The Porkchoppers (12 page)

Kensington's visitor was a thirty-one-year-old man, conservatively dressed in one of the six look-alike suits that he had recently bought from Arthur Adler's. He had a wide pale forehead, dark wavy hair, cunningly styled to look long, but not too long; a sharp nose, pink at its tip; a red, small mouth that somehow looked mean, but which may have been only firm; a bony chin that managed to appear ambitious; and dark, flickering eyes that seldom gave away anything he thought or felt except his impatience with those whom he regarded as slower witted than himself. He was flashing his impatient look at Old Man Kensington now and, of course, he was making a mistake. The thirty-one-year-old man's name was Alfred Etheridge and not too many people called him Al because, first of all, he didn't like it and secondly, he worked at the White House where he thought a certain amount of formality should be maintained. Old Man Kensington, not too much on formality and largely indifferent to White House protocol, had been calling him Al for the last ten minutes.

“Sure you won't have some coffee, Al?” Kensington said.

“No, thank you, sir,” Etheridge said. He called everyone “sir” if they were over thirty-five and above him in the pecking order because he believed that it made them feel uncomfortably old. Etheridge's ambition made him use a lot of little tricks like that.

“I didn't know you folks over there were quite so concerned about old Don Cubbin's reelection,” Kensington said around a mouthful of steak.

“I thought it was made quite clear how interested we were when you met with us last week.”

“Well, it's too bad you don't want him defeated.”

“Why?”

“Be easier, that's why. All you'd have to do is have the President come out for him and he'd be bound to lose. Bound to.” Kensington almost choked on his own mirth.

“The
President
,” Etheridge said, bearing down hard on the word because it usually worked magic for him, “personally asked me to find out what your assessment of the situation is now.”

“You mean he called you into his office and asked you that?”

“I spoke to him over the phone,” Etheridge said, lying very well.

“And he wants my assessment?”

“Yes, sir, he does.”

“Well, that makes him more of a damn fool than I thought he was.”

“I take exception to that remark, sir,” Etheridge said and couldn't help but feel that he sounded stuffy.

“I don't mind,” Kensington said. “You sure you don't want any coffee?”

“All I want is your assessment of Donald Cubbin's chances.”

“Okay. Not good.”

“Why?”

“One, he's drinking. Two, he made an ass out of himself on a Chicago TV program last night. You hear about that?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you will. Let's just say that it gave Sammy Hanks some pretty good ammunition, if he uses it right, and of course he will.”

“But your own assignment—”

“Assignment?” Kensington said, letting pure wonder creep into his tone.

“At the meeting that was held last week, you were given—”

“I wasn't
given
anything, sonny. I wasn't
told
to do anything. I
mentioned
that I might stir around and
see
if there were some folks who might be interested in helping Cubbin get reelected. Well, I've stirred around some.”

“I see,” Etheridge said.

“No you don't.”

“Well, perhaps you could explain then.”

“Now, Al, I'd think it might be better if you didn't know just what I've done.”

“I wonder if I might be the judge of that, sir.”

“You?”

“Yes, sir. Me.”

“Huh,” Kensington grunted.

“May I tell the President that you refused to give me your assessment of—”

“Don't throw your weight around so much, Al. Using the President's name like that don't impress me any. What I'm trying to say is that if I tell you what I've done and you tell the President, and then later some smart-assed reporter asks him if he knows what I've done, and the President lies and says, no, he doesn't know anything about it, but then they go and find out that he did know, well, he's going to be embarrassed and I sure don't want to do anything to embarrass the President of the United States, do you, Al?”

“I still think that perhaps I should be the judge of whether the information is given to the President, Mr. Kensington.”

“You do, huh?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Since you work in the White House and all?”

“Yes, sir, I think it's part of my job.”

“All right, sonny, suppose—let's just suppose now— suppose I was to tell you that I rounded up about a dozen of the top executives of the companies that Cubbin's union has a contract with—the contract that's coming up for final negotiation next month—I mean it expires next month—and these company executives don't want a strike and they don't want to pay no thirty-percent increase in wages over the next three years plus a lot of fringe benefits that we don't need to go into right here and now. You following me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, suppose I was to tell you that because they don't want a strike and because they don't want to pay any thirty-percent increase they agreed to get up a kitty for Don Cubbin—a $750,000 kitty to help him get reelected because they're pretty sure that if he is reelected, they won't have any strike or pay anywhere near a thirty-percent wage increase either. You're a lawyer, aren't you, Al?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I'd have to—”

“Would you think that's legal?”

“You'd have to look up the law?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let me ask you this, do you think it's ethical—or would you have to look that up, too?”

“No, sir, I don't think it's ethical.”

“Well, let me go on. Let me tell you how I'd spend that $750,000, supposing I got it.”

“You?”

“That's right, Al. Me. Nobody else. Supposing those company boys give me the money. Well, for all they'd know I could put it in my pocket and they'd never be any wiser.”

“I see.”

“I bet you do. Well, supposing I went and hired the sneakiest, lowdown, most unscrupulous bunch of operators you've ever heard of and told them that I'd pay them a hundred thousand dollars and give them another six hundred and fifty thousand to play around with if they'd do just one thing, and I wasn't particular about how they did it, but all they had to do was get Cubbin reelected. Now supposing that before I hired this bunch—and I might even give you their name, because you seem to want to know everything—well, supposing that before I hired them, Cubbin's chances against being elected were about sixty-forty. Now they're about fifty-fifty. So that's my assessment and report, Al, and now I'd like to ask this, what're you going to do with it?”

