“I want to quit. I will quit, just as soon as we get rolling. I came here because of the New Deal. But that’s all over.”

  “All over?” This would be news to Peter’s father.

  “Of course. Next year there’ll be either a conservative Democrat elected or a Republican, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “But suppose Roosevelt runs for a third term?”

  “He won’t,” said Diana quickly, reflecting her father’s hope.

  “Even if he does,” said Billy, “he’s washed up as a liberal. He never was much of one anyway.”

  “And what,” asked Peter, “is a liberal?”

  Billy told him at length. The voice boomed. Barricades materialized in the streets. The proletariat got their bread at gunpoint. Medicine was socialized. Inheritance taxes ended the great fortunes, while natural resources were nationalized. The rich went to work; the virtuous poor had long vacations. And at the center of this fierce leveling and raising, Billy Thorne stood, directing operations, wooden leg creaking, voice booming. Meanwhile the businessmen at the next table fled, no doubt to report to the House Un-American Activities Committee that the enemy had seized the dining room of the Willard Hotel.

  When Billy finished his speech, Peter saw that Diana was ecstatic, and he decided that she was either in love or out of her mind, assuming that both were not the same.

  “And that’s why we need a magazine,” Billy added. “Some place where we can see to it that the right things get said and done.”

  “But how can you be so certain you’re right?” Peter was mild. “You think it’s correct to take my father’s money away from him. He thinks it’s wrong, and so do I…selfish reasons, of course.”

  “If it benefits all the people to confiscate your father’s money then it ought to be confiscated.”

  “But will it really benefit them?”

  “He’s hopeless!” Billy roared. “Read Keynes, read Lenin, read Marx!”

  At that moment an official from Commerce entered the bar and Billy Thorne called out to him. Peter used the introductions to say goodbye. Diana walked him to the door.

  “I’m sorry I got you into this.”

  “It’s all right. He’s…interesting.” That was the best Peter could do.

  Diana smiled, suddenly mischievous. “Poor Billy does rub people the wrong way, but he’s awfully brilliant. I’ll send you his book about Spain. The reviews were wonderful, at least those that weren’t written by fascists.”

  “Well, I hope you get your money.”

  “So do I. There’s a chance Mr. Nillson might help out. He was going to give me a job in New York but then I met Billy. Now I’m going to stay.”

  “You’re not going to marry him, are you?”

  “I don’t think men like Billy get married.”

  “Doesn’t he believe in it?”

  “Something like that. He’s the most stimulating person I’ve ever known. Oh, all right. I can tell you despise him.” She laughed. “If you like, we can try again. You’re going to be here this summer, aren’t you?”

  Peter nodded. “We’ll try again. I’ll call you.” Diana went back to her revolutionary and Peter went out into Pennsylvania Avenue.

  The crowd was gone. Traffic was normal. He found a taxi and gave the driver Enid’s address. He had not seen her since the Easter vacation. Since her marriage and his own translation from adolescence to manhood, they were seldom together. Yet difficult as she was, of all the people in his life he cared most for her; and he often wondered if she continued to feel the same attraction for him that he could not stop feeling for her even though between them flowed the never-to-be-spanned river of their common blood.

  III

  The Texans were making a lot of noise when Clay arrived. Although the host was notoriously committed to the New Deal, he welcomed Clay with a large hug and introduced him to those few he did not already know.

  “We have been pourin’ for quite some time.” The Congressman steered him to a desk on which bottles and glasses had been set. Everyone was in shirtsleeves, including a member of the Cabinet, who turned away when he was told that Clay was Burden Day’s assistant. But though Clay was in enemy territory, as the son-in-law of Blaise Sanford he was the object of a certain amount of deference. That he had not seen Blaise a half dozen times since the wedding was not public knowledge.

  The Texans were in a happy mood, arguing about everything. The Vice President particularly concerned them. Despite the fact that he was also from Texas, few thought he should succeed the President.

  “Anyway,” said one of the Congressmen, “you could never sell a man like him to the country.”

