Murder at the Kennedy Center (18 page)

“What a pleasure to see you again, Senator,” a tuxedoed host said at the door.

“Same here, Frank,” Backus said. “Trouble with runnin’ for office is that everybody wants you in places you damn well don’t want to be. You’ve got the black redfish ready?”

Frank laughed. “Of course. The minute your office called, I made sure we did. Your usual table?”

“That’ll be fine.”

They were led through the restaurant, where Backus, to the trailing agent’s chagrin, stopped to shake hands. Farmer watched the senator from Georgia with intense interest. Despite being overweight and crass, and with a tendency to sweat even in the blast of an air conditioner, there was an unmistakable dignity to the man. He almost looked elegant,
which, Farmer rationalized, was the result of the power he wielded. Power seemed to iron out wrinkles in suits, and to assign a certain charm to crude behavior.

They moved past two large glass panels on which a donkey and elephant were etched, and to a banquette in the rear. Etched-glass panels along the back of each bench created a relatively private setting. Backus struggled to maneuver his bulk into the banquette. Across from him, the lithe Farmer slid easily into place.

Backus was sweating as he said to the host, “Bring me my usual Blanton’s on the rocks and a side a’ soda water. What are you drinkin’, Mr. Farmer?”

“Perrier, please.”

Backus’s laugh was a low rumble. “Someday, Mr. Farmer, somebody will give a satisfactory explanation to this simple ol’ farm boy why people pay for water in a fancy bottle when it’s free out a’ any ol’ tap.”

“Marketing, Senator,” Farmer said.

“Like sellin’ a politician, huh?”

“I suppose you could draw the analogy.” Farmer’s small face was particularly tight above his yellow-and-brown polka-dot bow tie. His glasses were oversized on the bridge of an aquiline nose. He glanced quickly across the room to where the Secret Service agents sat in their own banquette. He said to Backus, “I would have preferred to meet in an office.”

“I know you would prefer that, Mr. Farmer, but I had to get out of offices, settle in a public place where real people congregate. I need that like a drug addict needs his daily fix.” Farmer started to say something, but Backus continued. “Your boss could use a little of that, too, you know. He’s an insular fella, I’ll say that for him. Likes to be alone too much. Sometimes, I see a little Richard Nixon in him.” Backus’s fleshy face sagged. His smile was gone. He leaned as far forward as his girth would allow and said, “I worry about Kenneth Ewald. He’s like a son to me. I think the rigors of this campaign”—a slight smile returned—“and the rigors of an active social life, to say nothin’ of fulfilling his role as a family man and havin’ to stand tall where his son is involved, are takin’ their toll. You agree?”

“No, sir, I don’t. Senator Ewald is holding up quite nicely.”

“Damn shame what happened to that Feldman girl the other night.”

“A tragedy.”

“Certainly for her. Have you seen Paul?”

“Since his arrest? No.”

“Awful thing for a mother and father to have to face, havin’ your only son a murder suspect.”

“That’s all he is at this point, Senator, a suspect.”

“Don’t think he did the evil deed, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

Backus sat back and slapped beefy hands on the dusty rose tablecloth. “Take a look at the menu, Mr. Farmer. I recommend the blackened redfish, but everything’s pretty good here.”

A waiter brought their drinks. Backus raised his glass filled with rich, amber bourbon, and said, “To the next four years of a Democratic administration. A-men!”

Farmer sipped his water and stared at Backus. Personally, Farmer found Backus to be everything he despised in politics. But one thing Ed Farmer never wanted to be accused of was naiveté. Personal responses meant little in Washington and politics. More important was the aura of power that Backus exuded, his crass style be damned. The big southern senator’s body count topped that of everyone else in Congress, and he knew the location, width, and depth of every grave.

Backus locked eyes with Farmer as he downed his drink and waved for a waiter to bring him another.

“Sir?” the waiter asked Farmer.

“A small bottle of Château Giscours Margeaux, ’83, please.”

“That’s what I like to see,” said Backus. “I don’t much care for wine, but—”

“Senator, could we get to the point of why we’re here?”

Backus swallowed his annoyance at being interrupted. “That would be sincerely appreciated, Mr. Farmer. Proceed. This is your meeting.”

“And your check?”

“If you insist. I suppose Ken Ewald doesn’t pay you a hell of a lot.”

