Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (48 page)

 
          
 
He spoke on behalf of
America
's two million small-family farmers, who
were going broke at a record rate. Eloquently, he called for a federal bailout
of the farmers, but his eloquence failed to disguise an underlying flaw in his
argument:

 
          
 
The two million small farmers produced only
thirty percent of
America
's food, and the farms that produced the other seventy percent were
healthy and successful. According to this Administration's philosophy, in a
free-market economy there was no reason to bail out the small farmers. They
should be allowed to collapse or to be folded into larger entities.

 
          
 
It was an old, familiar argument that had been
batted back and forth on op-ed pages across the land.

 
          
 
The Secretary was in the middle of a
lachrymose tale about a particular farm family, two of whose children had
entered into a suicide pact in order to leave more food for their siblings,
when the President leaned back in his chair and whispered to Burnham,
"What do you think?"

 
          
 
"Sir?" He didn't understand the
question. What did he think about what?

 
          
 
"What do you think about what old Bledsoe
is saying?"

 
          
 
Oh boy, Burnham thought, what do I say? Why am
I suddenly an expert on farm policy? Can I just say "interesting"?
No. Does he want me to be honest? I want to tell him what he wants to hear, but
what's that?

 
          
 
If I tell him the truth, I've got a brand-new
enemy in the Secretary.

 
          
 
If I lie, I may have an enemy in the
President.

 
          
 
Who would I rather have as an enemy?

 
          
 
Burnham leaned forward and said,
"Sophistry."

 
          
 
"What? What's that? Don't confuse your
President, son."

 
          
 
"No, sir." Burnham swallowed and
said, "Bullshit."

 
          
 
The President nodded and smiled and said,
"That's what I thought." He turned back to the table and let the
Secretary finish. Then he waited a beat and said, "It's moldy, Lem."

 
          
 
"Mr. President?" said the Secretary.

 
          
 
"That critter's too old to dance. Get a
new one. Next?"

 
          
 
Burnham saw the President reach beneath the
table. He shifted in his chair and saw the President's index finger on one of
six colored buttons on a panel affixed to one of the table's legs.

 
          
 
He expected to see the Secretary vanish
through a trapdoor in the floor, or a platoon of storm troopers burst into the
room and remove him from his chair.

 
          
 
But nothing happened.

 
          
 
"Next?" said the President.

 
          
 
The Secretary of Defense cleared his throat.
Before joining the Administration, he had been president of a major supplier of
jet engines to the Air Force, and upholding the sanctity of defense contracts
was his private crusade. He detested the President's new policy of permitting two
contractors to manufacture the same item on a competitive basis, for while he
acknowledged that the policy saved money, he insisted that it inhibited
research and development. A genius can't be a genius if he's looking over his
shoulder at accountants all the time, went his reasoning, and since we all
agree that freedom is priceless, the maintenance of freedom should not be
allowed to become a matter of dollars and cents.

 
          
 
In public, of course, he supported the
President's policy, but he had an unfortunate habit of giving
interviews—"off the record" or for "deep background"—in
which "usually reliable sources" or "highly placed
officials" stated his point of view.

 
          
 
The result was the opposite of his intention:
Instead of being regarded as a patriot, in the press he was portrayed as a
loudmouthed maverick. One editorial cartoon that particularly burned him showed
his entire house furnished with $700 toilet seats, $2,200 coffeemakers, $900
hammers, etc., etc.

 
          
 
Now he was asserting that the military—not he,
the military—was weary of being pilloried as a gaggle of reckless spendthrifts,
and he asked for unanimous Administration support of his (and the military's)
efforts to keep democracy safe from godless communism.

 
          
 
The President leaned back and said,
"Well?"

 
          
 
Burnham didn't have to hesitate. "He's
whining."

 
          
 
The President twirled a pencil between his
fingers.

 
          
 
When the Secretary of Defense ran out of
breath, the President tapped the pencil's eraser on the table and said, without
looking at the Secretary, "Andrew"—he pronounced it
"Andyroo"—"I believe you know the old saying ..." Now he
looked at him. "If you can't stand the heat ..."

 
          
 
The President let the rest of the saying float
in ether, unsaid. The Secretary reddened.

