Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [24]
Fletcher smiled at the sight of her. That she’d said yes to his proposal twenty years ago never failed to amaze him. This beautiful, trim, and vivacious woman had agreed to be the wife of a dull, introspective college professor. Had she known back then he was destined for something decidedly more visible than teaching the subtleties of politics to college students, and decided to go along for the ride? She claimed she hadn’t, said she was pleased to be the wife of a distinguished college professor. But he had to provide himself with some reason for her agreeing to be Mrs. Fletcher. Their only child, a daughter, was away at college in Vermont.
“Nothing especially important,” he said, picking up one of the unread papers. “One irresolvable crisis after another. General dire predictions of the nation’s future and one question about whether we have a future. What’s on your agenda?”
“Meetings at the foundation. Several crises to compound. Lunch with Craig and Jill. Sure you can’t break away, even for an hour?”
He shook his head and gave forth what passed for a smile. “The president has me captive all day, Gail, and probably into the night, too. Won’t be home for dinner.”
He seldom was home for dinner, so no comment from her was necessary.
She pulled one of the newspapers he’d already read from the desk, and returned to the couch. They read in silence. Then she said, “How bizarre.”
He looked up. “What is?”
“This murder at Union Station.”
He returned to the paper he was reading.
“An old Italian man named Louis Russo comes here by train. He was from Israel. A black man—they say he was well dressed—comes up behind this old Italian man and shoots him in the head.”
“Oh?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Who?”
“This well-dressed man. Why would he—”
“They’ll figure it out, I’m sure,” he said, standing, stretching, and yawning. “That’s what the police are for. I have to get moving. I’m already running late.”
He came to the couch, bent, and kissed her lightly on the hair. “Give my love to Craig and Jill, and my apologies I won’t be able to see them while they’re visiting. Another time.”
“I will,” she said.
Minutes later he was in the backseat of the government car dispatched for him each morning. Not long after that, he passed through security at the White House, spent a few minutes in his office gathering notes, and went to the Oval Office, where President Parmele and other members of his staff had gathered.
There were three items on the agenda.
The first two had to do with bills initiated by the White House that were stalled in the Republican House. Walter Brown, Parmele’s chief congressional liaison, listed those moderate Republican representatives whose arms he felt might be twisted harder in favor of supporting the bills, and Parmele suggested the twisting begin immediately, singling out three House members who he said would play ball, adding that they probably wouldn’t want certain information about them made public. Knowing who was vulnerable in Congress and understanding the right buttons to push were integral parts of Parmele’s political arsenal. He was a master at it, as good as Lyndon Johnson had ever been, but decidedly more subtle.
He sat back, clasped his hands behind his head, and launched into a dissertation about how important the passage of those bills would be for his reelection bid.
As he talked, Fletcher observed the man he’d helped put in this position of awesome power. No question about it, this president was a skilled, self-confident politician with an ego necessarily large enough to even consider running for president of the United States. Parmele’s monologue this morning on the importance of education was familiar to Fletcher. It was part of a speech he’d helped draft a month ago with some of Parmele’s speechwriters. This was typical of the president, taking what someone else had conceived and making it his own, as though it had come to him on the spur of the moment.