“So you can see the lawmakers are working very, very hard,” she would intone.
The girls all nodded, most just pretending to understand to be polite to the lady they saw as their salvation from the perpetual boredom of Richmond and from their dates on Saturday nights who were generally drunk and always inept in their groping.
The proprietress explained that many of these older men were rich and were always interested in pretty, friendly young southern belles. The best outcome was the girl would find herself in the Washington papers’ wedding announcements; the worst outcome was the girl would make some very good money, have a good time for a year or two, make some very useful contacts, and have some very good times in bed—not all the politicians were titans, but quite a few of these men, especially the southerners, were experienced and surprisingly adept at satisfying a young lady’s more primitive desires.
The proprietress elaborated how these most powerful men in the country’s capital had equally powerful appetites. At this she would produce a list of eligible senators, representatives and high officials. Generally, there was often much excited giggling by the young ladies as the proprietress explained the names in red had an “understanding” with their wives (divorce was politically unacceptable); the ones with the green mark by their names were unmarried and only looking for mistresses. Of course, the list was a pure fabrication, but it served its purpose.
The proprietress was never short of willing girls and had more than sufficient clients. Nevertheless, when a man asked for a very special arrangement—he called it “burning”—the proprietress was open, so long as the rewards were worth the risk to her hard-earned reputation. When the man brought an old-fashioned brown leather Gladstone bag filled with one-hundred-dollar bills—“all used, none serial, and none traceable”—the proprietress was interested; actually, she was very interested. Afterwards, she personally counted (she could hardly trust the girls) well over one million dollars.
For a large fortune like this, the proprietress would have burned herself. The technical detail of the burn was simplicity itself. Over the past three years, the proprietress had taught herself the rudiments of photography and simple developing. On the two nights in question, the proprietress closeted herself in the tiny, hot, stuffy nook behind the largest bedroom and happily clicked away for two hours taking photos of the Senator being burned through the large two-way mirror at the head of the bed. For the benefit of the annals of photographic history, she was happy that on each of the two nights the politicians were using more than the bland-and-boring one-girl missionary position; in one case, it was two girls and the very naughty Senator being spanked; the other Senator wanted it very rough with all three girls he had selected that night, and the second Senator was very rough after drinking so much bourbon.
The proprietress’s benefactor collected the photographs and the negatives the next day and provided an extra small satchel—“just a token of thanks for a job well done.”
The final step was to drop off a few sample snaps to each of the Senators’ offices with a note inside to meet at a dull and dirty bar seven blocks from the White House—seven blocks from the center of power, with sawdust on the floors and spittoons in abundance. The sharped-eyed man met each Senator on consecutive nights in February at the bar. At the start of the second meeting, the Senator, who, like his peers, was used to getting his way, actually started with threats; the man tersely replied with,
“Shut the fuck up or I walk out now, and feel free to shoot me now, for if I do not return by 10 p.m., a fresh and pristine set of all the photos—not just the sample five you got—go to all the Washington papers and a set will be delivered by hand to your wife at your home in Portland.”
The Senator from Portland sulked.
“Now, Senator, I represent a very large employer who has interests in your state and who is very interested in expanding his business with his Japanese partners.”
At the mention of Japan, the corrupt Senator was trying to revive his grumbling.
“Shut up, you old fool! You will now take a benign line and say ‘I have reconsidered my position, and I now think we should work to expand our ties with the Japanese who, after all, are our Pacific neighbors.’”
“I cannot and I will not say that; the Japs are sneaky yellow cunts who should be eliminated from the face of the fucking planet—every last one of them.”
“Have it as you will,” said the man as he rose; he went to the bar, paid the tab, and left.
Two hours later, all the Washington papers were calling the Senator’s Washington home and the apartment of the Senator’s chief aide. And there was a message for the Senator that said, “Call your wife immediately.”
At 10:10 p.m., the Senator had realized his career and his life were over. He backed out his car and drove towards Virginia.
Nomura had been insulated from the cloak-and-dagger melodrama regarding the three Senators, not out of concern for the moral turpitude it involved, but for the rather more simple point of queering the pitch—it would not profit Nomura to know any of the details, and it may have altered his performance in the Oval Office.
When Nomura, politely as ever, quietly entered the Oval Office, he greeted his host with his formal bow. Roosevelt was seated in his hated wheelchair, discretely hidden from view by the recent additions to his uncle’s desk.
“Mr. President, the government of my Emperor sends its greetings to you and to Mr. Stimson.”
While Stimson may have had his differences with the Japanese in the past, particularly over China, if they had any more like Nomura, then he could easily change his position—politics, especially at this highest level, was a very personal business; liking a protagonist was half the battle, as Stimson had learned.
“And my Emperor is very concerned about your country’s honor as the United States is the most important and powerful country in the world.”
Both Roosevelt and Stimson compared this sentiment with the one that came from the too-often intoxicated British Prime Minister and his bankrupt country—never in a thousand years would Churchill have been so thoughtful and so courteous.
“Your concern and that of your Emperor are very considerate and we in this country are very thankful for them and for your presence.”
There was a very long pause that Nomura was happy to let continue.
“Now, regarding your recent proposition, I think we may be able to reach an accord. Please have a seat.”
Nomura sat on one of the now-familiar yellow damask sofas.
For the next two hours, the three men knocked out a crude plan, whereby the Japanese would ask the Swiss to broker an Armistice and the Americans would agree, but only under certain strict conditions that the criminals responsible for the horrible acts of December would be tried and convicted.
Roosevelt smiled,
“I love how these political promulgations always start by assuming guilt and conviction.”
Nomura concurred.
“I understand from my staff that the two key Senators opposing this arrangement have moderated their tone and that the Senator from Oregon has been tragically killed in a traffic accident.”