“Money didn’t motivate me into politics. Public service did.”

“Just like me,” Backus said. “What’ll Ken Ewald toss you if he makes it, Mr. Farmer, chief a’ staff? Press secretary? Health, Education and Welfare? I’d heartily endorse the latter. You’d be damn good givin’ out welfare to the shiftless nonproducers of this society.”

Farmer sniffed the wine, tasted it, nodded to the waiter, and returned his attention to the large man across from him. “Some people are suggesting it might be time to talk about a coalition.”

“Coalition? With who?”

“You and him.”

Backus laughed. “I figured that’d be comin’ up. Senator Ewald must be a mite nervous these days about the way things are goin’.”

“There’s some truth to that,” Farmer said flatly.

“No wonder. I heard him say in that speech he gave last week that the Republicans have had a lock on the White House all these years, and that he is the one who has what it takes to pick that lock. Nice phrase your speechwriters came up with, but the fact is, I don’t think your master, Ken Ewald, is in a position to pick anybody’s lock these days, not with havin’ one of his staff members murdered with his own weapon, and havin’ most fingers pointin’ at his own son. Tell me, Ed, what’s your honest evaluation of the possibility that Paul Ewald killed that poor young thing?”

Farmer hesitated before saying, “I don’t think Paul Ewald killed Andrea Feldman.”

“You don’t sound like you’re brimmin’ over with conviction, Ed.”

“No one knows what happened,” Farmer said.

“And from Ken Ewald’s perspective, just as well nobody does know, least not till after November.” Backus cocked his head and smiled smugly. “Know what, Ed? I don’t think your boss is goin’ to make it at the convention. What do you think?”

Farmer sipped his wine.

“Just how nervous is your man?” Backus asked.

“Probably not as nervous as you hope,” Farmer replied. “He’s ignoring any pressure to offer you the vice-presidency up front.”

“That’s about the only thing I agree with him about. I don’t intend to be anybody’s vice-president. You hear me? You make sure Senator Ewald hears me.”

“Yes, I heard you,” Farmer said, touching the end of his bow tie, then examining a class ring on his finger.

“I suggest we eat,” Backus said, “unless you’ve got more to say.”

“No, I have nothing more to say, Senator Backus, except that your toast to a Democratic administration won’t mean much if Ken Ewald doesn’t make it at the convention.”

“I don’t read it that way. Seems to me that all he has to do is keep on the course he’s takin’, and this country might be proposin’ a toast to this ol’ southern boy on November nine. That wouldn’t upset you too much, would it, Ed?” Backus’s moonlike face was quiescent; the liquor had added a touch of color.

“I suppose not,” Farmer said, “although having you as president, Senator Backus, wouldn’t represent much of a change from the past eight years, a donkey instead of an elephant, but not much else different.”

Backus looked above Farmer’s head to the etched donkey and elephant on the glass behind him. He smiled, said, “At least we’d have a president who’s in the mainstream of American thought.”

“Like President Manning,” Farmer said.

“Manning’s not a bad fella, just handin’ out favors to the wrong people.”

“Like Colonel Morales and the Reverend Kane?”

“Hell, no. Morales is fightin’ for freedom in Panama, and the last I heard, the American people stand up for freedom. As for the Reverend Kane, he tends to people’s souls.”

“Unless they’re Panamanian. Then he tends to their stockpile of weapons.”

“You sound like your boss, Ed,” Backus said.

“I’m supposed to sound like him. I’m his campaign manager.”

Backus nodded and narrowed his eyes. “I like you, Ed. I like a man who says what he’s supposed to say even though it don’t necessarily represent what he thinks.”

“I believe in what Ken Ewald stands for,” Farmer said.

“Unless he’s not sittin’ in a chair where he can put his ideas into action.”

Farmer’s smile was thin. “Like you, Senator Backus, proclaiming your wholehearted support of Ken if he gets the nomination.”

“I’m a Democrat. I owe my allegiance to whoever comes out of the convention as the candidate. I just hope it isn’t Ken Ewald. I got grave doubts about where he might lead this country.”

“And you would prefer someone, Democrat or Republican, who espouses the Manning doctrine.”

