“Party bosses thought Stevenson a better candidate?” Bernstein guessed.
Johnson folded his newspaper and twisted his body to face Charlie and his intern. “There’s a few reasons for that, young lady,” LBJ said in his thick South Texas drawl, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Some of the party bosses liked Truman, who sure didn’t like Estes. Some of the bosses are big-city Democrats who didn’t much care for Senator Kefauver looking into organized crime in the big cities. For reasons you might expect.” He chuckled.
Charlie stole a glance at Bernstein, who was quite obviously stunned to be getting a history lesson from the Senate Democratic leader.
“I never thought that old egghead Adlai would win,” Johnson said. “I bet on a different horse, Dick Russell, in the primaries. But the thing about Estes is, he’s a lone wolf. He’s not on a team. You can’t win without allies, not in Congress, and not if you’re tryin’ to get to the White House.” Johnson turned around and reopened his newspaper.
Bernstein took a Camel cigarette from her petite clutch bag, prompting Charlie to reach into his pocket for his German lighter. A paper scrap was sticking to it: the note he’d found in the desk that morning. Once again, he thought of the late congressman Martin Van Waganan and wondered what had happened to him, how a man so admired could throw it all away for petty corruption, meeting such a sordid and grotesque end.
“What’s that?” Bernstein asked him.
“Nothing,” Charlie said, tucking the note into his inside jacket pocket and lighting Bernstein’s cigarette for her.
The monorail was slowing down. “This is our stop,” Senator Johnson drawled over his shoulder to them.
“Thank you, Mr. Leader,” Charlie said as the three of them exited onto the marble floor.
“You’re Winston’s boy, aren’t you?” Johnson said, extending his hand. “You can call me Lyndon.” Charlie shook his hand, an act that Johnson made seem oddly warm and intimate. Johnson caught sight of an aide waiting for him and smiled good-bye to Charlie, then threw a wink to Bernstein before he strode down the hall.
“Geez,” said Bernstein. “My senior-thesis adviser isn’t going to believe this.” She paused, then nodded toward Charlie’s pocket. “What’s with the little scraps of paper? Should I be taking notes for you so you don’t have to keep notes in your pocket? Miss Leopold gave me a stenographer’s pad.” She lifted the corner of it from her purse to show him.
Charlie pulled the folded note from his inner pocket and handed it to her. “I found it in my new desk. I think it was Van Waganan’s.”
She looked at the cryptic note—U Chicago, 2,4-D 2,4,5-T cereal grains broadleaf crops—and said, “What does it mean?”
“Beats me,” said Charlie. “If you figure it out, let me know.”
“Great!” she said with a note of sarcasm, tucking the note into her purse. “More homework!”
“Actually, I do have some homework for you, Bernstein,” Charlie said. “And don’t feel compelled to keep Miss Leopold completely up to date on all aspects of this research. We can make this our little project.”
The walls of the reception area of suite 410 in the Senate Office Building were festooned with photographs of the fourteen-city, fifteen-month Kefauver Committee hearings on organized crime. In a central place of honor was a framed copy of the March 12, 1951, Time magazine cover illustration of Kefauver next to an octopus, which was meant to represent the Mafia. Displayed in three different spots were coonskin caps, souvenirs from Kefauver’s 1948 Senate campaign, during which his nemesis, Tennessee political boss Ed Crump, had claimed he was “working for the Communists with the stealth of a raccoon”; Kefauver had laughed it off by donning a coonskin cap and embracing it as a trademark.
The young receptionist was expecting Charlie. “Welcome,” she said with an expansive smile. “May I take your coat? Your aide can wait out here.”
Charlie removed his overcoat and handed it to her, silently noting her perfume as she reached for it: Gourielli Moonlight Mist, a scent he recalled from a recent shopping trip with Margaret. Bernstein took a seat in the reception area while Charlie was led into a conference room down the hall. Inside, Kefauver was chain-smoking and flipping through a stack of reports. He stubbed out his cigarette, then took off his glasses and began polishing them with his pocket square. The room smelled like an ashtray.
“Senator Kefauver,” Charlie said, reaching out for a handshake. “Thanks again for inviting my wife and me to see the show; Margaret loved it.”
“It was my pleasure,” Kefauver said with a smile. He brought a new cigarette to his lips.
“I know you’re aware that Dad was a big admirer of yours in ’52 during the primaries. From across the aisle and behind the scenes, obviously, since we’re Republicans. Confidentially, I myself would have gone for you over Ike had you not been cheated out of the nomination.”
“But alas,” said Kefauver.
“Alas,” Charlie said, sitting down.
“Well, thank you, Charlie,” Kefauver said. “That means a great deal to me. Have faith. Another presidential election’s coming up.”
Charlie shifted in his chair uncomfortably. He would never have voted for Kefauver over Ike! And he’d never told a lie like that to ingratiate himself before. Why had he said that?
“There’s someone I want you to meet, Charlie,” Kefauver said. “He’ll be here in a minute. While we wait, can I offer you a drink?”
Charlie’s eyes quickly darted to the clock on the wall; it was shortly after two p.m. Charlie had already discerned that this was hardly Kefauver’s first cocktail of the day.
“Sure,” said Charlie.
The senator nodded to an aide whom Charlie hadn’t even realized was there, sitting in the corner near the door; the aide rose and reached for a square glass decanter from a bookcase, poured two glasses of bourbon, neat, and placed them, along with the decanter, on Kefauver’s desk. Kefauver nodded again and the aide left the room.
“Normally a scotch man, but I just got this bottle as a gift from a constituent. As Mark Twain once said”—Kefauver raised his glass—“‘Too much of anything is bad, but too much good whiskey is barely enough.’”
Charlie smiled and lifted his glass in return. For a second he remembered his first bourbon experiment in high school; it had started with a meek sip and ended with him praying to a giant rock in Central Park. By now, however, it went down fast.
Charlie raised his glass again. “Churchill: ‘The water was not fit to drink. To make it palatable, we had to add whiskey. By diligent effort, I learned to like it.’”
“Now, son.” Kefauver lifted a finger from his glass to wag it in Charlie’s direction. “Some of my House colleagues told me about your stunt at the Appropriations markup.”
“With respect, sir, it wasn’t a stunt,” Charlie said. “Houdini did stunts. The Wallendas do stunts. I took a stand.”
Kefauver narrowed his eyes, and when he spoke again his voice had lost a degree of its earlier warmth, though he was still making an effort to sound casual. “Well, now, that’s a matter of interpretation, I suppose.” He smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Imagine that you’re a committee chairman who’s been here for decades, and some little pissant”—he saw Charlie about to object, so he amended his statement—“some freshly appointed congressman whom you perceive to be a nuisance comes along and objects to millions of dollars you’ve procured for an American company that provides thousands of jobs in congressional districts all around the nation,” Kefauver said.
“Right, I get that,” Charlie said.
“Those jobs belong to voters who are, of course, the ones who send us here,” Kefauver said. “They’re our bosses.”