New Orleans June 28
“When do we go home?”
Those were the first words Rudd said when she and Addis returned to the bed-and-breakfast.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“In the morning?”
“I may have to see someone. Let me find out.”
“Can we stay in tonight? Order some food?”
She kicked off her shoes and grabbed a file of legal papers.
“Sure,” he said.
Addis picked up the phone messages that had been slipped under the door to the suite.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
“You can use the phone up here, if you like. I promise I won’t listen.”
“Thanks,” he said and started for the door.
“It’s up to you,” she muttered.
From the pay phone in the alcove off the lobby, he returned McGreer’s call. The chief of staff wanted to know when Addis would be back. “Getting crazy here,” McGreer said.
Ham Kelly was lining up commitments for Mumfries across the nation. The Post was running an editorial tomorrow calling on Margaret to respond to the whispers she might challenge Mumfries for the nomination. A rumor was flying about that Pratt was going to select as his running mate Howard Rivers, the only African American congressman in Pratt’s party and a former basketball star. Senators were inquiring if the White House still wanted to go ahead with the China treaty hearings, which had been scheduled for the week after the convention.
Shit, the body’s not even … and the corporate lobbies can’t wait.
Addis knew what the pro-treaty senators—and the corporate lobbyists
urging them to call the White House—were thinking. Before Hanover had decided to push for the China treaty, Margaret had been lobbied, privately, by unions, environmental groups, and human rights outfits, all urging her to oppose the accord. She was sympathetic to their concerns, but she refused to say anything in public against the treaty while her husband was considering it. Once Hanover resolved to move forward with the treaty, she repeated the same arguments for the treaty that he offered. If the White House was about to split into two camps—Mumfries versus Margaret—might the treaty foes get another chance at enlisting Margaret? The K-Street crowd was concerned.
McGreer had more to report. House Majority Leader Wynn Gravitt had proposed that the House form a committee to oversee the assassination commission. Kelly had ordered the party to stop payments to Dan Carey and had brought in another pollster. An item in a trade newsletter reported that Mike Finn had been asked by the life insurance lobby to leave the White House and become president of its trade association, at $300,000 a year. And Margaret had scheduled a network interview for later in the week without informing the White House communications office.
“But you come home when you’re fucking ready,” McGreer said.
Addis promised to be back the following afternoon. He attempted to return a call from M. T. O’Connor, but she was not in her office. He ripped in half a message from Evan Hynes-Pierce. The last message was from Harris Griffith’s attorney. Before dialing, he practiced saying the lawyer’s name.
“Mikolajczyk,” he answered. “Talk to me.”
“It’s Addis.”
“Good, good. It’s your lucky day. I spoke to Harris. Three weeks I hear squat from him. I have to put up with his gun-crazy wife. Today, he calls.”
“Is he in town?”
“Slow down, junior. He is and he says he’d be royally honored to meet you.”
“When?”
“Slow the fuck down, I said. First he wants to know if you’re in a position to help him in his current difficulties.”
“Mr. Mikolajczyk, I can’t even begin to have a conversation like that.”
“In that case, my client has authorized me to respond in the following manner.”
Mikolajczyk hung up the phone. Addis redialed the number.
“Don’t waste my time,” Mikolajczyk said.
“Don’t ask me to break the law.”
Addis tried to keep the anger out of his voice.
“Don’t ask my client to put out without getting a piece back.”
“I just would like to talk to him briefly about a financial matter he handled for the Hanovers. Shouldn’t take very long.”
“Yeah, I think I know what you want to talk about.”
Addis did not respond.
“So, say you get together,” Mikolajczyk continued. “You talk. You ask a few questions. He answers a few questions—if he can. Then would you listen to what he had to say? About a financial matter that he cares about, that’s ruining him, that may compel his residency in a fucking federal institution?”
Addis wondered if Mikolajczyk was taping their conversation.
“I’m a good listener. But so there is no misunderstanding, listening means just that—listening. I listen to lots of people.”
“Can the crap. Is this loyalty? Did they ask him to do their numbers when they went big time? Hell no. So take your fucking ethics and protect your ass all the way back to Washington. We got others interested.”
