Mulch (6 page)

Peter knew most celebrities liked tables
in corners. But this one was in a bay window overlooking the restaurant’s on-the-street herb garden, where even now through Belgian lace curtains Peter could see a Mexican planted in midstoop, picking large basil leaves off thriving two-foot bushes. These were for use in their renowned hors d’ocuvre, toast with fresh tomato slice and fresh mozzarella, topped with basil leaves and drizzled with olive oil. Which Paschen was finishing right now. Peter wished he’d ordered it rather than the herring.

He leaned back and in the process dwarfed the captain’s chair with his large frame. He peered down through thick-lensed aviator glasses to be sure no herring had landed on his tie. Satisfied that there was none, he looked over at his diminutive host. Time to open business.

“So, Tom. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Let’s say it’s that long line of people who have lusted after big government jobs—Supreme Court, Cabinet, federal judge—or even lower-level jobs, like deputy secretary of defense …” Paschen’s eyes glittered maliciously at Peter as he wiped traces of olive oil off his fingers. His British tailored suit could not conceal the taut energy in his body, a tiger’s energy, caged in serge.

Peter waited.

“… and fell on their asses because they somehow screwed up.”

“Yeah?” said Peter belligerently. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t identify with that.”

Paschen smoothed his already smooth hair in a gesture familiar to watchers of Sunday morning TV news shows, where this guy was the president’s Answer Man. He settled his forearms
on the table and gazed straight at Peter. “Normally, Hoffman, as you and I both know—or maybe you don’t—these approvals at deputy secretary level are pro forma, not to be compared with higher-level positions. You know the drill—or do you? One senator plus you and your sponsor in a Senate hearing room. A written statement, which you need to read with sincerity. A few good words from Senator So-and-so, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Unless, of course—”

“Unless the nominee tends to talk to the press, which is what you’ve done this week. Now, I have the utmost respect for you”—Paschen put up a hand as if to indicate his utmost respect—“and I know you did this in total innocence, without realizing the harm that could be done.”

“Jesus Christ, Tom, I was just putting a little color into a story of how an honest arms dealer operates—”

Paschen threw both hands up wide. “See what I mean? What could arouse more interest in the press than that kind of story? A hotdogger: The press can smell one a mile away. And what happens to hotdoggers? They eventually take a real bad fall and break their goddamn necks.” The chief of staff leaned over the table, pointing his finger in Peter’s face. “You have to learn how to use the press and not let them use you.” The eyes were shining with superior knowledge. “The press, Hoffman, is a monster, a big, unkempt monster. You’ve got to know how to keep it in check. You can use it like your pet, if you know how, like me. I jolly it, push it, con it, and use it to my purposes. I
don’t
feed it too much red meat like you are doing right now. It goes crazy if you do, and latches on
to you
and”—Paschen sat back in his chair and snapped his fingers—“gobbles you right up.”

Peter was restraining a smile. The guy was living up to his reputation, every inch of the way.

He continued. “Let’s not further belabor the Middle East situation with stories like the one you gave the press. You are not privy to exactly where we stand these days on the area because you are not yet in the loop. Although we were tilting one way, this has changed somewhat over the past days, and we don’t like indiscreet stories in the media—we want to do nothing to tip our hand.” He folded his hands in front of him and leaned forward conspiratorially. “And in any event, even if you have been a resourceful arms peddler, drop ‘arms sales’ from your vernacular. We phrase it differently; it’s termed ‘security-enhancement agreements.’ Got that? ‘Security-enhancement agreements.’ You’ve got to get the phraseology down. Things are a little more complicated when you get to this level. I hope you realize that.”

Peter smiled and dislodged a piece of herring from his front tooth with his tongue.

The president’s chief of staff gave him a sour look. “And another small problem: You’ve got to keep your old war stories to yourself—including the intelligence stuff. Everybody knows what intelligence
is.
We’ll tell you when, if ever, those war stories will be suitable for publishing, so to speak.”

