«At best, it’s always an educated guess. Glad you don’t resent it.»
«Of course not: Never did, to tell you the truth.» De Spadante winked at Trevayne and laughed quietly. «It wasn’t my company. Belonged to a cousin… Him I resented, not you. He made me do his work. But everything always equals out. I learned the business, his business, better than he did. It’s my company now… Look, I interrupted your reading. Me, I got to go over some reports—a bunch of long-winded, eight-cylinder paragraphs with figures way beyond any math I ever took at New Haven High. If I get stuck on a word, I’m going to ask you to translate. That’ll make up for your turning me down ten years ago. How about it?» De Spadante grinned.
Trevayne laughed, taking his martini off the miniature shelf. He raised the glass an inch or two toward De Spadante. «It’s the least I can do.»
And he did. About fifteen minutes before landing at Dulles, Mario de Spadante asked him to clarify a particularly complex paragraph. It was so complicated that Trevayne read it several times before advising De Spadante to have it simplified, put in cleaner form before accepting it.
«I really can’t make much more sense out of this than to tell you they expect you to figure the large items first before tackling the smaller ones.»
«So what else is new? I use a square-foot unit plus profit, which includes the whole thing.»
«I think that’s what this means. I gather you’re a subcontractor.»
«That’s right.»
«That general contractor wants it done in stages. At least, I think that’s what it means.»
«So I build him half a door, or maybe just the frame, and he buys the rest from somebody else?»
«I’m probably wrong. You’d better get it clarified.»
«Maybe I won’t. Cost him double with that kind of bidding. Nobody wants to do half of somebody else’s job… You just made up for ten years ago. I’ll buy you a drink.»
De Spadante took the papers from Trevayne and signaled the stewardess. He placed the papers in a large manila envelope and ordered drinks for Trevayne and himself.
As Trevayne lit a cigarette, he felt the plane gradually descend. De Spadante was looking out the window, and Trevayne noticed the printing—upside down—on the large manila envelope on De Spadante’s lap. It read:
Department of the Army
Corps of Engineers
Trevayne smiled to himself. No wonder the language was so obscure. The Pentagon engineers were the most exasperating men in Washington when it came to doing business.
He should know.
The message at the reservation desk consisted of Robert Webster’s name and a Washington telephone number. When Trevayne called, he was surprised to learn that it was Webster’s private line at the White House. It was only a little after four-thirty; he could have telephoned the switchboard. In Trevayne’s government days presidential aides never gave out their private numbers.
«I wasn’t sure when you’d get in; the stack-ups can be terrible,» was Webster’s explanation.
Trevayne was confused. It was a minor point, not worth mentioning, really, but Trevayne was bothered. The White House switchboard didn’t have hours.
Webster suggested they meet after dinner in the cocktail lounge of Trevayne’s hotel. «It’ll give us a chance to go over a few things before tomorrow. The President wants to chat briefly with you around ten or ten-thirty in the morning. I’ll have his firm schedule in an hour or so.»
Trevayne left the telephone booth and walked toward the main exit of the airport terminal. He’d packed only a change of shirt, shorts, and socks; he would have to ascertain the swiftness of the hotel’s cleaning and pressing facilities if he was going to have a White House audience. He wondered why the President wished to see him. It seemed a little premature, the formalities of his acceptance not having been completed. It was possible that the President simply wished to reaffirm personally Franklyn Baldwin’s statement that the highest office in the country was behind the proposed subcommittee.
If so, it was generous and meaningful.
«Hey, Mr. Trevayne!» It was Mario de Spadante standing by the curb. «Can I give you a lift into town?»
«Oh, I don’t want to inconvenience you. I’ll grab a cab.»
«No inconvenience. My car just got here.» De Spadante gestured at a long, dark-blue Cadillac parked several yards to the right.
«Thanks, I appreciate it.»
De Spadante’s chauffeur opened the back door, and the two men got in.
«Where are you staying?»
«The Hilton.»
«Fine. Just down the street. I’m at the Sheraton.»
Trevayne saw that the interior of the Cadillac was appointed with a telephone, miniature bar, television set, and a back-seat stereo cassette machine. Mario de Spadante had, indeed, come a long way since the New Haven days.
«Quite a car.»
«You press buttons and dancing girls come out of the dashboard. Frankly, it’s too ostentatious for my taste. I called it my car, but it’s not. It belongs to a cousin.»
«You have a lot of cousins.»
«Big family… Don’t misunderstand the term. I’m a construction boy from New Haven who made good.» De Spadante laughed his soft, infectious laugh. «Family! What they print about me! Holy Christ! They should be writing movies. I don’t say there’s no mafiosi; I’m not that dumb, but I wouldn’t know one if I fell over him.»
«They have to sell papers.» It was the only thing Trevayne could think of saying.
«Yeah, sure. You know, I got a younger brother, about your age. Even him. He comes up to me and says ‘What about it, Mario? Is it true?’ … ‘What about what?’ I ask. ‘You know me, Augie. You know me forty-two years. I got it so easy? I don’t have to spend ten hours a day cutting costs, fighting the unions, trying to get paid on time?’ … Hah! If I was what they say, I’d pick up a phone and scare the bejesus out of them. As it is, I go to the banks with my tail between my guinea ass and plead.»
«You look like you’re surviving.»
Mario de Spadante laughed once more and winked his innocent, conspiratorial wink, as he had done on the plane. «Right on, Mr. Trevayne. I survive. It’s not easy, but with the grace of God and a lot of hard work, I manage… Your foundation got business in Washington?»
«No. I’m here on another matter, just meeting some people.»
«That’s Washington. Greatest little meeting place in the Western Hemisphere. And you know something? Whenever anyone says he’s ‘just meeting people,’ that’s the sign not to ask who he’s meeting.»
Andrew Trevayne just smiled.
«You still live in Connecticut?» asked De Spadante.
«Yes. Outside of Greenwich.»
«Nice terriitory. I’m doing some residential work down there. Near the sound.»
«I’m on the sound. South shore.»
«Maybe we’ll get together sometime. Maybe I can sell you a wing on your house.»
«You can try.»
Trevayne walked through the arch into the lounge and looked around at the various people seated in the soft easy chairs and low couches. A headwaiter, dressed in a tuxedo, approached.
«May I help you, sir?»
«Yes. I’m to meet a Mr. Webster here. I don’t know if he made a reservation.»
«Oh, yes. You’re Mr. Trevayne.»
«That’s right.»
«Mr. Webster telephoned that he’d be a few minutes late. I’ll show you to a table.»
«Thank you.»
The tuxedoed waiter led Trevayne to a far corner of the lounge that was conspicuous by its lack of customers. It seemed as if this particular location was roped by an invisible cordon to isolate it. Webster had requested such a table, and his position guaranteed it. Trevayne ordered a drink and let his memory wander back to his days in the State Department.