Senator Knapp did not pursue the subject.
Walter Madison couldn’t help but smile at the old Jew, but his smile faded quickly as he spoke. «Let’s grant, hypothetically, that everything you say is possible. Even probable. How do you propose to handle the current President? It’s my impression that he intends to run for a second term.»
«By no means conclusive. His wife and family are very much against it. And remember, Genessee Industries has removed scores of major problems from his concerns. We can easily re-create them. Finally, if it comes to it, we have medical reports that could finish him a month before the election.»
«Are they true?»
Hamilton lowered his eyes. «Partially. But I’m afraid that’s irrelevant. We have them; that’s relevant.»
«Second question. If Andrew is elected, how do you control him? How can you stop him from throwing all of you out?»
«Any man who sits in the President’s chair learns one supreme lesson instantly,» replied Hamilton. «That it’s the most pragmatic of all jobs. He needs every bit of help he can get. Instead of throwing us out, he’ll come running for assistance, try to convince us to come out of retirement.»
«Retirement?» Knapp’s confusion was paramount, but Walter Madison’s expression conveyed his understanding.
«Yes. Retirement, Senator. Walter knows. You must try to grasp the subtlety. Trevayne would never accept the proposition if he thought it was engineered by Genessee. Our position will be made clear. We’ll be reluctant, but ultimately he has our backing, our endorsement; he’s one of us. He’s a product of the marketplace. Once he’s elected, we have every intention of leaving the scene, living out the remainder of our lives in the comforts we’ve earned. We’ll convince him of this… If he needs us, we’re there, but we’d rather not be called… Of course, we have no intention of leaving at all.»
«And when he learns this,» summed up Walter Madison, attorney-at-law, «it’s too late. It’s the ultimate compromise.»
«Exactly,» agreed Ian Hamilton.
«My people behind the tight-shut doors have created a very effective campaign phrase… ‘Andrew Trevayne, the Mark of Excellence.’»
«I think they stole it, Aaron,» said Hamilton.
40
Trevayne read the newspaper story as a wave of relief swept over him. He never imagined that he could be so filled with joy—there was no other word but «joy»—over a man’s death, a man’s brutal murder. But there it was, and he was consumed with a sense of deliverance.
«Underworld Chief Slain in Ambush Outside New Haven Home.»
The story went on to say how Mario de Spadante, while being transferred from an ambulance into his home on Hamden Terrace, was dropped to the ground and fired upon by six men who had been waiting on both sides of De Spadante’s house. None of those carrying the stretcher or the others at the scene, presumably the gangster’s personal guards, were injured. Thus the police authorities speculated that the killing was a multiple «contract» issued by «bosses» unhappy over De Spadante’s expanding associations outside the Connecticut area. It was no secret that De Spadante, whose brother allegedly was killed by an Army officer—a Major Paul Bonner—had displeased Mafia chieftains with his involvement in government construction projects. There seemed to be a general agreement among underworld powers that De Spadante was exceeding his authority and courting widespread danger for organized crime with his Washington endeavors.
As a side issue, the daylight slaying lent considerable credence to Major Paul Bonner’s claim that he was assaulted prior to having killed August de Spadante, the brother of the above. Reached in Arlington, Bonner’s military defense attorney stated that the New Haven murder was further evidence that his client was caught in the crossfire of a gangland war; that Major Bonner performed outstandingly to protect Andrew Trevayne from attack. Mr. Trevayne, the article pointed out, was chairman of a subcommittee investigating corporate relationships with the Defense Department; the De Spadantes were known to have profited from several Pentagon contracts.
There followed four photographs showing Mario de Spadante in various stages of his career. Two were police identification shots separated by fifteen years; another on a nightclub floor in the early fifties; and one with his brother, August, in which both were standing in front of a construction crane, grinning the grins of Caesars.
It was so tidy, thought Trevayne. The snuffing out of one life removed so much evil. He had not slept—or if he had, it didn’t seem so—since leaving De Spadante’s hospital bed. He had asked himself over and over again if it was all worth it. And the answer progressively became a louder and louder negative.
He finally had to admit to himself that De Spadante had reached him; had compromised him. The Italian succeeded because he had forced him to weigh the values, consider the terrible price. The rifiuti, as De Spadante had called it. The garbage that would have buried his wife and children, the stench of its conjecture lingering for years.
It wasn’t worth it to him. He would not pay that price for a subcommittee he hadn’t sought, for the benefit of a President he owed no debt to, for a Congress that allowed such men as De Spadante to buy and sell its influence. Why should he?
Let someone else pay the price.
And now that part of it was finished. De Spadante was finished. He could put his mind back to the subcommittee report he had attacked with such energy after he’d left Chicago. After he’d left Ian Hamilton.
Three days ago nothing else had seemed so necessary, so vital. He had been distracted by Paul Bonner’s murder charge, but every minute away from that concern found him back at the report. He’d had the feeling then—three days ago—that time was the most important thing on earth; the report had to be completed and its summary made known to the highest levels of the government as soon as was humanly possible.
Yet now, as he stared down at the Genessee notebooks piled beside the folded newspaper, he found himself strangely reluctant to plunge back into the work he’d set aside three days ago. He’d traveled to and from his River Styx. Like Charon, he’d carried the souls of the dead across the turbulent waters, and now he needed rest, peace. He had to get out from the lower world for a while.
And Genessee Industries was the lower world.
Or was it? Or was it, instead, only the maximum efforts of misguided men seeking reasonable solutions in unreasonable times?
It was only nine-fifteen in the morning, but Trevayne decided to take the rest of the day off. Perhaps one carefree day—one free of care—with Phyllis was what he needed.
To get the battery charged again.
Roderick Bruce threw the newspaper across the room and swore at the blue velour walls. That hard-on son-of-a-bitch had betrayed him! That Corn Belt butcher had waltzed him, and when the music stopped, kicked him in the balls and run back to the White House!
… the slaying lent considerable credence to Major Paul Bonner’s claim … assaulted prior to allegedly killing … caught in the crossfire of a gangland war … performed outstandingly …
Bruce swept his tiny arm across the breakfast tray, sending the dishes crashing to the floor. He kicked the blankets off the bed—his and Alex’s bed—and leaped onto the lime flotaki rug. He could hear the sound of the maid’s footsteps; she was running down the outside corridor toward his room, and he shouted at the top of his lungs.
«Stay out of here, you black cunt!»
He ripped his Angkor Wat night shirt—the silk sleeping gown given him by Alex—as he pulled it over his head. Naked on the soft rug, his foot touched the upturned coffee cup; he reached down, picked it up, and slammed it against the onyx bedside table.