My King The President (7 page)

“Around the world, the U.N. is laughingly referred to as ‘Useless Nations’, or ‘Unnecessary Nonsense’ or worse. NATO is a bad joke, and to be blunt, under what has been our weak foreign policy to date, I agree with them. We supply the manpower and the money, and they want to call the shots. But I’m telling them all right here and now that if they go on thinking we have become an international eunuch, they have made one big mistake, and United States Marines don’t bluff.”

During the wild applause, I glanced at Cal. His chin was down on his chest. His lips pursed. He was watching the screen from beneath half-closed eyelids. We both knew what was coming next.

“From now on, they can fight their own border disputes, their own civil wars, political or religious, and by God, they can also pay for them. Our country does not cause their problems, and since they refuse to share equally in the manpower, the firepower, and the willpower, we shall not send one single American serviceman or one Yankee dollar to bail them out, only to receive in return derision and criticism instead of their thanks. Tomorrow morning, I am sending a recommendation to Congress that we, the United States of America, bring all our troops home where they can be used for more important duty, immediately suspend all financial aid of any kind to every foreign country except those of the former Soviet Union, and use the money we will save by doing so to cut our taxes and kill the expensive weeds growing in our own back yard.”

I knew Cal was watching the reactions on the faces of the wildly cheering audience who had instantly jumped up in unison. I found myself being caught up in it too. Nearly mesmerized. It was as if forty years of drifting patriotism had been suddenly revived and was squalling like a new baby. I couldn’t help but also feel a tinge of jealousy toward the talented writer or writers who had written that speech. I was so absorbed in fact, that Cal had to raise his voice to get my attention. “Aren’t you going to answer your phone?”

I hadn’t noticed it ringing. “Hello?” Cal took the remote from my hand and turned down the TV volume.

“Mr. Willard, this is Jean Tyndall again. I was just curious, and forgot to ask you, who else are you planning to interview, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Well, aside from you and Abby, I hadn’t actually made a list, but I thought I might talk to Judge Koontz.”

“Really? Old Snow White himself? What a coincidence, or had you already figured out that it was he and his cabal of dwarfs that got my husband elected in the first place? Anyway, I think you’d be wasting your time. You won’t get more out of him than a free meal, but then, he’s a hell of a good cook, I’ll grant him that.”

My brain suddenly up-shifted two gears. “I wish I could talk to those seven dwarfs, too.” I held my breath, praying she would drop some names.

“I’ll bet you would. Too bad.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because all of them are dead except Cancelossi and—no, I’ll save the other name until Monday. Please don’t be late. We’re going to have ourselves a good old time talking.”

She hung up before I could say another word, and I knew the moment I put the phone down she was teasing me. Making sure I wouldn’t find any excuse not to show up.

“Was that who I think it was?” Cal said.

“Yep. Tell you later. Let’s watch the rest of this tape first.”

But Jean Tyndall’s call had broken my euphoric spell. I watched, but paid scant attention to Tyndall’s outline for the country; how he was going to bring industry back home, fix the education problems, streamline fossilized government agencies, and bring Americanism back to America. It wasn’t until Cal reminded me of what a masterful piece of pure theater his closing was.

Everyone sitting in that venerable old chamber and everyone sitting on their chairs and sofas across the United States had held their collective breath as Tyndall stopped in the middle of his speech, took off his suit coat, reached under the lectern, and bought out the green fatigue jacket of a four-star Marine general. “Symbolically, I put this uniform back on tonight because you have placed me in this office to get a job done, and as Commander-in-Chief, I am telling you we are at war. Yes, war.

“This is my last battle. A battle to the death against crime, drugs, and poverty. If I may be excused for drawing one more analogy, any basic training Private or rookie cop can tell you that you don’t stand much of a chance carrying a pocketknife into a gun fight. Our pathetic measures in the past against these formidable domestic enemies have had approximately the same chance of success. So, I stand before you tonight in this uniform jacket to tell you that from tonight on, this country will use every resource it has, whether civilian or military, to win this war.

“You have put me here to fight, not talk. And, you have put me here on trust. In turn, I have full trust in you, the people of the greatest country on earth, the United States of America, to back me up all the way. My battle plans are drawn up and I will inform you weekly, on national television, of exactly how we will go about defeating these monsters. And defeat them we will.

“I close with a picture, a quote, and a short prayer. Remember that forgotten old poster picture of Uncle Sam, pointing his finger? America needs you. And so do I. God bless us all. Thank you.”

There was fifteen more minutes of frenzied, deafening applause on the tape. Cal touched the mute button, and we watched the faces of those sitting in the front row. After a few minutes he thumbed the power switch.

“What about it, Cal? Notice anything?”

“Just that they remind me of old newsreels. Like those of the Politburo standing around Stalin on top of the Kremlin on May Day. I’ll bet there are some damn good poker players in that bunch. They—”

“Wait a minute!” I jumped up, practically ran to the table where I’d left Walt’s printout. I grabbed the short version, scanned it, and showed it to Cal.

One more phone call to Cecil took care of Cal’s room problem, and, looking forward to getting a happy night of good sleep for the first time in two weeks, I was standing in my shorts brushing my teeth when I got the last surprise of a day that had been chock-a-block full of them. Persistent knocking on my door had me grabbing for a towel, and cursing Cecil Hathaway all the way back to his African ancestors, but when I threw it open, ready to vent, I instinctively took a step back.

Liz McCarty, dressed in faded jeans and one of Mac’s old UNC letter sweaters, smiled up at me and said, “Father Tim said you’d help me. And, well, so did you. Moira and Sean are smothering me out of my mind. Can I stay here with you for a couple of days? Please?”

