The Rake (7 page)

Augusta, Georgia, April 1987

On Saturday, Reuben went out to the golf course with Bill Rode, his young but experienced aide. Rode had arrived in Augusta the night before with a heavy briefcase of work, including drafts of pending legislative bills.

Rode was indispensable to Reuben Castle. He was obsequious and hard-boiled, angular, narrow of frame, and almost always slightly stooped, suggesting a lifetime commitment to subordinate status. His hair was cropped close, and his metal-rimmed glasses fitted tightly. Even at age twenty-six he was wholly lacking in youthful charm, with the result that he achieved his romantic satisfactions secondhand, tilling Senator Castle's discarded territory as best he could.

Today, Rode very much needed from the senator decisions on the proposed special commission charged with reviewing executive authority in foreign policy.

The issue had been raised a month ago by the president. He had let slip (though Reagan-watchers suspected that Reagan hadn't acted unintentionally) a direct challenge to the Boland Amendment, which outlawed material aid to the Nicaraguan contras. When questioned on the subject at his press conference, President Reagan had smiled affably, saying only that it
would not be right for him, as president, to acquiesce without comment in congressional acts that gainsaid executive prerogatives. “Next question?”

There had been a sustained effort by several reporters to press hard on what had been said. Did President Reagan mean that he did not intend to abide by the terms of the Boland Amendment? Did he have in mind a constitutional adjudication?

“Reagan didn't want to talk about the substantive matter,” Rode recalled, as they drove to the National course.

Mr. Reagan's powers to deflect unwelcome questions were highly developed. “When his back is against the wall,” Reuben commented, “Reagan resorts to amplification after amplification—did you read the transcript yesterday? He manages to edge himself over to one side of the argument. Then edge himself still farther.”

Rode nodded. “And—yes, I did read the text—he concluded with a homily that was simply unrelated to the meaty question of the executive—”

“—overplaying its hand. I don't look forward to the special commission that's going to review the whole question, but I'm willing to serve on it.”

“Here's the matter I need to brief you on. Marlin Fitzwater made the president's point later in the afternoon. If Congress nips and tucks at consequences of presidential action, he said, Congress could end up simply aborting antecedent presidential decisions. Mr. Fitzwater gave the example of the Javits Amendment—”

“You mean on supplemental aid to South Vietnam?”

“Yes. The effect of that legislation, Fitzwater said, was to tie
the hands of the executive when Nixon attempted to enforce the terms of the Paris cease-fire agreement. I have Fitzwater's statement here,” he said, tapping a manila folder on the seat between him and Castle. “This, boss, is what you need to prepare yourself to cope with.”

Reuben opened the folder and homed in on the passage marked in red. He read out loud: “‘The cease-fire of January 1973 effectively ended American participation in the Indochina enterprise, with the return of U.S. troops starting almost immediately. The president feels that the question is overdue for exploration whether Congress can retroactively usurp the president's authority in foreign affairs by denying him authority to conclude arrangements he had made without any challenge to their constitutionality.'

“Well. I certainly challenged their constitutionality.”

“Yes, I know. But the point, as raised by Reagan, is something we—you—haven't dealt with. The question of ex post facto repeal of presidential foreign policy.”

Oh, my, Reuben thought, hemmed in with his aide in the front seat. Dear Bill can go on and on.

Reuben didn't answer directly, but he thought deeply on the point. The name of Senator Castle was actively invoked in the controversy, given the speeches he had made for a number of years challenging the legal authority for the Vietnam War. As an activist on the question, Reuben wasn't surprised that he had not been named by the president to serve on the commission, but it was widely acknowledged that he was nevertheless a prominent spokesman for the case for defining (in this case, trimming) presidential authority.

Reuben looked out the window. Bill Rode, at the wheel, was
inching the car forward at five miles per hour. They were part of the long caravan of automobiles and buses transporting enthusiasts to the links. “By the way, does Hank Wright have any chance of winning?”

“He's very hot. He finished the second round two under par, behind only Larry Mize and Greg Norman. I assume you want us to claw our way to wherever he's playing. It's the third round today. There are four golf theaters going on simultaneously.”

“Yeah, that would be nice, Bill, to go to where our host is playing. Nice thinking. You have good political instincts.”

“I'm learning from you.” The twenty-six-year-old, who had been an honors student in political science at the University of Virginia, attempted a smile.