Backus leaned forward and his voice became slightly fatherly. “Ed, we’ve still got us a two-party system, Democrats and Republicans, but that doesn’t mean a hell of a lot anymore. What matters today is political vision, not party labels.”

Farmer listened silently to the quiet speech he was given by Backus. The southern senator was right, of course. There had been a shift from a two-party system in which Democrats and Republicans competed for elected office, to one in which conservatives and liberals did the vying, Democrats and Republicans sometimes joining forces on the Right, against Democrats and Republicans hooking up together in an equally uneasy alliance on the Left. Philosophy or ideology had supplanted party politics. “The cause,” no matter what it was, had been elevated above allegiance to party which, some claimed, represented a positive step in that it caused the men and women of Congress and the executive to act according to their consciences, rather than along strict party lines. Under the old system, it would have made sense to pair people like Ewald and Backus together to combine the liberal and conservative voters. North and South. Big-city guy and rural American representative. But such coalitions were no longer viable. Ewald and Backus were polar opposites. The fact was—and Farmer knew it—Ken Ewald, despite his seemingly immense popularity, and his
victory in a majority of the primaries, did not represent the mainstream of American thought. He was too liberal, too linked to big-budget social programs, perceived as being too soft on crime and national defense. Ewald’s nomination could end up yet another example of the Democrats’ penchant for self-destruction, a candidate who stood for the principles of the party but not the principles of the majority of the American voters. McCarthy. McGovern. Carter. Dukakis. Ewald.

After they ordered, Backus said, “You’re obviously an ambitious fella, Ed.”

“Yes, I have ambition.”

“Seems like everybody in Washington has ambition.”

“You aren’t critical of that, are you, Senator? I’d say Senator Jody Backus has demonstrated a fair amount of ambition in his career.”

“A different thing, Ed. A politician’s ambitions are based upon his desire to serve the public. Then there are all those ambitious men and women lookin’ to grab onto his coattails. That’s how some politicians get in trouble, havin’ the wrong young men and women hangin’ on their coattails.”

Farmer’s thin nostrils flared. “Are you including me in that category, Senator Backus? It seems to me you ought to be more respectful of my ambition.”

Backus gave him a conciliatory smile. “Don’t take personal offense, Ed. I just call it like I see it. Your level of ambition certainly hasn’t been lost on me.”

Farmer said nothing.

“You see, Mr. Farmer, I
like
ambition in young men, big dreams, feet gettin’ bigger along with the head, climbin’ and stretchin’ and sniffin’ around the ones who can do them the most good. Of course, I’m not talking about loyalty here. Lots a’ times, loyalty and ambition don’t go hand in hand.”

“I’m not sure I appreciate the tone this conversation is taking,” Farmer said.

“Now ain’t that too bad.”

“I happen to be a very loyal person, Senator.”

“Depends on how you define it, Ed. What do you figure got that nice young woman killed—too much ambition, too
much loyalty, or not enough common sense when it came to the people she chose to run with?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Farmer said in a low voice.

The waiter arrived with their appetizers. Farmer touched his mouth with his napkin, slid out of the booth, and said to the restaurant host, “I just remembered an important appointment.” He turned to Backus and said as pleasantly as possible, “I really hate to leave, Senator. Enjoy your blackened redfish, and thank you for the wine. It was palatable.”

Mac Smith waited a long time in the study before Ken Ewald came through the door. “Sorry, Mac, but things get crazier every day.”

When they were seated, Smith asked Ewald a number of questions that had been on his mind. Then he said, “Ken, we are alone in this room. You mentioned to me that the night Andrea Feldman was murdered, you’d left your office to meet with a woman at the Watergate Hotel.”

Ewald glanced nervously at the door.

“I’m not in the habit of informing wives about husband’s indiscretions, Ken, but I have to know everything that occurred that night, with
everyone
.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Because you’ve brought me into this situation. You’ve asked me to be Paul’s attorney if he’s charged, and although he hasn’t been yet, there is every possibility that he will be, depending on what MPD manages to come up with. You can’t bring me in and then stonewall me.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right, Mac, but what contribution could revealing this woman’s identity possibly make to your defense of Paul, if it comes to that?”

“I don’t know, Ken, but I learned long ago not to censor myself until I had the facts. When I have the facts, I can make a determination whether it contributes or not. I do not intend to be surprised at answers the DA may come up with.”