“Proudly,” Cohn said, spitting as he talked. “If I may quote Mr. Alsop, ‘The notion that a newspaperman doesn’t have a duty to his country is perfect balls.’ He’s a patriot. And a pervert. A patriotic pervert.” Cohn laughed at his own remark.
Charlie did not know what to say. Homosexuality was not something he gave much thought to, other than when he heard rumors about J. Edgar Hoover or Cohn himself. The two men stood at the hub of the national security apparatus, so powerful that they thrived despite Eisenhower’s executive order from April 1953 that essentially banned homosexuals from the federal workforce, since they were regarded as susceptible to blackmail and were thus obvious security risks.
“You see, Charlie, there are the domestic political fights we Americans have with one another, and then there is the common struggle against the Reds,” Cohn continued as if a microphone had been placed before him. “The Communist Party is not a political party, it’s a criminal conspiracy. Its object is the overthrow of the government of the United States by force and violence when the right time arises. The Communist Party’s most important work until then is espionage on behalf of the Soviet Union.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Charlie said, attempting to lighten the mood, “you hold in your hand a list of a hundred and twenty-three individuals in this room known to be members of the Communist Party?”
Cohn’s face twisted into something that seemed half smile, half snarl. “Cute,” he said.
Charlie was done trying to be polite to a man who made his skin crawl. He looked away from Cohn. Nearby, four guests—two slick business types and two young women in tight sweaters—laughed uproariously. Senator Kennedy was on his way to the door. The old desert tortoise was helped up from his seat by the young woman whom he had snared earlier. Les Paul and Mary Ford’s “Vaya Con Dios” filled the air.
Now the hacienda’s dark, the town is sleeping, they sang. Now the time has come to part, the time for weeping.
“Vaya con Dios, my darling,” Carlin bellowed from across the room, where he was sitting on a plush leather chair fit for a king and surrounded by hangers-on, his own personal court. “Vaya con Dios, my love.”
One of the young women began mimicking a Mexican dance, raising her dress above her knees dramatically. Carlin’s toadies began shouting, “?Olé, olé!”
“Look at them, celebrating how they’re letting more spics come into the country,” Cohn said. “No doubt with some Reds among them. Disgusting.”
Charlie didn’t disagree with Cohn’s estimation of Carlin and his court, but the ethnic slur shot a bolt of adrenaline and anxiety into his stomach. He hadn’t known many Mexican-Americans in his life except for Private First Class Rodriguez.
“I wish my old army buddy Manny Rodriguez were here so you could say that to him,” he finally said.
“Why isn’t he?”
“He’s dead.”
“Under your command, was he?” Cohn said smoothly. He signaled a waitress for another drink. “Look at the headlights on this one,” he said a little too enthusiastically as the young woman approached. The Rubenesque waitress, barely staying within the confines of her outfit, handed highballs to Cohn and Charlie. Someone bumped into her and she jostled Charlie; her long red hair swept across his neck and cheek but she kept the drink tray steady.
“Arpège,” Charlie said. “By Lanvin.”
“Huh?” said Cohn.
“Very impressive,” said the redhead, a slight Southern lilt in her voice. Charlie smiled.
“What are you talking about?” asked Cohn. “Ar-pej?”
“It’s my perfume,” she said. “I didn’t even put any on today.”
“I have an unusually keen sense of smell,” Charlie said.
“Wow, like a superhero,” said the waitress. “That must be quite a gift.”
“If this were a world where there were more of you than of him,” Charlie said, motioning to Cohn, “it might be.”
“Evening, Roy,” Bob Kennedy said, approaching them. Recognizing Charlie, he nodded. “Congressman,” he said.
“Charlie Marder,” Charlie said, not sure if Kennedy remembered his name. In Washington, Charlie had noticed, people tended to avoid names in case they got them wrong; they tended to say “Nice to see you” instead of “Nice to meet you,” in case they had met you before. New social rules for an egoistic town where every monument and street was named for their predecessors.
“Right, of course,” said Kennedy. “We met you and your lovely wife at Martin’s Tavern. I just heard you’re working with Estes on the upcoming juvenile delinquency hearings.”
Cohn choked on his drink. It turned out he was laughing.
“You’re part of those bullshit comic-book hearings?” He guffawed dramatically.
Kennedy grinned and looked at Charlie apologetically. Charlie was not particularly amused. He’d had enough of Cohn’s abrasive company by now.
“You were asking me about the Commie symps in this room, Congressman,” Cohn said. “Well, they worry me more than Wonder Woman does.” He took another swig of his drink and stared out the window. “But none of them concern me as much as the Commie symps over there in that big white building,” Cohn said, motioning with his chin toward the White House. “What must the world look like from that address? Must look upside down. Goddamn Ike protects the Commies and fucks with Senator McCarthy.” Cohn looked at Kennedy. “He’s terrified Joe will run for president, you know. Joe could beat him too.”
“Joe McCarthy could beat President Eisenhower?” asked Charlie incredulously. “Beat the smartest general we’ve had since Sherman?”
“Smart? MacArthur called Ike the best clerk he ever had!”
“And Ike said he studied drama under General MacArthur for four years.”
Kennedy chuckled. “Now, gentlemen.”
“MacArthur…MacArthur…” said Charlie sarcastically, pretending to search the skies for a reminder of the general so ignominiously fired by Truman three years earlier. “The name rings a bell.”
“MacArthur is a great man, a patriot,” said Cohn. “I’m sure you have a Medal of Honor under your shirt there.”
“No,” said Charlie. “Just some shrapnel.” He finished the rest of his drink. “Nothing like your paper cuts from the Battle of Torts 101.”
An awkward silence hung like a noose. Charlie had surprised even himself with that one. Liquid courage, he supposed.
Kennedy tried to break the tension. “Why do you think Joe would be a good president, Roy?”
“If Joe were president, the first thing he would do would be to end the Cold War,” Cohn said. “He’d pick up the phone and call Joe Stalin and say, ‘This is Joe McCarthy, I’m coming over tomorrow to talk about things, meet me at the Moscow airport at one o’clock.’ When he arrived in Moscow, he would sit down with Stalin in a closed room. First he’d tell a couple dirty jokes. Then he’d look Stalin right in the eye and say, ‘Joe, what do you want?’ And Stalin would tell him. They would talk man to man, not like pansy diplomats. They’d find out what each of them wanted and settle their differences. But when Joe left, he’d tell Stalin, ‘The first time I catch you breaking this agreement, I’ll blow you and your whole goddamn country off the map.’”
Charlie turned to Kennedy. “He can’t honestly believe this rubbish, can he?”
“You little establishment punk,” spat Cohn, “you think you know anything about defending this nation?” He looked at Kennedy. “Isn’t this the same little shit whose daddy got him his seat? Who was trying to fuck with the General Kinetics acquisition of Goodstone?”
Charlie and Kennedy were both taken aback at Cohn’s outburst; it was delivered with the virulence of a cobra strike, drawing attention from nearby guests.
“Er, uh, that’s not quite how I would put it, Roy,” Kennedy said, patting him on the back, trying to calm him. “But, yeah. Charlie tried to stop the funding for Goodstone. It had something to do with bad gas masks they made in the war that cost the life of one of your men, right, Charlie?”
“That’s right,” said Charlie. “Company made a cruddy product. Clear case of war profiteering.”