The Parnell Affair (8 page)

Tobias sat on the edge of Constance Samanski's desk, alternating between explaining Senate procedure—which she could have learned in five minutes online—and diving into the aggressive flirtation they enjoyed, which resembled a verbal dogfight.  Jazelle Dubois interrupted with a sticky note folded around a key.

“You're sure you don't mind?” she asked Constance.  Jazelle never lost her Creole accent and ran up an enormous phone bill each month talking to her family, maintaining it.

“No, it's totally cool, babe,” Connie said.  “Poopy and I will get along great.”

“Poupée,
Poupée,” Jazelle said.  “Like toupée.”

“Oh right,” Connie said.  “I forgot to ask: hey, does Ms
Poupée
like other dogs?  'Cause if so, Jackfrost is so laid back—my Sheppard,” she said to Tobias, “I could just bring her home with me.”

“Oh my god,” Jazelle said.  “You've never met Poupée, have you?  You have to be careful when you walk her, stay away from children, and—you're familiar with Tazers, right?”

Silence.

“Just kidding,” she said.  “She's a big soft-hearted slob.  She rolls on her back when she meets other dogs and hopes they don't bite her.  So, yes, please take her, it would be a huge favor.”

“No problem at all,” Connie said.  “This way she won't be lonely.  And Jack is so mellow, he doesn't even bark or bite when the little dogs in the park go under him and snap.  It was funny,” she said and laughed into her hand, “he peed on one once—right in the face!”

“That's how you get them to stop snapping at you?” Tobias asked.  “Can't really see doing that while on my bike, though.  Hmm.”

The ladies laughed.  “You're crazy,” Connie said.  Her phone rang.  “Oh shit, I have to take this,” she said, seeing the incoming number.  “See you when you get back.  Hello?”

“Headed out?” Tobias asked as he walked away with Jazelle.

“Yeah, Texas,” Jazelle said.  “To cover Anthony Bellow's visit.  Had to leave Poupée behind because John's coming with.”

“Finally showing him to your family?” Tobias asked.

“They've met,” she said.  “We're getting married in March.”

“Oh, that's right,” he said.  “I blocked it out of my memory—I hate it when beautiful women get married.”

Jazelle had skin as dark as a moonless sky and piercing blue eyes.  So stark was the contrast of colors, Tobias always stared a little when they met.             

“You had your chance,” she said coyly.  “But you chose to be gallant and spare my feelings.”

“I knew you wanted marriage and babies,” he said.

“We could have had our one night and blamed the wine,” she said quietly.  She knew it was a game; only the interns didn't.

“Mmm, we still could,” he said, brushing shoulders with her.

“Bluff called and folded,” she said and laughed soundlessly.  “Anyway, John and I are planning on stopping home to look at houses in New Orleans.  We thought we'd keep his apartment here but have a house there,” she said.  She shrugged and added, “Might as well get something out of this trip.”

“Outside President Pete's ranch,” Tobias said, “sounds more like a photo-op than anything.  Why'd they send you?”

“The worst kept secret in Washington,” she said.  “Everyone knows Bellow came to talk about war with Iraq and I'm to ask about the case for war.  Apparently, the Administration has some sort of evidence that Saddam is trying to restart his WMD program.  They haven't shown it, though.”

“Nope,” he said and grinned.

“What?” she asked.

“If you get the chance,” he said, “ask them about a dissenting opinion making its way around the Senate.  Counter evidence.”

“You have something?” she asked.

“Nothing I can print,” he said.  “But if you can get them denying any counter evidence, it could help a later story.  So where did you hear about the existence of specific intel concerning Saddam's WMD program?”

She smiled for a couple steps and then asked: “Where did you hear about counter evidence?”

“So Poupée just drops onto her back when she meets other dogs, huh?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.  “I'm not sure if that makes her a total coward or a total slut.”

President Howland surveyed the sparsely grassed land behind his ranch, rising until it tucked into a few meager hills and shallow gulches.  He would have given a year of his life to walk out the back door and hike up into the hills; he'd found peace among them throughout his Presidential campaign, when he needed to escape staff and supporter.  But he knew he couldn't today: in July, in Texas, he'd sweat right through his clothes, suit jacket and all.  So he had to content himself with watching the landscape through the window of his study as he awaited the arrival of Anthony Bellow, the UK Prime Minister.  Karl had popped his head in a moment ago to say that the plane had landed in Dallas; the helicopter would take 45 minutes.

