After a while, I just had to get him out of here. I told him you were looking into Black." Another long pause, then, "I don't normally say this, Jack, but if I hurt you, sorry."
Dimed by a lifelong crook. "Great. An apology. That means a lot."
Sammy said, "Look, I'm getting old. I'm in the market for friends, not enemies, and he was offering me friendship, said he'd keep an eye out for me, rather than on me."
I said, "Do me a favor, Sammy. When you screw me over again, just let me know about it, would you?"
Next, I called the White House switchboard and asked to have Royal Dalton paged in New York. This would be my most significant problem.
My past dozen days aside, a reporter doesn't just get in to talk to the president of the United States at will, especially on election eve. In fact, most reporters never get the chance to see the president one-on-one in their entire lives. The only time they are able to question him is on national television, at one of his rare press conferences-a venue that wouldn't work particularly well in this situation. Just imagine, me standing up in the East Room of the White House and saying, "Sir, we are pursuing a story saying you were once Curtis Black, an armored car robber in Massachusetts. Do you care to confirm that fact here, and if so, is it true that the FBI has killed reporter Steve Havlicek in its effort to protect you?" Either the stock market would drop one thousand points in the day, or I'd be led off the grounds in a straitjacket by men who would load me into the back of a blue van and say repeatedly, "You're right, the whole world is out to get you. But trust us. We're your protectors."
Ten minutes later, my telephone rang back. An officious-sounding twenty-something said, "This is Hamilton Carr. Could I help you?"
First off, I hate when someone returns someone else's phone messages.
Second, I hate it more when they just assume I know who they are.
This, by the way, is standard procedure in Washington, the world's self-importance capital.
I said, dismissively, "I don't think so. I'm trying to reach Royal Dalton."
"Well, can I help you with something?"
"Sure. You could take a message and pass it on to Royal Dalton. Ask him to call me at the number you just dialed."
Exasperated, young Hamilton said, "I am the duty person in the White House press office today. How can I help you?"
Equally exasperated, I said, "You can do your duty by calling Mr.
Dalton, telling him that Jack Flynn said he has a significant story running in tomorrow's paper on the presidential assassination attempt that requires an adult's attention, and asking him to please call me at the number you just dialed. Tell him I'll be here for ten more minutes."
Sure enough, about three minutes later, Dalton was on the other line, himself exasperated. "It's the day before the election," he said in that thin voice of his. "What could you possibly be doing?"
"Trying to hold this democracy together, a task that you people aren't making any easier," I said. "Here's my problem. I need to talk to Hutchins. I need to talk to him about a subject that only he knows about and that only he will want to know about. I need to talk to him tonight-"
"Absolutely no way. We just gave you time with him on Saturday, and best I can tell, you haven't done anything with it."
I said, angry, "Well, we've had a few things happen since then, like a car bomb and the death of my colleague." I paused. He stayed silent, so I asked, "Where are you?"
"We're at Kennedy. We're about to board Air Force One back to Andrews."
I said, "Would you relay a message to Hutchins? Tell him I'm doing a story about Curtis Black, with some new, crucial details that could prove, well, explosive." Much as I enjoy my own puns, especially those with a double entendre, I didn't particularly like that unintended one.
He replied in that superior tone of his, "What in the world are you talking about? I'm not going to relay a message like that, even if I could. Tell me what you're working on, and maybe I can get someone else at the White House to help you out."
I said, "I'm going with a story tomorrow. It's potentially devastating to Hutchins, especially if his own staff prevents him from responding.
If you don't tell him I'm trying to reach him, you're going to be screwed. Take my word for it, Royal."
"You know I can't go to him on the night before the presidential election with no information."
"On this one, you have to, or you'll regret it for a long time to come.
Have him call me. I'll be here."
He didn't reply, leaving another moment of gaping silence. I added,
"Remember, Curtis Black, crucial details, explosive. Tell him that."
Now I'd be lying if I said I wasn't getting any satisfaction from this, working the telephone, putting pieces together, inching closer to the answers that Havlicek and I had pursued to his death. I was back in my element, even if no one wanted me there. But it doesn't matter if they did or didn't. In newspapers, at the end of each day, the only thing that matters is what you can get into print.
The telephone rang. I picked it up, and it was Lincoln Powers, the chief of staff.
"Young man," he said in a spare Texas twang, "I brought your request to the president and the president said, verbatim, that he doesn't know what you're talking about and has nothing to say."
I replied, "Well, could you tell the president, verbatim, that tomorrow's Record will carry a story detailing the transformation of Curtis Black, and it will no doubt have a profound impact on the election. I'll be at my phone for a short time only."
Well, that last part was a lie. Actually, I'd be glued to my phone waiting, but why give them the confidence rooted in your own anxiety?
About ten minutes later, the telephone rang again, and miraculously, or not so miraculously, it was that familiar voice of President Clayton Hutchins. Every half-cocked bluff was working like a charm. Without introductions, or even enthusiasm, he said, "Curtis Black. What the hell does that mean?"
"I think you know, sir," I said, trying to sound sympathetic to someone who was about to be found in a life-defining lie. "I uncovered some crucial new information on Curtis Black and his current identity."
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, young man," he said.
He sounded sincere, but politicians usually do.
I replied, "Sir, I've talked to other members of the gang on that Wells Fargo job. They know who you are. They are willing to go public with their information." Well, not exactly, but why get bogged down in the mundane details of sourcing a story?
"Young man, I don't have the slightest fucking idea what you're fucking talking about, but be aware you're talking to the president of the United fucking States of America."
Employing an old reporting trick, I let that hang out there, my implicit accusation, his pathetic response. This wasn't so much a pause as a protracted silence. I pictured him sitting in his office on Air Force One, the plane preparing for takeoff, a small army of aides and servants outside his study door. He was the most public and most private man in the world.
Now I understood what Stemple was saying on that very first day he spoke to me, all that stuff about nothing being as it seems, the strange complex motives involved. At least, I think I understood.
More important, I think I was about to know in such a way that I could write about it.
Then, in a tone I had never heard before, his voice so thick it barely sounded like him, he said, "I'm in New York now, on my way to the airport. Why don't you come over to the White House when I get back, and we'll talk."
"That would be helpful, sir," I said. "What time?"