Death of a Political Plant (21 page)

His eyes glittered mischievously, and together with the wild cowlick, the grade school boy was very much in evidence. He gave just the slightest wink. “Campaign offices are filled with secrets that you don’t want given out to the general public.”

She put her fork down, through with eating, for she could hardly suppress her excitement. She was more convinced than ever that Jay McCormick had done just that, infiltrated Goodrich’s campaign. She even had a way to prove it now. She had to find his story. Then, just as fast as her spirits rose, they fell, as she remembered that the person who killed jay had the story.

Or maybe not.

Knowing Jay, there had to be a backup somewhere. A backup disk or hard copy. Or had they found that, too?

Tom was nearly finished with his meal, and she had run
through most of her questions. Casually, she said, “I bet you have the inside dope on everybody in Washington, don’t you?.”

His jaw tightened. “If you mean are we checking their FBI files, no way. The Fairchild administration has stayed clear of that one. But there are other ways of checking people.” He smiled knowingly.

“Now tell me what you know about a woman named Lannie Gordon.”

Paschen looked faintly annoyed. “How come you’re so interested in all these people who are the President’s worst enemies?”

“Oh, Lannie, too?”

“If I weren’t a gentleman, I might have a name for her. She’s a worthy foe, let’s put it that way: Preps those tobacco company presidents and the whole industry—and God knows they need her more than ever, since they made that big settlement to avoid lawsuits. Naturally, she hates the President’s guts because of his antitobacco initiatives.” He leaned toward her. “Now, Louise, just why do you want to know about her? She is a tough character—I’d steer clear of her, if I were you. She might sue you, and if she did, she’d win.”

“She’s Jay McCormick’s ex-wife.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“Yes.”

“Interesting,” said Paschen. Louise could see him trying to factor it all in. “Lannie’s one of the toughest infighters in this town. Hands out money to Goodrich’s campaign in pots. It appears to be legal, until someone reforms campaign financing again. Actually, it stinks like fuckin’ rotten eggs, Louise, but we both court big money. The rules are Byzantine, and if I know her, she follows the rules. Sorry for the lapses in language; sometimes I forget you aren’t just one of the boys, but
then, I don’t know how in hell I could forget,” and he smiled fondly at her.

“Thanks for all that information. Now I need to talk to you about our proposed two-part program on the President’s bill” It seemed as good a time as any to slip in the fact that Marty Corbin and the Channel Five general manager continued to drag their feet on the project. “There are problems, I’m afraid.”

“Two parts? More than one show?”

“We’ll divide it into two segments, if we do it.”

“But not more reservations,” he said crossly. Having finished his lunch, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, neatly folded it beside his plate, and gave her his full attention. She felt intimidated; the whole reason for this lunch was for him to hear the words that the show was a done deal. And she was going to tell him something quite different.

“However, the writer is preparing scripts that may be able to overcome the difficulties they foresee.”

His lips compressed in an amused, cynical line. “Difficulties? What a handy euphemism, Louise. You mean, Corbin’s afraid Fairchild’s a dead duck, right? And then where would these silly programs be, if the whole bill gets watered down or overturned a few months after it was aired?”

“Oh, it isn’t quite like that.”

“Oh, yes, it is. That’s what you’re thinking. You and your reruns. Do you guys think the environment is going up in smoke if the President loses the election? Christ, Louise, I get impatient with Channel Five. That bill is sound; it is going to take more guts than Congress possesses to nullify it, even if Fairchild does go down the tubes.”

The fretful expression still on his face, he picked up a
spoon and tapped it impatiently on the white tablecloth. “Why, I even expected to have another media person here today. Cheryl Wilding of Channel Eight’s real hot for a story on the environmental bill. She had to cancel because she was sent out on a breaking story.”

Cheryl, her cohost John’s rejected girlfriend, was beautiful but unscrupulous; she had fabricated evidence that nearly sent Louise to jail for murder, but was never charged with anything and was still a popular TV anchor. She was probably ten times more important in Tom Paschen’s eyes than Louise, with her humble public television gardening program.

Now the luncheon fell in context: Tom was trying to kill two media birds with one luncheon. She felt less important than ever.

Then he reached down into his briefcase and produced a thick booklet, which he plopped on the table between them. “If it’s any use, here’s the bill itself. Show that to Corbin and your general manager.” He slipped in a quick smile to soften the words: “See if it impresses them in the least.”

If only Paschen had made his case directly with her producer, she wouldn’t be in this mess. She looked him straight in the eye. “Tom, I’m sorry about this, but that’s really all I can say at this point.” She patted the big stack of paper beside her. “And thanks for this. I am really sorry about the uncertainty. But I’m still hopeful.”

Hopeful wasn’t good enough for the chief of staff. He frowned and hunched over his coffee. He wouldn’t be happy until the Channel Five powers that be said yes, and until then, he would be bugging her, not Marty, not the general manager. Whether she liked it or not, she was still in the middle.

Then, they were distracted by what could only be described
as a grand entrance. Paschen acknowledged it with a disgusted grunt. At the doorway of the dining room stood Fairchild’s opponent, the possible next President of the United States, Congressman Lloyd Goodrich. He was a handsome, white-haired man with highly colored cheeks.

Tom practically sneered at the legislator’s dramatic arrival. “Look at that sickening expression on his red face. He thinks just because he’s dead even in the polls with a sitting president three months before the election that he’s going to win it.”

With Goodrich was an entourage that included Franklin Rawlings, Willie Upchurch, Ted French, and several prestigious-looking individuals. “Who are those others?” Louise asked.

“Big donors, most likely. They like to bring ’em here; it makes them feel as if they’re on the inside. It’s even better than visiting a congressman’s office or watching him show off in a hearing room.”

