Shall We Tell the President? Read online

  “Well, goddamn.” Simon’s eyes opened very wide. “Found yourself a new fox!”

  “You better not wait up, because if I fail, Simon, I’ll probably jump on top of you.”

  “Thanks for the warning, Mark. Tough it out, man.”

  Beautiful evening, climb into car, check watch: 7:34.

  The Director checked his dinner jacket again.

  I miss Ruth. Housekeeper does a great job, but not the same thing at all. Pour a scotch, check clothes. Tuxedo just pressed—a little out of fashion. Dress shirt back from the cleaners. Black tie to be tied. Black shoes, black socks, white handkerchief—all in order. Turn on shower. Ah, how to get something useful out of the President? Damn, where’s the soap? Have to get out of shower and soak bathmat and towel. Only one towel. Grab soap, revolting smell. Nowadays, they must only make it for gays. Wish I could still get army surplus. Out of the shower. Overweight; I need to lose about fifteen pounds. Body too white. Hide it quickly and forget. Shave. Good old trusty cutthroat. Never shave twice a day except when dining with the President. Good. No damage. Get dressed. Fly buttons; hate zippers. Now to tie black tie. Damn it. Ruth could always do it the first time, perfectly. Try again. At last. Check wallet. Don’t really need money, credit cards, or anything else. Unless the President’s going through hard times. Tell housekeeper I’ll be back about eleven. Put on overcoat. Special agent there with car, as always.

  “Good evening, Sam, beautiful evening.”

  The only chauffeur in the employ of the FBI opened the back door of the Ford sedan.

  Climb into car, check watch: 7:45.

  Drive slowly—lots of time—don’t want to be there early—never seems to be any traffic when you have all the time in the world—hope roses have arrived—take longer route to Georgetown, past Lincoln Memorial and up Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway—it’s prettier—at least con yourself that’s why you’re doing it. Don’t run yellow lights, even though man behind you is obviously late and gesticulating. Obey the law—con yourself again—you’d shoot through the lights if you were running late for her. Never embarrass the Bureau. Careful of trolley lines in Georgetown, so easy to skid on them. Turn right at end of street and find parking space. Circle slowly looking for perfect spot—no such thing. Doublepark and hope no traffic cop’s around. Stroll nonchalantly towards house—bet she’s still in the tub. Check watch: 8:04. Perfect. Ring doorbell.

  “We’re running a bit late, Sam.” Perhaps unwise to say that because he’ll break the speed limit and might embarrass the Bureau. Why is there so much traffic when you’re in a hurry? Damn Mercedes in front of us at the circle, stopping even before the lights turned red. Why have a car that can do 120 mph if you don’t even want to do thirty? Good, the Mercedes has turned off towards Georgetown. Probably one of the beautiful people. Down Pennsylvania Avenue. At last the White House in sight. Turn on to West Executive Avenue. Waved on by guard at gate. Pull up to West Portico. Met by Secret Service man in dinner jacket. His tie looks better than mine. Bet it’s a clip-on. No, come to think of it, it’s regulation to have to tie them in the White House. Damn it, the man must be married. Didn’t do it himself. Follow him through foyer to West Wing Reception Room past Remington sculpture. Met by another Secret Service man also in dinner jacket. Also better tie. I give up. Escorted to elevator. Check watch: 8:06. Not bad. Enter West Sitting Hall.

  “Good evening, Madam President.”

  “Hello, lovely lady.”

  She looks beautiful in that blue dress. Fantastic creature. How could I have any suspicions about her?

  “Hello, Mark.”

  “That’s a terrific dress you’re wearing.”

  “Thank you. Would you like to come in for a minute?”

  “No, I think we’d better go, I’m double-parked.”

  “Fine, I’ll just grab my coat.”

  Open car door for her. Why didn’t I just take her by the hand into the bedroom and make mad passionate love to her? I would have happily settled for a sandwich. That way we could do what we both want to do and save a lot of time and trouble.

  “Did you have a good day?”

  “Very busy. How about you, Mark?”

  Oh, managed to think about you for a few hours while I got some work done, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Busy as all hell. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to make it.”

  Start car, right on M Street to Wisconsin. No parking spaces. Past Roy Rogers’ Family Restaurant. Let’s just get some chicken legs and head back home.

  “Aah, success.”

  Hell, where did that Volkswagen come from?

  “What lousy luck. You’ll find another one.”

  “Yes, but four hundred yards away from the restaurant.”

  “The walk will do us good.”

  Did the roses come? I’ll put that florist’s girl in jail in the morning if she forgot to send them.

  “Oh, Mark, how thoughtless of me not to mention it before; thank you for those glorious roses. Are you the white one? And the Shakespeare?”

  “Think nothing of it, lovely lady.”

  Liar. So you liked the Shakespeare, but what was your answer to the Cole Porter? Enter supersmooth French restaurant. Rive Gauche. Gauche is right. A Fed in a place like this? Bet it’ll cost an arm and a leg. Full of snotty waiters with their hands out. What the hell, it’s only money.

  “Did you know that this place is responsible for making Washington the French-restaurant capital of America?”

  Trying to impress her with a little inside dope.

  “No, why?”

  “Well, the owner keeps bringing his chefs over from France. One by one they quit and go off to start their own restaurants.”

  “You G-men really do carry around a store of useless information.”

  Look for the maître d’.

  “Table in the name of Andrews.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Andrews. How nice to see you.”

  Damn man’s never seen me before and probably will never see me again. Which table is he going to give me? Not too bad. She might even believe I’ve been here before. Slip him a five-dollar bill.

  “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your dinner.”

  They settled back in the deep red leather chairs. The restaurant was crowded.

  “Good evening. Would you care for an aperitif, sir?”

  “What will you have, Elizabeth?”

  “Campari and soda, please.”

  “One Campari and soda and I’ll have a spritzer.”

  Glance at menu. Chef Michel Laudier. The restaurant motto: Fluctuat nec mergitur. Oh, I’ll mergitur, all right, cover charges, service charges. Ouch. And she has no way of knowing. This is one of those sexy places where the man is given a menu with the prices.

  “I’ll have a first course, but only if you’ll join me.”

  “Of course, I’m going to have one, lovely lady.”

  “Good, I’ll have the avocado …”

  Without prawns?

  “ … with prawns, and then …”

  … Caesar salad?

  “ … the filet mignon Henri IV—rare, please.”

  $20.50. To hell with it, she’s worth every penny. I think I’ll have the same.

  “Have you decided, sir?”

  “Yes, we’ll both have the avocado with prawns and the filet mignon Henri IV, rare.”

  “Would you care to look at the wine list?”

  No, thank you, I’ll have a beer.

  “Would you like some wine, Elizabeth?”

  “That would be lovely, Mark.”

  “A bottle of Hospice de Beaune, soixante-dix-huit, please.”

  I bet he can tell the only damn French I learned at school was the numbers.

  “Very good, sir.”

  The first course arrived and so did the sommelier with the wine.

  If you think you’re going to sell us two bottles, you damn frog, think again.

  “Shall I serve the wine, sir?”

  “Not yet, tha