldom used for meetings, but a socialite on the committee who liked little animal and bird sculptures had pulled strings.
“It’s a shame that Mac Smith couldn’t be at this final meeting,” Mrs. Ewald said, “after everything he’s done to help us get this started and on track, and keep us legal. But his teaching comes first. It certainly looks as if it’ll be worth the time and talent and money of everyone here, and we’ve certainly stocked the pond with celebrities.”
“Boris,” Farmer said, “have you any final comments?”
Seated at the opposite end of the table was a menacing man with a shaven head, hooked nose, and absolutely black eyes like moles in his head. Boris Trenka was the Kennedy Center’s artistic director.
Trenka, who’d defected to the United States ten years earlier, after many years as artistic director of Russia’s Bolshoi, said in a low voice thick with an accent, “This is a television production. I know nothing of television.”
Farmer sighed. That was all he had heard from Trenka since they began to work on a musical gala to advance the presidential candidacy and the coffers of Ken Ewald, senator from California.
“I don’t think we should adjourn until Georges returns,” said one of Trenka’s aides.
Another aide remarked, “I suppose he’s still having trouble working out Sammy’s transportation. There was a foul-up.”
“I don’t think we need to be concerned about the travel arrangements or the lives of the rich and famous,” Farmer said. “That’s Georges’s job.”
“I should hope it’s not ours,” said Trenka haughtily.
Farmer ignored him and looked at an attractive young woman seated to his left. “The stars will get here. Anything we’ve neglected to cover, Andrea?”
Andrea Feldman had worked with Ewald for a little over a year. Because a great deal of her five feet nine inches was in her legs, she didn’t appear to be tall when seated. She had thick black hair that hung loosely to her shoulders, and a face surprisingly fair considering the dusky color of her hair and striking eyes. She wore a smartly tailored gray suit and white blouse with a simple collar, and her makeup was so expertly applied as to be undiscernible. Her nails were without polish, and the only jewelry she wore was a simple gold band on the ring finger of her right hand. She smiled. “No, Ed, I think that covers it. With all the high-priced talent around here, I can’t imagine anything going wrong.”
The door opened, and Georges Abbatiello entered the room. A veteran director of TV music specials, including the previous year’s Grammy Awards, he was a short, slight man with thinning hair, a perpetual look of harassment, and hands in constant flight, small birds hovering around a feeder—or a meeting. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, “but there’s been a misunderstanding with Sammy’s people.” He plopped in a chair next to Trenka and said, “Sammy is marvelous, just dances through these problems, you know, the old soft shoe.” He looked at Trenka. “Have I missed anything?”
Trenka said, “I think not. There is little to miss.”
“Oh, there is something else,” Andrea Feldman said, holding a finger in the air. “Miss Gateaux’s manager wants us to put her on later in the program.”
Abbatiello stood, hands moving. “That’s ridiculous, impossible.”
“Why?” Farmer asked.
“Why?” Abbatiello said in a voice that had risen to fly with his hands. “You don’t just arbitrarily change the order of guest appearances. We’ve choreographed this down to the last second. The final version of the script is being typed at this moment. The orchestra has rehearsed everything in order. No, tell Ms. Gateaux’s manager that one thing we don’t need now is a diva’s temperament.” He sat down, elaborately weary.
“Why did you wait until now to bring this up, Andrea?” Farmer asked.
“I talked to her manager just an hour before the meeting and made a note to bring it up, only it got lost in the shuffle. She wasn’t demanding it—was very nice, actually.”
“I think it’s ridiculous to have her on the program anyway,” an Ewald media consultant said. “The senator, as everyone knows, is a jazz lover. He knows nothing from opera, so why have an opera singer? Opera doesn’t pull in many votes.”
“Jazz pulls even fewer. Are we really going to debate this now?” Farmer asked.
“I disagree,” said Trenka, the first hint of amusement in his voice all day. “At least we will have some serious music represented.”
“This whole conversation is academic,” Farmer said, closing the briefcase in front of him to make the point that he was about to leave. “Roseanna Gateaux has been invited to participate, and she will. The senator likes jazz but was especially pleased when she agreed to appear on his behalf, and that’s that.” Farmer, a slender young man with rimless glasses, a hairline that had started its rapid rise in law school, and a fondness for colorful wide-striped shirts, bow ties, and penny loafers, had been with Ewald since the senator’s early days in California as a national political figure.
