Only one major protagonist in the events of the previous night had yet to speak. Senator Shearson Jones, the senior senator from Kansas. He had been unreachable all day, even to Presidential aides. They had tried to telephone him from the White House sixteen times on Monday morning, but each time they had been told that he was ‘still en route to Washington.’ A message was left that the President wanted to speak to him the minute he stepped through his office door.
In fact, Shearson Jones was making no attempt to return to Washington. He judged that, politically, now was not the time. He told his security people to lock the gates of Lake Vista to keep newspapermen and curiosity seekers at bay, and then he closeted himself in his suite of rooms with Peter Kaiser. They had more urgent work to attend to than making excuses to a confused and angry President. In the panic of the night, nobody in the administration had thought to freeze the Blight Crisis Appeal, and Peter Kaiser was arranging for as much money as possible to be transferred to a charitable holding trust. It was difficult and complicated work, and it needed all of Peter Kaiser’s skill and all of Shearson Jones’s bludgeoning. By three o’clock that afternoon, however, they had extracted more than three million dollars extra out of the fund, and Peter was busy dispersing it from the holding trust to scores of ready-prepared subsidiaries. It would take the IRS years to discover that 250,000 dollars which had been invested in Roseville Hearing Aids, St Paul, had come from Kansas Charitable Investments, Inc., of Kansas City, and that when Roseville Hearing Aids had gone out of business, with no protesting creditors, the money had then been paid directly into the account of Ernest Thompson, of San Diego, California, who was really Senator Shearson Jones.
Shearson had been infuriated by Ed’s revelations, and mortified by the savagery and looting that had followed. But he was flexible enough to adapt himself to a changed situation, and not to cry over spoilt opportunities. The Blight Crisis Appeal had done famously well, considering the few days that it had been open, and Shearson wasn’t going to complain about twelve million dollars or more. He had lost the contribution from Michigan Tractors, and he was sore about that, but twenty or thirty lesser donations had cleared the bank during the Monday morning, before any of the companies involved had thought to act, and these payments had more than compensated Shearson for what he had lost. They could ask for their money back now until they were black in the face. It was too late, because the money had vanished.
Shearson had said nothing at all to Ed after his first angry outburst, but as Monday wore on it became clear that Ed was not going to be permitted to leave Lake Vista until Shearson decided to let him go. Ed was also kept incommunicado. Every time he picked up a telephone and tried to place a call, the house operator told him gently but firmly that ‘all outside lines are busy right now, Mr Hardesty.’
Ed spent the day in his bedroom, drinking beer and watching on television the scenes of violence that his own words had helped to unleash. He didn’t yet know what to feel about what he saw. Should he feel angry? Sad? Indifferent? Was it really his fault that all this disaster had happened? Or would it have happened anyway?
He crumpled an empty Coors can in his hand and tossed it into the waste-basket. He wanted very badly to talk to Season right now, and not just to make sure that she and Sally were all right.
He needed more than a friend or a lover right now. He needed his wife.
Four
Peter Kaiser came into his room shortly after eight that evening, and stood watching the television, his hands stuck deep in his pockets. He looked waxy, and sweaty, and there were dark rings under his eyes; but he had an air of satisfied tiredness, as if he had pulled off something really difficult.
‘Well?’ he asked Ed. ‘What’s the latest?’
Ed was sitting on his bed, in a buff-coloured shirt, jeans, and bare feet. He eyed Peter without answering, as if the question wasn’t worth his time.
‘Now you know what it’s like to wield power,’ smiled Peter, sitting himself uninvited on the end of the bed. ‘A few words from you, and the whole country goes crazy. Makes you feel pretty good inside, doesn’t it? Pretty damned important.’
‘There’s only one reason those people went crazy,’ Ed told him, in a harsh voice. ‘They went crazy because they’re afraid.’
‘Well, isn’t that what national politics is all about?’ grinned Peter. ‘The calculated exploitation of fear? Don’t tell me anybody does anything at all out of brotherly love. Do you pay your taxes out of brotherly love? Do you anything at all out of brotherly love?’
‘Maybe not,’ said Ed, ‘but at least I don’t exploit the country’s misfortunes for the sake of a few million lousy dollars.’
‘It’s very easy to call a few million lousy when they aren’t yours, Mr Hardesty. Or may I call you Ed? You are a celebrity now, after all.’
‘I don’t particularly care about that,’ said Ed. ‘I’d like to telephone my wife.’
‘Haven’t you tried already?’
‘All day. But the operator keeps telling me the lines are busy.’
Peter pulled a consoling face. ‘Well, that’s true, they are. But you can try again in the morning. Maybe Shearson will begin to cool off a little by then. He’s pretty mad at you right now.’
‘Isn’t he going back to Washington?’
‘In a while. We have a few unexpected problems to clear up before we go. You know, tidying up the Blight Crisis Appeal, things like that.’
Ed climbed off the bed, and walked across the bedroom to the french windows that led out on to the balcony. He dry-washed his face with his hands, and then let out a long breath of exhaustion. He’d been watching the television news bulletin all night, and he was bushed.
‘Would you tell me something about Shearson Jones?’ he asked Peter.
Peter shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘Would you tell me what it is that makes it possible for a man to serve as an elected representative of a country he professes to love, and at the same time to make profits on the side? To me, the two sides of a man like that just don’t fit together.’
Peter glanced towards the television. The sound was turned off, but it was easy to make out what was happening. There were lines of people at Los Angeles International Airport with hurriedly-packed suitcases, all trying to leave the country before the looting and the rioting grew any worse. Los Angeles had been through one of the most horrifying nights of all. The Los Angeles Times had called it ‘Walpurgisnacht.’
Peter turned back to Ed. ‘I don’t know why so many people believe that politicians ought to behave like priests. They’re not elected to bring us all to the kingdom of Heaven. They’re elected to look after our interests at city hall, or in the state senate, or Congress, or wherever. So provided they look after our interests properly, what does it matter if they make a little money on the side? As long as they don’t sell out the people who voted for them, who’s to criticise? And besides, it’s a time-honoured American tradition, going back to Thaddeus Stevens and James G. Blaine.’
Ed stared at him. ‘Do you really believe that?’
‘Would I work for Shearson Jones if I didn’t?’
Ed slowly shook his head. ‘You people amaze me.’
‘We’re professionals, working in a professional environment, that’s all,’ said Peter. ‘So long as we keep the balance between public ignorance, political power, and financial leverage, then we’re fine. It’s like one of those diagrams you used to have in your trigonometry books at school. But as soon as someone starts tilting the balance – as soon as we get some amateur interference…’