Mark Coffin, U.S.S., page 36
Besieged by the press after the vote, Mark decided to take his cue from Rick’s comment and refrain from personal references.
“How does it feel to beat a President’s nominee for the Cabinet, Senator?” someone asked as they cornered him in a clamoring circle outside the Senate door, pencils poised, microphones and tape recorders ready, lights blazing, cameras whirring.
“I don’t believe I beat anybody,” he said quietly. “I think Mr. Macklin beat himself. I think a majority of the Senate observed him in action and decided this was not what was desirable in the office of Attorney General.”
“Do you feel that this makes you a power the President will have to reckon with hereafter in his dealings with the Senate?”
“You will have to ask the President that question,” he replied, a slight edge in his voice. “I don’t make any claims on that score. I voted with the majority and the majority rejected Mr. Macklin. That’s all I have to say about it.”
And despite their further attempts, that was all he did say.
At the White House, they asked the President.
“I am naturally disappointed by the Senate’s rejection of Mr. Macklin,” he said, calling them together for an unexpected and unusual 10 p.m. press conference, reading from a prepared statement in a matter-of-fact voice. “I had hoped Mr. Macklin’s strong and effective qualities as a public servant would not be overshadowed by personal considerations. Apparently this was not entirely the case. In any event, I expect to have another nominee, whom I hope will be more acceptable, before the Senate within twenty-four hours. The Attorney Generalship is the last remaining Cabinet post to be filled. It is time for the government to move on. I hope my new nominee will receive speedy confirmation in the spirit of amicable co-operation my Administration has been able to maintain with the Congress up to now.”
“Who do you blame for the lack of co-operation in this case, Mr. President? Senator Coffin?”
“Senator Coffin and I are good friends,” the President said blandly, “and I hope we will remain so. He is a strong young man who fights for what he believes. I hope he will be satisfied now, and”—with a sudden twinkle—“get off my back! We have a lot of work to do together for the American people.”
“Do you plan to see him any time soon, Mr. President?”
“My door is always open and he knows my address,” the President replied with a smile. “I hope I’ll be seeing him soon.”
“You aren’t angry with him, then?”
“Angry? Angry? Presidents never get angry, you know that.” Again the amiable smile. “We can’t afford to!”
“Oh yeah,” said somebody, and everybody, including the President, laughed.
But when he called Mark at home a few moments later, he was full of charm and candor and apparently ready to let bygones be bygones.
“Well, you licked me,” he said when Linda handed Mark the phone and mouthed, “It’s him,” with a warning look.
“No, Mr. President,” he said, “I don’t feel that.” His voice turned rueful. “If I did, it was through a set of unfortunate circumstances I would certainly prefer not to have had happen.”
The President joined in his rueful laugh.
“Yes,” he agreed, “but that’s all over now. Forget it. She’s gone, Charlie’s gone, and I’ll have someone I think you’re going to like much better up there by tomorrow noon. Maybe you’ll be with me on that one.”
“I hope I will be able to be, Mr. President.”
“And don’t start sounding starchy,” the President chided with mock severity. “We’ve got a long time ahead working together—and I want to work with you, Mark. I need your help and support. After all,” he confessed with a flattering burst of candor, “you carried me to victory once and I’m going to need you to carry me to victory on a lot of things. I hope I can depend upon you.”
“I think you can, Mr. President,” he said, flattered in spite of himself and Linda’s continued warning looks. “I’ll be happy to do what I can—when I can.”
“Which I hope will be most of the time,” the President said promptly. “Starting tomorrow with your father-in-law’s bill.”
“You know where I stand on that, Mr. President.”
“Great. I knew I could count on you. How does it look?”
“I haven’t had time to do much checking,” he said, again flattered in spite of himself at this assumption that he was, indeed, a key figure. “I think it’s going to be close, but I think we have a good chance of winning.”
“Good for you,” the President said. “Keep me advised during the debate if you think there’s anything I ought to know. Will you do that?”
“I will,” he promised, more earnestly than he felt he should: but the President had a way of sweeping one along. “I’ll be happy to do that.”
“Good man,” the President said approvingly. “I think we’re going to have some great times together doing things in this Administration. Now, go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. There’ll be a hot time in the old Senate tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” he agreed. “I’m looking forward to it. Good night.”
“Good night, Mark. Give my love to Linda.”
“I will, thank you. Good night …He says to give you his love.”
“That’s nice,” she said dryly. “He’s obviously given it to you. Do you believe him?”
“Not entirely yet. But,” he confessed, “I think I’m beginning to. After all, we do have to work together, as he says. And there’s no point in harboring grudges.”
“Don’t trust him too much. He’s a tricky man. I don’t think he’s forgetting many grudges.”
“I’m not going to get a complex about it. I’ve got too many other things to worry about.”
“Like defeating Daddy’s bill. I assume you think the President wants it defeated?”
“Yes,” he said blankly. “He’s said so a dozen times.”
“Not lately.”
“Why shouldn’t he want it defeated?”
“There was a White House announcement earlier this evening that he and President Suvarov are going to meet in Geneva next month. You probably didn’t hear about it because of the debate. But anyway, it’s been announced.”