“Well, Bill, if you're training as a politician, answer me this one: am I wise to just leave it that with Edmund Muskie on the panel, I'm satisfied that our views will be adequately represented? Or should I make a scene and say that our position is underrepresented, since Muskie is only one of five members of the proposed panel?”

I'll be goddamned
, Rode said to himself. Rode was not backward as a political analyst.
Our boy is thinking 1992!
“Well, I'd say—I'd suggest—that you just say at your next press conference that you have great respect for Mr. Muskie, and you know he will represent well the views of those who oppose unconstitutional arrogations of power by the chief executive.” He paused with his single quite captivating expression, in which he managed to combine official skepticism and scarcely concealed derision.

Reuben smiled in return. “I'll have to go to the party to
night. But after lunch, let's go to my room and review the material you brought.”

“Sure. Yes, sir.”

Late in the afternoon Susan reached him. “Are you alone, Senator?”

“Yes, Susan. Bill went up to his own room, so he could watch the rest of the match on television. You got news?”

“Yes, I do. You passed the first test with Harold Kaltenbach. With him, as maybe I told you, the meetings and interrogations go through stages. In the first, he passes judgment on whether your appearance and style can go big-time.”

“So, I made it through stage one?”

“Yes. He's ready now for stage two. That entails, I know from a couple of survivors, pretty intimate interrogation, the kind of thing you'd expect if you were applying to the FBI or the CIA. What it comes down to, really, is a search for anything the opposition could go to town with. He wants to set up that kind of meeting with you.”

“You said yes, I'd agree to that. Obviously.”

“Obviously. But he's not quite ready. He wants to do more of his own reading over the weekend. He asked for a date on Monday. Your calendar is clean, but you can't be spotted in his company. You know that; we've discussed it. He has a friend—hell, he has a friend everywhere—he has a friend who keeps a boat on the Potomac. He said, ‘What about ten
A.M.
aboard the
Circe
?'”

“Are you sure the
Circe
isn't a Soviet spy ship?”

“No, Senator.” Susan laughed. “But I'll investigate before you meet him there. Are you saying yes?”

“Yes, Susan. I mean, I want to be president, and this seems to be what I have to go through to get there. Susan, do you agree with me?”

“That you should want to be president?”

He laughed, “Okay, go with it,” and hung up the phone.

It rang seconds later. It was Bill Rode. “Senator, get this! Hank Wright is tied for the lead with Larry Mize! There'll be a lot of excitement going into the final round tomorrow. Want me to leave your congratulations at his HQ?”

“Yeah, do that.”

“You need anything in the meantime?”

“Nothing much. Maybe some pussy.”

Augusta, April 1987

It was indeed a boisterous party. Under the white plastic tent, drinks flowed freely. The dusk was kept at bay with electric chandeliers overhead, and hurricane lamps on white-clad tables. Tired golfers mingled, their thoughts elsewhere, as VIPs bumped shoulders with young southern talent in skintight dresses. Hank Wright made an appearance. Unsurprisingly, he had nothing to drink, except the glass of dark brown liquid in his hand, and no one expected to learn from him whether that was Coca-Cola or Pepsi Cola. He would not risk affronting either of the giants on the eve of the critical round. If he won it, his managers could turn either to Coke or to Pepsi for future sponsorship.

That didn't discourage anybody else. There were a hundred people crowded into the tent—family, sponsors, friends, celebrities. There was a special exultancy among the friends of Hank Wright and Larry Mize. Which of them would be festive twenty-four hours later depended on how those two players, and the two or three others within striking distance, performed the next day. But one of the two was likely to emerge as champion. That called for another drink.

The bartender had his own quickie version of a mint julep.
Never mind. It was nearly as good as the real thing, Lucille said. Lucille was the principal hostess, in charge of welcoming the guests and directing them to the bar, and going back and forth to the console to increase the volume of the canned music or to decrease it. By seven o'clock it needed to be loud because everybody was speaking at the top of his lungs, just to be heard.

With the rich curves of a twenty-year-old and the confidence of twice that age, Lucille made her way through the crowd, her auburn curls bobbing slightly, her scarlet gown parting the gray, beige, blue. To be greeted by Lucille was to be assured a pleasant welcome.

Lucille had intended to welcome Senator Castle as simply one more VIP, pausing, as she did with other prominent guests, to chat for a minute or two before going back to the entrance to look after latecomers.