Others? What others?
“Maybe the three of us could talk? Tomorrow morning? Maybe on a conference call?” Addis suggested.
“Yale Law, right? And you don’t understand the principle of legal representation? An LSUer can teach you something, eh?”
Addis felt the dampness under his arms. He could not figure out a line to pitch him.
“Don’t say anything else,” Mikolajczyk barked into the phone. “‘Cause I’m done listening. I told Harris you were going to be a putz. We’ll call you, if we got anything else to say. See ya around, junior.”
The line went dead. Addis slammed the phone down.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself.
What a trip, he thought. His conversation with Rudd. The old geezers in the restaurant bearing grudges of yesteryear. Burton’s yellowing gossip about the car accident. This asshole on the phone. Damn few answers, he thought. He hadn’t even pressed Flip Whalen on the Donny Lee Mondreau business; whether there was a reason to wonder if a suicide in a jail cell wasn’t actually a suicide. He wanted to return to Washington. Not to the White House, but to his unkempt home, his cat, his … There was not much else. But that didn’t matter.
“No luck today?” asked a man behind him.
Addis saw Evan Hynes-Pierce standing in the doorway. He wore a white linen suit with a vest and a Panama hat. His collar was open. There was no tie.
What god-damn great timing.
“Mr. Graham Greene, I presume,” Addis said.
“I am chasing after the power and the glory.”
“And the dirt.”
“Curious isn’t it? How well they mix.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I don’t feel like bantering.”
Addis headed toward the stairwell.
“Had a tough time in Alexandria?”
Addis stopped; he clenched a fist and took a breath.
“Stalking me?” he asked. “The Secret Service might be interested in that.”
“Yes, file a complaint straightaway. But do we really want to draw attention to our trip—yours and mine—to the city first peopled by French discards?”
Hynes-Pierce placed a crooked finger before his lips.
“This is more than a cozy getaway with a lovely ex-lover. Don’t take offense, but you do not look relaxed.”
“How did you know I was in Alexandria?”
“People like to talk. Have you ever noticed that? Even when they don’t want to. I’ve been in this business for twenty-three years—went to the Sun instead of university, I did—and I’m still stunned by what people will tell you.”
“And what do you expect me to tell you?”
“In this instance, I have no illusions. Fancy a walk?”
“What do you want?”
“Actually, I’m here to reach out, to share information. Come along.”
He nodded toward the door and adjusted his hat.
“For a minute or two,” Addis said.
The two walked along Bourbon Street. The sun was setting and tourists were filling the Quarter. Frat boys and German backpackers were purchasing Hurricanes at streetside counters. They passed a bar with a pianist playing a jazz version of “Amazing Grace.”
“Tourist jazz,” Hynes-Pierce said. “A disgrace to the departed.”
Addis shrugged.
“Earlier today, I had a moment,” the reporter continued, “and I visited Storyville—or what used to be Storyville, the prostitute paradise for the fine seamen of your Navy—until a no doubt god-fearing Navy official in 1917 ordered the brothels closed. Fine, the buggers had to find elsewhere to make landfall. But these places of evil were also refuges for musicians: King Oliver, Jelly Roll Morton, and Louis Armstrong. They all began their careers by entertaining the clientele of whores. Now today, if you visit Storyville, what do you find?”
“Please,” Addis said. “Do tell.”
“Public housing that would make a squatter in Brighton feel quite fortunate. Broken windows. Refuse in the hallways. Plastic vials littering the street. Oh, there was this lovely statue of a Mexican leader with
the inspiring inscription: ‘Peace is based on the respect of the rights of others.’”
“That’s fascinating,” Addis said.
“What did you make of President Hanover’s decision not to add any money to the federal housing budget?”
Hynes-Pierce’s mouth formed a droopy smile. One side of his face, Addis noticed, hung lower than the other.
“What did you want to tell me?” Addis asked.
“Do you think Mrs. Hanover would be of more help to those people?”
“And you care? When you dig up sleaze for a right-wing ideologue who wants to end all social programs?”
