Spencerville

people offer to help you out of a bad situation, you turn them down.”
    “Is that so?”
    “Yes.”
    “Maybe it’s my background of self-reliant farming.”
    “Maybe. Maybe you’re just a contrary, stubborn, and ornery prick.”
    “There’s that possibility. Can I call you on the phone now and then when I need more analysis?”
    “You never call anyone. I’ll call you.”
    “Was I difficult to work with?”
    “Don’t get me started.” He added, “But I’d take you back in a second.”
    “Why?”
    “You never let anyone down. Not ever. I guess that’s the situation you find yourself in now. But your loyalties have changed.”
    “Yeah… somewhere on the road between Washington and Spencerville, I had a conversion.”
    “Try to take shorter drives. Speaking of which, here we are.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
    T hey entered the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and walked into the Jockey Club, where the maître d’ welcomed Mr. Adair by name. As he showed them to a table for two near the far wall, everyone else checked them out.
    This was one of the power restaurants in Washington, Keith knew, and had been for over thirty years since it opened and Jackie Kennedy was one of the first customers.
    It was a masculine, clublike place, but the women seemed to like the food and the attention, he recalled. Washington, in fact, was a masculine town despite being the foremost equal opportunity employer, the spiritual home of politically correct and nonsexist language and laws. Some women here had power, to be sure, but it was a town whose fundamental attitudes toward females had lagged far behind the public utterances. For one thing, Keith knew, young, good-looking women outnumbered their male counterparts by some unhealthy ratio. For another thing, power was an aphrodisiac, and the men had it. The women who came to Washington from the hinterlands to work as government secretaries and aides were often the type who were content to bask in reflected power. In other words, the women in official Washington were furniture and happy to be polished and sat on once in a while. Everyone denied this, of course, and in Washington that meant it was true.
    There were changes in the air, to be sure, but aside from a handful of rich and powerful old Washington dowagers, there weren’t many women dining with other women in the Jockey Club.
    Keith hadn’t come here often, but when he did, he’d noticed that the place was fairly nonpartisan in regard to politics. Barbara Bush and Nancy Reagan were as likely to be at the corner table as were black civil rights leaders Vernon Jordan and Jesse Jackson. The place was heavy with media stars as well, and on this afternoon, Keith spotted Mike Wallace and George Will at separate tables. People seemed to be taking mental notes of who was dining with whom. Keith asked Charlie, “Will anyone important be joining us? We’re disappointing these people.”
    Charlie lit a cigarette. “You could be here in a few weeks, wearing the uniform of a general.”
    “Generals are a dime a dozen in this town, colonels are office boys, and I don’t wear my uniform anyway.”
    “Right. But you could have your secretary call and say, ‘This is the White House. I’d like to make a reservation for General Landry.’”
    “Hey, that’s almost as important as actually doing the job.”
    “Well, then, think about this—with a promotion and thirty years’ service, your retirement pay will be nearly double, and you can live comfortably. You’d still be a young man when you retire.”
    “What’s it to you, Charlie?”
    “I’d like to have you around again.”
    “I won’t be around
you.
I’ll be across the street.”
    “I’d like to have a friend in the White House.”
    “Ah. The motive.”
    “I’m also thinking of your best interests.”
    “That’s two of us.” He added, “I appreciate that.”
    The waiter came, and Keith ordered a double Scotch on the rocks. Charlie had his usual vodka with a twist.
    Charlie said, “I’ve booked you at the Four Seasons tomorrow. I figured you’d want to be in Georgetown.”
    “Who’s paying for all this?”
    “White House.”
    “Including tomorrow night with my married girlfriend?”
    “Anyway, if you take the two-fifteen out of Toledo tomorrow, you should be in your room by five. I’ll call you, and we’ll all have dinner in Georgetown.”
    “Fine.”
    “We’ll do a nice tour of the city on Monday, and by Tuesday, you’ll have talked it over with