Blue Bloods of Bois D’Arc (3 page)

Chapter 5

Their taxi pulled in behind a line of cars to the entrance of the Willard Hotel. The weary young Texan was met by the bellhop, spiffy in his long burgundy coat trimmed in gold braid and shoulder boards, a military-style hat, and shiny black shoes. He ushered Rod and Jack into the lobby of the once grand Willard Hotel.

The historic hotel was showing its age, but nonetheless was a favorite of Jack’s. It bore little resemblance to its former grandeur. The original Willard had been a favorite of early presidents. Abraham Lincoln spent the night there before his inauguration and had to borrow a pair of slippers from the proprietor to pad around his room. The Willard was not only a favorite of presidents, but was also a popular gathering place for politicians and influential businessmen seeking favors from them. Their smoky meetings in the grand lobby gave birth to the term lobbyist.

“I’m really beat,” said Rod. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much in such a short time in my life.”

“It’s almost midnight. We’d better unpack and hit the sack. We have a big day tomorrow.” Jack put his long arm around Rod’s shoulder and guided him into the elevator, operated by an old black gentleman who looked almost as old as the hotel.

Rod placed his worn suitcase on the rack in the once-plush, but now musty-smelling room. He was so excited with anticipation of seeing and touring so many historical buildings the next day, his imagination was in overdrive.

“Man, I’m starving,” Rod said softly to Jack, entering the dining room the next morning.

“Good, they serve a pretty good breakfast here. Order anything you like,” Jack said, not bothering to look at the menu. He always had steak and eggs and black coffee for breakfast.

After they ordered, Jack gave Rod a briefing on what the plan of the day was—an important business meeting and some more sightseeing. Rod felt rested and ready for the first full day of his Washington adventure.

“Here you are, sir.” The waiter gave Rod a glass of orange juice and a plate with runny scrambled eggs and two shriveled pieces of bacon. Remembering his promise to his mother to mind his manners, he began eating his breakfast.

“I thought you said you were hungry. That won’t keep a bird alive. Waiter, bring this boy a steak well done and some fries and anything else he wants,” Jack said. “I don’t want to have to apologize for a Texan who can’t eat half a steer for breakfast.” Jack winked at Rod and began carving the large steak he had ordered for himself.

By the time the waiter brought his steak, Rod had devoured the eggs. He dived into his Texas-size steak after dousing it with ketchup and Tabasco sauce.

After Rod had taken his last bite of steak and downed his second glass of orange juice, he looked at Jack. “It was pretty good, but not as good as Junior’s daddy cooks over the mesquite coals at the country club back home.”

“You’re right, son, nothing beats a good Texas grilled stake. But it’s not bad for a city steak,” Jack said, pushing his chair back. “Before we go anywhere, I think we will stop by Raleigh Haberdasher and get you some city clothes.” Jack was still wearing his Stetson but with a black western suit, a white shirt, an Indian bolo, and new gray ostrich-skin boots.

Rod tried not to show he was a little embarrassed. Jack had always been generous with his caddy tips and treated him to meals back at Lakewood Country Club, but Rod was self-conscious about Jack buying him clothes.
Aren’t my clothes good enough to be seen with Jack and his senator friend,
he wondered?

“You go up to the room and take care of whatever you need to while I use the phone. Meet me back down here in about half an hour. Okay?”

Back in their room, Rod brushed his teeth and made sure his short hair was brushed and his shirt tucked in. Looking at himself in the mirror to make sure he was presentable, a puzzling thought popped into his head.
What the heck is a Raleigh Haberdasher?

Chapter 6

“Good morning, Mr. Workman,” a well-dressed man said as they entered Raleigh Haberdasher. “What can I show you this trip?”

“Nothing for me, Harold,” Jack said, “but I want you to outfit my friend here.” Jack nodded toward Rod. “Not too dressy, but we will be spending a lot of time on the Hill talking to some important folks today.”

“Very good, sir, I think I know what you have in mind.” Harold turned toward Rod and sized him up and down at a glance. “About a thirty-inch waist, thirty-four-inch inseam, size forty-two jacket, sixteen and a half shirt with thirty-six-inch sleeve, and size eleven and a half shoe. Sound about right?” He stuck out his hand. “Hello, young man, I didn’t get your name.”