I feel like a house cat, Pete thought, staring out the window at where I can't go.  He turned and paced the carpeted floor, pussyfooting lest Linda hear him, from the bedroom next door, and worry.  Pete crossed his arms, thought about the wrinkles he'd make in his sleeves, put his hands in his pockets, put his hands on his hips, and settled for clasped behind his back.  Damn it, he thought, he's just a man.  He'll arrive, you'll meet him at the door, say hello, shake hands, show him around a little, and then give him and his wife a chance to settle in.  No sweat, he thought and could feel it on his palms.  He's not the Queen, damn it, Pete thought: you won't have to go through all that choreography again like your visit there.  Just keep your wits and don't babble!

Exasperated, he threw himself in a chair and hated how nervous he felt.  He felt it was wrong to worry, he felt it as a personal failing.  Goddamn Yale, he thought and then, no, it's your own fault.  They were no better, you just thought they were, Pete told himself.  Accent, he thought, that's what it is, accent.  Pete remembered his freshman year at Yale when he'd first met and mingled with the progeny of the wealthy and privileged, outside of Texas.  Having known one another in prep school, the upper crust were already on a first-name basis.  Pete had to introduce himself.  They'd vacationed at the same places, knew the local color and could share stories about places and people.  Pete had to listen.  They shared relatives, too.  Pete's lived in Texas.  And when he did converse with some well-connected water-haired young aristocrat, he'd stifle his accent and try to follow allusions to which he had no access.  It was generally thought he had a condition of permanent blushing, his freshman year.  And deferential as he was—never taking offense and laughing good-naturedly at off-hand remarks and casual incisions, instead of defending himself in kind—he was the punching bag of some and invisible to others.

Linda saved him.  Even if he hadn't fallen in love with her at twelve years old, he would have devoted himself to her happiness for how she had helped him at Yale.  When that prick Perkins, the Senator's younger brother, talked to Pete like a servant—indeed, having once handed Pete his coat at the door of a party—Linda took his arm and her very presence immediately explained him to the crowd; Perkins called him 'chum' later on.  She also explained how he was in fact related to many of the same people, even if he had never met them.  (He and Perkins were, to Pete's surprise, third cousins.)  She made a southern gentleman of his accent until he lost it.  And when he laughed nervously to cover ignorance of some convention or meme, she'd laugh too—even if she pressed his arm to get him to stop.  And Linda was beautiful.  So beautiful that Pete would see envy in the eyes of upperclassmen who terrified him.  And with their envy, they became human, and Pete no longer wished to emulate anyone but to stave off their condescension and derision.

Pete jumped up and stood at the window again.  “Hell, Pete,” he mumbled, “who are you trying to impress, anyway?  You're President of the United States.  The man's coming to talk war not skiing in St. Moritz.  Stop being such a goddamn cliché.”

The hall door banged open and Karl tumbled through, stifling a laugh.

“What the hell are you laughing at, Karl?” Pete shouted.

“Mr. Pres—” Karl began but had to stifle another laugh.  “Mr. President, you won't believe what Jenkins—our lead man in Dallas—just called to tell me.”  Pete remained stony faced; he'd become very suspicious of unexpected messages since last September.  “The Prime Minister,” Karl continued, “arrived in Dallas wearing blue jeans and a red checked shirt.  And boots!”

“What?”

“Cowboy boots!” Karl said.  “Jenkins thought he looked disappointed when he got off the plane and didn't see tumbleweeds and cactuses surrounding the airport.  So he told Bellow that the helicopter trip would give him an excellent view of our local landscape and wildlife.  Bellow practically jumped up and down in his seat!”

“Good lord,” Pete breathed.

“He's come to play cowboy,” Karl squealed, finally letting out his long restrained laugh.

“Well, he'll be in the right mood for war planning, anyway,” Pete said, holding one hand to his cheek.  “It certainly swings the advantage to us.  Are you sure?”

