A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [126]
Dwight froze. In all their years, he had never felt fully comfortable with Thornton. In his years of serving the man, Dwight wanted only a small reward: second or third man at Justice or Treasury.
The President was fully aware of Grassley’s value. He commiserated. “There are things you cannot do,” he said, “even as president. I can’t keep the pope from overrunning the planet with scrawny diseased little brown people with perpetual hatred in their eyes. I cannot stop the annual flooding of Bangladesh. I can’t stop the corruption of Mexico and Indonesia.”
Thornton stalled out and scanned the ocean and his trappings of power: helicopter overhead, a picket of Coast Guard craft, the finest sailors and Secret Service the nation had to offer, electronic equipment that could reach Moscow in three seconds. And out there, a launch filled with media. He had positioned Yankee Pride so that the press boat would catch a nasty riptide and have them all green and queasy.
“You seem in a hurry to leave,” the President said. “Got a date?”
“That doesn’t sell papers anymore,” Dwight said. “Who cares?”
“I care,” Thornton answered. “Get rid of him.”
Dwight squelched his desire to scream out as he had always squelched it.
“Look, not that I’m gay bashing or have homophobia, God knows. We have a lot of guys who’ve done Trojan work for the Republican Party. So, God knows I’m not into gay bashing. You’ll thank me, Dwight. I personally have never allowed passion with either sex to rule me. You know, Dwight, I can tell the minute a man walks into the Oval Office if he’s into adultery.”
Dwight wept.
“I take it,” Thornton pressed, “that you do not want to resign as my financial chair.”
Right now, goddammit, Dwight thought, stand up and tell him to shove it! The sonofabitch has never felt anything in bed. Ask my sister!
“So, tell Bruce to move out of your New York condo.”
“His name is Randy,” Dwight whimpered. “I’ll tell him.”
The commodore’s launch pulled alongside. Darnell Jefferson, now a white-haired and distinguished gentleman, hit the boat’s ladder like a point guard slashing to the basket, quick and graceful. Darnell was greeted by a pale number in Dwight, who winced out a smile and greeting, then was helped into the launch.
Darnell downed a catch-up drink as T3 studied the political atlas.
“What the hell’s the matter with Dwight? He looks as though he was shot out of a cannon and missed the net.”
Thornton punched that sweet-sounding little bell and pointed at his drink. Darnell knew when Thornton had one drop more than allowable, sometimes drifting into forbidden territory. Darnell reckoned it was the President’s fourth.
“Christ, don’t glower,” Thornton said. “You’re getting like those Navy doctors. They’re on automatic. Cut down on the booze, Mr. President. You know what the Navy doctors remind me of—a sidewalk filled with wind-up dolls all going in different directions and yakking, ‘Cut down on the booze.’”
“You and Dwight have words?”
“I had words for him. Get rid of that sweet thing, Rodney or Rudy or whatever the hell its name is, or resign the party.”
“Dwight Grassley is your devoted slave, and he is family.”
“Sure, the same kind of family Jimmy Carter had with that hee-haw brother of his.”
“What about me? I bring white girls to the White House banquets.”
“You are not currently married.”
“Dwight and Brenda have not had sex in a quarter of a century. Both of them are entitled to their lives. You know, fucking A, when Dwight suggested a divorce twelve years ago, you flipped out. For the first time in his life, Dwight has a sweet young man to love him.”
The President’s face screwed up in disgust. “That is very ugly.”
“Mr. President, the American people don’t give a big rat’s ass if Dwight Grassley is fucking rattlesnakes.”
“Oh, sure,” Thornton answered, “take a look at the press launch. You think the Clinton scandal has put an end to our prurient curiosity?” He changed the subject. “Anything in your reports that needs attention?”
“No. A few small blips. I don’t want to sound cocky, but unless