Chapter 6

Maybe it was the old-fashioned way Cal brought me up. Maybe it was some kind of latent sense of southern chivalry. Either way, I was not about to let Liz sleep on the sofa—or with me, and maybe being such a gentleman for once was a bad mistake. I woke up several times during the night with all kinds of kinks and cramps, finally resorting to pulling all the cushions off the sofa and using them as a floor mattress, which wasn’t much better. Twice I caught myself swearing under my breath that I shouldn’t have argued so vehemently with her when she’d suggested the sofa would “do just fine”. In any case, I had a new appreciation for the new king size bed the Mayflower had placed in my room. (Thank you, Cecil!) Funny how you take things for granted until you have to do without. I must have finally fallen asleep sometime before dawn, and slept like the proverbial dead.

I never heard her leave. The bed was made up, and for a minute or two, I thought I’d dreamed it all, but when I went inside the bathroom and found a bra and pair of pink panties drying over the curtain rod, and a pair of panty hose hanging on the shower head, I knew I hadn’t dreamed it. The Nike sports bag she’d brought with her was stowed under the bed.

Over breakfast and three cups of coffee, I tried three times to focus on my latest rip sheet. No way. Concentration had been neatly sidetracked to what kind of decision I had to make about this girl. Somewhere around nine or ten, it came to me. I spent the next two hours on the phone, then stretched out on my bed intending to take an hour’s make-up nap. Last thing I remember thinking was that Liz was going to have to damn well use the sofa tonight.

Walt’s call woke me up. “It’s almost four, Jeb. You hadn’t called, and we’re expected at Judge Koontz’s house at six, you know.”

“Jesus! Can you pick me up? I’ll be ready in ten.”

“On my way.”

Rain was slackening as we drove southwest through the soft rural Virginia countryside. Walt’s only comment was how surprised Ernie had been when the Judge had not only agreed to the interview, but had invited us to do it over dinner at his Vienna farmhouse! “Speaks volumes for your rep, Jeb. Lots of Washington people would practically kill for one of his prime rib dinners.”

I laughed off my embarrassment at the compliment. “Ancient history. Ernie’s editorial was way overdone. Just goes to show, you can’t believe everything you read in the newspapers. Koontz must not have seen the reviews of my last book.”

I found myself liking Walt Erikson more and more. Couldn’t help wondering if my attitude had been as good back when I’d put in my own “go-fer” days at the
Post
. Walt couldn’t have known that Ernie’s flowery editorial welcoming me back was aimed directly at the Judge, and the follow-up call to him had worked like a charm. Ernie had banked on Koontz’s colossal ego not allowing him to resist being the first person to be featured in my series of mini-eulogies. I hoped he would swallow my other bait just as easily, but I doubted it. I’d have to be cautious in my approach. Ezekiel Joshua Koontz was definitely not a quarry to underestimate. In the past, the many times I’d seen him bouncing in and out of posh Washington parties, I’d chuckled along with the other guests, but hadn’t been fooled by his shrewdly cultivated folksy manners and down-home, profanity-laced speech which sounded somewhere between Andy Griffith and Jesse Helms. Beneath his shock of snow-white hair that probably hadn’t seen scissors in thirty years, was a mind that clicked and whirred like Walt’s computer. Maybe faster…

“Tennessee Sippin’ Whiskey Time. Been around these parts lots longer’n your yuppie happy hour. Come on up and sit a spell. I like the south porch best, ‘specially after a rain.” He led us down the wrap-around porch to the south quadrant, which was screened in, and featured padded rocking chairs, a swing, and a portable, well-stocked bar—which also included Absolut. “Choose your own poison,” he said.

Until I remembered Walt’s research had revealed that Koontz liked music, I was surprised to hear Sibelius coming from somewhere inside. Jan Sibelius is one of my favorite composers, and his violin concerto is one of my ten all-time favorite pieces. Walt and I made ourselves a drink while the Judge rocked back and forth in the swing, telling us about his house. It was a solid-timbered, two story, gabled, frame dwelling that had sustained some damage during the Civil War, and over the years, successive owners had repaired, remodeled, and added extra rooms and landscaping.

“ ‘Course, when I bought it, ‘bout fifty years ago, I tore down those phony fluted columns that idiot of a preceding owner had added to the front facade. Pretentious clown. I replaced them with these ordinary square posts, like the originals, which suited me better. I’m ordinary and square, too. You boys smoke?”

We both shook our heads, took seats in the rocking chairs, and watched the Judge unwrap a Cuban cigar. “Too bad,” he said. “Nothin’ better of an early fall evenin’ than sittin’ out here with a good drink of whiskey, a good smoke, and some good company. Don’t you think?”

He had a point. The rain had completely stopped, and the sights and smells of the wet, still-green hills of Judge Koontz’s twenty-acre fiefdom were nearly hypnotizing. Every single plant, whether naturally or man-planted, was straining to outgrow and outglow each other. The Vienna countryside, so close to Washington, and yet, so far from it, exaggerated the difference with the songs of the birds, whose volume threatened even the lush second movement of the Sibelius. For several minutes, we all sat, listened, and sipped, like three opium smokers gliding through individual dreams.

The mood was broken by the appearance of a very pretty, forty-something woman whose skin looked like fine Swiss chocolate. I had often heard the
noir
rumors of Koontz and his housekeeper
cum
private secretary, but like most others around Washington, had never seen any evidence. When she smiled at Walt and me, (“Hi, I’m Hettie Keeler.”) then turned to the Judge with hands on her hips, I had a sudden, fuller appreciation of his range of abilities! “Judge,” she said, after he introduced Walt and me, “I stirred the juice, and the table’s all set. Wine’s breathing fine. You need anything else before I go?”