Grafton played with his food as Jack Yocke talked about Russia. Toad Tarkington seemed preoccupied and quieter than usual. Tonight he listened to Yocke without comment.
“It’s hard to imagine the Russian empire without a powerful bureaucracy. The bureaucracy was firmly entrenched by 1650 and became indispensable under Peter the Great. It was the tool the czars used to administer the empire, to run the state. The Bolsheviks just adopted it pen and paper clips when they took over. The problem at the end was that the bureaucracy lost the capability of providing. The infernal machine just ground to a halt and nothing on this earth could get it started again without the direct application of force.”
“Not force,” Jake Grafton said. “Terror.”
“Terror,” Yocke agreed, “which the leadership was no longer in a position to supply.”
“Where did they go wrong?” Callie asked. “After the collapse of communism and the dissolution of the Soviet state, everyone was so hopeful. Where did they go wrong?”
Everyone at the table had an opinion about that, even Amy. “No one over there likes anyone else,” she stated. “All the ethnic groups hate each other. That isn’t right. People shouldn’t hate.”
Toad Tarkington winked at her. Amy was growing up, and he liked her very much. “How’s the driving going?” he asked when there was a break in the conversation.
“Great,” Amy said, and grinned. “Except for Mom, who sits there gritting her teeth, waiting for the crash.”
“Now, Amy…,” Callie began.
“She knows it’s going to be bad — teeth, hair and eyeballs all over the dashboard.” Amy sighed plaintively. “I’ve decided to become a race car driver. I’m going to start in stock cars. I figure in a couple of years I’ll be ready for formula one.”
“Amy Carol,” her mother said with mock severity. “You are not—”
“Talent,” Amy told Toad. “Some people have it and some don’t. You should see my throttle work and the way I handle the wheel.”
After dinner Jack Yocke asked to speak with the admiral alone, so Jake took him into the study and closed the door. “Looks like you’ve been doing some reading,” the reporter remarked as both men settled into chairs.
“Ummm.”
“This is my big break,” Yocke said.
“That’s what you said when the Post let you write a column during the ’92 presidential primary campaign.”
“Well, that didn’t work out. And it wasn’t a column — it was just a signed opinion article once a week.”
Jake reached for a scrapbook on a bookshelf and flipped through it. “Callie saved most of them. I thought some of your stuff was pretty good.”
Yocke shrugged modestly, a gesture that Grafton missed. The admiral adjusted his glasses on his nose and said, “Let’s see — this was written in January, before the New Hampshire primary. You said, ‘Now Bush admits that he didn’t know the country was in a recession. He’s the only man in America who hadn’t heard the news. The man’s a groundhog who only comes out of his hole every four years to campaign.’ ”
“Acceptable hyperbole,” Yocke said and squirmed in his seat. “A columnist is supposed to be interesting.”
“ ‘If George Bush had been president during World War II, allied troops would have stopped at the Rhine and the Nazis would still be running Germany.’ ”
“Well…”
Grafton flipped pages. He cleared his throat. “ ‘The American people don’t want George Bush and Clarence “Coke can” Thomas deciding whether their daughters can have abortions.’ ” Grafton glanced over his glasses at Yocke. “Coke can?”
“There was a mix-up on that. That comment should not have gotten into the paper. I wrote that as a joke to give the editor something to shout at me about and somehow he missed it. He and I almost got canned.”
Grafton sighed and flipped more pages. “Ahh, here’s my favorite: ‘Even if Arkansas Governor Bill Clinton is absolutely innocent, as he claims, of having an adulterous affair with bimbo Gennifer Flowers, that by itself would not disqualify him to be president. America has had two presidents this century, perhaps even three, who were faithful to their wives. A fourth would not rend the social fabric beyond repair. It’s an indisputable fact that such dull clods rarely seek public office in our fair land and almost never achieve it, so if one does squeak in occasionally, once a generation, how much harm could he do?’ ”
“A parody of David Broder,” Yocke muttered with a touch of defiance. “A satire.”
“Everything written in our age is satire,” the admiral said as he closed the scrapbook and slid it back into the bookshelf. When he looked at Yocke he grinned. “You should be writing for Rolling Stone.”
“The Post pays better,” Jack Yocke said. “Y’know, I’ve written a lot of stuff through the years, yet I still have to spell my name for the guy at the laundry whenever I drop off my shirts. And he’s seen me twice a week for five years, speaks English, can even read a little.”
Still wearing a grin, Grafton took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Your stuff’s too subtle. You should try to give it more punch.”
“Words to live by. I’ll remember that advice. But we have a hot tip that I’m going to try to chase down when I get to Russia. The story is that some tactical nukes are on the open market. For sale to the highest bidder.”
“You don’t say?” Jake Grafton said. He pushed his eyebrows aloft. “Where’d you hear that?”
Yocke crossed his legs and settled in. “I know you won’t confirm or deny anything, and you won’t breathe a word of classified information, but I thought I’d run this rumor by you. Just for the heck of it.”
Jake Grafton ran his fingers through his hair, pinched his nose, and regarded his guest without enthusiasm. “Thanks. We’ll look into it. Be a help if we knew the source of this hot tip, though.”
“I can’t give you that. It’s more of a rumor than a tip. Still, if it’s true it’s a hell of a story.”
“A story to make you famous,” Jake agreed. “And to think we knew you when. All you have to do is live long enough to file it.”
“There’s that, of course.”
Jake stood and held out his hand. “If worse comes to worst, it’s been nice knowing you.”
Jack Yocke looked at the outstretched hand a moment, then shook it. He got out of his chair and smiled. “One of your most charming characteristics, Admiral, is that deep streak of maudlin sentiment under the professional exterior. You’re just an old softie.”
“Drop us a postcard from time to time and tell us how you’re doing.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Jack Yocke opened the door and went out, and Amy Carol came in. She carefully closed the door behind her. “Dad, I have a question.” She dropped into the chair just vacated by the reporter.
“Okay.”
“It’s about sex.”
Jake opened his mouth, then closed it again. Amy was growing up, no question about that. She had filled out nicely in all the womanly places and presumably had consulted with Callie about plumbing, morals and all that. Under his scrutiny she squirmed slightly in her seat.
“Why don’t you ask your mom?”
Amy shot out of the chair and bolted for the door. On her way down the hall he heard her call, “Toad, you owe me five bucks. I told you he’d duck it.”
After Yocke said his good-byes, Jake and Toad Tarkington took coffee into the study and carefully closed the door.
“You’re not going to believe this, Admiral, but last night at the Kennedy Center Judith Farrell walked up and said hi.”