  “Because he’s from Texas, that’s why.” Laughter at their common predicament.

  The Congressman shook his head. “You couldn’t sell him because he lends money in that bank of his at twelve per cent. Now I ask you, who’s goin’ to vote for a man who charges stockmen twelve per cent?”

  “Any Republican,” said Clay. He was rewarded with laughter. Despite his connection with Burden, he got along well with the Texans, if only because working politicians tend to be tolerant of one another, realizing that one man’s conviction is another man’s heresy, which was why it was helpful not to have too many convictions. In any case, the fiercely doctrinaire were seldom elected to the Congress. But they did get appointed to various agencies. Clay detested the New Dealers, particularly the member of the Cabinet who had just snubbed him.

  “Regular son of a bitch, ain’t he?” An elderly Congressman indicated the Cabinet member.

  Clay was alarmed that his dislike had been so apparent. He used one of Burden’s favorite lines, “You might say that he has every characteristic of a dog, except loyalty.”

  The older man chuckled. “Only thing is, he is loyal to the President, which shows what kind of yellow dog he is. Well, thank the Lord we won’t have him around much longer, or any of that crowd. Next election and back they all go to New York City where they belong, doin’ good.”

  “If the President doesn’t run again.”

  “He won’t. Come over here.” Clay was drawn to a corner of the room. He recognized in the other’s broad smile that the time had come for politicking.

  “Now then,” said the Congressman, voice pitched so that none but Clay could hear. “I’m for Burden.” If this was true, Clay was startled. The Congressman was known to favor Secretary of State Cordell Hull. Assuming that the declaration was not true but merely a gracious prelude to something else, Clay nodded and waited.

  “Lot of fellows here in this room might support him if he’d make a little effort to woo ‘em.” Clay wondered just what it was the old man wanted in the way of wooing. No politician ever spoke for another politician. “They” usually meant “I.” The Congressman mopped his brow with a red bandanna; no doubt a useful prop when he was on the hustings. Clay tried to visualize the district his companion represented: oil, cattle, cottonwoods, Indians.

  “For instance, there’s been some concern about Burden’s dealings with a certain Ed Nillson.”

  “What about them?” Clay blinked his innocence.

  “What about them?” The sly red face was thrust suddenly into his. Inadvertently, Clay stepped back, into a table.

  “Nothing much to tell.” The metal top of the table pressed hard against Clay’s legs. “Ed came to the Senator, oh, a couple of years ago. He wanted to help out. And he has. He’s been invaluable to us.” So far, all that Clay had said was perfectly true.

  “You know, I got some Indians in my district.” The Congressman’s voice was dreamy. “They are the salt of the earth, those fellows…fact, I’m one-eighth Indian myself.” Ever since the rise of the humorist Will Rogers it was fashionable for Westerners to claim a drop or two of Indian blood. They could then pretend to be “original Americans.”

  “Now, these good people whom I have the honor to represent…” A slightly sardonic smile took the edge off the pious words, usually delivered straight with hand on heart. “…sold off a large section of land to a company whose owner is one Edgar Nillson.”

  Clay nodded. “I heard about that deal. There was a bit of commotion over at Interior but it was finally O.K.’d.”

  “A great deal of commotion, of hue and cry which didn’t stop until a certain Senate subcommittee, without a peep, allowed the desperate deed to be consummated, allowed those rich lands to go for a mess of pottage to one Edgar Nillson, who then became, as if by magic, treasurer of the James Burden Day for President Committee.”

  Clay felt sweat form at the temples. “I’m not sure I understand you.”

  “Our friend Burden was the chairman of that Senate subcommittee.”

  “But he was also out of the country when the committee read out the bill. I remember, he was in Canada and…”

  “That’s right. But just before Burden went to Canada, he phoned one of the Senators on the subcommittee and told him how important it was that Mr. Nillson be allowed to buy that Indian land. Now though the Senator to whom he confided these instructions has since gone to his reward, his secretary, a true gem and a recent addition to my staff, just now told me how they used to have in his old office this recording device which was attached to the Senator’s private telephone, a truly infernal doodad which could spell the ruin of us all.”

