“Cute.”
“I’m glad you think so. But I’m dead serious. Your good friend did a service to nobody by making certain his skeletons remained locked away until after the election.” Hoyt took a slow sip of his drink. The tip of his tongue darted snakelike along his lips. “For God’s sake, John Hyland was always going to take the general in a landslide. Arnold the Pig could have been his running mate. Chris Wyeth was no do-or-die element to that ticket; everybody knew that going in. The man was handed the vice presidency with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the ass, and now he has gone and crapped all over it in just two months.”
Andy started to protest. “Whitney, I hardly think—”
Hoyt held up a hand. “Don’t interrupt me, Andrew. I’m telling you right now, Chris is finished. This country is in too fragile a state. The whole reason John Hyland was elected was because this country is on life support. Mr. Hyland promised the cure. We can’t afford for him to go lame this early. I’m serious, Andrew. At this point, the rest of the world will just shoot the patient if he shows signs of weakening.”
“That sounds a little extreme to me.”
“Do you know those old movies? You probably don’t. No one’s got time for old movies anymore. These were mainly the Westerns and the war movies. Two men running for their lives and one of them twists his ankle and drops to the ground. ‘Go on without me.’ That was the line you’d always hear. ‘Save yourself. Go on without me.’ All very noble.”
Hoyt took another sip of his drink, studying the rim of the glass for a moment. Andy waited. He knew the routine. Hoyt finally continued.
“That’s where we’re headed, Andrew. If this country can’t lead anymore, it’s ‘Go on without me’ time. John Hyland can get away with twisting his ankle a little bit at this point. A little tiny twist. He’s still in the honeymoon. But if he falls onto the dirt? It’s not good. And if you come up with a self-serving vice president who is being outed by the press for past sins and you don’t act swiftly on it, that’s where you go. To the dirt. And the part they don’t show you in those movies is when the vultures come down and start to work over the poor sap who’s lying there. Before he’s even a carcass.”
Andy lifted his glass. “By the way, Whitney, happy Easter.”
Hoyt barely heard him. “I’m quite serious. The plucking starts right away. I daresay it has started already. If Chris Wyeth is taking a nosedive this early in the game and the president doesn’t act swiftly and skillfully on it…”
He allowed the rest of the thought to go unspoken. Over by the tennis court, Hoyt’s wife, Jenny, and Christine were playing keep-away with Doc, tossing a tennis ball while the insistent animal lumbered back and forth between them, barking hoarsely. All of seven years older than Christine, Jenny had married Whitney just months after Hoyt’s divorce from Lillian had come through. Jenny’s own marriage — to a Greenwich real estate developer with a known drinking problem — had ended when her husband lost control of his car while scouting properties near Port Jervis. Whitney had known Jenny and Roger Mead socially. At first the age difference between the widow and the recently divorced former governor had raised some eyebrows. But by the time the two married in a small ceremony in Hoyt’s backyard, the matter had lost its charge.
Spotting her husband looking in her direction from the deck, Jenny Hoyt waved over at him. Whitney Hoyt returned the wave and turned back to Andy.
“You’re not being stupid about this, are you?”
“Stupid?”
“Our Mr. Hyland is going to need to find himself a new VP, Andrew. That’s the endgame here. There’ll be the usual denials and positionings and repositionings. It’s the oldest dance in the book. I swear Arthur Murray himself taught everyone the steps. But Chris Wyeth is out, and Hyland is going to need
“I’m glad you think so. But I’m dead serious. Your good friend did a service to nobody by making certain his skeletons remained locked away until after the election.” Hoyt took a slow sip of his drink. The tip of his tongue darted snakelike along his lips. “For God’s sake, John Hyland was always going to take the general in a landslide. Arnold the Pig could have been his running mate. Chris Wyeth was no do-or-die element to that ticket; everybody knew that going in. The man was handed the vice presidency with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the ass, and now he has gone and crapped all over it in just two months.”
Andy started to protest. “Whitney, I hardly think—”
Hoyt held up a hand. “Don’t interrupt me, Andrew. I’m telling you right now, Chris is finished. This country is in too fragile a state. The whole reason John Hyland was elected was because this country is on life support. Mr. Hyland promised the cure. We can’t afford for him to go lame this early. I’m serious, Andrew. At this point, the rest of the world will just shoot the patient if he shows signs of weakening.”
“That sounds a little extreme to me.”
“Do you know those old movies? You probably don’t. No one’s got time for old movies anymore. These were mainly the Westerns and the war movies. Two men running for their lives and one of them twists his ankle and drops to the ground. ‘Go on without me.’ That was the line you’d always hear. ‘Save yourself. Go on without me.’ All very noble.”
Hoyt took another sip of his drink, studying the rim of the glass for a moment. Andy waited. He knew the routine. Hoyt finally continued.
“That’s where we’re headed, Andrew. If this country can’t lead anymore, it’s ‘Go on without me’ time. John Hyland can get away with twisting his ankle a little bit at this point. A little tiny twist. He’s still in the honeymoon. But if he falls onto the dirt? It’s not good. And if you come up with a self-serving vice president who is being outed by the press for past sins and you don’t act swiftly on it, that’s where you go. To the dirt. And the part they don’t show you in those movies is when the vultures come down and start to work over the poor sap who’s lying there. Before he’s even a carcass.”
Andy lifted his glass. “By the way, Whitney, happy Easter.”
Hoyt barely heard him. “I’m quite serious. The plucking starts right away. I daresay it has started already. If Chris Wyeth is taking a nosedive this early in the game and the president doesn’t act swiftly and skillfully on it…”
He allowed the rest of the thought to go unspoken. Over by the tennis court, Hoyt’s wife, Jenny, and Christine were playing keep-away with Doc, tossing a tennis ball while the insistent animal lumbered back and forth between them, barking hoarsely. All of seven years older than Christine, Jenny had married Whitney just months after Hoyt’s divorce from Lillian had come through. Jenny’s own marriage — to a Greenwich real estate developer with a known drinking problem — had ended when her husband lost control of his car while scouting properties near Port Jervis. Whitney had known Jenny and Roger Mead socially. At first the age difference between the widow and the recently divorced former governor had raised some eyebrows. But by the time the two married in a small ceremony in Hoyt’s backyard, the matter had lost its charge.
Spotting her husband looking in her direction from the deck, Jenny Hoyt waved over at him. Whitney Hoyt returned the wave and turned back to Andy.
“You’re not being stupid about this, are you?”
“Stupid?”
“Our Mr. Hyland is going to need to find himself a new VP, Andrew. That’s the endgame here. There’ll be the usual denials and positionings and repositionings. It’s the oldest dance in the book. I swear Arthur Murray himself taught everyone the steps. But Chris Wyeth is out, and Hyland is going to need
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