Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [111]
Garson’s white shirt was open at the collar, a colorful flowered tie pulled loose from his neck. He wore black suspenders. Fletcher felt physically consumed by the big, strapping former Louisiana attorney general as he shook Fletcher’s hand and invited him to take one of two high-back red-leather chairs in a corner of the spacious office, at a glass-topped Chippendale table.
“Something to drink, Chet?” Garson, a teetotaler, kept an assortment of soft drinks on hand to offer guests.
“No, thank you, Wayne,” Fletcher said, adjusting himself to the chair’s contour.
“Hell of a day, huh?” said Garson, taking the other chair. His voice was deep and resonant, tinged with New Orleans.
“Yes.”
“Sorry to ask you here so late, Chet.”
“I understand.”
“I’m sure you’re aware, Chet, of how highly the president values your contributions and service to him and to the nation. I have to admit that even though I’ve been around politics most of my life, the subtleties escape me now and then. Good thing the president has people like you who understand what’s goin’ on.”
Garson sounded as though he was speaking off the cuff, saying what came to mind at the moment. Fletcher doubted it. The AG had decided what he would say long before Fletcher’s arrival, and had the ability to make predetermined speeches sound spontaneous, a useful talent for a politician. And Garson was a politician, regardless of claims or titles to the contrary.
“I appreciate the kind words, Wayne.”
“No kindness intended. Just speakin’ the truth. Look, Chet, to the chase. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that.”
Yes, please, Fletcher thought. His fatigue was causing his mind to wander, to think of Gail home in bed and wanting to be with her.
“Know what I could never figure, Chet?”
“What?”
“Why somebody like you—I mean, hell, let’s be honest, you’re a brilliant man, got your Ph.D., written books, had a nice, cushy, relaxed job at a big university, married to a real nice woman, got a fine daughter, all of it—why somebody with all that would toss it over to get in the political rat race.”
Does he expect an explanation?
“None a my business, of course,” Garson said. “The important thing is that the president found himself someone of your caliber to help him advance his vision for this great country of ours.”
“It’s my pleasure to serve him.” It seemed the thing to say.
“And I want you to know, Chet, that the president and I are aware of the extraordinary steps you had to take to protect him against these scurrilous charges by this writer, Marienthal, and that liar, Russo.”
“…the president and I are aware…”
Translation: Whatever I say here has the blessing of the head man.
“Politics are almost as exciting as war, and quite as dangerous. In war you can only be killed once, but in politics many times.” Churchill’s words drifted through his consciousness. How true, he thought.
“You ever think about goin’ back to teaching, Chet?”
“Of course. One day—”
“I don’t mean four or five years down the road.” He laughed. “Hell, not one of us can see down that road very far, now can we? You’ve always struck me, Chet, as somebody who believed in sacrifice, willing to fall on the sword for the greater good. I admire that in a man.”
Fletcher felt light-headed. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, put them on again. He hoped the attorney general wouldn’t say more. But he did.
“So much of what we have to do in government involves weighing one thing against the other, doesn’t it, Chet? I get a lot of flak for beefing up security to keep the terrorists from hitting us again, for keeping prisoners of war locked up, and such, even looking at library cards, see what people are readin’ or researching. They say I’m trampling on civil liberties. But what’s the alternative? Let the bastards kill more Americans? The American people put us in office to make those sort of tough decisions. If we’re not up to the task, we shouldn’t be here. Agree?”
“Yes.”
“Still, I was personally appalled to see Mr. Russo gunned down like that in our Union Station. I suppose he asked for it, ratting out