‘My foot itched.’
‘And you took off your shoe and scratched it, that it?’
‘Right.’
‘Bad form. Very bad form. You gotta understand about The Brat, about them all. Shit, look, it’s a lotta fuckin’ crap protocol up there, see? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You’re a third- or second-grade detective, you’re a maggot to them. Takin’ off’ your shoe, that makes sense to you, but to a creep like The Bat, it’s death warmed over. That’s what I mean, I see you walkin’ a coupla years from now. You gotta roll along and take the punches, let the big shots grab the big collars, keep your face off the front page, don’t make waves. That kind of thing. Otherwise what happens, you end up down here. Me, I should give a shit. Two years I make captain, probably get assistant in charge of Criminal Investigation, some nice job to go out on. Another two years I take my retirement and fuck it. But you, you’re gonna kick ass a lot and get kicked a lot. It’s what always happens you got a guy who’s smart, savvy, don’t mind taking a chance or two now and then.’
‘You sure paint a rosy picture.’
‘Truth. I deal in truth. What comes from bein’ a Boy Scout my younger years. Point is, see, it takes me a long time to say something, but I’m glad to have you down here, okay?’
‘Thanks, lieutenant.’
‘It goes for Arch there and Papa. Arch, he was the first black cop on the force. And he didn’t suck ass, didn’t eat any shit. The ones that followed him, they, y’know, stuck their dick in the air see which the way wind’s blowin’, kissed the right asses, moved on up there. Fuckin’ Uncle Tom shit, but Arch, he didn’t bow down nowhere along the line. So here he is, best fuckin’ street cop on the force bustin’ hookers and library freaks.’
‘What happened to Papa?’
‘Papa was in Bunco workin’ under a shitass name of Shaushauser, a fuckin’ Nazi. He’s dead now. Rest his soul, all that shit, but he had it comin’. Anyway Papa brought down two, three big scams and this Shaushauser he takes the collars and even ends up with a citation. One day Papa has enough. He’s in the locker room with Shaushauser and suddenly he starts playing handball, only Shaushauser’s the ball. Bim, barn, bim, he takes the lieutenant off the wall a couple times, ties his feet in a knot, goes about his merry business. Shaushauser goes to the hospital, Papa does a ten-and-ten, a year back in uniform, and then down here. That’s what I mean about the system, Sharky. You can’t beat the motherfuckers, so you either give in or walk. I see you walkin’, all I’m sayin’. Anyways, it ain’t gloryland here, but it’s better than what you bad, you ask me. You know what they say — Fuck around with frogs you end up with warts on your dick.’
‘I think it’s “Lie down with dogs and get up with fleas.”’
‘Right, just what I said. Now let’s get goin’. Hey, Papa, hang up the phone goddammit, we got business. Arch, get your ass in here. We can’t wait until the day after tomorrow you finish that report. And somebody bring the tape recorder. Let’s put some goddamn wheels on this machine.’
Chapter Five
The man who arrived at one o’clock at the private suite in the Regal Hotel was short and unkempt. He needed a shave, his greying hair was frazzled and uncombed, his fierce grey eyes ringed with circles, lie wore a pair of baggy slacks, a mismatched sports jacket, and his tie was a disaster. He carried a cheap plastic snapshut briefcase under his arm and a copy of The New York Times he had brought with him on the early morning flight from Washington. And he was hyper; energy vibrated around him. He sucked noisily on an empty pipe, walking in tight little circles waiting for someone to answer his knock.
His appearance was deceiving. Julius Lowenthal, former advisor to two presidents and a gnawing antagonist for a third, had once been described by a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist as having the appearance of a burlesque comic and the mind of a Borgia.
One did not court Lowenthal’s services; he offered them. On this morning he was about to meet Senator Donald Walden Hotchins, Jr.
He was greeted at the door by another political curiosity. Physically, Charles Roan was Lowenthal’s alter ego: a tall, husky, pleasant man with an ebullient personality, boundless energy, and a taste for three-piece tailored suits. He was an open, buoyant man, unlike the caged lion that was Lowenthal. As Hotchins’s campaign manager Charley Roan had overcome two major drawbacks: he was a former All-American football player — a jock — and he had been Hotchins’s room-mate in college. Sixteen years earlier, when Hotchins had challenged one of the strongest old-line machine politicians in the state for governor, his appointment of Charley as campaign manager had been regarded as a joke. Nobody laughed any more. Roan had been the architect of a remarkable success, had guided Hotchins through two terms in the statehouse, a term as governor and finally had helped him defeat the state’s senior senator. It was Roan who had discreetly let it be known to Lowenthal that Hotchins needed him.
The suite was modest, a living room furnished with comfortable but undistinguished hotel furniture, a bedroom with a king-size bed, and a small kitchenette. Only a few of J-Hotchins’s closest confidants knew he maintained the suite. The senator was standing near a window when Lowenthal entered the room, He smiled and limped across it with the aid of a highly polished shillelagh, a tall, lean, handsome man, well-tanned, with blond hair and penetrating blue eyes. He was casually dressed in flared slacks and a dark blue sports shirt. He shook hands with Lowenthal.
‘How’s the foot?’ Lowenthal asked.
‘It’s okay. Occasionally it acts up when the weather’s bad.’
Lowenthal smiled. ‘Can you run on one leg when the weather’s bad?’
‘He can run on his bands if he has to,’ Charley Roan said. ‘I appreciate your coming,’ Hotchins said. ‘Do you think I’m crazy?’
‘Sure- I do,’ Lowenthal said. ‘Anybody who runs for public office is crazy. Anybody who runs for this office is mad as a hatter.’
Hotchins smiled. ‘Okay, welcome to the tea party. How about some coffee?’
‘Cream and sugar,’ Lowenthal said. ‘I stayed in the airport motel in Washington last night and sneaked out. I don’t think anybody knows Pm here. Once the press finds out, the cat’s out of the bag. Pd like to forestall that as long as possible.’
‘You can stay here. Nobody knows about this suite but a few of us. My press secretary. Pete Holmes, is at a luncheon. He’ll be along in an hour or so. He’s very good at handling the media.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Well,’ Roan said, rubbing his hands together, ‘what do you think?’
‘What do I think?’ Lowenthal said raising his eyebrows. ‘What do I think about what?’
‘I think what Charley means is, What do you think of our chances?’
Lowenthal stuffed tobacco into his battered pipe and lit it, almost disappearing in a nuclearean smoke cloud. He waved the smoke away with a hand.
‘I think if you can survive until the convention, once you’ve made the announcement, you’ve got a chance. I also think that is one big if.’
‘I’m not a pussyfooter, Julius,’ Hotchins said. ‘Are you interested in working with us?’
‘That’s why I’m here, Mr. Senator.’
‘Great. That’s great!’ Roan said and slapped his hands together. Lowenthal felt a moment of annoyance before remembering that exuberance was one of the prices one paid for youth. ‘I took the liberty of talking to Bob Fitzgerald at the National Committee yesterday,’ Lowenthal said. ‘I hope you don’t object. I realize it was a bit unorthodox going ahead before we talked, but the timing seemed right to me. I operate on instincts, been living with them a long time. Usually don’t take time to question them, Ijust go.’