«How did you manage that?»
«I didn’t. They were just available.»
«You haven’t heard anything, then? About the hearing, the confirmation?»
«Nope. At least, not so far. The desk said you stopped for the messages. Did Walter call?»
«Oh, they’re on the table. Sorry. I saw Lillian’s and forgot.»
Trevayne went to the coffee table and picked up the notes. There were an even dozen, mostly friends, a few quite close, others vaguely remembered. There was no message from Madison. But there was one from a «Mr. de Spadante.»
«That’s funny. A call here from De Spadante.»
«I saw the name; I didn’t recognize it.»
«Met him on the plane. He goes back to early New Haven. He’s in construction.»
«And probably wants to take you to lunch. After all, you’re a bulletin.»
«I think, under the circumstances, I won’t return the call… Oh, the Jansens phoned. We haven’t seen them in almost two years.»
«They’re nice. Let’s suggest dinner tomorrow or Saturday, if they’re free.»
«Okay. I’m going to shower and change. If Walter calls and I’m in the john, get me, will you, please?»
«Sure.» Phyllis absently took the remainder of her husband’s ice water from the bar and drank it. She walked to the couch and sat down, reaching for the messages. Several names were completely unfamiliar to her; business friends of Andy’s, she presumed. The rest only peripherally recognizable, except for the Jansens and two others, the Fergusons and the Priors. Old Washington cronies from the State Department days.
She heard the shower running and considered the fact that she, too, would have to dress when Andy was finished. They’d accepted a dinner invitation over in Arlington—a duty call, as Andy termed it. The husband was an attaché at the French embassy, a man who years ago had helped him during the conferences in Czechoslovakia.
The Washington carousel had begun, she reflected. God, how she hated it!
The telephone rang, and for a second Phyllis hoped it was Walter Madison and that he had to meet with Andy, thus canceling the Arlington dinner.
No, she thought further; that would be worse. Quickly called meetings were always terrible in Washington.
«Hello?»
«Mr. Andrew Trevayne, if you’d be so kind.» The voice was a touch raspy, but soft, polite.
«I’m sorry, he’s in the shower. Who’s calling, please?»
«Is this Mrs. Trevayne?»
«Yes.»
«I haven’t had the pleasure; my name is De Spadante. Mario de Spadante. I’ve known your husband, not well, of course, for a number of years. We met again yesterday, on the plane.»
Phyllis remembered that Andy had said he wouldn’t return De Spadante’s call. «Then I’m doubly sorry. He’s way behind schedule, Mr. de Spadante. I’m not sure he’ll be able to call you back right away.»
«Perhaps I’ll leave a number anyway, if it’s not too much trouble. He may want to reach me. You see, Mrs. Trevayne, I was to be at the Devereaux’s over in Arlington, too. I’ve done some work for Air France. Your husband might prefer that I find an excuse and not be there.»
«Why in heaven’s name would he do that?»
«I read in the papers about his subcommittee… Tell him, please, that since I got into Dulles Airport I’ve been followed. Whoever it is knows he drove into town with me.»
«What does he mean, he was followed? Why does your driving into town with him have any bearing on anything?» Phyllis spoke to her husband as he came out of the bathroom.
«It shouldn’t—my driving in with him; he offered me a lift. If he says he was followed, he’s probably right. And used to it. He’s supposed to be in the rackets.»
«At Air France?»
Trevayne laughed. «No. He’s a builder. He’s probably involved with air-terminal construction. Where’s the number?»
«I wrote it on the blotter. I’ll get it.»
«Never mind.» Trevayne, in undershirt and shorts, walked into the living room to the white desk with the green hotel blotter. He picked up the telephone and slowly dialed as he deciphered his wife’s hastily scribbled numbers. «Is this a nine or a seven?» he asked her as she came through the door.
«A seven; there was no nine… What are you going to say?»
«Straighten him out. I don’t give a damn if he rents the rooms next door. Or takes pictures of me on May Day… I don’t play those games, and he’s got a hell of a nerve thinking I do… Mr. de Spadante, please.»
Trevayne calmly but with obvious irritation informed De Spadante of his feelings and suffered through the Italian’s obsequious apologies. The conversation lasted a little over two minutes, and when Trevayne hung up he had the distinct feeling that Mario de Spadante had enjoyed their dialogue.
Which was precisely the case.
Two miles away from Trevayne’s hotel, in the Northwest section of Washington, De Spadante’s dark-blue Cadillac was parked in front of an old Victorian house. The house, as the street—the area itself—had seen better, more affluent times. Yet there was a grandeur; decaying, perhaps, but still being clung to in spite of the declining values. The inhabitants of this particular section fell into roughly three categories: the dying elders whose memories or lack of money prevented their moving away; the youngish couples—usually early-rung-on-the-government-ladder—who could lease a fair amount of space for comparatively little rent; and finally—in sociological conflict—a scattering of subculture youth enclaves, groups of young nomads wandering into sanctuaries. The wail of Far Eastern sitars, the hollow vibrations of Hindu woodwinds continued long into the morning; for there was no day or night, only gray darkness and the moans of very personal survival.
Hard drugs.
The suppliers and the supplied.
The old Victorian house beyond De Spadante’s Cadillac was recently taken over by a cousin, another cousin whose influence was felt in Washington’s Police Department. The house was a substation in the subculture, a minor command post for narcotics distribution. De Spadante had stopped off with some colleagues to inspect the real-estate investment.
He sat in a room with no windows, the indirect lighting illuminating the psychedelic posters on the walls, covering the cracks. Except for one other person, he was alone. He replaced the telephone in its cradle and leaned back in his chair behind a filthy table.
«He’s edgy; he just told me off. That’s good.»
«It would have been better if you goddamn fools had let things take their course! That hearing would have been reconvened and the confirmation withdrawn. Trevayne would have been out!»
«You don’t think; that’s your problem. You look for quick solutions; that’s very dumb. It’s especially dumb right now.»
«You’re wrong, Mario!» said Robert Webster, spitting out the words, the muscles in his neck tense. «You didn’t solve anything, you only gave us a potentially dangerous complication. And a crude one!»
«Don’t talk to me crude! I laid out two hundred thousand up in Greenwich; another five for the Plaza!»
«Also crude,» blistered Webster. «Crude and unnecessary. Your out-of-date waterfront tactics damn near exploded in our faces! You watch your step.»
The Italian leaped out of the chair. «Don’t you tell me, Webster! One of these days you pricks will kiss my ass for what I got on him!»
«For God’s sake, lower your voice. And don’t use my name. The biggest mistake we ever made was getting mixed up with you! Allen’s right about that. They all are!»
«I didn’t ask for any engraved invitation, Bobby. And you didn’t get my name out of no telephone book. You came to me, baby! You needed help, and I gave it to you… I’ve been helping you for a long time now. So don’t talk to me like that.»