“So?”
“I know what I would do if I were President,” she said. “Think about it.”
“I will,” he said, puzzled. “But I still don’t see—”
“Well, think. Maybe you will.” She moved about briskly turning off lights; the usual tension gripped his being. Suddenly she turned. He saw that her face was flushed. Suddenly she looked very pretty. “Are you coming along to bed now, or not?”
“What?” he said, unable to believe it was over at last.
“I said, ‘Are you coming along to bed now, or not?’” she said defiantly, flushing deeper. “You heard me, Mark Coffin, I may be pregnant but I’m not that pregnant. I’m not going to repeat it again, either. So good night, unless you—” and she started toward the stairs.
“Wait a minute,” he said with a surge of joyful relief, jumping up, swinging her about, pulling her close. “Waaait a minute, you shameless hussy. If you mean what I think you mean—”
“Of course not,” she said with a breathless little laugh. “Just try me and find out.”
And so he did, and that solved that problem: perhaps not entirely, and perhaps not as permanently and unshatterably as he might have wished, but enough for present and future purposes-enough to restore theirs to “one of the better political marriages”—as political marriages go.
There still remained her father’s bill, before the education of Young Mark Coffin in the ways of Washington could be said to be reasonably complete. Long after she was sleeping peacefully at his side he lay awake and considered that. Her advice took root. He did think about what he would do if he were President; and resolved to be very, very careful tomorrow—even though he knew he would, as usual, do what his bothersome but inescapable honesty told him he must.
***
Chapter 3
“My!” Mary Fran remarked next morning when he entered the office humming happily to himself. “You’re in a cheerful mood today, and thank goodness for that. A little victory helps, doesn’t it?”
“Another such victory,” he quoted wryly, “and we are undone. But, yes, M.F., it is good to be on the winning side. And get rid of Good Old Charlie. I don’t suppose you’re happy about that, are you?” he added, poking his head in Brad’s door with a sudden deliberate challenge that made him jump. “Why don’t you come in for a minute and we’ll talk about that? And other things.”
“All right,” Brad said, not knowing what to make of it, unable to conceal a certain apprehension, but rising and coming along as requested. At his desk, head carefully lowered, eyes on his papers, Johnny McVickers gave him a sidelong, enigmatic look as he passed.
“Do you want coffee?” Mary Fran called after them.
“Not today,” he said briskly. “Brad may want some.”
“Yes, I think I will,” Brad said, his uneasiness showing in his voice.
“With a little cyanide on the side,” Mark said cheerfully. “He may want to take it before we’re through.”
“What does that mean?” Brad demanded as she closed the door behind them, tossing Mark a sudden pleased and interested glance behind Brad’s back.
“It means,” he said, sitting down at his desk and gesturing Brad to a seat opposite, “that you and I are going to have a little talk, about Macklin and about a lot of things.”
“What things?” Brad asked sharply, something in his tone causing Mark to give him a sudden quick look.
“What things, indeed?” he asked with a deliberate innocence. “Is there something about you I’m supposed to know—or not know?”
“There isn’t anything about me you’re supposed to know that you don’t know,” Brad said stiffly, recovering a bit, “so what is this all about?”
“Are you sure?” Mark asked slowly. Brad looked angry, a little too angry.
“What is this all about?” he demanded again loudly. “Some sort of Inquisition, or what?”
“Not at all,” Mark said smoothly as Mary Fran rapped on the door. “Come!… I’m just interested, that’s all … Thanks, Mary Fran. No calls or visitors for the next few minutes, please.”
“Good,” she said; and then, with a sunny smile at Brad, “I’ll be sure you’re not interrupted. Take just as long as you like.”
“Great gal, Mary Fran,” Mark said approvingly. Brad made no comment, stirring his coffee, eyes averted.
“I’m sorry your friend didn’t get confirmed,” Mark said conversationally. “Sorry also that you couldn’t see your way to being loyal to me about it. It’s created a situation, I’m afraid.”
“I was loyal to you about it!” Brad said sharply. “Show me the proof I wasn’t!”
“Oh, I haven’t got any, really,” he said. “Just hunches—suspicions—certain obvious things. A lack of enthusiasm when there should have been some. Tattle about Lisette when there shouldn’t have been any. Lunch with Jim Madison. Phone calls to the governor”—a sudden inspiration—“behind my back—”
“There weren’t any phone calls to the governor behind your back!”
“Oh, I think there were,” Mark said, sure of it now. “Yes, I think there were. And”—another quick hunch—“to various people in the media.”
“There weren’t—” Brad began but Mark stopped him with a lifted hand.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’m not going to brawl with you about it. I think the time has come for us to have a parting of the ways. Shall I fire you, or do you want to resign gracefully?”
“What?” Brad said, too shocked and upset to do other than gape at him in angry dismay.
“Clear enough,” he said. “Your choice. Which will it be?”
“You’ll have to fire me,” Brad grated. “I’ll never resign. You’ll have to fire me, and then my friends in California will—will—”
“If they’re smart they’ll give you a job,” Mark overrode him calmly, “after I have accepted your resignation with deep regret. Just a minute—” He buzzed for Mary Fran, waited with an apparently absent-minded hum while Brad watched, helpless and livid.
