“I’m going to ask you to do something for me,” she said.
“What is it? Anything.”
“I want you to get the hell out of here,” she said with a smile.
He didn’t understand.
“Charlie. Ever since that night on Nanticoke Island, you’ve been wonderful.” She grasped his shoulders with a gentle squeeze, lowered her forehead to meet his, then pulled away and said, “But I must tell you—right now I feel exhausted. And I feel guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Because I know you loved those poker games and Renee told me there’s another one tonight, even though it’s Tuesday. I’m going to make some tea, read my book, and fall asleep almost certainly before you do. Why don’t you go have fun? It will make me feel so much better.”
And so it was that Charlie returned to veterans’ poker night, only to learn that LaMontagne had become a regular attendee. He obviously wasn’t an elected official, but as a veteran who seemingly had connections with every member of Congress, he had wormed his way into the group.
“Congressman!” LaMontagne greeted him with a Cheshire Cat grin, gleaming and pearly, everything else about him fading away. Charlie wondered if LaMontagne’s handshake, firm to the point of pain, was meant to send a message. He faked a convivial enthusiasm as best he could, then looked around to see if anyone else had noted LaMontagne’s phony hail-fellow-well-met routine. No one had. In Washington, Charlie thought, insincerity was the air they breathed. It made him occasionally feel like Holden Caulfield. Which, in turn, felt immature.
LaMontagne leaned close to Charlie’s ear. “Listen, I spoke with Cohn and we may need you to do something with the Strongfellow dossier. Get it to the press. Do you know any national columnists?”
Charlie shook his head, more in wonder at the man’s nerve than in response. In a roomful of Charlie’s fellow members of Congress, LaMontagne had just brought up one of the most sensitive subjects of his professional life and assigned him yet another unethical task. Moreover, he’d proceeded directly to the logistics of it all, bypassing whether or not Charlie was even willing. “I don’t know anyone, really. In the press.”
“We’ll talk,” LaMontagne said confidently, patting Charlie on the shoulder. “I have some ideas.”
Charlie grabbed LaMontagne’s wrist and pulled him closer. “You said ‘we’ need this favor. There’s something that none of you have ever explained to me: Who is ‘we’?”
LaMontagne smiled. “In due time,” he said. “Senator Knowland!” he called jovially across the room. He winked at Charlie as he walked away. Charlie watched him and realized any escape he’d imagined for himself was just that: imaginary. He went to the bar cart and quickly downed a scotch.
“Easy with those, soldier.” Street appeared at his side. “You don’t want your poker judgment impaired.”
Strongfellow turned on his radio, and Perry Como’s voice came over the airwaves: A jury may find her guilty, but I’d forgive her if I could see…Two dozen veterans broke into small groups, and the room filled with the sounds of decanters clinking against the rims of tumblers and the fizzing of flat-and cone-top beer cans being cracked open.
Charlie sat with Street, and Strongfellow joined them and began dealing a traditional game of straight five-card poker.
“Weird not having Mac here,” Charlie noted.
“Yep,” said Street.
“Well, this is turning into a fun night,” remarked Strongfellow. The other two chuckled. “As long as we’re being all serious-like, I had the weirdest run-in last week with Abner Lance.”
“Who?” asked Street.
“The Carlin aide,” Charlie said.
“That freaky Nosferatu-looking guy?” asked Street. “Where? Two cards.”
Strongfellow replaced Street’s castoffs. “So there’s a small town in my district, Skull Valley. Five years ago, a pesticide plant opened up there and everything was fine. But maybe six months ago, thousands of sheep started dying. No reason anyone could see; ranchers just walked outside and found the entire herd was hooves-up.”
“Jesus,” said Charlie.
“One of my staffers wrote to the interior secretary, McKay, to try to get some money for the ranchers and make sure it was safe for, you know, actual people to live nearby.”
“How many sheep total?” Street asked.
“Six thousand,” Strongfellow said. “Literally six thousand dead sheep. We got a form letter back from Interior assuring us that we had no business inquiring any further. Saturday night I was in Georgetown at a restaurant, waiting for a table, and Abner Lance shows up out of nowhere and tells me to drop the matter.”
“To drop it?” Charlie asked.
“Yep.”
“That’s madness,” said Charlie.
“Think about what they’re manufacturing,” said Street, “a spray to kill millions of insects. A weapon. To commit genocide against a species. So sheep dying is not surprising. My wife’s family in Louisiana had to deal with something similar with local chemical plants. And we had dead people there, not sheep. But just colored folks, so who cares.”
They sat silent until Charlie, to clear the air, took drink orders and headed for the bar cart, listening to the room’s buzz about the tensions of the world:
All I’m saying is, if Eisenhower looks at Indochina and sees a row of dominoes, then what the hell is the USSR? A Mr. Potato Head? The metaphor is infantile.
Oppenheimer could well be a Commie spy, but he built the bomb for us, so he might also be a pretty bad one.
Before McCarthy loved MacArthur, he was smearing him. Before he endorsed Ike, he was smearing him.
I’d give my left nut to have Palmer’s swing. He’s going to kill when he goes pro.
If you’re going to bad-mouth Hank Aaron, keep it down so you-know-who can’t hear.
But it wasn’t McCarthy who revoked Oppenheimer’s clearance! It was Ike! That’s my point!
You really think the Democrats can take the House back? You’re drunk; we’re going to be in power for a generation.
Charlie returned to the table to find LaMontagne in a fierce poker face-off with Street, Strongfellow having folded early. Street had learned the game Texas hold ’em from a fellow Tuskegee pilot from Dallas; he had made a second living playing cards during the war.
“Trying to think of what you might have there to make you confident about this garbage flop,” LaMontagne said, motioning generally to the three faceup cards in the middle of the table.
Street, expressionless, looked at LaMontagne. He didn’t blink.
LaMontagne smiled ear to ear. After a beat, he reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet, and removed a ten-dollar bill.
“Okay, Street,” he said.
Street matched the ten dollars in the pot, then drew the fourth card in the string of shared cards, the turn card. Two of clubs.
“Trash,” said LaMontagne. “As shitty as the Warren Court.”
Street’s eyes darted to LaMontagne’s at the mention of the Supreme Court chief justice who was expected to end segregation in public education any day now.
“Oh, that’s how to get your attention!” said LaMontagne. “Noted.” He reached into his billfold again. “You might not make much of that two of clubs, but I’m a man who gets good cards. You can ask anyone in this town.” He threw down another ten.
Charlie wondered what Street had as his hole cards. It wasn’t unimaginable that LaMontagne had, say, two queens or the king and ace of diamonds and would be gifted with a jack of diamonds when the final, or river, card was revealed—leaving him with a winning straight flush. If LaMontagne was dealing, Charlie would indeed bet on that happening, and if he’d managed to get his greasy paws on the deck before Street began shuffling, who knew if LaMontagne literally had an ace up his sleeve?
Expressionless, Street met LaMontagne’s ten with ten one-dollar bills that he pulled from a roll in his inside jacket pocket.
Street tossed the river card from the top of the deck. It was the king of diamonds.