“He and Bob ought to be getting back to town about now.”
Silence descended, as they all contemplated what Haldeman’s taking charge of this mess might bring: no doubt a cold wrath that would make Ehrlichman’s reaction seem genial.
The phone rang yet again. On his way to get it, LaRue handed the GEMSTONE file to Mitchell. Magruder, in his excitement over an impending singles match with Spiro T. Agnew, didn’t notice.
This time it
was
Martha, even more riled up than before.
“Well, honey, is he keepin’ his promise?”
“What promise is that, ma’am?”
“To leave politics! What John Mitchell promised me last night in this very room I’m in!”
LaRue took what he hoped would be a calming pause. “I’d have to assume he means after the election, Miz Mitchell.”
“And if I try to
redeem
that promise any
earlier
, I suppose that Mr. King, my
bodyguard
—or shall we say my
jailer
—will give me another tranquilizer shot in the rear?”
LaRue said nothing.
“Honey,” Mrs. Mitchell continued. “I’ve given that phone number you’re on to Helen Thomas. So you tell the former attorney
general
that he should be expectin’ a call anytime now.”
LaRue sighed, thinking of the bother he’d soon be going through to change the number once again.
“Well, Mr. LaRuesevelt,” Martha said, using one of her many nicknames for him. “You take care of that man of mine until I get back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You know
why
I want you to do that? You
don’t
? Well, I’ll tell you. Because when I get back
I’m
going to take care of him but
good
.”
She hung up.
LaRue sat on the bed for a moment, silently reviewing the algebra that governed the room on the other side of the wall. Magruder hated Liddy. Mardian hated Magruder. Ehrlichman hated Mitchell. Mitchell hated Colson. And that was all
before
Friday night. He himself was a kind of lotion, a soother, the one most generally trusted because he wasthe one least thoroughly known. He looked out the window at the swirling green of the Watergate courtyard and wondered what tasks would fall to him in the coming weeks and months. He was good at hiding Mitchell’s skeletons, and had managed to keep a giant one of his own hidden for years—a set of bones upon which the whole Cornpone Compound rested. He knew he’d soon be covering whatever tracks led from the men in the living room to Hunt and Liddy and McCord. The trick would be covering them without leaving tracks of his own. The reward? One of the benefits he’d always had from politics: the chance—by distracting himself with others’ calamities—to forget about his own singular catastrophe.
When he returned to the living room, Mitchell handed him the GEMSTONE folder along with a whispered instruction. There was a lull in the meeting while Magruder put his jacket on and got ready to go. LaRue now followed the younger man into the hallway and handed him the file: “You forgot this.”
“Oh, wow,” said Magruder. “Thanks, Fred.”
“The General suggests that when you get home tonight you have a little fire in your fireplace.” LaRue tapped the folder.
“Will do,” said Magruder, nodding gratefully as he went off to play tennis.
Chapter Four
JUNE 20, 1972, 5:30 P.M.
HOME OF ALICE ROOSEVELT LONGWORTH,
2009 MASSACHUSETTS AVENUE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
“You look awful!” said Mrs. Longworth.
“Look who’s talking,” replied Joseph Alsop, forgoing a kiss and sitting himself down beside his second cousin’s silver teapot.
Mrs. Longworth laughed. With her head tilted back and mouth open, her long, yellowed teeth looked oddly glamorous, like the ruins of the Acropolis at twilight.
“Mrs. Braden was just leaving, coz.”
Startled, Joan Braden picked up her purse. “I guess I am!” she cried, rising to her feet. She shook Alsop’s hand. “I’d better get home to my own
homme sérieux
, before he becomes an
homme furieux
.”
Alsop frowned. An
homme sérieux
was what he and his
Silence descended, as they all contemplated what Haldeman’s taking charge of this mess might bring: no doubt a cold wrath that would make Ehrlichman’s reaction seem genial.
The phone rang yet again. On his way to get it, LaRue handed the GEMSTONE file to Mitchell. Magruder, in his excitement over an impending singles match with Spiro T. Agnew, didn’t notice.
This time it
was
Martha, even more riled up than before.
“Well, honey, is he keepin’ his promise?”
“What promise is that, ma’am?”
“To leave politics! What John Mitchell promised me last night in this very room I’m in!”
LaRue took what he hoped would be a calming pause. “I’d have to assume he means after the election, Miz Mitchell.”
“And if I try to
redeem
that promise any
earlier
, I suppose that Mr. King, my
bodyguard
—or shall we say my
jailer
—will give me another tranquilizer shot in the rear?”
LaRue said nothing.
“Honey,” Mrs. Mitchell continued. “I’ve given that phone number you’re on to Helen Thomas. So you tell the former attorney
general
that he should be expectin’ a call anytime now.”
LaRue sighed, thinking of the bother he’d soon be going through to change the number once again.
“Well, Mr. LaRuesevelt,” Martha said, using one of her many nicknames for him. “You take care of that man of mine until I get back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You know
why
I want you to do that? You
don’t
? Well, I’ll tell you. Because when I get back
I’m
going to take care of him but
good
.”
She hung up.
LaRue sat on the bed for a moment, silently reviewing the algebra that governed the room on the other side of the wall. Magruder hated Liddy. Mardian hated Magruder. Ehrlichman hated Mitchell. Mitchell hated Colson. And that was all
before
Friday night. He himself was a kind of lotion, a soother, the one most generally trusted because he wasthe one least thoroughly known. He looked out the window at the swirling green of the Watergate courtyard and wondered what tasks would fall to him in the coming weeks and months. He was good at hiding Mitchell’s skeletons, and had managed to keep a giant one of his own hidden for years—a set of bones upon which the whole Cornpone Compound rested. He knew he’d soon be covering whatever tracks led from the men in the living room to Hunt and Liddy and McCord. The trick would be covering them without leaving tracks of his own. The reward? One of the benefits he’d always had from politics: the chance—by distracting himself with others’ calamities—to forget about his own singular catastrophe.
When he returned to the living room, Mitchell handed him the GEMSTONE folder along with a whispered instruction. There was a lull in the meeting while Magruder put his jacket on and got ready to go. LaRue now followed the younger man into the hallway and handed him the file: “You forgot this.”
“Oh, wow,” said Magruder. “Thanks, Fred.”
“The General suggests that when you get home tonight you have a little fire in your fireplace.” LaRue tapped the folder.
“Will do,” said Magruder, nodding gratefully as he went off to play tennis.
Chapter Four
JUNE 20, 1972, 5:30 P.M.
HOME OF ALICE ROOSEVELT LONGWORTH,
2009 MASSACHUSETTS AVENUE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
“You look awful!” said Mrs. Longworth.
“Look who’s talking,” replied Joseph Alsop, forgoing a kiss and sitting himself down beside his second cousin’s silver teapot.
Mrs. Longworth laughed. With her head tilted back and mouth open, her long, yellowed teeth looked oddly glamorous, like the ruins of the Acropolis at twilight.
“Mrs. Braden was just leaving, coz.”
Startled, Joan Braden picked up her purse. “I guess I am!” she cried, rising to her feet. She shook Alsop’s hand. “I’d better get home to my own
homme sérieux
, before he becomes an
homme furieux
.”
Alsop frowned. An
homme sérieux
was what he and his
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