But she found she didn't want to leave this alluring young senator. There were, to begin with, his striking looks, and the appealing cock to his head as he leaned forward struggling to make out what you were saying. “You have to try one of Ernie's mint juleps, Senator.” She spoke in Deep South. “He's famous for them. Can I bring you one?”

“Why not? But”—he extended his hand to the sleeve of her dress—“not if it means I'm going to lose you.”

“That won' happen, Senator. I promise you that.”

And it didn't happen. She was back in moments with a mint julep for him and, for herself, a cola.

“You didn't tell me what to call you.”

“I'm Lucille. Lucille DeLoach.”

“Lucille, can I ask you for a favor?”

“You can as' me for anything you want, Senator.”

“An aide of mine is in town to help me out. Would it be okay if he came down to the party?”

“Of
course
! Tell me what hotel he's stayin' in an' I'll call him myself.”

Fifteen minutes later Bill Rode was at Reuben's side, mint julep in hand. It was past seven-thirty and Reuben was finding the juleps powerful. “Powerful like a powerful bull,” he told Bill. “But powerful matadors
like
powerful bulls—they like the challenge.”

“You're liking the challenge of this julep, boss?”

“I'm likin'—see how I can adjust to local idiom, Bill?—I'm likin' all kinds of challenges tonight.”

But he did not like the very immediate challenge he suddenly faced. A heavyset man, julep in hand, tie loosened, jaw thrust menacingly forward, stood squarely in front of Reuben. The sweat beaded on his flushed forehead as he unclenched his jaw to shout. “Heah me, y'all. Heah me.
Heah me!
”

Reuben turned his head to Lucille. “Who's this?”

“Tha's Bartle. Bartle O'Dwyer. Noisy genelman.”

The tent had now gone relatively quiet, and Bartle O'Dwyer pointed a finger at Reuben. “Ladies and genelmen, this is the guy—the creepy guy—I went to in Saigon during a Vietcong raid. The gooks had got raht into the embassy grounds and we needed defensive fire. I ast for volunteers. There were six men in the office there.
Five
of them volunteered.
Not this guy.
He wanted to stay where he was, the colonel's toy lieutenant.” O'Dwyer dropped his glass on the floor and brought his right fist up in a roundhouse punch aimed at Reuben's stomach. Reuben easily swerved out of the way. He thought quickly. He'd have to fight back unless—

Two guests, one of them a bulldog with huge shoulders and powerful arms, seized O'Dwyer and dragged him away, toward the bar.

The silence was momentary. In ten seconds everyone was talking again. Reuben's face was white. “Get me another—” but Lucille was already there with the fresh julep. Reuben took it, but found he had no appetite for it, or even for Lucille.

He turned to Bill Rode. “Let's go. Maybe get something to eat.”

Rode accompanied him out. Several of the partygoers looked at him inquisitively—then past him.

Rode extended the iced-tea pitcher but Castle didn't extend his glass, as he had twice done after they had got back to the suite. “No more. Might interfere with my performance later on.”

Rode winked an eye. “You going out on the links to practice your stroke, Senator?”

“I'm thinking of exactly that, Rode—going somewhere to practice my stroke. Rode?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What time did—what's her name? Gladys?—”

“Gladys, yes.”

“—tell you she'd get here?”

“Couldn't make it before eight-thirty, she said.”

“You know,” Reuben's mind was wandering as, thinking better of it, he extended his glass, “I was thinking of Lucille. But not after that scene at the party.”

“I'm sure Gladys will like your company, Senator.”

“Why not? Most women do. All women do.” He stopped and
chuckled. “I say all women. Is there any woman I haven't pleased?”

“No one who has complained to me.”

“I'm not sure they'd complain to you, and they certainly would not—the nice ladies you come up with—complain to Miss America. Who else would they complain to? The secretary of commerce?”

“You don't hand out…weights and measures.”

“No. But I give them a hell of a measure of what I've got to offer. If they get all I've got, they don't want anything more—they can't take anything more.”

The phone rang. Rode picked it up. “Yes, this is Bill Rode, Gladys. I was just leaving; I've been up here with the senator having some iced tea. Hang on.” He cupped the receiver. “Should I ask her to come up?”

“No—bring her up yourself. Meet her in the lobby.”

Rode spoke into the phone. “He's real anxious to say hello, Gladys. I'll be right down. Should he order dinner?” Rode smiled. “I'll tell him, Gladys. Just a little something. Bye-bye, Gladys.” He leaned over to put down the phone.