“What do you think, Mrs. Ewald?” Andrea Feldman asked.
Leslie Ewald smiled. “I think I share Mr. Trenka’s appreciation for having opera represented in the musical fare. I happen to particularly enjoy opera, and Ken loves jazz. One doesn’t preclude the other. I think it’s nice that both will be heard. Maybe we should include some rap music, too.” There were a few smiles.
Farmer stood. “And,” he said, “let’s not go changing performance schedules at this late date. The show is tomorrow, and there’s enough for this committee to do to make sure the parties and such go well. Thank you all very much, ladies and gentlemen, for taking yet more time this afternoon.” To Andrea, he added, “Call Ms. Gateaux’s manager, tell him to convey to her that we love her, that it is too late to make changes, that her part of the show is prime time, before audience fatigue sets in and before we lose part of the TV audience to a very popular network comedy that cuts in before we’re finished. She’s an artist, she’ll understand.”
Farmer and Leslie Ewald were the first to leave the room. As they led two Secret Service agents into the upper lobby outside the opera house, Farmer growled, “Stars. Spare me.”
“I know, Ed, but it is wonderful that all these artists have agreed to appear on Ken’s behalf tomorrow night. The jazz lineup alone reads like a Who’s Who, and also having performers like Sammy Davis, Jr., and Joan Baez is really an incredible affirmation of their belief in him.”
“More like a belief in having someone in the White House who appreciates them. Some of these performers aren’t exactly what you’d call left-wing Democrats. Once they saw Ken pick up a head of steam in the primaries, they seemed to have forgotten the impurity of his ideology.” He laughed scornfully. “Like all the other committee frauds.”
Ewald had come in fourth in the Iowa caucus in February, third in the New Hampshire primary the same month. There was talk of dropping out. Then he took sixteen of the nineteen states on “Super Tuesday,” March 8. That was when Perry, Bradley, Cuomo, Gore, Nunn, and Alexander called it quits, leaving only Ewald and Jody Backus in the remaining pro forma races.
Farmer and Leslie Ewald crossed the sprawling main lobby and passed through the Hall of Nations, the flags of all countries currently maintaining diplomatic relations with the United States lining the soaring white marble-veneer walls above them. Farmer helped Leslie on with her raincoat and opened the door to the outside, where her limousine waited. “Ride?” she asked.
“No, thanks. I’m going over to the office.” The senator’s private campaign office was across the street in the Watergate Office Building.
Leslie extended her hand. Farmer took it. She said, “It’s going to work, isn’t it?”
“The show tomorrow night?”
“No, the campaign. He’s going to become president.”
Farmer released her hand. “Let’s just say things are looking good, but you never know. The last primary can’t hurt him, and then the convention will be the coronation. As candidate. Unless something happens that throws everything off—which would open up the convention as it hasn’t been opened for years.”
She stared at him; he was never optimistic, which, she often thought, was unusual for the campaign manager of a man running for the White House. But every time she had those thoughts, she reminded herself that Ed was right, that in the rough-and-tumble, right-and-left, right-or-wrong democracy called the United States, there should be no celebrating until the final ballot had been cast on November 8, and until the Electoral College had pronounced its verdict.
She said, “Thanks for everything, Ed. The gala is going to be wonderful. What a send-off to the convention, what a boost. I may even find it gala and relax and enjoy myself.”
“When you think about boosts and lift-offs, remember NASA and the Challenger astronauts,” Farmer cautioned darkly.
Without another word, Leslie Ewald got into her limousine.
Not far from Kennedy Center, in George Washington University’s Lerner Hall, Mackensie Smith peered over his lecturn at the students in his crowded class on advanced criminal procedures. He was a craggy, fine-looking man in heavy horn-rimmed glasses.
“I think that does it for today,” he said, running his fingers over stubble on his cheeks, which seemed to reappear in minutes no matter how many times he shaved. “Aside from the cases you’ve been assigned to analyze by the next time we meet, I have an additional assignment for you.” He smiled as assorted groans welled up. “I expect you to watch the musical salute to Senator Ewald tomorrow night.”
A young man named Crouse said, “Professor Smith, I thought the classroom was not to be used for political purposes.” The other students laughed along with him.