“That's what Jenkins said,” said Karl.  “I have heard of this before, Mr. President, though I have never seen it.  A kind of fascination with the American West by Europeans.”

“Can't imagine what they see in it,” Pete said.

“Living in a stuffy class system such as England’s?” Karl said.  “I guess the romanticized freedom of the frontier has its appeal.”

“Enough of that kind of talk,” Pete said.  “I've had an idea!  Did he have a hat?”

“Jenkins did not say,” said Karl.  “He would not have left out
that
.”

“He doesn't have one then,” Pete said, chopping the air.  “Not a proper one.  Now you go into town,” Pete said quickly.  “Take the police escort and break every traffic law you need to.  Go to the place next to the tobacco store and get Bellow the best hat in the shop.  Double quick!”

“But what size?” Karl said.  “What size?”

“Damn it,” Pete said.  “Linda!” he shouted and then opened the door to their bedroom and lowered his voice.  “Linda, I'm sorry.  We need your help quick.”

“Why, whatever's the matter?” she said, appearing in the doorway.

“Anthony Bellow showed up in Dallas wearing cowboy duds but without a hat,” Pete said.

Linda smiled generously for a moment, seeing the fun the other two were having with the image, before saying: “He wants to fit in locally?  How sweet of him.”

“Ha, I wanted to send Karl out to get him a proper Texas-made hat but we don't know his size,” Pete said.

“That's a wonderful gesture, dear,” Linda said, touching his arm.  “Oh, don't worry about the size: buy every size you can and when you introduce me to Mrs. Bellow, I'll ask her quietly about her husband's hat size.  She'll understand, I'm sure.  Then I'll whisper it to Karl as we pass inside.  Best to present it privately,” she said discretely, “in case he feels he doesn't look good in hats.”

“Linda, my love, my wife, you never cease to amaze me,” Pete said, taking her hand warmly.  “You heard her, Karl, go go go!”

Karl pranced at the door but knew enough to wait until Linda gave the all clear.

“You'll have to change, of course,” she said to Pete.

“I will,” he agreed.  “That's right.  Karl, you too: you bring any jeans?”

“No, I don't have any,” he cried, “with me.”

Pete suddenly wondered if his Chief of Staff owned any at all.  “Well, set yourself up in town and be quick,” he said.  “I thought I told you to go!”

“Yes, Mr. President!” Karl said and left.

“Paul will have clothes here,” Pete said, biting a thumbnail.  “We were planning on some ridding and hunting.  Ben could borrow from him if he needs to.”  He trailed off as he followed Linda into the bedroom to change.

Marine Two, the helicopter sent to Dallas to fetch the Prime Minister, landed in a suitably picturesque field in front of the President’s ranch.  Anthony Bellow—younger than Pete, much admired at home as the new face of UK Labor—descended to find a small hand-picked cadre of photographers in a coral before the ranch's front door, a smattering of Secret Service in suits, and at least a dozen men standing about dressed in charming cowboy regalia.  Pete had called in every hand from the working side of the cattle ranch and ensured they dressed appropriately: they watched mostly form against a fence to the house's left. The cameras seemed to have a bracing effect on the Prime Minister, who—beside his wife—walked with his usual decorum to meet the President.  Pete—now dressed in his own cowboy duds, having considered borrowing chewing tobacco from his foreman even though it would make him sick, but Karl objected—had a moment of doubt.  Seeing the calm demeanor Bellow displayed, Pete wondered if he'd overplayed his hand.  The tremble of excitement he felt in Bellow's handshake returned him to confidence, however.

The hat went over very well and the Prime Minister seemed not in the least affected by his long trip, interested instead in the stunning vistas through the windows and eager to hear everything Pete had to say—Pete exaggerating his accent so far past even that of his youth that Linda had to take his arm.  The Bellows were then shown their room and allowed to unpack and refresh themselves.  Though Pete gave the impression they'd have “supper” at five, the dinner was in fact a formal affair, complete with French service, at seven (requiring a sad return to dinner jackets).  Linda could have, of course, changed the menu at the last minute, but Pete would never have asked.  The only alteration he made was to dip into a few of his father's things and come out with a tiny black tie, thin as a shoe lace, which he wore to dinner.