“Meanwhile—” Dickson was still talking “—let him use the potty like he did when he was vice-president. If it was good enough for Elvis Greco, it’s good enough for that [characterization omitted] Cadillac.”
Elvis Greco21 had twice been elected Nicholas Swillhouse Dickson’s vice-president. Shortly after his second election he had resigned from office and Cadillac had been appointed vice-president in his place. If, for years, Jack Benny22 had been known as the comedian’s comedian because of his superb timing, Elvis Greco had similarly been known as the politician’s politician for his loyalty, obedience, and hatchet work. But, as it turned out, the pol’s pol really shone as the thief’s thief. While Dickson had been ripping off the Department of Internal Revenue, Elvis Greco had held court in his vice-presidential office for a procession of bribe bearers stretching all the way back from Wash1ngton to Baltimore. True, El Greco had resigned under a cloud, but no pol of such high rank had ever sailed out of office before with his pockets jingling quite so merrily. Publicly President Dickson had refused to comment on the embarrassment Vice-President Greco had caused his administration; but privately he had been heard to mutter: “Beware of Greeks baring gifts.”
Now, Dickson’s mention of Elvis Greco brought Alicia to the third matter she’d come to discuss with him. “There’s also an urgent wire from former Vice-President Greco,” she told him.
“What does that Greek [expletive deleted] want?”
“He’s at Hank Nostalgia’s estate in Palm Beach. He wants to know if you’d be interested in doing six weeks in Vegas as third man of a trio composed of Mr. Nostalgia, himself, and you. The repertoire would consist of old Andrews Sisters songs and Mr. Nostalgia is dickering to get Guy Lombardo to back up the trio.”
For those under forty, Hank Nostalgia, now in his sixties, was once the singing idol of millions of swooning teen-agers. The Andrews Sisters had been three not very pretty girls with three not very good voices who had sung many not very good songs on the home front during the Second World War. (Sometimes they had gone on tours to entertain the troops, an atrocity against our GIs which should have been—but wasn’t—investigated at Nuremburg.) Guy Lombardo was a bandleader of whom it had been said: “He’s the kind of old-timer who gives geriatrics a bad name.”
“Is there a guaranteed percentage?” Dickson was interested in the prospective booking.
“According to Vice-President Greco, Mr. Nostalgia assures him that the Mafia will insure it.”
“The Mafia is [not intelligible]. Also the Mafia can be counted on to [inaudible]. In dealing with the Mafia [material not related to presidential actions deleted] and the Mafia never squawked about the Cambodian bombing. So, to sum up the best interests of everybody concerned, the offer appears to be as sound as the U.S. dollar,” Dickson pronounced.
“A helluva lot sounder,” I muttered under my breath.
“What billing?” Dickson wanted to know.
“Mr. Nostalgia will get top billing. You and Elvis Greco will share second billing.”
“[Expletive removed]! That’s not fair! I’m President of the United States!”
“You were President of the United States,” Alicia reminded him. “And do you know how many gold records Hank Nostalgia has cut?”
“[Expletive deleted], I’m not objecting to Hank Nostalgia’s billing. [Expletive removed], he’s Mr. Big. But I think I should get top billing over El Greco. I’ve got a much better voice than that Creek [characterization deleted] !”
“Should I write him to that effect? Or would you rather discuss it with him yourself? In his wire he says he’d like to come and visit you.”
“[Expletive removed]! I don’t want that mother-[expletive deleted] coming here. PeePee will have a [expletive deleted]-fit! Do you know what it costs to feed that army that travels with Greco?”
The “army” to which Dickson referred was Greco’s contingent of bodyguards. Greco, after having been forced out of office, had prevailed upon President Dickson (who was still President at that time) to supply him at taxpayers’ expense with a covey of Secret Service agents to accompany him wherever he went. Some picky congressmen had taken umbrage at this when the cost of protecting ex-Veep Greco had soared toward the million-dollar mark. Some snide tongues even opined that while Greco might be worth that much to the taxpayers dead (in future savings), it certainly wasn’t worth anything like that to keep him alive. Finally the Treasury Department had refused to pay the Secret Service bill. Not wanting to go unprotected, Greco had hired his own protection. The rumor was that they’d been recruited through the Mafia.
“I’ll tell him the island’s been quarantined because of German measles,” Alicia suggested. “That should keep him away.”
“All right. But don’t tell Hans und Fritz about it. I wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“If that’s all, Alicia, would you show Mr. Powers to his quarters so he can take a [expletive removed] before dinner?”
"“Shouldn’t I stay here with you?” I inquired, conscious of my bodyguard duties.
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll lock myself in. The windows, you’ll notice, are barred. This room is maximum security. I’ll see you at dinner, Karl.” Dickson bent back to his Yo-Yo; I’d been dismissed.
I followed Alicia from the room. She led the way down a long, rather narrow hallway. There was enough room for me to walk abreast of her, but her stride was so quick that I would have had to trot to catch up. I was damned if I was going to do that. I was miffed. It was one thing to act as if we’d never met in front of Dickson. But now that we were alone, it was downright insulting of the redhead not to acknowledge our mutual past.
Sore about this, just as we approached a turn in the hall, I reached out and grabassed Alicia, my hand squeezing a robust rump under a knee-length, very tight black velvet skirt. (Dickson, I would learn later, did not allow the women in his entourage to wear either slacks or mini-skirts. Thus did he ensure their femininity while maintaining their womanly decorum. Fem Lib might have taken umbrage, but then Nick Dickson was not exactly a proponent of women’s rights.) Alicia jumped into the hallway turn. Following right behind her, I came upon a scene of tangled female limbs, twisted nylons, and tantalizing undies. Alicia had collided with two girls coming from the opposite direction—one a blonde, the other a brunette -- and the three of them had gone down in an intertwined heap.
The blonde first: She was small, a bit over five feet tall I would guess, but compact and extremely well proportioned. She looked even smaller next to Alicia, but then the Spanish redhead was a tall girl. The blonde was wearing—Honest! -- a gingham dress which reached to half-calf (when it wasn’t up around her neck, which it was now) and was cut square and low at the bodice. Her hair was worn in short pigtails which didn’t quite reach to her shoulders. She had a pug nose and freckles sprinkled her face. Her breasts, under the gingham and peeping out on top, were shaped like pine cones although they were somewhat larger and looked much softer. Their halfmoon tops were pink-and-white—a lighter color than the blush now covering her perky cheeks. Her legs, incidentally, were a bit fleshy in the thigh, but otherwise lusciously shaped. From those thighs, and from the rounded jut of her hips, I extrapolated a delicious derriere—although she was sitting on it and I couldn’t tell for sure. All in all she looked like a combination of very early Debbie Reynolds and even earlier Doris Day -- all that subsurface sex appeal that made the 19505 so subliminally sensual, if you know what I mean; the Hollywood version of good, clean, American female fucking material.