Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [41]
The aide who’d announced that Bruce Lerner was heading their way had positioned herself in the doorway to the hall. When she saw the senior senator from Virginia turn a corner, she motioned to another aide, who quickly informed Sybers that Lerner was about to arrive.
“Good morning,” Lerner tossed out to those in the reception area as he passed by and strode into his Alabama colleague’s office.
“’Morning, Senator,” he said to Sybers, who lifted himself a few inches from his chair. “No need to get up.” He extended his hand across the desk, which Sybers took in what always surprised people as a firm grip. “You’re looking well.”
Lerner settled into a red leather chair across from Sybers, crossed one leg over the other, and checked the crease in his trousers. Washingtonian magazine named him among the five best-dressed lawmakers year after year, as well as one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. His suits came from Savile Row’s esteemed Gieves & Hawkes, his shirts custom-made at Turnbull & Asser, shoes from Trickers. His long face was attractively craggy, his full head of gray hair professionally coiffed by a barber who visited his office twice a week.
Sybers said, “I feel pretty good, Bruce, for an old man. I don’t have time to feel bad.”
“Good for you, Topper.”
Lerner glanced at the door to ensure it was closed. He ran his tongue over his lips, examined the nails on one hand, and said, “Clarise appreciates the courtesies you extended her when she visited you.”
“A fine lady, Bruce. Got some class. But then again, you’d know all about that better than me, havin’ been married to her.”
“You’ll get no argument from me, Topper.” Lerner’s southern accent thickened slightly under the influence of Sybers’s pronounced drawl. “As you can ’magine, Clarise is anxious about the hearin’.”
“I imagine she would be, bein’ grilled by a nasty old redneck like me.” He let out a single-syllable grunt that passed for a chuckle. “I’ll be candid with you, Senator. Always have been. I have some serious reservations about your former wife heading the NEA.”
Lerner started to respond, but Sybers’s gnarled, arthritic, liver-spotted hand waved him off. “I suspect that’s why you come up to see me today.”
“That’s right, Topper. I don’t want to see Clarise disappointed. She’s too good for that. She’d make a fine NEA head, and I think you know that.”
“Depends more on what my folks back in Alabama think. Clarise got herself wrapped up in some pretty nasty excuses for art over the years, Bruce. Every day goes by, I’m made aware of ’em. Hard to reconcile this lovely, middle-aged woman with some of the lowlifes she’s hooked up with in Hollywood.”
Lerner reversed legs and looked up at a photograph of Sybers with former presidents Nixon and Ford. Although Lerner and Sybers sat on different sides of the aisle in the Senate—Sybers was a lifelong Democrat, Lerner a Republican—their political views were very much the same. Sybers was more conservative than most Republicans, and often voted with them, particularly on legislation concerning military spending, judicial appointments, and social issues including abortion, welfare, and crime. He’d often been urged to switch parties by a variety of Republicans but considered that option to be anathema. He considered himself a rock-ribbed Roosevelt Democrat, viewing FDR as having used big government only in a time of extreme danger for the nation and its people. He hadn’t seen a similar need since the Roosevelt administration, and had supported Republican presidential candidates ever since.
“I want to see Clarise confirmed,” Lerner said quietly.
“I’m sure you do, Bruce. You bring me somethin’ today to help me come to that conclusion?”
Lerner smiled and cocked his head. “Get right to the point, huh?”
“Must be my