«Andy, I think you should tell them exactly what happened.»
«I won’t do that.»
«You’re far more sensitive about it than I am. How many times do I have to tell you. I am not embarrassed. I will not be a freak. Nothing happened!»
«It was ugly.»
«Yes, it was. And ugly things happen every day. You think you’re protecting me, and I don’t need that kind of protection.» She walked to the table where she’d put the magazine and spoke deliberately. «Has it occurred to you that the best protection I might have would be to tell what happened in headlines?»
«It has, and I reject it. That approach simply implants ideas… Like kidnapping.»
Phyllis knew there was no point in pursuing the subject. He didn’t want to talk about it. «All right,» she said, turning to him. «Tomorrow just tell them all to go to hell in a basket and you’ll be happy to buy them the biggest basket made. Tax-deductible, of course.»
He saw the hurt in her face and knew in some illogical way she held herself responsible. He went to her and took her into his arms. «We don’t really like Washington, anyway. Last time, we couldn’t wait for the weekends, remember? We found every excuse we could to get back to Barnegat.»
«You’re a sweet man, Andrew. Remind me to buy you a new sailboat.» It was an old joke between them. Years ago when the company was struggling for existence, he once proclaimed that he’d feel successful only when he could go out and buy a small cat and not think about the price. It had come to mean all things.
He released her. «I’m going to order some dinner.» He went to the coffee table, where there was a room-service menu.
«Why do you have to talk to Walter? What can he do?»
«I want him to describe the legal definitions between opinion and factual evaluation. The first gives me plenty of leeway to be angry; the second invites the Justice Department.»
«Is it so important that you be angry?»
Trevayne was reading the menu, but his thoughts were on his wife’s questions. He looked over at her. «Yes, I think it is. Not just for the satisfaction; I don’t really need that. But because they all consider themselves so damned sacred. Whoever eventually chairs that subcommittee is going to need all the support he can get. If I shake them up a bit, maybe the next nominee will have it easier.»
«That’s generous, Andy.»
He smiled, carrying the menu over to the telephone. «Not entirely. I’m going to enjoy watching those pompous bastards squirm; especially several … I extracted figures and percentages from the defense index. The most damaging thing I’ll do tomorrow is simply read them off. All eight states.»
Phyllis laughed. «That’s terrible. Oh, Andy, that’s devastating.»
«It’s not bad. If I don’t say anything else, it’d be enough… Oh, hell, I’m tired and hungry, and I don’t want to think anymore. I can’t do anything until I reach Walter.»
«Relax. Have something to eat; take a nap. You look exhausted.»
«Talking about exhausted warriors home from battle …»
«Which we weren’t.»
«… you look awfully attractive.»
«Order your dinner… You might include a nice bottle of red wine, if you’ve a mind to.»
«I’ve a mind to; you owe me a sailboat.»
Phyllis smiled warmly as Trevayne picked up the telephone and asked for room service. She went into the bedroom to change into a negligee. She knew her husband would have dinner and they’d both finish a bottle of Burgundy and then they’d make love.
She wanted that very much.
They lay in the hotel bed, Trevayne’s arm around his wife, her head against his chest. Both still felt the warm effects of the lovemaking and the wine, and there was a splendid comfort between them. As there always was during such moments.
Trevayne removed his arm gently and reached for his cigarettes.
«I’m not asleep,» said Phyllis.
«You should be; that’s the way it is in the movies. Smoke?»
«No, thanks… It’s eleven-fifteen.» Phyllis raised herself against the headboard, pulling the sheet over her naked body, looking at the travel clock. «Are you going to try Walter again?»
«In a few minutes. What with the stack-ups and the taxis, he’s probably not home yet. I don’t relish a conversation with Ellen Madison at this hour.»
«She’s very sad; I’m sorry for her.»
«I still don’t want to talk to her. And he obviously didn’t get the message at the terminal.»
Phyllis touched her husband’s shoulder, then rubbed his arm affectionately, slowly. It was an unconscious but meaningful touch of ownership. «Andy, are you going to talk to the President?»
«No. I’ve kept my part of the bargain. I didn’t quit. And I don’t think he’d appreciate my running to him now. When it’s over, I’ll get the usual solicitous phone call. Probably breakfast, come to think of it, since I won’t mention him tomorrow.»
«He’s going to be grateful for that. He should be. My God, when you think about it. You may lose a job you like; you’re insulted; the waste of time …»
«I don’t qualify as a charity case,» interrupted her husband. «I was warned. Wow, was I warned!»
The phone rang, and Trevayne reached for it. «Hello?»
«Mr. Trevayne?»
«Yes?»
«I realize there’s a ‘do-not-disturb’ on your room, but the messages are piling up, and—»
«A what? What do-not-disturb? I never gave those instructions! Phyllis?»
«Of course not,» said his wife, shaking her head.
«The d-n-d is clearly marked, sir.»
«It’s a mistake!» Trevayne flung his legs over the side of the bed. «What are the messages?»
«The d-n-d was given to the board at nine-thirty-five, sir.»
«Now, listen! We never requested it! I asked you, what messages?»
The operator paused for a moment; she wasn’t going to be abused by forgetful guests. «As I started to say, sir, there’s a Mr. Madison on the line who insisted that I ring through. He said it was urgent.»
«Put him on, please… Hello, Walter? I’m sorry; I don’t know where that goddamned switchboard—»
«Andy, it’s terrible! I knew you’d want to talk; that’s why I insisted.»
«What?»
«It’s tragic. It’s a tragedy!»
«How do you know? Where did you hear it?»
«Hear it? It’s on every newscast. It’s all over—radio, television.»
Trevayne held his breath for a split second before speaking. His voice was calm, precise. «Walter, what are you talking about?»
«The Senator. Old Gillette. He was killed a couple of hours ago. Car went out of control over a Fairfax bridge… What’re you talking about?»
10
The account of the accident was bizarre enough to be real. According to the hospitalized chauffeur, Laurence Miller, he drove Gillette from midtown—no mention of the hotel, none of Trevayne—back to the Senate Office Building, where Miller was instructed to go to his employer’s second-floor office and retrieve a forgotten briefcase. He returned to the car, drove across the Potomac River into Virginia, when the Senator insisted on taking a back route to his Fairfax home. The chauffeur had argued mildly—the back road was partially under construction, there were no street lamps—but the crusty old man was adamant; Laurence Miller didn’t know why.