“Good thing I wasn’t there, then.”
“Hey, you got that right.”
Hey.
“Where are we going, Rich?”
“Newport. You ever been?”
“No.”
Lombardi wheeled the car into the light traffic. He made a few semi-legal maneuvers through the narrow downtown streets and then hit the entrance ramp onto I-95. If he was worried about cops, his foot sure wasn’t.
“We’ll take the scenic route,” he said.
The scenic route took them across two bridges that spanned Narragansett Bay. Sailboats danced on the blue water.
“Welcome to Newport,” Lombardi said. He turned down Farewell Street, which ran alongside a cemetery, and drove on past the quaint houses that had stood since before the Revolution. The island town of Newport had seen many lives, having been a pirate haven, a fishing port, and a home for whalers and sea traders. Widows’ walks and carved wooden pineapples attested to the maritime tradition. The captains’ wives would stroll the widows’ walks, scanning the horizon for the sight of a sail that might be bearing their husbands home. These stalwarts, once home, and not having been with their mates in maybe two years, would place a pineapple on the front steps when they were ready to leave the bedroom and receive visitors. Eventually, the carved pineapple became a symbol of hospitality. Or fertility. Or sexual satiation.
There was actually zoning in certain parts of old Newport that would demand the houses be painted only in colors available in Colonial times. The BMWs could be any color, though.
Around the turn of the twentieth century, Newport became a playground for the old and new rich, whose mansions lined Bellevue Avenue and the Cliff Walk and were just “summer homes.” These cottages, each about the size of Versailles, were inhabited by their owners for about seven weeks in the short Rhode Island summer. They survived the bitter, windswept winters, the corrosive salt air, and the autumn hurricanes, only to succumb to the mundane but lethal assault of the graduated income tax. Most of the larger places had become museums or junior colleges. Few survived intact. One of the few was the Chase home.
Lombardi entertained Neal on the drive with a description of Allie.
“Allie Chase,” he had begun, “is one messed-up kid.”
“I sort of figured that out.”
“Alcohol, drugs, whatever. Allie has done it. Last time I searched her room in D.C., I found enough stuff to stock a Grateful Dead concert. Allie doesn’t care if she goes up or down, just as long as she goes.”
“When did this start?” When did this start? Christ, I sound like the family physician. Neal Welby, M.D.
“Allie’s what, seventeen? Around thirteen, I guess. Call her an early bloomer.”
If they noticed it at thirteen, it means she really started at eleven or twelve, Neal thought.
“Make a list of the best boarding schools in the country,” Lombardi continued, “and title it ‘Places Allie Chase Has Been Thrown Out Of.’ She’s had at least one abortion we know about-”
“When?”
“A year ago last March, and affairs with at least two of her teachers and one of her shrinks. Title their book Men Who Will Never Work Again, by the way.”
“Are you telling me all this so Mom and Dad won’t have to?”
Lombardi laughed. “A big part of my job is to spare the Senator any embarrassments.”
“And Allie’s a big one.”
“The biggest. Cops and Reporters I Have Bullied or Bribed, by Rich Lombardi. Drugs, minor in possession, shoplifting… all gone without a trace.”
“Congratulations.”
“A lot of work, my friend. Still and all, I like the kid.”
“Yeah?”
Lombardi looked startled for a second, then laughed. “Oh, no, babe. Not me. I like my job. You have a suspicious mind, Neal.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Comes with the territory, I’m into it. So here’s the problem, Neal. We think we have a real shot at the VP thing, and after that, who knows? The Senator is of that stature, Neal. Trust me on that, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Right. Call our movie Remember the Eagleton. Conceptually speaking. You remember the Eagleton thing, Neal. McGovern’s people tab this senator from the Show-me State, turns out his brain runs on batteries. The Party is a little touchy on the subject. Now they check these things out a little more closely. Like a proctoscope.”
“So a drugged-out, boozing teenage thief stands out.”
“There we go.”
“I’d think, then, you’d want her to stay disappeared.”
Lombardi stopped the car at a gate. He pulled one of those garage-door gadgets out of his pocket and hit a combination of numbers. The gate swung open.
“Ali Baba,” he said. “It’s this post-Watergate ethics thing, Neal. Everybody’s talking values. Family. You have a front-runner who’s been ‘born again,’ although you’d think once was enough, right? Everybody looking for Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Shit, we’d probably run Jimmy Stewart, except he’s a buddy of Ronald Reagan’s.”
Lombardi pulled the car slowly down a long, crushed-stone driveway flanked by willows.
“The front-runner,” Lombardi went on, “dresses like Robert What’s-his-name in Father Knows Best, and drags his daughter around all over the place. We have more kids in this campaign than in the Our Gang comedies.”
“Maybe Chase should just buy a dog, with a cute little ring around the eye.”
“I’ll make a note. But seriously, Neal, we have to have Allie back by convention time.”
“Looking like Elinor Donahue.”
“Yeah. And quietly, Neal. The press and the Party people are going to be all over us.”
He parked the car on the side of the circular driveway in front of the house, or in front of part of the house. The house was endless, like The Ancient Mariner. A broad expanse of manicured lawn led down to the ocean and a private dock and boat house. Neal saw a fence he assumed screened a pool, and a double tennis court. Grass.
“Where’s the helicopter pad?” Neal asked.
“Other side.”
Lombardi handed Neal’s bag to your basic livened servant, who disappeared with it.
“Hey, Rich, I have an idea. Maybe you could make like Allie never existed-airbrush her from photos, steal her birth records, kill anyone who remembers her…”
“Pretty good, Neal. But don’t joke like that in the house, okay?”
Okay.
Senator John Chase was one of those rare people who resemble their photographs. He was tall, craggy, and muscled, with an Adam’s apple and a set of shoulders that competed for attention. He looked like an Ichabod Crane who had bumped into Charles Atlas on the road someplace. He stalked into the room and headed straight for the bar. “I’m John Chase and I’m having a scotch. What are you having?”
“Scotch is fine, thank you.”
“Scotch is fine, and you’re welcome. Soda or water?”
“Neither.”
“Ice?”
“Mr. Campbell in fifth-grade science told me ice melts and becomes water.”
“Mr. Campbell wasn’t drinking fast enough. Here you are.”
Just because the room was exactly what you’d expect doesn’t mean it didn’t impress, Neal thought. Three walls were glassed in, and all the furniture was casual and expensive. Each seat offered an ocean view. Neal took the proffered drink, perched himself on the edge of the sofa, and took a sip. The whiskey was older than he was. A point that Chase picked up on right away.
“Are you as young as you look, Neal?”
“Younger.”
Chase turned a chair around and sat down, leaning over the back. It was a campaign photo of the no-nonsense legislator getting down to some serious turkey talking. “I thought the bank would send somebody a little more mature.”
“You can probably still trade me in for the toaster or the luggage.”
“How old are you, Neal?”
“Senator Chase, how old do I have to be to find her? How old did you have to be to lose her?”
Chase smiled with all the joy of a dog eating grass. “Rich, get Mr. Kitteredge on the phone. This isn’t going to work out.”