Rod took Harold’s hand in a brisk handshake. “Yes, sir, sounds right. Rod . . . my name is Rod Miller.”

“Very good, Mr. Miller, I’m Harold Gillespie and I’ve fitted Mr. Workman for many years as well as some of the most influential men in Washington. I will outfit you so you can rub shoulders with anyone on Capitol Hill. Now let’s get started.”

Rod quickly realized he was seeing a side of Jack that no one in Bois D’Arc knew anything about. He wasn’t too sure what this trip was all about, but it sure wasn’t golf. Understanding even less about buying fancy new clothes, he relied on Mr. Gillespie to make his selections. Occasionally he expressed a preference for a different color. It was noon by the time Mr. Gillespie had dressed Ron in what he called Ivy League style, in vogue on the East Coast.

Rod admired his image in the three-way mirror: light blue, button-down Oxford-cloth shirt, red paisley-print tie, khaki slacks, Scotch plaid argyle socks, brown Weejun loafers, and a navy-blue blazer with gold buttons. He turned to get Jack’s opinion. “What do you think?”

“Not bad, not bad at all,” Jack said. “You look just like one of those college boys running around here trying to get a job. But you are about to get an education that you can’t get from a textbook in college. For the next two days you won’t be the K-Mart cowboy from Texas. You are going to see how politics works in the real world.”

“Is the President one of those important people we will meet today?” Rod asked jokingly.

“Maybe. At least we’ll go see his house, from the inside this time. But if we don’t get a move on, we won’t be seeing anybody today.” Jack nodded to Mr. Gillespie. “Put this on my account. I’ll settle up with you later. You did a good job on the boy.” Jack headed for the door before Mr. Gillespie could respond or Rod could say the “Thank you,” his mother had told him to say.

The temperature wasn’t very high by Texas standards, but when they left Raleigh Haberdasher, the humidity felt like someone had covered them with a steamy, wet blanket. They elbowed their way into a sea of people flooding Pennsylvania Avenue sidewalks during the lunch hour.

“We need to grab a cab over to the Senate Office Building and get out of this godawful humidity,” Jack shouted to Rod over the street noise. “I have to talk to Senator Langtree.” He put his hands on Rod’s shoulders then pushed him toward the curb. “Whistle and wave your arms at anything that looks like a cab and be ready to push your way in. There will be twenty people trying to pile in all at once.”

Tussled by the crowd in an effort to board the first taxi that pulled up, they finally squeezed in with two other people going to Capitol Hill. It felt like a football drill to Rod. By the time they turned the knob on Sen. Langtree’s outer office door, both were as sweaty as a couple of Aggies after two-a-days.

Chapter 7

“Afternoon, Rachael, Harry in?”

“Jack Workman, if you aren’t a sight. Where you been keeping yourself these—”

“Is he in, Margaret?” Jack interrupted. “I really need to talk to him.”

“He’s always in for you, Jack. Let me buzz him so he can get rid of that pompous-ass Attorney General. I swear, it seems like they’re bringing children up here to run the government. You know I think—”

“I know what you think, Rachael. You’re still using the same speech Harry used to get elected fifteen years ago.”

“Speaking of kids, who’s your friend?”

“This is Rod Miller, from Bois D’Arc. He caddies for me and in a couple of years is going to be an All-American quarterback at A&M,” Jack said, beaming like a proud father.

“How do you do, Rod, pleased to meet you. I’ve known this old buffalo for more years than I care to remember. Get him to tell you about some of the good old times we had in college.” She gave Rod an exaggerated wink on her way to the Senator’s inner office.

Rod felt the blood rising to his face. He wasn’t accustomed to talk like that from a woman. Momentarily, a well-dressed young man with a tight but polite smile emerged from the inner office, followed closely by Sen. Harry Langtree and Rachael.

“Hello, Jack, you old buffalo,” Sen. Langtree said with a slap on the back. “I want you to meet one of our team players. Jack Workman, meet Bobby Clark, Attorney General.” The Attorney General was barely able to hide his displeasure at being called Bobby by someone outside the close-knit team that surrounded the President and played touch football at his summer home in Cape Cod on weekends—a team that definitely did not include a blustery Texan like Harry Langtree.

