“Do you want me to say something to him about tempering his rhetoric, sir?” Charlie asked. “And if I may, I don’t know that I would repeat that ‘reckless or foolish’ line on the stump.”
“No, no, of course not,” Kefauver said. He looked at his young protégé. “Say, Charlie, what are you doing tomorrow night? I have an extra ticket to the Alfalfa Club dinner.” Charlie hesitated—Margaret was due home tomorrow, and he was longing to see her. Kefauver pressed him: “It will be a roomful of people you need to know better, Charlie.”
Charlie knew this would be an opportunity to lobby against Goodstone, and he also had to admit that he’d long been curious about the club. “I’d be glad to join you, sir. Thank you.”
“Get some rest,” the senator said. “It can be a wild night. Wives—and girlfriends—are not invited.”
As Kefauver walked away, Charlie glanced sympathetically at the fourteen-year congressional veteran in the pearls and cashmere sweater across the table who had sat silently, with a bemused smile, throughout the exchange.
“Don’t you worry about it any, Congressman,” Smith said, dipping her spoon into a bowl of New England clam chowder. “I’m used to it.”
The next night, as Charlie entered the lobby of the Mayflower Hotel to attend the dinner, he felt as dashing as the main character in the spy novel he’d read on summer vacation, an agent who played high-stakes baccarat in northern France, posing as a rich Jamaican playboy. Ushered into the Grand Ballroom, where multiple bartenders were stationed like sentries, Charlie immediately ran into Kefauver as he was delivering what appeared to be a successful punch line to Robert Hendrickson, the Republican from New Jersey with whom Kefauver was working on the comic-book hearings.
Charlie waited politely for their laughter to fade. Kefauver turned to him with a jovial grin. “Charlie, great to see you,” he said, switching his scotch rocks into his left hand and extending his right.
“Thank you so much for having me,” Charlie said. “I must confess, I know nothing about the Alfalfas except why you call yourselves that.”
“Not much to tell,” Kefauver assured him. “Just another one of these ridiculous clubs. DC is full of them, and some are more nefarious than others. This dinner is pretty much the club’s raison d’être. It all started as a way to honor the birthday of Robert E. Lee.”
“We Yankees always find it curious how much love is continually bestowed upon the losers of that conflict,” said Hendrickson, whom Kefauver then proceeded to jokingly elbow.
“Washington seems to have a lot of these clubs,” Charlie added. “Alfalfa, Gridiron…”
“Oh, these aren’t the ones that matter,” Kefauver said. “These are just excuses for frivolity. The clubs to keep an eye on are the ones whose memberships are secret. The ones we only hear whispers about. The John Birch Society. The Southern Heritage Alliance. The Sons of Gettysburg. Something called Hellfire.”
Charlie looked at Kefauver curiously. “There was a Hellfire Club in England in the 1700s.”
“Is that right?” the senator responded flatly, seemingly uninterested.
“Oh, Estes, those are just Beltway rumors,” Hendrickson said. “Just like the Loch Ness Monster or the Jersey Devil. We hear about them, but no one has ever really seen them.”
An athletic older man with a strong jaw and a full head of gray hair walked by.
“Is that—” Charlie asked.
“Yes, that’s Gene Tunney,” Kefauver said. “Gene!” the senator called to the former heavyweight champion, who turned his head, smiled, and held up his fists as if posing for a promotional boxing photo.
“Pavlovian,” observed Charlie.
“Gene’s one of our inductees this evening,” Hendrickson said. He pointed out others in the crowd as he named them. “In addition to Gene, we’re honoring Arthur Krock from the Times, the House majority leader, plus General Bradley, and…who is it? Oh, yes, General Doolittle.”
“Not necessarily in that order, I hope,” Charlie joked. He was a great admirer of Bradley, who’d commanded U.S. forces in Europe during World War II. And of course the entire nation was proud of Medal of Honor recipient Jimmy Doolittle, who had personally led a dangerous mission into Japan.
Kefauver suddenly looked serious. He glanced at Hendrickson, who took the hint and announced that he needed to go find a refill. “Charlie,” he said, “I got an earful from Chairman Carlin at the members’ meeting earlier tonight. He’s heard that you’re organizing your fellow veterans against this Goodstone appropriation, and he is not happy.”
“Not really organizing, per se,” Charlie said. “Just some conversations over poker. This is getting blown out of proportion.”
“Welcome to Washington,” Kefauver said. “Listen: You need to fix this. You’re about to get gelded, son.”
Charlie was briefly spared by a baritone shout. “Estes!” Barreling toward them was an older man smoking a cigar and holding a martini glass. He looked like an editorial cartoon of a robber baron: deeply tanned bald pate, V-shaped scowl, enormous belly.
“Good to see you, Connie!” Kefauver said. “Charlie, you know Conrad Hilton.”
“I know of him, of course,” said Charlie. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“And this is Davis LaMontagne,” Hilton said, introducing the younger man to his right. “He’s my guest—a rising star at Janus Electronics. Do you know of them? Very exciting young company specializing in electronics and technology for the Cold War era.”
“Oh, I just handle legal and lobbying in a little office here,” LaMontagne said, shrugging off the compliment with the assurance of someone accustomed to being reminded of his own accomplishments. “How do you do?” LaMontagne was movie-star handsome, maybe forty, with slicked-back dark hair; he held a scotch on the rocks and was wearing a smoky cologne. Charlie thought he recognized the scent: Cuir de Russie, the same pricey cologne worn by one of his more annoying trust-fund students at Columbia, a boy who’d asked a Russian history professor if the scent truly captured the rich aromas of Russian leather.
LaMontagne extended a hand toward Charlie without waiting for an introduction.
“Congressman Charlie Marder from New York,” he said. “You’re my congressman, in fact. Manhattan is my official residence.”
“Mine too,” said Hilton. Hilton had a type of handshake favored by a particular sort of domineering male: he clasped Charlie’s hand in a viselike grip and tried to jerk him forward. There had been a guy in basic training who’d pulled this same “America’s number-one he-man” nonsense, so Charlie knew to immediately freeze his arm and hold his ground. Hilton gave him a brief, appraising glance in return.
“Nice to meet you,” Charlie said, feeling a bit like a teenager being introduced to his father’s friends, Hilton so full of wealthy bluster and LaMontagne so polished and smooth.
“Gentlemen, I’m going to need your help with something,” Hilton said. “Especially yours, Senator.”
“Of course,” said Kefauver. “What is it?”
There was a pause, during which Charlie realized that, again like a teenager, his company was not required. He tilted an imaginary glass toward his mouth, to the evident relief of his companions, and started wandering through the crowd, searching for a destination.
Fat men in tuxedos stood in a circle. Black waiters hustled out of the kitchen holding trays of Swedish meatballs, shrimp boats, anchovies soaked in wine. Charlie caught snatches of conversations:
So why is it exactly that McCarthy isn’t married?
Thank God we have Nasser. He just locked up three hundred of those fanatics.
Wife is fine. Mistress better.
A Frenchman. Cousteau, I think. Exploring a sunken ship off Marseille. Great television.
Still talking about the goddamn war. It was almost a decade ago.
Well, she’s a nuclear sub, so she can stay out there forever.
Is he smart? Smart enough to be dangerous.
Yeah, yeah, we’re the problem. Us and Wall Street. Everyone’s to blame but the voters.