  Clay’s hands went cold. His stomach contracted. His career in politics was ended before it ever began.

  “Now I have the means of obtaining this…what should I call it? Piece of conversation which I firmly believe should not be floatin’ around as a possible source of embarrassment to my good friend and maybe next President, no, sir. We don’t want the wrong people gettin’ ahold of it.”

  “It could be misinterpreted.” Clay played the game. He had no choice.

  “You bet your ass it could be.” The Congressman beamed, revealing broken teeth, brown from chewing tobacco. “Now I happen to have a friend who has an interest in a few skimpy acres at the edge of Mr. Nillson’s development and it seems to me that it might be a fair trade if Mr. Nillson bought that land—at a reasonable price of course—receiving in addition to those acres, which contain who knows what mineral treasure, the record of Burden’s conversation.”

  Not as bad as Clay had feared. “Okay.” Clay was equally to the point. “I’ll talk to Ed this afternoon.”

  “Tell him to call me at home. I’ve been livin’ at the Alban Towers since my wife passed on and I gave up the big house. It was just too lonely without Li’l Tyke—that’s what I called her, Li’l Tyke—she was the tiniest thing with those big eyes. Oh, I do miss her!” The Congressman poured himself bourbon. “I’ll be waitin’ for Ed’s call.”

  “It’ll come. And when you two agree…”

  “Which I’m sure we will. He’s a good old boy, Ed, and my friend is not unduly greedy.”

  “I’m sure he’s not. Anyway, once you two settle the price, let me know. And I’ll collect the…recording.”

  “You don’t want Ed to have it?”

  “No, I do not.”

  The Congressman laughed. “Can’t say I blame you. Well, as long as he don’t demand it—and he’s the one who’s payin’—it’s yours. The Alban Towers will find me every night. I don’t go out no more. At my age, what’s the use? I’m just markin’ time till I join Li’l Tyke, at the good Lord’s pleasure. Nice to do business with you, son.”

  Clay then said hello to a Congressman from Oklahoma and gravely discussed with him whether or not Cordell Hull, a Southerner, could be nominated for President. As they talked, Clay recalled Burden’s casual dismissal of Nillson just before he went to Canada. “I don’t want anything to do with that man.” Then, a few months later, Nillson formed the Day for President Committee. Yet Clay had suspected nothing, and that was what most alarmed him. He had been fooled by Burden. It was unbearable. After all, if he could not understand a man with whom he had worked for half a dozen years, could he understand anyone?

  “Bright young fellow,” said his host at the right moment, taking him by the arm. “I just made a bet that in ten years you’ll be with us here on the Hill, as an e-lected o-fficial.”

  “Or I’ll be in the White House, working for President Day.”

  “Well, that is outside the venue of my bet. I tend to put my money on a sure thing.”

  “You don’t think the Senator can be nominated?”

  “I don’t want him to be nominated.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “No, it is not. I will say that I’d rather see him than Garner or Farley or Hull or McNutt.”

  “But not as much as Douglas or Hopkins or Jackson.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “The Senator’s right between the two groups. Maybe you’d take him if you couldn’t get one of yours nominated and you didn’t want one of theirs.”

  “As a compromise, Burden would be all right. But hell, who’s compromisin’?”

  That was that. But the exchange had been useful. Burden had not been ruled out.

  At home Clay telephoned Nillson, who did not sound in the least surprised. But then, he never displayed any emotion stronger than bland interest.

  “These things happen from time to time.” The voice from the receiver was serene. “I’ll give him a call.”

  “Will you…uh, buy the land from him?”

  “What else?”

  “Do you think he’ll make copies of that telephone recording?”

  “Why should he? Once I buy the land, he’s in my pocket. He can’t use anything against me that I can’t use against him. What a world we live in!” Nillson actually sounded amused by what had happened. Clay found him more than ever impressive.

