Hollywood (70 page)

That was the question. Jess’s face became hot; mouth dry. He longed for water, a gallon of cool water. “Doc, you know Daugherty don’t get on with Charlie, and so I don’t either. Oh, he comes to K Street for poker and booze, like you do, but that’s all.”

“I’m there for the poker and the booze. That’s true. But some of the other fellows aren’t, are they?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jess’s fear was turning to anger.

“I suppose not. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to blow the whistle on Charlie Forbes.”

“Go ahead.” Jess knew that Doc would do nothing without the President’s approval.

“I just want to make sure there’s only Forbes involved.” Doc stared again at Jess, who looked away. All he could think of now was water.

“If Charlie’s really up to something, he can’t be doing it all by himself. Can he?”

“Well,” said Doc, “I meant aside from him and his friends, like Charlie Cramer. I just hope nobody else from the K Street house is involved, like Mannington.”

“They’re not.” Jess was fairly certain that what he said was true.

“Good.”

“You know if you’re really going to … blow the whistle like you say, go to the General.”

“Daugherty?”

Jess nodded. “He’ll be happy to put Charlie Forbes in jail. It’s just the President who’ll be upset, particularly now he’s going to run for re-election.”

“He won’t run.” Doc was suddenly bleak.

“He
is
running.”

“He thinks he is. But he isn’t going to be here in two years.”

As the truss suddenly doubled in on itself, Jess felt as if a hot knife had stabbed him. “I don’t get it.”

“His heart’s going fast.”

“How do you know? You’re not his doctor.”

“That’s why I can say it. He’s just running down, like an old clock. I see
it in his face, his eyes, the way he can’t breathe when he lies down unless Brooks props him up with pillows.”

“Can’t you do anything?”

Doc Sawyer shook his head. “Some things there’s nothing you can do about but just stand by and watch, and wait.”

J
ames Burden Day put his feet on the brass fender, and stared at the burning coals in the grate. February was a melancholy month at best, made only bearable for a senator by the knowledge that Congress would adjourn in a few weeks, and the round of committee meetings would end, except, of course, when they did not. Currently, those who were not ill with flu were simply sick of winter and politics while the country itself had never before seemed so out-of-focus. For the moment bad economic times were over. But Harding’s normalcy was still a dream. Everywhere, working men were on strike or threatening to strike, and in the Senate cloakroom there were long idle conversations about the advantages and disadvantages of revolution, dictatorship, sheer chaos. Meanwhile, the President was recovering from influenza, and Burden had been sent for.

“What,” asked Cabot Lodge, in the chair beside him, “is the subject of your meeting? If I do not pry, of course.” Lately, the ghostly old man had taken to dropping in on Burden. He was, simply, lonely in the cold windy
Senate Office Building. Although Lodge was Senate majority leader he tended now to delegate his powers to others. Between the death of his beloved wife and probably even more beloved poet son, Bay, Lodge had no one left to love; worse for someone of his temperament, he had no one to hate. The President was not only a fellow Republican but absolutely unhateful. For some reason, Lodge had always been well disposed toward Burden, even though Burden was now, in effect if not in title, the Democratic minority leader. Caroline was a link, of course; and there was always the court of Henry Adams, now as dispersed as that of King Arthur.

“The subject will be
you
.” Burden smiled at Lodge, who allowed his white beard to twitch in response.

“The International Court.”

Burden nodded. “Harding wants us to join …”

“
Hughes
wants us to join, and Harding does what he tells him to. Hughes is a lawyer. I hate lawyers. No lawyer can resist a court of any kind. Have you noticed?”

“Depends on the venue.”

“Exactly. Well, this is tied in with the League of Nations, and so we can never …”

“Never! Never!”

“Never,” whispered Lodge with some satisfaction. “Join!” The pale marble face was ever so slightly flushed. Anything to do with the League of Nations put him in a good mood. “The Foreign Relations Committee is split. Eight to eight on the issue. As chairman, I’ll naturally want more time to consider the matter. Anyway, we’re adjourning soon, and there’s no real hurry. They say Hughes is in bed with the flu.”

