Irving Wallace - The Man

“Hello, Sally?”

“Arthur, I hope I’m not bothering you in the middle of a conference or-”

“What happened, Sally?”

“Arthur, I got it! I can’t believe it. The President says I start Monday. I can’t believe it. And my thanks to you. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

“You have the position because you deserve it. I told him honestly that I thought he would find no one your equal in Washington. I told him not to let you go. I told him that had I known you wanted a job, I would have released half my girls to make way for you. I’m delighted, Sally. Congratulations.”

“Arthur, that buildup you gave me. How can I live up to it? You can’t believe-”

“I believe more than that about you, Sally. You know I do.”

“Arthur, I want to do anything I can for you.”

“You do your job.”

“I want to repay you.”

“Mmm-well, my dear, there might be one way, as I suggested the last time we were together. It becomes fairly lonesome at home in the evening, especially at the dinner hour.”

“Invite me, Arthur, go ahead, invite me.”

“You are invited. I’ll get to you tomorrow with the date.”

“You won’t forget, this time?”

“I hadn’t forgotten, Sally. I’ve been busy. I am still busy. Except now that you are a government girl, I can justify it as mixing business with pleasure. I must run, Sally.” He paused. “There is only one thing I want you to do for me. When we meet, I want you to be wearing the white sequined gown. You know, the décolleté one. Good-bye, Sally.”

When she floated out of the booth, she was surer than she had ever been. She would be a First Lady of sorts yet-not Dilman’s, but Arthur Eaton’s.

It was a quarter to seven in the evening. The after-work, going-home traffic had abated. The Presidential limousine sped through the red lights and darkened thoroughfares toward the brownstone row house on Van Buren Street.

This morning, when he left his private residence, the journey had taken twice as long, and Douglass Dilman had not imagined that he would return so soon. All through the busy, depleting, and eventually upsetting day, the conviction had grown upon him that he must return as soon as possible.

Because of his second argument with his son, his appointment schedule had dragged on longer than planned. His last visitor had left him a half hour ago. Then he had requested Edna to inform Nat Abrahams at the Mayflower Hotel that their dinner must be postponed from eight o’clock to eight-thirty. Before she departed for the night, Edna had confirmed the change, adding that Mrs. Abrahams was confined to bed with a cold and that Mr. Abrahams would be coming alone.

After that, Dilman had telephoned Reverend Paul Spinger directly.

“Paul, is Wanda back from work yet?”

“She’s in the kitchen. I can get her for you, Mr. President.”

“No. I’d rather not speak to her on the phone. Simply ask her to stay there. I want to see her alone. Just for a few minutes.”

“I’ll tell her, Mr. President. How was your first day in the White House?”

“I don’t know, really, Paul. I’ve been too busy… Look, Paul, I want my visit kept hush-hush. You understand? It’s not easy to arrange on this end, but I intend to manage it. See you all shortly.”

After notifying engagements secretary Lucas and press secretary Flannery that he was through for the day, and would spend the entire evening in his new dwelling, Dilman had stepped outside. He had come upon the Secret Service agent, Otto Beggs, the one who had accompanied him from the brownstone this morning. Beggs had been waiting beside the colonnade to accompany him again in the short walk to the ground-floor elevator. Dilman had remembered the husky agent was on a split shift, which might explain his disgruntled expression. Dilman also remembered that it was Beggs who had warned him he could travel nowhere alone.

As they strode through the chilled darkness, he had taken his measure of Beggs. It would not be easy, he had told himself, but he was determined to have this one important private visit. When they had entered the ground floor, Beggs had turned left, but Dilman had turned right. Almost comically, Beggs had scrambled back to his side.

Dilman had informed the agent that he wanted to make a short visit to his brownstone residence before dinner. There was a civil rights matter that he had to discuss informally with Reverend Spinger, his upstairs tenant. Dilman had insisted that he did not want the press alerted to this unscheduled meeting. Therefore, he wished minimum security maintained in order to allow his going and coming to be unnoticed. There had been a brief disagreement, nervous on both sides, and, at last, Beggs had consented to reduce their protective escort to three agents in the limousine, and one motorcycle policeman ahead and one behind, without sirens being put into use until they left the immediate White House area.

He had been pleased at how quickly and quietly the limousine had been made to appear, and how swiftly and stealthily their departure had been accomplished.

During the ride to Van Buren Street, he had known that he could not repeat this kind of rendezvous many times. Despite the ease of this slipping away from the President’s House and its prying eyes, there were always too many others, elsewhere, watching and whispering. Sooner or later he would be caught in the act. He could not constantly use Spinger as his camouflage. And, at the same time, he could not risk the possibility that his friendship with Wanda Gibson might be made public. It would be misunderstood and misinterpreted. Being a colored Chief Executive was bad enough. Being a Negro President with a mulatto lady friend was impossible. To survive, he must reinforce his public image as the loner, the bachelor. It would make him less threatening, less publicized, and make the resentful electorate feel more secure. Nevertheless, this one personal meeting with Wanda was imperative. If it developed as he expected that it would, the result would solve everything.

Dilman felt the automobile braking to a halt beneath him, and through the rear window he could make out his beloved Victorian-style residence. The street was empty, except for parked cars and a Negro boy carry a cumbersome filled grocery bag, whistling off key, as he meandered toward his home.

Beggs stooped and got out, and Dilman followed him. He noticed that the two other agents, who had left the front seat, were consulting in undertones. As he started for the entrance, Dilman saw one agent planting himself before the house, and the other hustling up the sidewalk to the rear.

When Dilman reached the front door, he realized that Beggs was a half step behind him.

Dilman opened the door and said, “Mr. Beggs, from here on in, I’d prefer to be alone.”

Stolidly Beggs replied, “Sorry, Mr. President, I’m not allowed to do that.”

“Well, I can’t let you sit in on the meeting. It is private government business.”

“I won’t invade your privacy, Mr. President,” Beggs promised. I simply got to be near where you are. It’s risky enough as it is, sir.”

He would not be dissuaded, Dilman could see, and so, with a shrug, Dilman went inside, followed by Beggs.

They strode down the hallway and mounted the stairs to the upstairs landing. As they arrived, the door opened. Reverend Spinger, his wife behind him, both conscious of the Secret Service Agent, greeted Dilman formally as Mr. President. Dilman introduced Beggs, and then entered the warm, old-fashioned living room. When he turned to address the Spingers, he was surprised and alarmed to find Beggs still behind him and inside the room.

“Mr. Beggs,” said Dilman, “you promised me some privacy.”

Beggs’s ruddy face was helplessly apologetic. “You’re on your own from this point, Mr. President. I’ll just remain standing here inside the door.”