Bill Pronzini - Acts of Mercy

“Not the way I see it. The party can unify around me just as easily as around Kineen; it unified around me four years ago, didn’t it?”

“That was a different situation entirely,” Wexford said. He was using the handkerchief again and his face had gotten as red as it had at dinner last night. “You’d better think this over carefully-don’t make any hasty decisions that you’ll regret later. I’ll tell the committee you need time to-”

“You can tell the committee to go to hell,” Augustine said. “And then you can give them my final answer: I will not make a withdrawal announcement; I am a firm candidate for reelection. Period. Now get out of here, Julius. I have nothing more to say to you.”

Wexford stood up. “You’re making a serious mistake, Mr. President. I urge you to reconsider.”

Mr. President, Augustine thought. He did not look at Wexford. Instead he busied himself filling his pipe, tamping tobacco into the bowl from a brass humidor.

“Very well,” Wexford said in flustered tones. “You have my resignation as chairman of your reelection campaign.” Which was a pathetically thin exit line but one typical of the man: he turned on his heel and stalked out of the office.

Augustine got up immediately, holding the pipe between his thumb and forefinger, and opened the French doors and stepped out onto the terrace. He stood next to one of the white stone pillars, looking past the rose garden to the Jefferson Memorial in the distance.

All right, he thought, so it’s come to this. A dogfight between me and Kineen. With the National Committee behind him he won’t waste any time accelerating his campaign, and that means I can’t waste any time with mine. Appoint a new campaign chairman right away, Ed Dougherty maybe. Make preparations for an early whistle-stopper in the Presidential Special. Challenge Kineen to a public TV appearance to debate issues. First thing, though, is to get some of the more prominent press people in here for a backgrounder; sit down with them, philosophize a bit on the presidency, answer their questions, strengthen my media image. Then-He realized abruptly that he was putting voice to his thoughts, mumbling aloud again as he sometimes did in moments of stress. He put the pipe between his teeth, clamped down on it resolutely, and then turned back inside his office with the intention of calling Austin Briggs and having him set up the backgrounder for tomorrow morning. But just as he reached his desk the intercom buzzed-and when he flipped the toggle, George Radebaugh told him it was three forty-five and Hendricks and Wade and Sandcrane were waiting in the anteroom.

Bastards, Augustine thought, but the epithet was not meant for Hendricks and Wade and Sandcrane. I’ll show them; I’ll show them all. Then he said, “Have them come in,” to Radebaugh, and sat down and prepared himself to talk peace treaty again with the Indians.

Bill Pronzini Barry N. Malzberg

Acts of Mercy

Ten

You look upset, Mrs. Augustine. That was Mr. Briggs on the phone, wasn’t it? Did he have bad news of some kind?

I don’t want to discuss it, Elizabeth.

Has something happened?

I said I don’t want to discuss it.

All right, Mrs Augustine. I’m sorry. Do you want me to leave?

No. No, don’t leave. I didn’t mean to be brusque. Why don’t you pour us some coffee?

Here you are. May I say, Mrs. Augustine, that you were a joy to watch at the UJA luncheon today. Your remarks in defense of the President were very moving.

Thank you, Elizabeth. I’ve always been very competent at public affairs, haven’t I.

Always.

The President relies on me to be competent.

I’m sure he does.

So does the country. They wouldn’t want an emotional, incompetent First Lady, would they?

Not at all.

No, not at all Elizabeth, what we were discussing this morning that feeling of yours of impending tragedy. Have you discussed it with anyone else?

No, Mrs. Augustine.

Do you think anyone else feels it too?

If they do, I haven’t heard anyone say it.

Good I’m glad to hear that.

Mrs. Augustine-may I ask a question?

Certainly.

Do you have the same sort of intuition yourself?

What makes you say that?

Well, you’ve also been so troubled lately For entirely different reasons. I do not feel that there is anything terribly wrong in the White House. I’m sorry I brought up the subject again. Let’s just drop it, shall we?

Yes, Mrs. Augustine.

It was Maxwell Harper’s custom, on his way home from the White House, to stop for dinner at one of Washington’s better restaurants; on Wednesday evening he chose Le Consulat, in the Embassy Row Hotel. Seated in their elegant dining room, he ordered a dry martini with lemon peel and scanned the menu without finding anything that appealed to him because he was not particularly hungry. He settled finally on a Caesar salad and then sat sipping his drink and looking out at the old-Washington facades of the buildings that lined Massachusetts Avenue.

He felt bothered and fretful. The day had been filled with a series of worrisome developments, and together they added dimension to the widening pattern of administration crisis. The discussion with Augustine this morning, the President’s apparent agreement with his analysis of the situation and then the abrupt termination of the meeting, as if Augustine understood what was happening around him but refused to accept the fact that it was having a pernicious effect on him. The statistics released by the Department of Labor that unemployment had reached 7.4 percent nationwide. The damned S-1 bill that was now out of committee. The latest Harris poll on the Israeli gaffe. Augustine’s inability to cope with the Cheyenne Indian demands for improvement of their lot, and the growing and militant support of other Amerinds, as evidenced by what had been happening to Vice-President Conroy in the West-all of which pointed toward a nasty domestic incident that would destroy the President’s credibility on the human rights issue. The increasing hostility of the media. The increasing strength of Kineen and his coalition, not only in the primaries but with special-interest groups; there was a still-unconfirmed report circulating that the AFL–CIO was strongly considering support of his candidacy.

And then there was Claire Augustine.

With all those other major problems, it was probably illogical that he should be concerned about her; but the fact remained that he had not been able to get her out of his mind since their brief dialogue in the Oval Study. Was she or was she not what she had always seemed to be? Could she also be responsible in some way, directly or indirectly, for the President’s weakening posture? Damn it, what went on inside that striking blonde head of hers?

The waiter arrived with a silver cart and began preparing the Caesar salad. Harper watched him distractedly, began to eat the same way when the finished salad was placed in front of him.

The problem was, he thought, Claire Augustine was a total enigma. A completely private person who seemed able to keep her public and personal lives so segregated that nothing of the real woman revealed itself. Except, perhaps, to Augustine, and of course Harper had never discussed her with the President; it was not a liberty even a personal advisor could take with the Chief Executive.

She was the daughter of a lawyer, now deceased, who had worked for the Dan O’Connell political machine in Albany, New York; she had led a somewhat sheltered childhood, having spent much of her time in private boarding schools; she had been a scholarship student at Vassar, had graduated with honors in political science and had promptly landed a secretarial post with a representative from Delaware, moving to Washington at about the same time Augustine was closing out his third term as a northern California congressman; she had been a popular figure at Washington parties, because of her beauty and her intelligence, but the rumor was that she had spurned all romantic advances, making it clear that she was a dedicated career woman.