  “Incidentally,” said Nillson, “I don’t think you ought to tell Burden about this. It would just worry him and do no good. But use your own judgment. You know him better than I do.” It was then agreed that Clay would pick up the recording, once it had been paid for. With a few soothing words, Nillson rang off.

  Thoughtfully, Clay went upstairs. He looked into the nursery and beheld his daughter asleep on the floor of her crib. In a chair the colored nurse was asleep, a movie magazine on her lap. Clay watched the two for a moment. The nurse’s mouth was open; saliva made a gleaming viscous trail across the caramel chin. His child did not look much better. Fat and fair with a skin mottled from prickly heat, she lay curled like a dog among her toys, breathing heavily, mouth ajar. Mildly depressed, he went into his own bedroom.

  Enid’s clothes were everywhere. He cursed silently. Confronted by her untidiness, Clay had become neat, forging a new weapon in the war between them. And their marriage was a war, no doubt of that. Like enemy commanders surveying a battlefield, each studied the other for signs of weakness. The first shot had been fired at Elkton, their Fort Sumter, when she had blamed him for her heel breaking off and he had countered, logically, that if she were to watch where she was walking…So it began, with a broken heel. Since then neither had let up for more than an occasional truce in order to shift troops, extend supply lines, bring up big guns. Yet the marriage was happy, even though, like all the women he had ever known, Enid did not satisfy him sexually; nevertheless, unlike the others, she never ceased to interest him and though he continued his adventures, he was always happy to return to her, knowing that for all her wildness she was entirely his. He was aware that it was irrational of him not to allow her the same freedom that he allowed himself, but he had been brought up to believe that women were not like men and that they could be faithful if they were in love and so despite all the quite considerable evidence to the contrary, he based their marriage on the fact that she, in love, would never stray and that he, equally in love but male, would on occasion find other pleasures while reserving for her the essential self.

  Suddenly exhausted by the heat and the day, Clay flung himself on the bed as though it were Enid, threw his arms about a pillow which smelled of her, and slept.

  In the Senate dining room Nillson and the old Texas Congressman were having lunch with Dolly Perrine, who was nude. As Nillson cut his steak into small pieces, she attempted to seduce him, but he ignored her, as did the Congressman who was putting silver dollars into a shoebox while repeating over and over again: “How proud Li’l Tyke would be!” To which Dolly would reply in a flat voice, “It’s long distance, Senator. It’s the Governor’s office.” Then Clay joined the party; he lay on his back on the table, aroused by Dolly, who promptly turned her back on him and clutched the stolid Nillson, who continued to eat his lunch. Then the Congressman suddenly noticed Clay. With a glad cry, he started to undo Clay’s trousers as though searching for a cache of silver dollars. “Oh, how proud Li’l Tyke would be!”

  With a cry, Clay awakened to find Enid, smiling wickedly and tugging at his trousers. “For Christ’s sake!” He gasped, pulling himself away from her. “Don’t!”

  “Who were you dreaming of?”

  “None of your business. What time is it?”

  “Late. I’ll bet it wasn’t me.”

  Clay sat up. “As a matter of fact, it was a Congressman from Texas. I was having some dealings with him.”

  “There’s a hell of a situation down on the Hill!” Suddenly Enid was in bed beside him, and though she still wore her long dress from the garden party, they made love, twisting and turning, in one of those spontaneous moments of truce which made the war, when it continued, all the more meaningful.

  Later, Enid lay full length in the bathtub, among bubbles iridescent in the day’s last light. “Well, it was awful, the garden party. The Queen looks like an upstairs maid. He’s rather sweet but tiny. They’re both so tiny. I towered over them.” Enid splashed her elegant breasts; her body shone like bronze. “You know those MacDonald girls, the ones from Berryville who were in school with me? Well, a few years back they had a London season and they were presented at Court wearing ostrich plumes in their hair and looking like the cat’s meow. They even sent everybody pictures of their triumph and we were all so jealous. Well, no longer. Everybody’s been presented. No fuss. No feathers.”