Etheridge's eyes blinked rapidly and his mind raced. “Well, I—”

Kensington decided to give him a little time. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you the name of that bunch of sharpies I just might have hired. It's Walter Penry and Associates, Incorporated. Seeing as how you now know who they are, you might even say that they're sort of working under White House instructions.”

He's boxed me, Etheridge thought. If I tell them what he's told me, they'll be on my back for telling them something that they don't think that the man needs to know. But if I don't tell them, and something happens later, and they're not set or prepared for it, then they're going to want to know why I didn't tell them. I'm going to lose either way. I want to get away from here, he decided. I want to get away from this slick, fat old man who's so much smarter than I am, so goddamned much smarter.

Etheridge rose and said, “Well, thank you, Mr. Kensington, for seeing me.”

“What're you gonna tell them, son?” the old man said softly, smiling only a little.

“I'll make a report.”

“About what?”

“I'll have to consider the various—”

“You're gonna lose, whatever you tell them, you know that, don't you?”

“Yes.”

Kensington nodded. “Well, that's good—I mean it's good that you know it. But there's one thing I like about you, Al.”

Etheridge was moving toward the door now. “What?”

“You didn't make me any little speech about how the White House couldn't get itself involved in something nasty like I just told you about.”

“No.”

“You know why I like that?”

“Why?” Etheridge said, his hand on the doorknob.

“Because I've just had myself a mighty fine breakfast and I didn't want to have to throw it up all over the floor.”

12

If Truman Goff had been drafted into the army and if the army had sent him to Vietnam and if he had spent a little time there killing Viet Cong and North and even South Vietnamese, he most likely would never have ended up in the assassination business.

But by the time Truman Goff was nineteen he already had a wife and a child so the draft didn't touch him. And by the time he was twenty-four he had left Southwest Virginia where he and his wife had been born and was working for Safeway in Baltimore. He was working as a checker then and living downtown in a row house and sometimes hanging out at a neighborhood bar called The Screaming Eagle.

Another regular customer at The Screaming Eagle was Bruce Cloke who had been forty-three when Goff had first met him nearly five years ago now. They had bought each other a few beers and talked about the Orioles and the Colts and about Cloke's success with women. Cloke was a salesman and wasn't too particular about what he sold as long as he could sell it to housewives. Sometimes he sold vacuum cleaners and sometimes aluminum siding and sometimes encyclopedias and even, upon occasion, magazine subscriptions. He was a big, ignorant, good-looking man with an immense amount of surface charm and if he had wished, he could have had his own sales crew working for him. But Cloke was also a passionate fisherman and hunter and whenever the notion hit him, he liked to drop everything and spend two weeks or ten days going after bass or ducks or deer.

It had been November when Truman Goff had dropped into The Screaming Eagle for a beer. It was also the middle of the afternoon and the only other customer in the place had been Bruce Cloke.

“How come you're not working?” Cloke asked, after buying Goff a beer.

“I got a week off. It's my vacation.”

“How come you didn't take it last summer?”

Goff shrugged. “I don't much like vacations. I took a week in July but I didn't have enough money then to go anywhere so I'm taking the other week now. If I don't take it before the first of the year, I'll lose it.”

“Well, I'm taking myself a little vacation this week, too. Right down to Virginia.” Cloke aimed an imaginary rifle at some imaginary target and went pow-pow a couple of times.

Truman Goff got interested. “Deer, huh?”

“That's right, buddy.”

“Where you going? I'm from Virginia, you know.”

“Down around Lynchburg.”

“Yeah? I'm from down around there.”

Three beers later Truman Goff had agreed to go deer hunting with Bruce Cloke. They left the next morning and by nine that night they were settled into the Idledale Motel on the outskirts of Lynchburg. They were also about halfway through the first of two fifths of Old Cabin Still that Cloke had brought along.

“You know something, buddy?” Cloke said.

“What?”

“I been a fisherman all my born days, but guess where I first got interested in hunting?”

“Where at?”

“Italy, that's where.”

“What the fuck were you doing in Italy?”

“I was hunting the real thing, that's what I was doing in Italy. I was hunting krauts.”

“Oh, yeah, in the army.”

“That's right, in the army. In the goddamned infantry is what. In the Forty-fifth Division.”

“Yeah, well, I guess that's something all right.”

“You
guess
it's something?”

“That's what I said.”

“Well, let me ask you something. You ever been in the army?”

“No, you know I ain't ever been in the army.”

“Then you ain't never hunted the real thing; you ain't never hunted men.”

“Maybe I ain't never hunted men but I've hunted more deer and more possum and more quail and more bobcat than you ever hoped to hunt.”

“But you never hunted no man, did you?”

“Well, I reckon I could, if I put my mind to it. Wouldn't be no more trouble than hunting bobcat.”

“You think you could kill a man? I mean you think you could get a fellow human bean right in your sights and then squeeeeeze that trigger ever so easy without getting the shakes? You think you could do that, Truman?”

“Shit yes, I could do it,” Goff said and poured himself another drink.

Cloke looked at him for several moments, grinning. “I'll be willing to bet you fifty bucks that you can't.”

“What kind of a fuckin bet is that?” Goff said.

“Just what I said.”

“Shit, I ain't going to no electric chair for fifty bucks.”

“You don't have to worry about no electric chair.”

“You just said that you was willing to bet me fifty bucks that I couldn't get somebody in my sights and then pull the trigger and I said I bet I could, but I wasn't going to no electric chair just to prove it.” The whisky was making Goff confused. “Well, shit, it's a dumb bet anyhow.”

“Tell you what, Truman.”

“What?”

“What if we fixed it up so that there wasn't no chance, I mean no chance at all, of you going to no electric chair. I mean it.”

“How you gonna do that?”