“I thought you liked Campobello, Louis.”
“Franklin, the last time I was up there I saw a fucking rabbit. Look. Your hands are tied. You’d better be careful about more aid to Britain.”
Hoffman watched Roosevelt ponder the comment: it was a signal for Hoffman to continue speaking. The president was absorbing what he heard, calculating, analyzing, and occasionally, his dreamy eyes never leaving the ceiling, he would ask a question. But now he wanted to hear how Hoffman saw things.
“Franklin, I’m on your side and you know it. A lot of people see Britain as a lost cause,” Hoffman said. “They say that we don’t have any reason to be in a war that’s three thousand miles away. Hell, some of your strongest supporters have gone on record saying that if push comes to shove, they can still do business with Hitler. The almighty dollar is dictating how a lot of people think. Forget the immorality of Nazi Germany and the pure evil of that son of a bitch Hitler; a majority of Americans are convinced that this isn’t our fight. You could have a hundred Fireside Chats about garden hoses and Lend/Lease and not make a goddamned difference. The way I see it, the only things keeping Britain from toppling over are Winston Churchill and the Royal Navy. Their army’s shot, their air force is too small, and they have the most tasteless food I’ve ever eaten.”
Hoffman seldom smiled and most people said that he had the perpetual look of a man who sniffed something pungent. But now, if someone took the time to look beyond the scowl and deep into the sensitive eyes that yielded every emotion the man felt, they would see real concern. “This may be the greatest struggle of good against evil in the history of mankind. I’m not certain that evil won’t triumph,” he added, allowing an uncharacteristic note of alarm into his statement.
“You know, Louis,” Roosevelt said, watching a cloud of smoke curl overhead, “if you aren’t careful, people might believe that you really are a cynic.”
“It’s worse than that, Franklin. I’m a Republican.” Hoffman downed his drink and made himself another. “You know, the time will come when you’ll want those fifty destroyers back. Obsolete or not.”
Roosevelt pulled the spent cigarette from its holder and crushed it in the ashtray. “We can build more, Louis. Britain can’t. She’s expending her blood. The very least we can do is provide her with arms.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t order me down here to talk about the least we can do, did you, Franklin? You’ve got something going on in that upper-crust head of yours.”
“How’s your drink, Louis? Does it need to be freshened up?”
“My drink’s fine, Franklin. Now cut the bullshit and tell me what you have on your mind.”
“I’ve been speaking with Winston for some time. Cable and telephone. I’ve gotten to know him well enough. I feel that I have a sense of what Winston is like, in essence, who he is. A fellow likes to know about the members of his team, don’t you know? Especially before the big game.”
“Yeah. Me and my pals said the same thing about stickball,” Hoffman said wryly. “Just after the cops ran us off.”
Roosevelt turned grave, one of the few times that Hoffman had seen him like this. “When we go to war, Louis — when and not if, because I fully believe it will come and much sooner than anyone anticipates — I have to be absolutely sure of the other fellow on the team. Absolutely.”
“You need an eyeball-to-eyeball meeting. Some place that you can sit down and get to business. Very private. Very isolated.”
“Yes. There is far too much at stake here. If we align ourselves with Britain in a shooting war and she is not able to survive, that would leave the United States in a most unfortunate position.”
“Speaking politically, it would be the end of your career.”
“Is it fair to bring politics up in the context of this very crucial question?”
“You’re an elected official, Franklin. In office you can affect changes. Out of office you’re just a has-been. You’ve been able to accomplish a great deal as president of the United States. I’d hate to see you lose that if Britain goes down the toilet.”
“As would I, old friend.”
Hoffman suddenly realized why he had been called to Georgia. “You’ve already set this thing up,” he said.
“Yes, I have, Louis,” Roosevelt replied evenly.
Hoffman exploded, “Without telling me about it? Where the hell do I fit in this escapade, Franklin? You couldn’t trust me, is that it?”
“Of course I trust you, Louis. I’ve always trusted you.”
“You sure have a funny way of showing it, Franklin. Special adviser to the president, my ass. When do I advise you about this one? When the whole thing’s over? What have you got up your sleeve this time, Franklin? Another New Deal but this time it’s for the British?”
Roosevelt reached across the small desk, picked up the telephone, and dialed a number. “Hello, Marie? Fine, thank you. Is there any chance that we might have lamb for supper tonight? Splendid. Yes. Fix it any way you like, I trust your judgment implicitly. Thank you,” he said and hung up the telephone.
“You son of a bitch,” Hoffman muttered.
“Mama would be very disappointed to hear you describe her son in such terms, Louis.”
“Why’d you leave me out of this, Franklin? If you already had everything figured out and a meeting planned, why did you even call me down here in the first place?”
“I called you down here,” Roosevelt said, carefully inserting a cigarette into a holder, “because I need your help. Yes. The meeting is scheduled, planned, and will take place. From it, I hope that England and the United States can develop a treaty, a charter of some sort to address this crisis. I have every confidence that we can.”
“I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Hoffman said.
“I didn’t tell you anything about the meeting or the circumstances surrounding it because I need an absolutely fresh set of eyes on this. I need someone unburdened by preconceived ideas or notions to be my devil’s advocate.”
“Terrific,” Hoffman said. “I’m a Jew and you just made me the Antichrist.”
Roosevelt smiled. “Louis, you’re not much of a Jew.”
“Yeah,” Hoffman said wryly. “This is definitely a two-drink problem.” He rubbed his forehead with a bony hand. He looked up quickly, the thought jumping out at him. “Why, you tricky bastard. You’re sending me to England.”
“Yes, I am, Louis,” Roosevelt said. “Talk to Winston. Get a sense of what he wants. What kind of man he is. I can’t go, for obvious reasons. Any visit by the president of the United States or his official envoy would have diplomatic and political consequences that, at present, I do not wish to encounter. So you must go as my unofficial envoy. You’re going on holiday.”
Hoffman grimaced. “I haven’t had a ‘holiday’ since I was eight years old, and if you think that the newspapers aren’t going to pick up on this, you’re nuts.”
“Let them. They’ll see through your holiday as nothing more than a ruse, but they won’t have any idea for the real reason for your visit.”
“You remember I don’t like boats, Franklin?” Hoffman said sourly. “I get seasick.”
Roosevelt smiled broadly. “Of course I know that, Louis. That’s why you’re taking the Clipper. She leaves Miami tomorrow afternoon. Simply relax and watch the Atlantic glide by thousands of feet below you.” Hoffman was about to protest when Roosevelt added, “Would you like those two drinks simultaneously or sequentially?”
“Just put them in a goddamned glass,” Hoffman said. “I’ll do the rest.”
Chapter 2