“You misunderstand. I do not hide my loyalties. I believe in letting God, not government, sort it all out. And if there is no God, then we all must make do on our own. I admit this is a much easier philosophy to live by than yours, which motivates self-professed samaritarians to preach social improvement and force others to live by their prescriptions—and, at the same time, win political elections.”
A photographer wearing a red clown nose and large, floppy shoes approached and asked if they wanted him to take their picture.
“A nice souvenir,” Hynes-Pierce said.
Addis waved off the photographer.
“Hard as it may be for you to believe,” Addis said to the reporter, “I’m not interested in discussing political philosophy with you. Can we cut to the chase?”
“Indeed. We must save time. So valuable it is. Let us proceed. Step this way.”
Hynes-Pierce led Addis toward an alley. A street performer was dancing ballroom style with a blow-up doll. The doll’s feet were attached to his shoes. Together they danced to a tango, spinning and swirling, the doll’s dress fanning out. A small crowd watched.
The reporter passed the dancing pair and stepped into the alley. Addis followed. Hynes-Pierce removed his hat—a true drama queen, Addis thought—and cleared his throat.
“My research indicates that if the Hanovers did not receive what you call a sweetheart deal, then it was certainly a kissing-cousin arrangement. Two principals in the Elva partnership, which sold the land to the Hanovers at a very attractive price, were involved in business dealings with one Mr. Robert Charles Mason. Then, at least one of the financial associates of the firm that purchased the land from the Hanovers at a considerably higher sum was also a commercial confederate of our friend, Mr. Mason. Shared an interest in a dog track, I am told. So, did father help daughter? Did daughter and son-in-law go along with a no-risk series of
land transfers that netted them more than one hundred thousand dollars—back in the days when that sum meant something? How does this square with that lovely television movie in which a strong woman stands with her courageous husband, the political reformer, against the corrupt father? Sacrificing succor, adhering to honesty and integrity—and to love—she is forced tragically to bid farewell to her padre and his millions. Uplifting and sad, it was.”
Shit, Addis wondered, what does he have?
“Hell, you know that anyone who ever gave change for a dollar bill in Louisiana had some connection to Mason.”
“Well, I have faith that further excavation will unearth additional congruences,” Hynes-Pierce said. “And, then, we can let the citizenry decide between coincidence and conspiracy. Truth will out.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Thought I could help you.”
“Help me?”
“Or a friend. This information will reach the public. But the timing of that, and, thus, its impact, will be determined by those far above my lofty quarters. Or pay grade, as you Americans say. My employer would prefer, at the moment, to see a narrow reaction—that is, for it not to be publicly relevant to the great events of the day.”
Addis began to understand. The owner of Hynes-Pierce’s paper did not want Margaret in the race. But was the publisher hoping she would stay out if she knew such an article awaited her entrance?
“Shouldn’t he be drooling for a catfight between Mumfries and Margaret?” Addis said. “It’s the one thing that might give Pratt a chance.”
“Seems he’s comfortable with the status quo. A Mumfries presidency would be … predictable. And he is not certain that Pratt, under any circumstances, could beat the wife of a slain leader.”
And how many more millions will his conglomerate and its high-tech firms make if the China treaty goes through? Sure, the owner of Hynes-Pierce’s rag might be a right-winger. But there’s conservative, then there’s conservative. Pratt keeps saying you shouldn’t do business with folks who lock up Christians. And that’s not good for business.
“It’s China, the damn treaty, isn’t it?”
“Not my privilege to know.”
“But why go through this little dance? Go ahead and publish it. Wouldn’t that get him what he wants: Margaret out of the race?”
“I suppose the question is, will an ancient piece of history be deemed terribly significant by an electorate sympathetic to a grieving widow?”
Addis calculated quickly: The publisher could run the story and hope it sparked enough bad publicity to persuade Margaret not to run. But if it
failed to do so, she would have weathered a storm, and he’d be without ammunition for further use. No, the smarter play was to threaten publication first—attempt to intimidate her out of the race—and, if that did not work, then publish the piece at an opportune moment.
Hynes-Pierce placed a cigarette in his mouth and took a matchbook out of his pocket.