Miss Harcourt entered with Burden’s notes on the International Court. “Mrs. Sanford rang. She said it wasn’t important. But if you get a chance …”

“Is she at Laurel House?”

“I’m sorry, Senator. I should’ve identified her more precisely. It is Mrs. John Apgar Sanford. She’s back in Georgetown.” Whatever Miss Harcourt may have suspected she betrayed nothing, ever.

“Caroline has come home to us.” Lodge smiled at the prospect.

“So it would seem. I must get Kitty to call her.”

“What a curious thing to have become, a photo-play star.” Lodge shook his head in wonder. “She never seemed the type who wanted to … to dress up. But then she was raised in France. That explains so much.” Lodge was
bleak. The glittering lost son, Bay Lodge, had lived abroad, in France. “I miss not having Henry to travel with, as vile as he could be, and that was very vile indeed.”

“We are so … so …” Burden was not sure which word would suit his own bad mood. He made a choice. “Mediocre nowadays. Except for you, of course …”

“And you, Burden. You’ll be president one of these days, for what that’s worth.”

Burden nodded. “And what that’s worth is not so much, I’d say.
We
don’t seem to matter in this modern world.” Burden realized that he was speaking like a very old man to a really old man who was at the end; but Burden was not old, not at the end. He had never doubted that he would be president in time. But time had become chilly and remote and less and less familiar, and his own place in it of little consequence.

“Politicians only matter when there’s war. The observation is not original. But no less true for that. War created Lincoln. Roosevelt. Wilson.” Lodge frowned at the thought of his ancient enemy, now living like an exiled, wounded king in S Street. He changed the subject. “Harding thinks you Democrats will give him the International Court.”

“I suppose so.” Burden was guarded. They were now rival political gamesmen. “You’ll be giving him your committee report any day now, won’t you?”

“Why such unseemly haste?”

“Because the Sixty-seventh Congress ends Sunday, March thirteenth.”

“But by the time Hughes replies, it will be another Congress, another epoch. Tell Harding we’re with him, of course. We want a court. It’s just that we don’t want
this
court with all its ties to the League.”

Burden nodded. It was going to be the League of Nations fight yet again. To everyone’s surprise, Harding was threatening to take the issue to the country. Imperceptibly, the amiable soft-headed senator had turned into a hard-minded president, most jealous of his own powers as the executive.

Together Burden and Lodge made their way down the high-ceilinged hall of the Senate Office Building. As it was February and dark, cheerless lights had been switched on, emphasizing the gloom. At Lodge’s office they paused. “What do you hear about Fall?” asked the old man.

“Nothing. He’s gone back to New Mexico, hasn’t he?”

“He’s been leasing the naval oil reserves to just about everybody.”

“That was his job.”

“Yes. Of course.” Lodge stepped into his own office.

Still weak from the flu, the President was not in the west wing of the White House. He could be found, Burden was told, in the upstairs sitting room. An usher offered to escort him to the main residence, but Burden said that he knew the way well. En route, he recognized several Secret Service men and was greeted by the President’s secretary, George Christian, who was coming from the living quarters. “The President’s upstairs,” he said.

As Burden stepped into the main hall of the White House, he was struck by the emptiness. It reminded him of the last Wilson year. But then sightseers seldom appeared on cold February days, while the usual business of the executive was transacted in the west wing.

As Burden walked over to the elevator, he heard a loud furious voice from the Red Room. Simultaneously, two ladies were being received at the main entrance by the chief usher. Burden was alarmed: they must not hear whatever was going on.

Quickly, Burden crossed to the Red Room, where he found the President of the United States shaking the Director of the Veterans Bureau by the neck. “You God-damned double-crossing bastard!” With one last shove, the scarlet-faced Harding flung Forbes against the red-damasked wall. Forbes’s glasses fell to the floor. His ginger hair was all on end.

“Mr. President,” said Burden. Harding glared blindly at him for a moment, completely disoriented. Then he recovered himself; became his seemly, becoming presidential self. “Senator Day. Yes. We have an appointment. Let’s go into the next room.” Neither acknowledged the presence of the ashen Charlie Forbes.

In the oval Blue Room, Harding sat, back to the window. He was breathing with great difficulty.