“How do you do, sir?” Jack cordially shook hands with the young Attorney General. With a subtle nod, Harry motioned Jack toward his office. Harry and the Attorney General continued their muffled conversation on their way toward the private door to the hallway. Meanwhile, Rachael ushered Jack into the inner office where he immediately poured himself a water glass half-full of Jack Daniels Black Label from the cabinet behind Harry’s desk.

“I’ll entertain your young friend while you two talk business,” Rachael said.

“His name is Rod. Thanks, Rachael, and go easy on the college war stories. He thinks I’m a nice guy. Don’t ruin it, okay?” Jack said with a wink.

“Well, Jack, how’ve you been?” Harry asked, almost colliding with Rachael as he barged through the door. “Sorry about the wait, just a few last-minute details to nail down before the senate hearings start tomorrow. Now, who is this young man and what brings you to Washington?”

“His name is Rod Miller, I’ll tell you more about him later,” Jack said. “You know, Harry, you’ve always told me I should expand my little air-freight and charter business and—”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m sitting on a nervous horse with a noose around my neck?” Harry cut him off. “I should never have let you pull me out of that damn burning DC-3 in Burma, I knew I would live to regret it.”

“Relax, Harry. All I want is a little advice. Besides, it’s your sworn duty as a civil servant to help your loyal constituents, especially when it isn’t going to cost you anything,” Jack said, trying for humor.

“Cut the bullshit before I break into tears. I’ll always owe you for saving my ass in Burma and making me All-American with your blocking at A&M. So, what can one grateful Aggie do to redeem his soul from another Aggie ingrate?”

“I finally convinced those redneck city councilmen in Bois D’Arc that if they would agree to put some decent connecting roads from the Interstate to the old airfield and extend my operating lease for the next ten years, I could expand my business and double the tax base. Money always gets their attention. I also told them that within a few years I could be the largest employer and taxpayer in Brewster County. Of course they wanted to know just how I was going to manage this magical feat. So I—”

“Let me guess. You told them you just happened to have a senator in your back pocket who was chairman of the Senate Armed Forces Committee.”

“Come on, Harry, you know better than that, but you’re close,” Jack said and poured himself another Black Label. “Can I pour you one, Harry?”

“You know I don’t drink on duty, Jack.”

“Fine, I just want you to know I’m not here to put the bite on you. I just need some advice on how to get into the government contract business and maybe the names of a few friendly folks who I might talk to while I’m here, that’s all.”

Chapter 8

“Who are all these people?” Rod asked Rachael as he looked at the photos hanging in the outer office.

“Oh honey, the Senator has had his picture made with every president since Harry Truman and all the foreign heads of state who have come to Washington since he was elected.”

“How come you know Mr. Workman so well?”

“I met Jack and Harry while we were students at Texas A&M,” she said. “When the war started and the whole Cadet Corps volunteered, I followed them into the army as a nurse. Because they were in the Cadet Corps, they went in as officers. I was a third-year nursing student and they took me anyway with the training I had because they were desperate for nurses. Those two were like my big brothers. They took care of me. We did everything together. After the war, Harry had wounds from that terrible crash that would have killed him if it hadn’t been for Jack. The wounds kept him from a professional football career. So, he got into politics.

“Harry’s election was a cakewalk. He was a war hero and the son of the popular Jim Langtree, who owned a string of newspapers all over Northeast Texas. And it was no secret that Jim Langtree kept Senator Lester Stover in office almost single-handed through his newspaper coverage and support. So it was no surprise that Harry announced for Lester’s seat when he retired. Harry ran unopposed in the primary and in the general election. There wasn’t a Republican or anyone who would admit to being one in all of Northeast Texas that would run against him. Harry was swept unopposed into office by a landslide. Hasn’t had a serious challenger yet,” Rachael said.

“How come Jack didn’t come to Washington with Senator Langtree?” Rod asked, still looking at the pictures of Harry with President Truman, Joseph Stalin, Winston Churchill, and King Saud of Saudi Arabia.

“The war changed all of us, Jack more than the rest. I was tired of all the blood and gore from the war,” Rachael said. “I quit being a nurse and jumped on the Langtree for Senate bandwagon, and here I am. But Jack was different. He wasn’t wounded or anything. He’d lost a lot of weight and was a little screwed up in the head for a while. We worried about him. Harry tried his best to get him to come to Washington and be on his staff. Jack turned him down and kept to himself for years. During that time he traveled a lot, to the Middle East mostly. Got into the oil business in Saudi Arabia. Don’t know much about it. Jack keeps everything to himself. Then a few years ago, I guess he found himself and came to Harry for help getting into the airfreight and charter business. He’s been pretty much back to his old self since then.” Rachael paused. “I have a question for you now. How did you and Jack get to be friends?”

