Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [1]
He stepped down from the podium and was faced with dozens of outstretched hands and eager voices. “Great speech, Senator,” someone said. “Keep telling it like it is.”
Simmons’s chief of staff, Alan McBride, flanked the senator on one side, his press secretary, Peter Markowicz, the other, as they slowly navigated through knots of the faithful toward the room’s exit. One of many lobbyists in attendance stopped Simmons, grabbed his hand, slapped him on the back lightly, and said into his ear, “You know what I’m waiting for, Senator?”
“What’s that, Bruce?”
“The day when I don’t have to call you Senator Simmons anymore.”
“What?” Simmons said, adopting an exaggerated frown.
“I’m looking forward to when I can call you President Simmons.”
Simmons’s grin returned. “Not too loud, Bruce. Some blogger might think I’m running.”
Bruce stayed close to the senator’s ear as they continued toward the door. “Truman declared his candidacy right here in this hotel,” he said. “Stayed here, too, for the first few months of his presidency.” Closer to the ear now, and sotto voce. “I need time with you about the prescription bill.”
“Call Alan tomorrow,” Simmons said, breaking away from the lobbyist to greet others, his aides in lockstep.
They reached the Grande Promenade, the expansive lobby through which a Who’s Who of political heavyweights had passed since the Mayflower opened in 1925: Truman; before that FDR, who lived there pre-inaugural and who wrote his famous “We have nothing to fear but fear itself” speech while in Suite 776; and the FBI’sJ. Edgar Hoover, who ate lunch at the hotel every day for more than twenty years, his daily menu choices never varying and considerably more bland than his personality—buttered toast, cottage cheese, grapefruit, salad, and chicken soup.
Simmons’s final stop before reaching Connecticut Avenue was to greet a Senate colleague coming from the Café Promenade with his wife and daughter. “How did it go?” he was asked.
“Couldn’t have gone better. Enjoy dinner?”
“The seafood buffet was superb,” replied his wife.
“You two take care,” Simmons said. “See you tomorrow.”
Standing at the hotel’s doors was McTeague. He’d been Senator Simmons’s driver and bodyguard since Simmons had arrived in Washington years ago as a freshman member of the House of Representatives. A car and driver spoke of the family fortune that had been behind Simmons’s successful run for Congress. There would be no scrambling to find inexpensive temporary housing, as many members of the House needed to do. Simmons and his bride had immediately purchased a three-story town house on the outskirts of Georgetown, where they quickly established themselves as frequent, lavish party-givers when Congress was in session. During his fourth term, they sold the house at a handsome profit and bought a sprawling, hilltop Georgian colonial in the Foxhall section, with sweeping views of the city. After almost a million dollars in renovations and additions, it had become a proper home for the congressman who would become the senator from Illinois.
Walter McTeague was a large man with a ruddy, puffy face and a nest of small gray curls atop his head. He wore what he always wore while on duty—black suit, black shoes, black tie, and white shirt. He saw Simmons and his aides approaching and pulled in his stomach and stood taller. Simmons dispatched McBride and Markowicz: “We’ve got that seven o’clock meeting on staffing. And don’t forget to tell Chris Matthews or his producer that I want a more comfortable chair the next time I’m on.”
He watched them greet McTeague and disappear through the outer doors.
“Hello, Walter,” Simmons told his driver. “Sorry to have kept you. It ran longer than I anticipated.”
“No problem, Senator,” McTeague replied in a husky voice. Simmons knew that the former D.C. cop was a heavy smoker, which was all right as long as he didn’t foul the air in the four-door black Mercedes, or in the house while waiting for him.
McTeague had left the Mercedes running to keep the interior cool.
“Hot as Hades,” Simmons muttered as they