“I gather,” said Burden formally, “you want to know how the vote will go on the Court bill.”

“Yes. Yes.” Harding took a deep shaky breath. “Peculiar situation when a Republican president has to rely on the Democrats to get his program through the Senate.” He attempted a smile; and failed. “In this job it’s not your enemies you have to worry about; it’s your friends.” The reference to Forbes was clear.

As Burden formally analyzed the Senate’s mood, he wondered just what had gone wrong. Everyone knew that the Court Jester spent money lavishly. Everyone assumed that he no doubt received presents from contractors, a venerable custom for government officials with contracts to let. But the thought that there might be serious corruption had not occurred to Burden
even though two fellow senators, Wadsworth and Reed, were certain that something was wrong. Burden had put their suspicions down to partisan zeal.

“I’m going to take a swing around the circle in May or June, ending up in Alaska. I know it’s going to look like I’m campaigning for re-election but I’m not, really. I just want to set the record straight on my troubles with the Senate.”

Burden was reminded of Wilson. How extraordinary these presidents were in their own eyes! Even the modest Harding had succumbed to the crown’s hypnotic glitter, and had come to believe that if he merely showed himself to the people, his enemies would be routed. “Well, it’s always good to get away from Washington.”

“I’ll say.” Harding offered Burden a cigar, which he refused. Then Harding tried to light one for himself but his hands trembled, and he could not. Burden lit the cigar for him. “The flu never really goes away, does it?” Harding puffed a cloud of smoke as if he wanted to vanish.

“It goes, all right. But it takes its time. In my case a year before I felt myself again.”

“Yes.” The smoke cleared. Harding’s olive-skinned face was now sallow. High blood pressure, Burden decided; due to overweight. As if Harding had read his thoughts, he said, “I’m starting on a strict diet this year. No more whisky, fewer cigars, more exercise, though I don’t have the get-up-and-go I used to have.”

“That will come back.” It was odd to think that he, James Burden Day, was very apt to be the Democratic nominee for president in 1924 running against this amiable man. If the times were prosperous, Harding would win. If not, Burden would be installed in this altogether too familiar place.

“I’m calling my trip a voyage of understanding,” Harding began; and ended. Then he said, “I’d appreciate it if you said nothing about what happened in there.”

“If you ask me not to, I won’t. But I think you should probably tell me what it’s all about because if it’s public business I’ll find out anyway.”

Harding rested his right cheek in his right hand. He shut his eyes. “It’s the Perryville, Maryland, business. Charlie told me everything was all right and I believed him. But the Attorney General didn’t. He’s just wound up an investigation. Charlie is going to resign.”

“That means the Senate will investigate.”

“I suppose we’ll have to. I mean,” Harding’s attempt at a smile was ghastly, “
you’ll
have to. Sometimes I keep thinking I’m still on the Hill and not down
here—at the bottom of this damned well. What a time for this to happen!” Harding shook his head. “Daugherty’s close to a break-down with all his troubles, and I’m a bit down myself …”

“Well, there’s one good thing. Congress adjourns in a few weeks. There can’t be much of an investigation till October, November.”

“I thought I knew Charlie Forbes as well as I’ve ever known anybody, and then …” But Harding was not about to tell Burden what Forbes had done, nor would Burden ask. Executive and legislative, not to mention Republican and Democrat, must keep their distance at such a time. Burden doubted if Forbes could have got away with very much in so conspicuous a job. Bribes were an everyday affair in government, and there were agreed-upon limits to what an office-holder might demand. During the war, Burden had been offered numerous bribes by naval contractors and he had refused them all on the ground that not only was it a wrong thing to do but, if found out, the career was at an end. On the other hand, he was not censorious. What others chose to do was their business not his. By and large, the great political players stayed reasonably clean. Harding was honest, as far as Burden knew, which was quite a lot: the Senate was a relatively small club and who got money from whom was generally if not precisely known. Before 1917, Borah, the incorruptible, was thought to have taken money from one George Sylvester Viereck, who had been in charge of disbursements in the Kaiser’s name. A charming and cultivated figure, Viereck had tried to charm and cultivate Burden, who had not responded.