“Get me the governor in Sacramento,” he said when she came in.
“Yes, sir!” she said, not quite sure what was going on, but prepared to be delighted if her guess based on Brad’s expression should prove to be correct.
For a minute or two there was silence. Mark stopped humming, examined constituency mail on his desk; Brad breathed heavily. The buzzer sounded and he lifted the phone.
“Larry?” he said cheerfully. “How are you, you canny son of a gun? Everything going fine out there in the golden West?”
“Reasonably fine,” the governor said, tone considerably reserved. “I suppose you’re riding high now that you’ve won your little triumph.”
“I paid for it.”
“You’ll pay for it a lot more, too,” the governor said viciously. “A lot of us will see to that.”
“No doubt, Lar,” he agreed, “but I’m afraid we’ll have to talk about that some other time. Right now, I’m calling to see if you have a job in your administration for a good loyal public servant—at least I’m sure he’s loyal to you. He hasn’t been to me, I’m afraid, so this morning when he offered his resignation, I accepted it.”
“You haven’t fired Brad Harper, you son of a bitch!”
“No, I said he resigned. At least, I think we should all say he resigned. Don’t you, Lar? It might get too sticky all around if it got out that I had to fire him, because then I’d have to give reasons and some of them”—he looked sharply at Brad and again, for just a second, a shadow he could not interpret crossed his angry eyes—“might not be too comfortable for him. Anyway, he’s leaving Washington, I think, and I was wondering if maybe you could—”
“Put him on!”
“Surely, Larry,” he said amicably. “I’m going to listen in on the other extension, though.”
“Listen and be damned, you bastard…Brad?”
“Yes, Larry,” Brad said, and a sudden enormous indignation filled his voice. “This—this —”
“I know what he is,” the governor said. “The whole world knows what he is. A hypocritical two-faced son of a bitch who betrays his friends and deserts his backers. But that isn’t your problem at the moment, is it? Bob Graham is resigning as director of transportation to go with the automobile association. Do you want his job? It’s about the same salary.”
“I want to stay where I am,” Brad said harshly.
“Well, you aren’t going to,” the governor said with equal harshness, “so cut your losses and get out lucky. Do you want Graham’s job or don’t you?”
“I’m going to get this guy for this!”
“We’re all going to join you,” the governor said impatiently, “but right now, God damn it, I want an answer. Do you want Graham’s job or don’t you? Take it or be damned.”
“And don’t you talk to me like that either,” Brad said in a tone that matched his. “I know plenty—”
“And I know plenty,” Larry said with a savage pleasantry. “Shall I spill it to the media?… Now, God damn it, give me an answer on that job. Right now.”
Brad thought for a long moment, looking, Mark decided, quite feral and trapped; but maybe that was imagination.
Finally he said in a sullen voice, “I’ll take it.”
“Out here in two weeks,” the governor said crisply. “Will you be bringing Janie, or is she getting a divorce at last?”
“She’s getting a divorce.”
“You’ll be coming alone, then,” the governor said. “Or will you?”
“I’ll be coming alone,” Brad said angrily. “Don’t be so damned smart-ass about—about everything.”
“Don’t be so confident about it,” the governor retorted. “It could blow anytime. If you’ll forgive the expression.”
“Hell with you,” Brad said, but he sounded suddenly halfhearted and down. Mark was almost sorry for him, in a remote sort of way.
“Likewise,” Larry said. “See you in my office in two weeks. Mark: make the announcement today, will you? He’s resigning to come work for me. With great reluctance you’re letting him go, but you have to respect his wishes to take this new and challenging job which will permit him to give continuing and even greater service to the people of California. And all that other B.S. Okay?”
“Okay, Larry,” Mark said pleasantly. “Give our love to Helen and keep in touch.”
“You can bet on that,” the governor said flatly. “Yes, buddy-boy, you can bet on that.”
“And now, Brad,” Mark said, hanging up the phone, “go and write that announcement and bring it to me and I’ll release it to the media and then you can clear out of here.”
“You haven’t heard the last of me,” Brad promised harshly as he stood up.
“Watch it,” Mark warned, suddenly harsh himself. “Apparently there’s something, and sooner or later I’ll find it. Never forget I have it. You behave—I behave. You might tell Larry I said the same to him, too—if I have to be,” he added with an almost desperate little laugh—“if I have to be that son of bitch he says I am, in order to survive in politics.”
But he didn’t really want to be; and so when he had his talk with Johnny McVickers a little later in the morning it was with genuine reluctance that he turned the conversation finally from Lisette to what he sensed must be behind all this.
Not, of course, that turning the conversation proved to be quite as easy as he had hoped it would be, because Johnny seemed genuinely stricken by what he appeared to regard as Mark’s betrayal. The sudden revelation of an older, rigid morality among the supposedly swinging young had quite often surprised him on campus. Now it was directed at him, and he found it an unexpected and unnerving experience.
“Johnny,” he began, “I wanted to talk to you a little bit about the last few days, because I get the feeling you’re pretty unhappy about them.”