“You enjoy being a rich man’s messenger boy?” Addis asked. “Guess it’s a night off for the seeker of truth.”
“The story will run. I’m still dotting i’s, crossing t’s, for I want this piece to be incontrovertible. But I know from whence comes my living, and I can live with that. I am doing my master a favor. I see the situation very clearly. I think that’s a good way to live. It’s beneficial for the soul.”
“No comment—that’s what I should have said at the start.”
“As you wish. But now, you do your duty and report the details of our chat to your master. Or mistress.”
Addis left the alley.
“I notice there was no denial,” Hynes-Pierce shouted after him.
Addis wheeled around.
“How can I deny what I don’t know?” he asked.
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Hynes-Pierce said.
He lit a match. Before it hit the ground, Addis was gone.
Rudd was on the phone when Addis returned to the suite. Legal documents were scattered across the bed. She was laughing. She placed a hand over the receiver. “M. T.,” she said.
Addis went into the other room and flopped on the bed.
“So then,” Rudd was saying into the phone, “the vice president of the union asks, ‘Can I give this to him in cash?’”
She laughed again.
“How would you like to be the one to tell him that two Justice Department officials are in the other room? Okay … he just came in … . Yeah, it was good talking to you, too … . Hope it all works out … . Here he is.”
Rudd waited for Addis to pick up the other phone, she then hung up and told him she was going to take a bath. She closed the bathroom door behind her.
“Margaret asked me to call,” O’Connor said.
“I talked to Brew earlier. Sounds like a busy day.”
“She wanted to know how it’s going.”
“Of course,” he said.
He lowered his voice. He told O’Connor about his discussions with
Whalen and the men in Alexandria. He mentioned the trouble he was having reaching Griffith and the phone calls with Joe Mik. He recounted his conversation with Hynes-Pierce.
“He’s a pig,” O’Connor said.
“Yes, and a diligent one … . You will tell Margaret about this offer?”
“Where is he getting his information?”
“Must be Griffith. His lawyer made it sound like Griffith is talking.”
“Jesus.”
“He’s probably trying to sell the story. Maybe to Hynes-Pierce.”
“And is it true?” she asked. “The sellers and then the buyers were associated with Chasie?”
“It could be.”
“That’s a lot of help, Nick. You know what this could mean?”
“M. T., I’m not an idiot.”
“And this Griffith jerk has proof? This is what happened?”
“I wasn’t there when they bought the land … . You’re going to tell her, right?”
“He’s just a sotty hack blowing smoke. That’s what this is. You know the other stories he’s done.”
“Even a trash collector finds something valuable once in a while. And it’s her decision. Tell her what he said. Otherwise, I will.”
“She doesn’t have enough to worry about?” O’Connor asked.
“Now she has one more thing.”
“I’ll take care of it,” O’Connor said. “You know, she’s all moved out of the residence. We’re like a camp behind enemy lines here. Dan won’t even come on the White House grounds.”
“A true loss.” He pictured Carey and O’Connor scheming together—and cringed.
“But we’re moving everything to Blair House. And it’s not always wrong to listen to what Dan has to say.”
“Sure.”
“So you’re going to sit it out, the campaign?”
Addis didn’t feel like answering.
“Doing nothing is doing something,” O’Connor said. “There are other drivers on the road.”
“Guess I’m out of gas. You can pitch me later.”
Addis realized he was gripping the phone tightly. His palm was sweaty. He looked out the window. A young boy was pushing a big bass drum on a dolly down the street by himself.
“Okay, I should go,” she said. “But you and Holly?”
“It’s nothing, M. T. Really. Just keeping me company. I’ll tell you about it when I’m back.”
“Sure thing, Romeo.”
“Really. She’s seeing this guy.”
“Then she’s probably doing a reality check with you.”
Glad I could be of help.
“Good night, comrade,” he said.
“Later,” O’Connor replied.
Addis returned the receiver to its cradle. He realized that he still did not know how Hynes-Pierce had learned of his trip to New Orleans. He stared out the window and listened to the water pouring into the tub.