“When? When the next little war starts? And what would that be called? Publicity-enhanced memoirs?” He gulped down his sauvignon blanc just as the veal arrived and occupied them both. There was a quiet little clatter, as their knives effortlessly sliced through the flesh of the tender baby steer, and
Peter thought reflectively that the little fellow had never had a chance to get big, and even if he had he would never have had the chance to enjoy the fruits of manhood. Then the animal image receded, and there on his plate lay the puny slice of veal. Washington restaurants were notorious rip-offs: For the price he was paying, he should have had twice as much food.

Paschen pressed on. “Back to these individuals who make it hard for themselves to reach office. You don’t know President Jack Fairchild that well: Underneath his straight exterior is a straight interior. Although his kids occasionally were caught with their pants down or some minor drug thing, this was not a pattern, and they all grew out of it. He doesn’t like drugs and is suspicious of womanizers.”

“Has to be, doesn’t he, in today’s climate? Funny how I remember him quite differently years ago. Always smart and glib, I’ll give you that. A real stud, for another thing”—he slid a mischievous glance at Paschen—“and full of derring-do back then—huh, he’s changed a bit on that score, hasn’t he? Willing to do anything back then—almost
anything
for his country.”

The chief of staff eyed Peter suspiciously but said nothing. Then he turned full attention back to his veal. Peter watched him pile the meat and vegetables meticulously on the back of his fork, continental style. Peter ate the same way, albeit more sloppily, from years of living in Europe. But for this guy it was just bullshit airs.

Peter drawled, “You sound like you’re suspicious of me and my lifestyle. What do you suspect me of, snortin’ coke or something? Who’ve you been talking to?”

“I’ve just heard a couple of things—nothing major, a little
about women, a little about coke use. What we need is a clean slate.” Paschen grinned. “You know damned well about the political climate these days. I’d like you to get busy and sec that your slate is wiped clean or I’ll just blow you out of the water next time I talk to the boss. So. To summarize: If you fail in this, the worst-case analysis is that you then won’t get confirmed. The best-case analysis is that you
will
but you’ll forever remain outside the envelope.” He spread his hands open in an appealing gesture. “And then what good would you be to us?”

Peter stared at Paschen with mouth slightly agape. “I’ve heard about you,” he said. “I guess I didn’t believe it until now. Sure, I can clean my slate—a little. But I am what I am. I have a past I’m mostly proud of, and a damned lot to offer as deputy secretary. Shit, where would you guys be without the weapons I invented?”

“No one’s saying you’re not talented,” said Paschen coldly. He set his napkin carefully at plateside and beckoned the hovering waiter for a bill. Peter was disappointed, because the desserts in Pomodoro were some of the best in town. He could feel a distinct space in his stomach that needed filling.

Paschen scribbled his signature on the bill and said, “Don’t take offense, Peter. I’m only doing my job. Keeping pet whores in apartments is about as dated as romps in the Tidal Basin. Remember way back to Wilbur Mills? Free souls like yourself need to be aware of this.” He pushed back his chair and got up.

Peter stood up, towering over Paschen. Taking a step closer to the other man, like a shark coming in for a kill, he grabbed his upper arm, pulled him close, bent his head to him, and
said quietly in his ear, “Let me tell you something too, Tom baby. Just because I’m signing up again to work for the government doesn’t mean I’m going to take chickenshit from you or anyone else in the White House.”

Paschen flushed, trying to pull away. Peter held. He said, “Don’t get upset now—everyone’s watching us. Smile as if I were telling you a useful secret or something. One more thing: I know President Fairchild better than you think—from way back in the Diem days in ’Nam. Ask him. And then there’s the money.” He widened his eyes. “Aren’t you aware I’ve become a big contributor? Check that out too. And I’ll be seeing you, but not too soon, okay?” Then he released him and walked out of the restaurant. When he glanced back at the door, Paschen, his face a dull brick red, was still standing where he left him.

L
OUISE TRUDGED UP THE HANDSOME WINDING
steps, admiring them as she went. Each step was outlined with weathered wood and filled in with small river stones set in concrete. This grand approach was in sharp contrast to some she had seen in Sylvan Valley that were no more than simple Indian-style footpaths.

