William Krueger - The Devil's bed

“No,” O’Meara replied. “Just showing Agent Thorsen around. He’s Secret Service.”

Ableman nodded.

“Nice music,” Bo said. “Debussy?”

Ableman shrugged. “It’s quiet. That’s all I care about.”

“Mr. Ableman, after the doors are locked, do you ever step outside? For a smoke, say?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Fresh air then? Maybe leave the door open for a while?”

“Never.”

“You don’t think it’s hot in here?”

“You get used to it.”

“I suppose,” Bo allowed, although the man had rolled the sleeves of his T-shirt all the way up to his shoulders.

“Haven’t seen you for a couple of days,” O’Meara said in a friendly way.

“Flu,” Ableman replied. He didn’t seem interested in offering them anything further, but neither did he seem concerned that they’d disturbed his solitude.

“Thank you for your time,” Bo said. He turned and headed away with O’Meara. “Those scars on his upper arms, any idea what they’re about?”

“I don’t know,” O’Meara replied. “He’s new, just started a few weeks ago, and he never talks much. Maybe he was in the military or something.”

“And what’s with the sunglasses?”

“He’s ultrasensitive to sunlight, as I understand it. That’s why he works the night shift.”

It was an evening affair, the kind the president loved.

Before dinner, the Texas Panhandlers performed some fancy clogging for Clay Dixon and the guests assembled in the East Room of the White House. Then the president made a brief speech about preserving the heritage of the nation’s folk traditions. The meal itself, served in the State Dining Room, paid homage to American cooking-fried chicken, mesquite barbecued ribs, corn on the cob, collard greens, corn bread, and watermelon. Afterward, the Dixie Maids played some lively bluegrass, and Clay Dixon asked if he could join them. He borrowed a banjo and sat next to a black-haired fiddle player. She worked her bow with a vengeance, and his own fingers danced. The guests of the White House enjoyed an old-fashioned hoedown, and they gave the president an exploding round of applause while the cameras of the press corps flashed like fireworks. D. C. Dixon was in his element and had the world by the balls.

When it was over, he approached the senior senator from Colorado, who sat at the banquet table with the president’s daughter leaning against him. Stephanie’s eyes were closed, and she appeared to be asleep. The senator said, “She’s dead tired. Long past this young lady’s bedtime. Be glad to give a hand, Clay.”

“I’ll take care of it,” the president said.

“After that, I’d like a word with you.”

Dixon nodded. “In my study.” He eased his daughter upright. “Time for bed, kiddo.” He lifted her and she laid her head on his shoulder. He carried her upstairs and helped her shrug off her dress and put on her pajamas. He pulled the covers over her.

“Read,” she murmured, though she could barely keep her eyes open.

Dixon kissed her softly and said, “Tomorrow. Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

He waited until her breathing was regular, then he tiptoed out and went to his study. The senator was waiting for him.

Senator William Dixon walked with a cane, a necessity due to injuries sustained during the Second World War. He’d been a hero. A bona fide hero with an array of medals to prove it. On his next birthday he would be seventy-eight and, God and the electorate willing, into his eighth term in the Senate. He was tall and lean and, with the help of his cane, stood straight. His linen suit, wrinkled from sitting at the banquet, smelled of cigar smoke.

Clay Dixon asked, “Care for a brandy, Dad?”

“Supposed to be on the wagon. Doctor’s orders. Supposed to be off cigars, too.”

“I never knew you to be a man who paid much attention to what someone else said you should do.” The president handed his father a snifter and poured one for himself. “What’s on your mind?”

“Same thing that’s on everybody’s mind. Kate.” Dixon swirled his brandy and eyed his son sternly. “You and I haven’t always seen eye to eye. Especially about that girl.”

“Woman, Dad.”

“Girl, woman. All trouble.” He spoke with a broad accent that hinted at Oklahoma, where he’d been born and raised before he migrated to the cattle country of southern Colorado. His speech was slow and deliberate, a pacing that had nothing to do with his age. He drew a cigar from the inside pocket of his coat. “Mind?”

Clay Dixon handed his father a silver ashtray. The senator slowly unwrapped the cigar, snipped the tip, and lit up with a wooden match from a small box he pulled from the pocket of his pants.

“You’ve done a fine job as president. I’ve been mighty proud of you, son.”

“But.”

“But now you need to make sure you’ve got a bridle on that bride of yours.”

“I can handle Kate.”

“Can you? My impression is that she’s on the verge of doing something drastic. She isn’t considering leaving you, is she?”

“My marriage is my concern.”

“If it stands to affect your election, and I’m beginning to think it may, then it becomes a concern for many of us. You need to handle your wife.”

“Don’t presume to dictate to me regarding my marriage. You of all people.”

The senator pointed his cigar at his son. “As a presidential candidate, Wayne White continues to be very appealing. A war hero. A widower. That old allegation of spousal abuse will be forgotten quickly if your own wife were to abandon you at this juncture. And if she were to speak frankly about why.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“It’s a great deal stronger than a suggestion. I speak for the party, I assure you. Do whatever is necessary to make certain Kate stays at your side. If she asks you to get down on your hands and knees and lick the floor, then, by God, you will lick it. Because if you lose her, you may well lose this election. But frankly, if circumstances were different, it wouldn’t break my heart if she left you.”

“Dad-”

He waved off his son’s objection. “We both know if I dropped dead tomorrow she’d do a little jig in celebration. I’m sure she believes I’m the devil himself, or at best one step away from him.” He laughed, enjoyed a long draw on his cigar, then spoke through the haze he expelled. “Any man or woman who enters politics takes a few steps closer to the devil. Katie’s a bright lady. I would have thought she understood that by now. In fact, considering that sheusedto share your bed, she should understand that occasionally one even has to sleep with the devil.”

Although he tried not to show it, Clay Dixon was angry. Not so much at his father’s barb as at the obvious fact that someone on the White House staff had been talking indiscreetly about the current sleeping arrangements in the Executive Residence. The telephone rang and he grabbed at it. “Yes?” He listened and said, “Send them up.” He put the phone down. “John Llewellyn’s on his way with McGill and Bobby Lee.”

“They’ve got the most recent polls, I’d bet,” William Dixon said. “By the way, how is Tom Jorgenson?”

“I spoke with Kate this afternoon. He’s still unconscious.”

“An unfortunate accident. Still, it will probably work to your advantage. Sympathy vote and all.”

“What the hell kind of thing is that to say?”

“Nothing personal. You take your votes however you can get them.” The elder Dixon rose, put his cigar in his left hand, took up his cane in his right, and walked to the door. He moved stiff as a man made of pipe cleaners. War had done much of that, time the rest. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Listen to me and to Llewellyn, Clay, and you’ll be fine. You hear me?”