“I work at the Lakewood Country Club and have been Mr. Workman’s caddy for the last two summers. He was a big football player and has sort of been a mentor to me since my daddy died in an accident at the cotton compress. He’s been really good to me and wants me to go to Texas A&M like he did. He even promised to get me a scholarship.”

“That sounds like Jack all right. He’s a good man, son. He may be a little strange sometimes, but if he said he would get you a scholarship to A&M, he will, you can count on it. You’re lucky he took a liking to you. Jack doesn’t share himself with many people.” Rachael stopped abruptly. “Stay here and make yourself at home, I forgot to water my African violets this morning.” She returned from the small kitchen with her special mineral water in an effort to keep her plants alive.

“Jack feels a little guilty,” she continued as she watered. “He thinks he may be abusing his friendship by asking Harry for a favor, not realizing that Harry is constantly using him as a sounding board to find out what’s really going on back in Texas.”

“He was an old fighter jock. Flew F-86 Saber jets in Korea and now he’s contracting officer for the Logistics Air Command over in the Pentagon,” Harry was telling Jack when they emerged from the inner office. “Rachael, call Colonel Norbeck and set Jack up with an appointment tomorrow. If anybody can put you on the right track, Leigh can.”

A pained expression came over Harry’s face. He made his way over to the visitor’s couch and slowly lowered himself down. “I’m having a back spasm, need to rest a second. What do you and the boy have planned this afternoon?”

“Haven’t been doing your exercises, have you?” Rachael scolded.

“Did you call Leigh to set up Jack’s appointment yet?” Harry asked Rachael, telling her indirectly to mind her own business.

“Rod,” Jack said.

“What?” Harry grimaced, still trying to get comfortable.

“Rod, the boy’s name is Rod, and no, we don’t have anything planned this afternoon, except maybe digging a few divots at Congressional Country Club,” Jack responded with a swinging motion like he was warming up to tee off.

Jack had been a low eighties shooter in better days, playing on some of the most exclusive courses in the country and Saudi Arabia. He wanted to show Rod what a real country club was like, and there weren’t many better than Congressional. It was a popular place for politicians and lobbyists to do business, as well as corporate executives from the many offices crammed inside the sixty-eight square miles of Washington, D.C.

Pulling himself up slowly with Jack’s help, Harry turned to Rod and said, “How would you like to go swimming at the White House?”

Rod’s eyes got big. “Yes, sir, I’d like that a lot,” he said, not sure if Harry was serious.

“Don’t kid around with him like that, Harry.”

“I’m serious as a heart attack. The President invites me over there when he wants something done, the way Roosevelt did Mr. Sam. I’m not saying I have the power of a Sam Rayburn, not yet, but I’m getting there. Anyway, he has an old war wound and says swimming in a heated pool helps his back. Seems to relax mine as well and we get more done in an hour-long swim than a full day of committee meetings. So, what do you say, Rod? Wouldn’t you like to go back to Texas and tell your friends that you swam in the President’s own swimming pool in the White House?”

Rod was speechless. Jack, wary of his friend’s suggestion, asked, “Would they really let us in, too? I had planned to take Rod on a tour of the White House, but swimming in the President’s pool, that’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Jack turned to Rod, still standing in shocked silence, grabbed him by the shoulders, and said with a big Texas grin, “How about that, sport? Wouldn’t that give those blue-blood snobs back in Bois D’Arc something to talk about?”

“Will we see the President?” Rod finally asked. “Do you think I could get his autograph?”

“That probably won’t happen,” Harry cautioned. “He’s up at Cape Cod playing touch football with his staff and Secret Service guys. That’s all those people think about.” In the same breath, he began rattling off instructions for Rachael. “Be sure to call Colonel Norbeck, set up my breakfast meeting with Senator Javits, have the dossier ready for the Attorney General by ten o’clock, and”—Harry winced in pain again—“have Floyd meet us at the north garage exit.”