65

(Washington, D.C., 3/17/69)

Nixon said, “Look at the rug. It’s the details that get me. The goddamn bird has all those arrows and leaves in his claws.”

Dwight looked at the rug. Likewise Bebe Rebozo. The Oval Office, 6:00 p.m. drinks. Nixon on his third old-fashioned.

Bebe said, “Mr. Hoover had a radio show back in the ‘30s. I was a youngster in Havana then. There was a 200,000-watt station that broadcast it out of Miami.”

Nixon pulled the cherry out of his glass. “Agent Holly doesn’t give a shit about rugs or Mr. Hoover’s salad days. He wants to put the quietus on all this goddamned black-militant nonsense that’s been going around.”

Dwight said, “That’s correct, Mr. President.”

“And he’d like my word that I’m not plotting any upheaval in the Dominican Republic.”

Dwight nodded. Bebe went ooh-la-la. The prez and the First Friend looked fraternal. They were swarthy. They wore mauve alpaca sweaters with the presidential seal. The Rotary meets the Rat Pack.

Bebe lit a cigarette. “The D.R. and I go way back. I owned some cane fields there in the ‘40s. There’s this exile group I toss a couple of shekels at. They’re operating out of there now.”

Nixon coughed. Bebe snuffed out his cigarette and fanned the air. It was snowing. Windows showed off a portico and a huge lawn.

Bebe said, “My guys used to sell heroin. It’s a quick turnaround on your investment. If you want to fight communism, you’ve got to get down to the nitty-gritty.”

Nixon stirred his drink. “Tell it like it is. Heroin has financed every Third World coup since God was a pup. Right, Mr. Holly?”

“That’s correct, Mr. President.”

“Farlan Brown said you went to Yale. How come you’re the one with the badge and I’m the one with all the headaches and this goddamned silly sweater?”

Dwight smiled. “It’s the vicissitudes of fate, Sir.”

“ ‘Vicissitudes,’ shit. That Irish cocksucker Jack Kennedy stole the ‘60 election from me. That’s a ‘vicissitude.’ What I’ve got now is the goddamned last laugh.”

Bebe ate his cherry. “I like Dwight, Mr. President. You should appoint him attorney general.”

Nixon chortled. “Hoover’s got too much dirt on me. He’d never go for a hatchet man like Dwight calling the shots.”

Bebe said, “Are you a hatchet man, Dwight?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

Nixon picked at a hangnail. “Where does Hoover stash his secret files? I had an aide who said he kept a vault at the Willard.”

“The basement of his house, Mr. President. It’s moisture-sealed and fireproof.”

Bebe snorted. “He’s got nothing on the president that the man himself has not volunteered to the public.”

Nixon rolled his eyes. Bebe stammered. Dwight examined his drink coaster. It featured the same pissed-off bird.

Bebe said, “The D.R.’s a toilet. Your investors will have to upgrade the appearance of the place if you want to lure tourists down. I just visited my exile group and took a little look-see. Balaguer’s solidly pro-U.S., but the CIA guys are all drunks and gash men. There’s a retired marine colonel named Smith who buffers Balaguer on most of the dirty work.”

Nixon said, “Accountability. You put a straw man out in front of you. When the shit hits the fan, you’re out of range. Me? I was at a Red Sox game or grinding the old lady.”

Dwight laughed. Bebe futzed with the emerald ring above his wedding band.

“My group’s got two new hard-ons. This French merc and his kid buddy. They may not oust Fidel, but they’ll die trying.”

Nixon yawned. “Castro’s got legs. The American electorate has had it up to here with Cuba. I’ll let the exiles pull their stunts as long as it doesn’t come back to haunt me at the polls,”

Bebe acted hurt. Darling, how could you? Dwight looked away.

Nixon said, “Dwight, let’s talk turkey.”

“I’m all ears, Sir.”

“Describe Hoover’s mental state. Assume that I’m an insider with some previous knowledge and that nothing leaves this room, be assured that candor will serve you in the long run and tell it like it is.”

Dwight shot his cuffs. “He’s in exceedingly poor physical and mental health. He’s obsessed with black crime, black mating habits, black political activity and black hygiene. His judgment is questionable at all levels. He is very obviously impaired. He is hemorrhaging prestige in the law-enforcement community. He’s prone to embarrassing gaffes. He makes intemperate and highly impolitic remarks routinely. He’s vituperative in the extreme. He’s hanging on with brute will, hatred and daily injections of amphetamine in the keester. Despite this great wealth of infirmity, he remains tenuously lucid and must be considered a deadly adversary and thus a significant and utterly essential friend.”

Bebe whistled. “Tell it like it is, baby.”

Nixon whistled. “Amen, brother.”

Dwight felt his pulse race. Nixon winked. It flopped as a you-my-man ploy.

“Keep me updated on that. Will you, Dwight?”

“Yes, Sir. I will.”

Bebe flashed his emerald ring. “Nice, huh? I got it in the D.R.”

Echo Park was flooded. The rent-a-boats were moored and tarp-covered. The rain was incessant. The ducks were off hiding. He bought popcorn for nothing.

He was dead. He took the D.C.-to-L.A. red-eye, squashed between Buddhist priests. They saw his gun and om-cleansed his aura. His pills and drinks uncleansed him. He got an hour’s sleep.

He called Mr. Hoover and reported the Nixon meet. He described it as “perfunctory.” The old girl was enraged. Dwight mollified him. Hoover launched a fourteen-minute anti-Nixon rant. He wanted news on the hate cartoons. Dwight said his leads dead-ended.

Two nights, three hours’ sleep. Back-to-back MLK nightmares. Dr. King sermonized. Dwight watched from a back pew.

Karen walked up. She had Eleanora swaddled. They stood under the boathouse awning. The baby was triple-wrapped, warm and safe.

Dwight said, “She looks like me.”

Karen smiled. “It was a procedure, and you were nowhere near the receptacle.”

Eleanora had Karen’s hair and bone set. She slept through the storm noise.

Dwight said, “It’s been a while.”

“It has. I’ve had Ella and you’ve had the operation.”

“What’s-His-Name is leaving soon, right?”

“Yes.”

“We can log some time in then. I got you a key to the drop-front.”

Karen stepped away. “That’s an I’ve-got-nothing-to-hide gesture.”

“Point taken, but it’s true.”

“You’re ducking the issue.”

“Say her name, then. Accuse me of something. Give me the chance to confirm or deny.”

Karen lit a cigarette. Her hand trembled. Dwight held Eleanora while she smoked.

“Mr. Hoover called Bayard Rustin a ‘prehensile-tailed night creature’ at the American Legion.”

Dwight said, “I know.”

“His remarks regressed from there.”

“I know. Jack Leahy showed me a copy of the speech.”

Eleanora kicked. Dwight rocked her back to sleep. The awning leaked. Water dripped near their feet.

Karen said, “There’s a safe house near Cal Riverside. I’ve been in it. There’s a closet with four pump shotguns and a box of hand grenades. A man with a Mao Tse-tung mask and a shotgun has robbed four markets in San Bernardino.”

Dwight studied Eleanora. Her feet kicked while she slept.

“I’ll always take armed robbery. What can I do for-”

“The Philadelphia Office has my husband’s file under review. Agents have been pestering the dean. One man got quite bold and risquй. ‘You college folks get around a lot. I heard the wife’s been playing footsie with Mr. Hoover’s number-one hard boy.’ ”

Dwight kicked the wall. The impact disturbed Eleanora. Karen tossed her cigarette and took the bundle back. Ella cooed and shut her eyes.

“Mr. Hoover told that agent about us, Dwight. It violates the agreement we’ve had from the beginning.”