He could have figured that out for himself when the wells he drilled at lower levels came up dry. He pretty much had figured it out, in fact. Vince Scriabin still scared the crap out of him. Lazar Kagan’s moon of a face was as near unreadable as made no difference. That left Stas Mikoian. Of the President’s longtime henchmen, he seemed the most approachable.
Chances were Charlie didn’t get a phone call from Mikoian completely by coincidence. “I hear you’ve been trying to find out a few things,” the Armenian said after they got through the hellos and how-are-yous.
“Didn’t know that was against the rules for a reporter,” Charlie said.
Mikoian laughed. Charlie judged Scriabin would have got mad. He couldn’t guess about Kagan, or about what the Jew’s reaction would have meant. Yeah, Stas was the most human of the three. “Why don’t you have dinner with me tonight?” Mikoian said. “We can talk about it there.”
“Sounds great. Where do you want to go?” Charlie asked.
“There’s a chop house called Rudy’s, across Ninth from the Gayety,” Mikoian answered. “See you there about eight?”
“Okay.” Charlie eyed the phone in bemusement as he hung up. The Gayety was Washington’s leading burlesque house. Was Stas only using it as a geographical reference point, or was he human all kinds of ways? Charlie, of course, had never ogled a stripper in his life. Of course.
Nothing wrong with Rudy’s, though. It gave off an aura of quiet class. The air smelled of grilled meat and expensive cigars. A gray-haired colored waiter escorted Charlie to a booth. “Mr. Mikoian is expecting you, sir,” he murmured.
Stas stood up to shake hands. He had a dark drink in a tall glass. “Rum and Coke,” he said, seeing Charlie’s eye fall on it. “They get the rum straight from Cuba.”
“Sounds great,” Charlie said, as he had on the telephone. The rum was smooth, and they didn’t stint on it. He chose lamb chops from the menu; Mikoian ordered a medium-rare T-bone.
The Armenian steepled his fingers and looked across the table at Charlie. “I can tell you what you want to know,” he said.
“But there’s a catch,” Charlie said. “There’s always a catch.”
“Yes, there’s always a catch,” Mikoian agreed. “Anyone more than six years old knows that. You’d be surprised how many people in Washington don’t.”
“Would I? Maybe not,” Charlie said. “Tell me what the catch is, and I’ll tell you whether I want to go on. If I don’t, we’ll have a nice dinner and talk about what kind of chance the Senators have for the pennant.”
“Pretty decent chance this year, I think,” Mikoian said. “But all right-fair enough. The catch is, you can’t write about any of what I tell you. The President doesn’t mind if you know. He says you’ve always been fair to him-certainly fairer than your brother has. But politics is like sausage-making: you don’t want to watch how it’s done.”
“That’s Bismarck.”
“Uh-huh. He knew what he was talking about, too. He mostly did.”
Charlie considered. “I could just lie to you, you know,” he remarked.
“Oh, sure. And you’d have a story. But the President would know you weren’t someone he could trust. So is one story worth selling him out?”
You asked that kind of question whenever you made a dubious deal. Another question also surfaced in Charlie’s mind. Do I want to go on Joe Steele’s black list for any reason under the sun? He knew damn well he didn’t. He sighed. “Tell me.”
Stas Mikoian didn’t even smile. He also didn’t talk right away, because the waiter brought their meals then. Charlie didn’t think anything could go better with lamb than mint jelly. When he said so, Mikoian did grin. “I’d argue for garlic myself, but you’re Irish and I’m Armenian. What it really comes down to is what you got used to when you were growing up.”
“That’s about the size of it.” Charlie chewed, then nodded. “This is mighty good. How’s your steak?”
“It’s fine. Hard to go wrong with anything at Rudy’s. They’ve been here a long time, and you can see why.” Stas Mikoian cut another bite and ate it. He sipped from his rum and Coke. “Shall I tell you about Senator Glass?”
“I wish you would.”
“He’s a fine Virginian. Comes from a good family. Back when he was a boy, they owned slaves. Not after the Civil War, naturally, but they still had colored people working for them. Before he went off to college, they had this pretty little maid called Emma, Emma. . well, you don’t need to know her last name. You won’t be writing a story about this.”
“That’s right.” Charlie got a little farther down his own drink. “Can I guess where this is going?”
“You probably can. Sometimes boys from families like that learn the facts of life from a maid or a cook. Carter Glass did. And nine months later he learned more about the facts of life than he thought he would when he gave her a tumble. Had himself what they call a high-yaller little boy.” He spoke the Southern phrase as if it came from a foreign language.
“Did he try to pretend the whole thing never happened?” Charlie asked.
“No. He was a gentleman. He-or his family-took care of Emma and the baby. It wasn’t fancy, but it was quite a bit better than nothing. The boy got as good an education as a colored kid in Virginia could. He’s a teacher there. He has children of his own. They’re doing well for themselves-as well as colored people can in that part of the country. And one of the reasons they’re doing well is that they never, ever let on that they’re related to Carter Glass.”
“So it was a family secret, you’re saying?”
“That’s right. That’s what I’m saying.” Mikoian raised a dark, bushy eyebrow. “Senator Glass was interested in keeping it a family secret, too. We were able to oblige him-and he was able to oblige us.”
“I guess he was.” Charlie lifted a forefinger. The waiter appeared as if by magic. “I’d like another rum and Coke, please.”
“So would I,” Stas said.
“Comin’ right up, gentlemen.” The waiter went off to get them.
Charlie aimed that forefinger at Mikoian like the barrel of a pistol. “How did you-how did Joe Steele-discover the old family secret?”
“We could see who the leaders were in the faction that was trying to obstruct us,” Mikoian said. “We did a little poking around to see if any of them had skeletons in the closet. And what do you know? Carter Glass did.”
The waiter returned with their drinks on an enameled tray. He ceremoniously set them down, then disappeared again. After he was gone, Charlie said, “You did a little poking around?”
“That’s right.” Mikoian’s eyes twinkled.
“You personally? Or Joe Steele personally? Or was it maybe Lazar Kagan?”
That twinkle got sparklier. “You’re a funny fellow, you know? There’s a smart young guy in the Justice Department’s Bureau of Investigation who goes after these things like a bulldog. He takes a bite, and he won’t let go. He even looks kind of like a bulldog-he’s stocky and not too handsome and he’s got an underslung jaw. He dug up what we wanted to know.”
Charlie named it: “The dirt.”
“Uh-huh, the dirt.” Stas Mikoian’s smile invited Charlie to share the joke. “Go on, tell me nobody else ever did anything like this before in the whole history of politics. Go ahead. I dare you.” He leaned back against the booth’s brass-button leather upholstery and waited.
“Don’t be silly. You know I can’t do that,” Charlie said. Joe Steele and his underlings might play rougher than most people did, but blackmail had always been part of the game. By the nature of things, it wasn’t a part that got talked about much. But it was there.
Mikoian was still smiling. “You’re an honest man. I knew you were. That’s why I talked the boss into letting me level with you.”
Which might be true and might be grease to slick Charlie up some more. “Well, thanks,” Charlie said, trying not to show how pleased he was. “And you didn’t need to worry-that’s not the kind of story I could print.”
“Oh, you never know,” Stas Mikoian said. “We have plenty of enemies, people trying to stop us from doing anything just because we’re the ones who are doing it-or because they’re making money the way things are now. You think we play dirty? Some of the things they do. .”