As the group passed their table, Paschen’s eyes covertly watched each one. When Rawlings veered off to approach their table, he sat up straighter. “Franklin,” he said coolly.

“Tom.” An insincere hand on Tom’s shoulder. And then all Rawlings’ attention was directed to Louise.

He said, “I see you’re being courted again, Mrs. Eldridge. I hope you keep looking at the big picture.” A warm smile suffused his face. His tan suit, although well cut, did nothing to enhance his sallow complexion.

“I think you’ve made your point, Mr. Rawlings.”

“I hope the point is taken,” he persisted amiably, but she noticed that his smile seemed forced. Giving her a little wave, he sauntered off toward Goodrich’s big round table.

Paschen hunched forward again toward Louise, his eyes
blazing. “What the hell does he want from you?” he asked her in a stage whisper.

“The same thing you want: to sell his candidate’s position on the environment.”

“Louise, they’re poles apart. Goodrich doesn’t care a flying fuck for the environment!”

“I know that, Tom.”

But they weren’t done with the Goodrich crowd. Suddenly, Ted French doubled back and stood looking down at the two of them. “Hi, there. Tom, you can’t keep this woman to yourself, and I see Franklin has met her. I demand an introduction this time.” He slid his hand onto the back of Louise’s chair and leaned his large, broad-shouldered frame over, giving her an uncomfortable sense of being smothered by his sheer bulk. She looked into his sharp-featured face and met the blue eyes, that indeed had been taught to feign friendliness upon meeting a new person.

Since she could not escape him, she twisted back in her chair to provide a little distance between them, and extended a hand. “I’m Louise Eldridge.”

He looked at the seething chief of staff, bowed over her hand, and said, “Ted French, and I’m charmed, just the way Tom is. I see you two together quite a bit these days. What gives?”

She gave him a droll look, and when she spoke, her voice was husky. “That’s because we’re having a torrid romance. It occupies Tom morning, noon, and night.”

Paschen looked startled, then broke into a pleased grin. French straightened up to his full height. “Well, I know you’re putting me on.”

“French, just what the hell do you want here?” demanded Paschen.

The other man smoothed his blond hair back in a nervous gesture and said, “I just thought you’d want to know that another story’s coming out on the Diem matter.”

Paschen interrupted him. “Look, I don’t care about those stories; they’ll be shot down soon enough. Now. I wish you’d go away and leave us alone.”

At that moment, a distinguished-looking older man at the next table tweaked French’s tweed coattails. Then he got serious and gave them a sharp tug. In a shaking voice, he said, “Sir, do you have no scruples?” It was an echo of a famous remark out of the political past, and Louise struggled to place it and then did: the Army-McCarthy hearings.

Tom grinned. In a low voice he told Louise, “Congressman Robert Fulton, who, incidentally, sponsored us here for lunch. French is in for it now.”

The stern-faced congressman looked up at the Goodrich campaign aide through thick trifocals and said, “This dining room is sacrosanct, young man. Those who come here yearn for and deserve privacy in which to conduct their business. And you, you are abridging the very rules under which this place was instituted, back in the days when lawmakers and their associates were thought to be gentlemen. So, would you kindly leave Mr. Paschen and his companion alone to finish their luncheon, and prove that you have some semblance of those old-time and still-revered values?”

“Well, uh, yessir,” said French. He gave Louise an uncertain wave, and quickly retreated to the safety of the congressman’s table.

Tom leaned over toward Congressman Fulton. “Thanks, Bob. Set that puppy right, didn’t you?”

The legislator grinned. “Didn’t I, though? Stole from Joseph
Welch, but Joe wouldn’t mind if he were here.” He cast a curious but polite glance at Louise, but was in no position now to ask for an intrusive introduction himself. Then, in a most courtly manner, he said, “Sorry my table was too crowded for us to sit together.” Then he nodded to her and turned his attention back to his companions.

Louise’s attention had turned to the Goodrich table. It was a quiet unfolding drama. French had just sat down next to Franklin Rawlings, and the older man immediately launched a quiet diatribe in his ear. She could tell from French’s face, not Rawlings’: The young aide had bounced from one chewing-out to another. The campaign chief’s face was chalk white, and his expression had lost all the random goodwill it once possessed: It was toxic with controlled anger. All did not seem well between Goodrich’s merry men today.

A shudder ran through her. Maybe Tom was right about Rawlings.

As they left the dining room, they stopped at the adjoining table and Tom gave Congressman Fulton the introduction to Louise that he’d so obviously wanted. “She’s got a wonderful program on WTBA-TV: gardening. You have to watch it. She’s interested in doing a two-part program on the President’s environmental bill.”

Fulton held her hand overlong in his clawlike fingers. What was it with these older lawmakers and younger women? “I voted for that bill,” he said, his voice shaky and righteous. “It’s what this country has needed for years to ensure the environment survives. I’ll look forward to seeing that program.” He patted Tom’s arm. “Tom here will tell me when it airs.”

She slid a glance over at Paschen as they left the room, and
he caught her at it. He gave her a big grin. He didn’t feel the least bit guilty; he was going to pressure her every chance he got until the environmental show became reality.

As for Rawlings, she had no idea what he would do next—maybe invite her out to lunch.

J
UST AS
T
OM
P
ASCHEN EXPECTED
, his limo driver was waiting under the portico at the side door of the Capitol building, and quickly got out of the car to assist Louise into the backseat. Tom settled in next to her with a satisfied sigh, his bulging briefcase resting beside him. “Only takes five minutes to get to the White House,” he explained. “Once we get there, we’ll have exactly twenty-five minutes for a garden tour.”

She sat there hugging the voluminous environmental bill and smiling in anticipation, like a child about to enter a candy store.

“I guess I act like a train conductor who’s trying to stay on schedule,” he said by way of apology.