Cohn waved his arms as if he were washing a car with two sponges. “Forest,” he said. Then he started pointing at imaginary items in the air. “Trees,” he said.
“Pretty glib talk about the death of an American soldier,” Charlie said. “Though, Bob, I guess that kind of sacrifice is not a subject Mr. Cohn here could understand. Especially these days, when he’s busy maligning the army.”
“You just don’t get it,” Cohn said, shaking his head and taking another swig of his drink. “Alexander Charleston, the CEO of Goodstone, is a patriot. Duncan Whitney, the CEO of General Kinetics, is a patriot. These are men who support Senator McCarthy’s work and the work of his committee. They can see the forest for the trees. The Reds are about more than the loss of one Mexican private.”
“He wasn’t Mexican,” said Charlie. “He was born in New York.”
“The Reds don’t care about the loss of one soldier,” Cohn continued. “One soldier? They slaughter millions. Are you defending that? I mean, you need to have a little respect for Senator McCarthy.”
Charlie squinted, as if looking at Cohn through an adjusted lens would make sense of him. “I do have little respect for Senator McCarthy,” he said.
Cohn’s eyes seemed to redden, turning bloodshot with his internal fury. Kennedy put his arm around Charlie. “I think this conversation has come to its logical conclusion,” he said. “Charlie, why don’t you go mingle, socialize for a while.”
“I can’t wait to see this little snot’s face when McCarthy accepts the nomination in two years,” Cohn said. “We’ll make sure to put the New York delegation up front so the cameras don’t miss you all crying.”
Charlie polished off the rest of his drink and locked eyes with Cohn. He handed his empty glass to Kennedy and slowly walked away.
“Adios, amigo,” Cohn said.
Charlie paused but then decided to let it go; he made his way, stumbling somewhat, to the bar. He’d lost count of how many drinks he’d had by now. He wished Margaret were with him. Or Street. Even Strongfellow—a friendly face. Someone had dimmed the lights of the room even lower. A toxic cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke hovered over the crowd.
Oh, my papa, to me he was so wonderful, sang Eddie Fisher over the speakers. Oh, my papa, to me he was so good…
Charlie wobbled around the periphery of the room, taking in the scene as the guests marinated in free booze. An overweight senator from the Midwest had all but hijacked a waitress and was voraciously wolfing down canapés from her hors d’oeuvres tray as if it were his kitchen table. A powerful House member so old and shriveled he resembled a baked apple slow-danced with one of the cocktail waitresses, hands like talons edging their way down her hips. When the couple turned around, Charlie was surprised to see that her expression was nonchalant. Indeed, many of the women here seemed remarkably at ease among the powerful, drooling old men. At the far side of the room, four U.S. senators began singing “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” a cappella.
“Charlie, I wasn’t sure if you were going to come! Pregnant wife and all.”
Charlie turned around. It was Strongfellow, looking more urbane than ever, wearing a blue blazer over a turtleneck. He pivoted on his crutches, swung toward Charlie, and grabbed his hand in an enthusiastic hello.
“Strong!” said Charlie, delighted to have some friendly company at last. “What is this place, anyway?”
“Some sort of club. It’s kind of mysterious,” Strongfellow said. “Don’t know much about it other than you find out more when they want you to find out more.”
Charlie looked around the room. “Pretty august company. Bipartisan leaders of, well, everything. Vanderbilts and Rockefellers. Powerful, impressive men. Plus you and me,” he joked.
“Carlin told me to find you and bring you to the library,” Strongfellow said. “It’s this way.”
Charlie followed Strongfellow along the outskirts of the room to two thick mahogany doors, which swung open to reveal a cocktail waitress—the same redhead from before. She smiled demurely at Charlie and held the door open for them. A hallway presented them with choices: a kitchen to the left, a library to the right, and who-knew-what straight ahead.
“This way,” Strongfellow said, veering toward the library doorway, which was flanked by two small stone statues, a man and a woman, both holding fingers to their lips: ssshh! Between them, a man in a dark suit with sharp cheekbones and a high-and-tight haircut stood, blocking their path.
“Do what thou wilt,” Strongfellow said to him, and the man stepped to the side, letting them through. Charlie trailed behind his friend, wondering what the hell he had just said—was it a password?—and where he had heard it before.
The library was smoky, the lighting low. One wall was occupied by floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with leather-bound books. The wall to Charlie’s left was dominated by an enormous fireplace with an ornate marble mantelpiece on which had been carved the words Hospes negare, si potes, quod offerat. “‘Stranger, refuse, if you can, what we have to offer,’” Charlie translated to himself. Around the fireplace hung twelve stained-glass images of various politicians and CEO types, each in an obscene pose with a naked woman. Given the medium, their identities were difficult to discern with precision, though they seemed to be depictions of specific individuals. One resembled Carlin. Another Ambassador Joseph Kennedy. The one on the far end appeared to be FBI director Hoover. The wall to the right was covered with portraits of U.S. presidents and women whom Charlie did not recognize, women wearing plunging necklines and sultry expressions.
In the center of the room, a half a dozen men played cards around a green-baize-covered table, while others in various corners spoke in low tones over cigars and highballs. In his haze, before he knew what he was doing, Charlie was suddenly standing in the far left corner of the room by Senator McCarthy and Duncan Whitney, the CEO of General Kinetics, whom Cohn had just extolled as a great patriot. The two men were sinking into immense red armchairs facing the center of the room on opposite sides of a small round accent table on which burned a thick white candle.
“Speak of the devil,” McCarthy said dramatically to Whitney. “Duncan, this is the congressman who made the stink about Goodstone.” He smiled at his friend, then at Charlie, who was disarmed by McCarthy’s almost palpable charisma. He recalled his father warning him that he would like the Wisconsin senator if he ever met him. Charlie had rolled his eyes at that, but now, in his presence, he could see what his dad had been talking about.
“Another scotch and another bicarbonate of soda,” McCarthy said to a waitress fluttering by. “And bring me a stick of butter, if you can. With a fork.” Charlie shot him a confused look at that, and the senator explained: “It’s helpful on a night like this. You should try it.”
“You’re the young man whose platoon had a gas mask a soldier couldn’t operate properly,” said Whitney, who bore a strong resemblance to affable everyman actor Fred MacMurray: genial face, twinkling eyes.
“It wasn’t the soldier that was the problem, but yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry to hear about that. The folks at Goodstone said they fixed the problem, but after this acquisition goes through we’re going to make doubly sure that never happens again.”