 
          
 
The door opened, and an elderly mocha-colored
butler in a wing-collar shirt and a tuxedo entered, carrying a tray on which
was a single glass containing what looked like a cola. He bowed before the
President, and the President took the glass and thanked him.

 
          
 
Burnham assumed that the butler would take
drink requests around the room, but he didn't. He turned back toward the door.

 
          
 
The President leaned to Burnham. "Want
something? I should've asked."

 
          
 
"No, sir," Burnham said quickly.
"No thanks." Much as he would have welcomed a cold drink, he did not
choose to be the sole man among men to be permitted to slake his thirst.

 
          
 
As he sat back, Burnham noticed that Epstein
was eyeing him. He expected Epstein's look to be hostile, but it wasn't. It was
. . . scientific, as if Epstein was studying him like a specimen to be readied
for dissection.

 
          
 
The Secretary of State spoke up. "I have
a rather ticklish item to place on the agenda ..."

 
          
 
At the sound of the Secretary of State's
voice, the President stifled a yawn.

 
          
 
''You've got him!" Pym said. "Well
done."

 
          
 
"Yeah, right," Eva said. "You
know what I feel? Sleazy."

 
          
 
"Don't think of him as a person. He's a
thing . . . like that dam you were going to blow up. You're using him, plain
and simple."

 
          
 
"Sure." She did not look convinced.

 
          
 
"You'll get over it."

 
          
 
"How long do I—"

 
          
 
"As long as it takes," Pym said
flatly. "They were very pleased. He's an incredible asset, and he doesn't
know it. It's perfect!"

 
          
 
"I'm glad you think so."

 
          
 
"I do." Pym debated telling her of the
dream he had had years ago, of siring a line of agents, all born and bred in
place. He decided against it. She wouldn't appreciate it. Not now. In fact, she
looked slightly nauseated.

 
          
 
The phone rang. Pym picked it up and said,
"Hello."

 
          
 
"Mallard?"

 
          
 
"Teal."

 
          
 
"My delivery man tried to deliver your .
. . condiments."

 
          
 
"And?"

 
          
 
"Your damn mailbox isn't big enough!
How's he s'posed to put a . . . Party Pak . . . through a little slot?"

 
          
 
"Oh. Where is he now?"

 
          
 
"A phone booth on the comer."

 
          
 
"AH right. I'll go get it from him."

 
          
 
"How'll he recognize you?"

 
          
 
"I'll tell him who I am and ask him for
the package."

 
          
 
"No, no, no! Jesus! Think, man!
Craft." Teal paused, "You say, 'Is this phone out of order?' He'll
say, 'No, but I'm waiting for a call.' You say, 'I'll find another one, then.'
Got that?"

 
          
 
Pym smiled. In this neighborhood? The exchange
would more likely be: "Is this phone broke?" "The fuck's it to
you?" "I gotta make a fuckin' call." "Touch that fuckin'
phone, I'll break all your fuckin' fingers."

 
          
 
He said, "Yes, I've got it."

 
          
 
"I'll call him back. Give me three
minutes."

 
          
 
"All right."

 
          
 
"By the way, the hostess was especially
pleased by your . . . main course."

 
          
 
Pym didn't reply. Main course?

 
          
 
"Your curlicues."

 
          
 
Curlicues? What is the man talking about?

 
          
 
"Cues, cues cues! You know the
ones."

 
          
 
Cues? Cues? "I'm afraid—" Oh, yes.
Cues. "Qs." The Q-Clearance documents. From the Department of Energy.
"I'm glad she liked them."

 
          
 
"She says the others showed skill and flair,
but they were light and airy, like souffles. The real meat was in the
curlicues. She hopes you'll be able to give her more."

 
          
 
"I'll certainly try."

 
          
 
"She knows you will ... if you want to
keep her business." Teal rang off.

 
          
 
It took Pym fifteen minutes to retrieve the
package from Teal's courier, for Teal had been unable to contact him by phone.
An addled biddy had shoved the courier out of the phone booth so she could call
and harangue her daughter in Elkton, Maryland, and when the courier had protested,
the biddy had brandished a sharpened knitting needle and threatened to insert
it "where the sun don't shine." Pym took the courier aside and
recited his entire conversation with Teal, and, evidently, the courier
discerned enough of Teal in the tale to be convinced to turn over the goods.