The hill was carpeted with ivy. Out of this sturdy ground cover emerged graceful clumps that stubbornly represented the fading summer: pale rudbeckia and
globe thistle, fall asters, lamb’s ears, sedum Autumn Joy, and other perennials she couldn’t recognize in the gloom. All planted, it seemed, by an artistic hand. Soaring up behind them were graceful masses of ornamental grasses, swaying in the faint evening breeze. These last remainders of the summer were like separate presences on the hill, many faded to neutral shades of rose, pale blue, tan, gray, and off-white, with an occasional accent of rust or deep ruby.

Off to the side, but still visible in the waning Virginia evening light, was a picture that in the dimness looked as if painted in watercolor by a Japanese artist: sharp-angled, bony-looking branches of a trio of oakleaf hydrangeas set in front of an evergreen backdrop. An irregular drift of spiky-leaved carex growing low in front added a grassy accent. She noted the large seedheads that festooned the hydrangea branches had changed from the white of summer through the pink of fall, and now were the palest peach-beige. They would hang in there, she knew, all through the worst kind of winter, a kind of assurance that this sturdy plant would do it again next year.

After climbing twenty-four steps, she reached the house, and realized coming in the front door of this house, though interesting, was really doing it the hard way. The place sat on the top of Sylvan Valley’s highest hill and belonged to Mort and Sarah Swanson. He was a lawyer with Wilson and Sterritt, and she was one of the many neighborhood potters and said to have been a beauty in her heyday, whenever that was; Louise had not yet met the woman.

She had heard that when it was built, twenty-five or so years ago, the house was featured in
Architectural Digest.
Probably,
she decided, because of indecent exposure. She could see its innards through two floors of floor-to-ceiling windows.

Sarah Swanson was chairman of Sylvan Valley’s Swim and Tennis Club and was hosting the first meeting of the season. Louise’s neighbor Jan had involved her in this—plump Jan with her pretty blond hair and earnest blue eyes, making her pitch with such disarming grace that Louise’s intended “no” came out “yes.” Not the least of it was Jan’s mention of the location of the first meeting. Louise’s curiosity had been aroused; she couldn’t resist checking out
any
house in the neighborhood, much less a designer house. She wondered if they led different lives than people in more ordinary houses. As Bill put it, she was just plain nosy about things like that.

The door opened just as she raised her hand to ring the bell. “And you must be Louise Eldridgre,” said a large woman Louise knew was Sarah. She wore an apricot gauze caftan. Long, curly, graying blond hair was swept back at the nape with an apricot-colored bow, exposing a good check line and handsome, large gray eyes. Her feet were bare. She extended her hand gracefully, and Louise took it but would have shaken it loose again had she dared. It was like a horned beast’s. “I … ah, I’m pleased to be here,” stuttered Louise. “You’re … Sarah.” The woman released her hand and laughed. “You handled that terribly well, Louise. Potters, you know, don’t have the skin you love to touch. I know I shouldn’t shake hands with newcomers, but I do like to touch people. But come.” Then she flowed in front of her up flagstone steps into the living room.

Louise saw now that the house was glass on not one but two sides. “It is simply beautiful,” she said, staring. Just enough
furniture here, all muted gray and white tones, tan wood floors, no interruptions to the eye, so that the forest and the last trails of colored light in the west became part of the room.

“I love it,” she cried. “It’s as if we’re standing in the forest.”

“Most people say that,” said a thin balding man with hornrimmed glasses. “I’m Mort Swanson. You must be the new kid on the court down the road.” He grinned a lopsided grin. A $450-an-hour grin, Louise bet. She noted his very clean chinos and deck shoes, just right, she thought, for a swim club meeting. His hands looked soft, the nails manicured and shiny. “You have a nice house in the woods yourself,” said Mort. “Yours is one of the houses that no one has deforested much, unlike some of the properties around here. I think yours has only lost two or three trees over the years. I think, if anything, that adds to its intrinsic value.”