“And this classroom isn’t,” Smith said, closing his portfolio of lecture notes. “All I’m suggesting is that you take an hour out of your busy schedules and enjoy some good music. I expect well-rounded attorneys to graduate from this university.”
“Professor Smith,” a young woman called.
“Yes, Ms. Riley?”
“When Senator Ewald is elected president, will you be his attorney general?”
Smith sighed; he was tired of the subject. “If Senator Ewald becomes the next president of the United States, he will undoubtedly choose someone for that post who wants it. That rules me out. Watch the show. You’ll be quizzed on it.”
He went down H Street to Twenty-second, took a left to G, stopped in at DJ’s Fast Break for a sandwich to go, and slowed to a leisurely walk in the direction of his home on Twenty-fifth. The sky was overcast, and mist that threatened to degenerate into drizzle gave the air a thick quality. It was early June but felt like April, which, Smith reminded himself, was better than feeling like August in Washington, D.C. He pulled the collar of his raincoat up closer to his neck and thought of that question he’d been asked so many times since Ken Ewald seemed almost assured of his party’s nomination.
Mac Smith and Ken Ewald went back a long time together. Their relationship wasn’t intensely political. Smith had never been much interested in partisan politics, but certain issues, certain causes, had always been dear to him, and he approved of Ewald’s stance on them.
They’d first met when Ewald had begun to push, vigorously and at great political risk, for legislation on gun control, particularly handguns. Smith, at the time, was one of Washington’s most respected attorneys, especially in criminal law, and had been asked to testify at hearings held by Ewald’s committee. Shortly after Mac Smith’s appearance, he received a call from Ewald inviting him to a dinner party at the senator’s home. That began a limited friendship that had deepened over the years. It wasn’t that they spent much time together; their busy individual lives precluded that. But there were other parties, issues, occasional plane trips together, and Smith found himself not only the senator’s friend, but an unofficial legal—and, at times, personal—adviser to Ewald and his family.
Issues beyond gun control drew Smith to Ken Ewald. The current president, Walter Manning, had little interest in the arts, and his administration reflected it. Ewald, on the other hand, was the leading Senate voice in support of all things cultural, and every writer and artist, every musician and theatrical performing-arts group in the country, knew that any slice of the Federal pie designated for them was the direct result of these years of Ewald’s unfailing championing of their cause.
From Smith’s perspective, Ewald was a well-balanced politician. As a freshman in Congress, he’d vigorously opposed the war, yet was a staunch supporter of maintaining military superiority over the Soviets. He’d called for the return of a WPA in which all able-bodied welfare recipients would work, or undergo training while collecting assistance, except the mentally ill, homeless, and AIDS victims. He had his faults, of course, but Smith had few reservations about supporting the man in his run for the White House, especially after the reign of Walter Manning.
Smith turned the corner at Twenty-fifth and headed for home, his narrow, two-story taupe brick house with trim, shutters, and front door painted Federal blue. Attorney general? he thought. It brought a smile to his face. He had thought of many things he might be interested in doing with the rest of his life, but being directly involved in executive-branch politics was not on the list.
He opened the door and entered the place that had been his home for the past seven years. Rufus greeted him with unwelcome enthusiasm. “Stay down,” Smith said, pushing on the blue Great Dane’s huge head. When Rufus stood on his hind legs, he looked his master in the eye.
Smith answered the ringing phone in his study, making sure to put his sandwich on top of the refrigerator, out of Rufus’s reach.
“Mac, it’s Leslie.”
“Hello, Leslie, how are you?”
“Tired but happy. I just came from the final meeting on the show and party. It’s going to be lovely, Mac. I’m so excited.”
“Splendid. I assume Ken shares your enthusiasm.”
“I think so, although I haven’t seen him enough to find out. I’ll be glad when the last of the primaries is over, the convention is behind us, and …”
Smith laughed. “And you’re choosing drapes for the Oval Office.”
“I don’t dare say it. Bad luck to say such things. At least that’s what gloomy Ed Farmer would say.”
“Somehow, Leslie, I don’t think luck will have much to do with it.”
“I just wanted to tell you how well the meeting went, and to thank you again for your help.”
“I didn’t do much.”
“More than you think. It’s always comforting to have the clear-headed wisdom of Mackensie Smith on tap. I’ve got a last-minute idea Boris and Georges won’t like. Have to run, Mac. See you tomorrow. Don’t forget to shave and wear a clean shirt.”