“So who ordered the files destroyed and Goncharov murdered?”
“Someone who isn’t an intelligence officer.”
Dorsey O’Shea was as forthcoming about her reasons for being in New York as I had been. Baldly, she was evasive, but unlike me, she didn’t have the classified information laws to hide behind, not that she needed them. Over white wine at the restaurant on the Upper West Side, she told me that she and the yacht dude hadn’t hit it off, so she decided to come home.
“I felt like a fugitive,” she said earnestly, leaning forward to give me a good view of her ample cleavage. “I wanted to come home so if anyone wanted to question me, they could see that I had nothing to hide.” The irony of that remark was not lost on me.
“Been home yet?”
“To Maryland? Not yet. I thought I’d spend a few days in New York and do some shopping, see some friends. The political theater is just a bonus. Tommy, I need something to take my mind off that—.” She made a gesture.
Well, that certainly was plausible. Shopping and socializing was all Dorsey had ever done since she left college — without a degree, I might add. The educators had gotten stuffy about the difference between required courses and electives, according to her, so she packed her checkbook and told them good-bye. After all, people who know things can usually be hired by the hour. I suspected there was a young male involved in Dorsey’s college adventure, but I had never pressed her on it.
Inevitably our conversation returned to the convention. “What do you think of the chances of having a woman vice-presidental candidate?”
“The country is ready,” she said matter-of-factly. “I think it will happen this week. I hope it does. I meant it when I said the moment is historic. If it happens, life will be different for every woman in America.”
I wasn’t about to argue that. “Think Zooey has a chance to be picked?”
“God, that would be awesome! She’s presidential timber. But whether the president has the guts to make the choice, I don’t know.”
“You’ve given a lot of money to the president’s campaign,” I remarked, “so why don’t you tell Dell Royston what you think? He has to listen to big contributors.” Actually I didn’t know that she’d ever given a politician a dime, but I felt that this shot in the dark was likely to hit something.
And it did. For a second she looked startled, but she said, “Perhaps I should talk to him.” She laughed to cover up letting her face slip. “And maybe I should write the president a letter. If enough people want her, he will have to choose her. Right?”
Our dinner arrived, and she picked at it. Skinny rich women never eat much. “Have you ever personally met Zooey?” I asked casually.
She took her time before she answered. “Several times, as I recall. Parties and receptions.”
“Did you ever go to the White House?” I asked warmly, as if that were a big deal.
Again the hesitation. Her answer could be checked, and she knew it. “One of the receptions was at the White House. I’ve forgotten the date and occasion, though.”
“Must be cool, getting invited to the big house.”
“It was, believe me. I bought a special dress for the occasion from a well-known designer”—she named him—“and believe me, I don’t do that very often.”
That didn’t cut much ice with me. I had seen her closet, which was about the size of my apartment. I kept my mouth busy with my pork chop.
We went on to other subjects, split a dessert — she had exactly one bite — and lingered over a coffee and liqueur. She palmed the tab expertly, and I let her. My guess was that the dinner and tip had run to at least $250. She was used to it. No doubt Carlo would have stuck her with the bill, too.
When we left she put her arm around my waist. “Where are you staying in New York?”
“With friends. That way I can pocket the per diem.”
“Would they miss you if you didn’t go there tonight?”
“Might telephone in a missing persons report. I’m willing to take a chance, though, if that was an invitation.”
“It was.”
Oh, boy. Willie was going to get an earful.
When we got back to the hotel there were two uniformed cops and two plainclothes dicks standing in front of the penthouse elevators checking credentials. It looked to me as if I got the bugs shifted just in time. They also gave the story I told Dorsey more credibility.
Sex with Dorsey was always a workout. She was one of the new moderns who believes that a woman’s sexual satisfaction is her own responsibility, so she went after hers with a will. Of course it was fun for me, too, since she was trim and tuned up and filled out in all the right places.
After the first round of bedroom gymnastics, she played with my chest hair and took another shot at my reason for being in New York.
“Hey, babe, a terrorist incident this week is a risk no one in government is willing to tolerate. The town is packed with feds and fuzz and badge-toters from all over.”
“But you’re not FBI.”
“I go where I’m told. Have to to keep getting paid.”
She left it there, and we got after it again.
I sneaked out of Dorsey’s room at six in the morning while she was still asleep. Waking up alone would be hard for her ego, but I’d had enough of her company. I got a cup of coffee and a bagel from a street-corner vendor and went around the block to the van, which was locked up and empty. I went inside and locked myself in. Willie must have got a cab or train back to New Jersey last night.
They were awake and playing politics in Royston’s suites by nine. He got telephone call after telephone call, and I listened to his side of the conversation. He had a deep, gravelly voice, so I quickly learned to pick it out no matter how many conversations were going on in the room.
Tuesday was the first day of the convention. The platform committee had a large faction, I quickly learned, with an agenda that didn’t match the president’s. Royston spent the morning on that issue when he wasn’t meeting the heads of state delegations who came to call. I suspected Royston was going to be talking to delegations all week.
Each and every one asked Royston who the president wanted on the ticket with him. Royston was coy. If he knew, he wasn’t saying. After I heard him dance around the issue for the fifth time, I decided that he probably didn’t know. He did, however, ask each delegation what they thought of Zooey.
That was more for show, I figured, than anything else. The presidential nominee was going to get whoever he wanted to join him on the ticket. True, years ago a Missouri senator was announced as the presidential nominee’s selection, then dumped by the nominee, George McGovern, when it became plain that the senator’s mental health history worried the delegates. McGovern apparently dumped him on the theory that if the delegates were worried the voters would be, too. Of course, the voters turned out to be extremely worried about McGovern, so the veep choice didn’t really matter. Yet it might have.
This president hadn’t announced his choice, and no doubt he would not until the very last minute. Royston was merely taking temperatures and weighing support.
Yet when he had mentioned her name to eight delegations by eleven o’clock, I would have bet my pension, if I live to collect one, that Zooey Sonnenberg was going on the ticket with her husband. Dorsey was going to be thrilled.