Nobody spoke. A moment later, each guest had been served with his usual — bourbon for the men, white wine for the women.
“Freddie and Betty Jane were on the way, so we gave them a lift,” Joe Adams said.
“I don’t get to ride in many limousines,” Wallace said. “Couldn’t turn it down.”
“Come on, Freddie,” Adams said, “half the lobbyists in Washington have limousines. You could have one at your door on command.”
“Wouldn’t seem seemly to South Carolina’s voters,” Wallace said, looking cherubic, with his shock of white hair and his pink face. “I might get my picture taken in one, and we couldn’t have that, could we?”
“I’m surprised you aren’t riding around town in a BMW,” Will said, “since they opened that factory in South Carolina.”
“We’re happy to have them there,” Wallace said, “but they make German cars.”
“My limo is a Cadillac,” Adams said.
“And you’re looking for an even bigger one next election, aren’t you?” Wallace asked, chuckling.
“I’ll ride in whatever comes with the territory, Freddie,” Adams replied.
“The territory ain’t yours yet.” Wallace grinned.
“Tell me, Freddie,” Will said, “if you could choose the next president, who would it be?”
Wallace lowered his chin and peered at Will over the gold half glasses that seemed permanently attached to his nose. “Jefferson Davis,” he rumbled.
Everybody laughed.
“Old Jeff would know how to handle you liberals,” Wallace said, grinning.
“I’ll accept the characterization as a comparative one,” Will replied. “Next to you, Freddie, Jesse Helms was a liberal.”
“He was a goddamned socialist!” Wallace laughed.
Joe Adams spoke up. “I was hoping to get Freddie to cross party lines and support me.”
Wallace snorted.
“I don’t think you could afford to lose that many votes, Joe,” Will said, getting a laugh. He looked up to see Kate coming down the stairs, stunning in a black Ralph Lauren dress. The men got to their feet, and she greeted everyone. A waiter brought her a glass of champagne on a silver tray.
“I hope that ain’t French,” Wallace said.
“It’s Schramsberg,” Kate replied.
“German?”
“Californian.”
“Damn near as foreign,” Wallace replied.
“Californians are your countrymen, Freddie,” Kate said.
“Not my countrymen,” Wallace said blandly. “You know, there’s something you two fellows have never figured out.” He nodded at Will and Joe. “A senator can have nearly about as much power as a president, if he’s smart, and he don’t have to please anybody from California or New York or anywhere but his home state, and he only has to please fifty-one percent of the actual voters there!”
“You’ve got a point there, Freddie,” Adams agreed.
“You fellows don’t know when you’re well-off,” Wallace said. “Look what you got up on the Hilclass="underline" You got a nice big office with a loyal staff who does your bidding; you got a nice place to have lunch every day; you got somebody to cut your hair when you need it and a girl to massage you, whether you need it or not; you got free medical care, free parking, and free trips to nice places overseas; and on top of all that, you get paid pretty good money!”
“Yeah, Freddie,” Adams said, “but if you’re president, you get all that, plus a very nice house with a swimming pool, a putting green, and a movie theater; a bulletproof limousine to ride around in, a helicopter and a 747 to take you wherever you want to go — and no waiting for your luggage. Plus you get Camp David for weekends and you can play golf anywhere in the world you want to.”
Wallace snorted. “I can play at Burning Tree anytime, and in my underwear, if I’ve a mind to, and that’s good enough for me.”
“I’m trying to summon up that image,” Kate said, “but the mind boggles.”
“And,” Joe Adams said, “when you’ve served your eight years — or even if you’re kicked out after four — you get a great big presidential library to hold all the documents that make you look good in the eyes of the world. And when you finally pack it in, you get a free plot in Robert E. Lee’s front yard and a very nice funeral.”
Wallace raised his hands in mock surrender. “Well, I guess we know what’s important to you, Joe.”
“What’s really important,” Will said, “and what separates the big guy from all the pretty big guys in the Senate is the veto.”
“Yeah,” Wallace agreed, “and if the Supreme Court had just let it get by, the line-item veto. Somebody once said that if Lyndon Johnson had had that, he’d have been a Nero. Shit, if I had it, I’d be God!”
Will got up to answer the doorbell. Now, the deluge.
They began arriving in clumps, now — three or four senators from each party, plus a few congressmen; columnists, TV reporters, cabinet members, a couple of sports figures, and a movie star. Will’s press secretary made up the guest list, and few people were invited in successive years, except the president and the vice president, and the president had never shown.
Champagne was poured, scotch was dispensed, canapés were distributed, and rumors were exchanged, but no news was made. Will extracted a moratorium from all the journalists invited.
Dinner was served — racks of lamb, haricots verts, pureed carrots, and a huge spinach soufflé for the vegetarians. The wine was a California Cabernet, not for patriotic reasons, but because Will preferred California wines to French. People sat everywhere — on sofas and chairs, on the stairs, on the floor. The talk was high-spirited without being raucous.
Will was waiting for someone in the powder room under the stairs to finish when he was joined by Paul Epstein, the Washington bureau chief for the New York Times.
“Good party, Will.”
“Thanks, Paul; we’re glad you could come.”
“Will, while I’ve got you here, there’s something I need to ask. Certainly, I won’t quote you on your answer.”
Will said nothing, to show disapproval that a journalist would question him in his own home.
“One of my people heard that Joe Adams might not be well. Anything to that?”
“Jesus, Paul.” Will sighed. “Walter Reed published the result of his last physical less than a month ago. You want to know his cholesterol count? His triglycerides? I’m sure Joe’s office would be happy to send you a copy of all the results. And I happen to know that Joe played squash this afternoon with somebody twenty years his junior, and Joe cleaned his clock. You ever played squash?”
“No.”
“The game is a man killer; I wouldn’t touch a squash racquet with a fork.”
“Will, we hear it might not be physical.”
Will pointed to the living room. “He’s sitting right over there; go talk to him and tell me if you think he’s nuts.”
“Well...”
To Will’s relief, the powder-room door opened and an undersecretary of state vacated. “See you later, Paul,” Will said, closing the door behind him. He used the toilet, noticing that his pulse rate was up. He splashed some cold water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. The face that stared back at him looked worried. “Come on, boy,” he said to his reflection. “Go back out there looking happy.”
11
On New Year’s morning, Will arrived at his hideaway office in the Capitol at ten. Tim Coleman, his chief of staff, and Kitty Conroy, his press secretary, were waiting for him.