could have landed. Oh, and did I mention Canada?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Todd said.
“Todd, if we don’t get a solid lead soon, they’re gonna pull the plug on us,” number two said. “We’re going to find ourselves in some South American jungle looking for drug factories, and I don’t like bugs and snakes.”
“I’m thinking,” Todd said, “I’m thinking.”
22
STONE, DINO, AND SHELLEY TURNED UP AT FAIR SUTHERLIN’S place fashionably late; they were the first ones there. Fair lived in a small, elegant apartment building on a broad avenue near Dupont Circle, and her space, its furnishings and pictures indicated an income of which her government salary was but a small part.
As Dino was introducing Shelley, two other couples arrived, and before those introductions had been made there were six couples present, including a network anchorman, a columnist for the Washington Post, and a right-wing Republican senator, each with a wife in tow. Everybody was terribly glad to see everybody else.
A young man in a white jacket took drink orders, and a young woman in a white jacket poured champagne for those who did not have another choice. They drank for forty minutes, then someone opened a pair of sliding doors, and the twelve took seats around a long, beautifully set table.
“Fair,” the senator’s wife said, “I don’t know how you have amassed so many beautiful things in your short life.”
“By the deaths of my parents and all four of my grandparents,” Fair replied. “I’m an only child, and I have three very complete sets of china, silver, and crystal, in opposing patterns. By the way, since Stone, Dino, and Shelley are new at my table, I should tell them about my one rule: no politics will be discussed.”
There were murmurs of assent, then there was complete silence for a little more than a minute.
“How ’bout those Redskins,” the anchorman offered.
“Not until next month,” Fair said.
The senator spoke up. “Stone, Dino, tell us about how your investigation is going.”
“First of all, Senator,” Stone said, “I am not shocked that you know about our investigation. Second, as you must know, we can’t discuss it before we have made our final report to the president, and maybe not even then.”
The columnist gave a snort. “I would imagine that the collective knowledge about your investigation by those present at this table amounts to very nearly everything you have learned so far. For instance, I hear that you had a conversation with the notorious Milly Hart yesterday.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” Stone said, “but I would be interested to know why she is notorious.”
“Because she’s a high-priced hooker,” Dino said.
The table made an affirmative noise.
“What is Ms. Hart’s story?” Stone asked the columnist.
“Well, let’s see if I can encapsulate it in one short paragraph,” the man said. “Well-brought-up girl comes to Washington and works for an important senator, one Gerald Hart, of Virginia; marries senator; senator dies, leaving a widow surprised that he left her so little; senator’s federal pension is insufficient to keep widow in style to which she has become accustomed; then someone offers her funds to tide her over, affection presumed; then someone else offers, and pretty soon widow is living stylishly again.”
“I hear Milly has a stylish clientele, too,” the anchorman’s wife said.
“Was Brix Kendrick among them?” the columnist’s wife asked, directing her question to Stone.
“You tell us,” Stone said, “please. We’re new in town.”
“Frankly,” said the anchorman, “I don’t know how Brix could afford her, on his White House salary.”
The senator grinned. “Perhaps someone should audit Brix’s books at the White House,” he said, pointing his fork at Fair. “After all, he reigned over a considerable budget. My committee has seen the numbers.”
“Senator,” Fair said, “the audit has
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Todd said.
“Todd, if we don’t get a solid lead soon, they’re gonna pull the plug on us,” number two said. “We’re going to find ourselves in some South American jungle looking for drug factories, and I don’t like bugs and snakes.”
“I’m thinking,” Todd said, “I’m thinking.”
22
STONE, DINO, AND SHELLEY TURNED UP AT FAIR SUTHERLIN’S place fashionably late; they were the first ones there. Fair lived in a small, elegant apartment building on a broad avenue near Dupont Circle, and her space, its furnishings and pictures indicated an income of which her government salary was but a small part.
As Dino was introducing Shelley, two other couples arrived, and before those introductions had been made there were six couples present, including a network anchorman, a columnist for the Washington Post, and a right-wing Republican senator, each with a wife in tow. Everybody was terribly glad to see everybody else.
A young man in a white jacket took drink orders, and a young woman in a white jacket poured champagne for those who did not have another choice. They drank for forty minutes, then someone opened a pair of sliding doors, and the twelve took seats around a long, beautifully set table.
“Fair,” the senator’s wife said, “I don’t know how you have amassed so many beautiful things in your short life.”
“By the deaths of my parents and all four of my grandparents,” Fair replied. “I’m an only child, and I have three very complete sets of china, silver, and crystal, in opposing patterns. By the way, since Stone, Dino, and Shelley are new at my table, I should tell them about my one rule: no politics will be discussed.”
There were murmurs of assent, then there was complete silence for a little more than a minute.
“How ’bout those Redskins,” the anchorman offered.
“Not until next month,” Fair said.
The senator spoke up. “Stone, Dino, tell us about how your investigation is going.”
“First of all, Senator,” Stone said, “I am not shocked that you know about our investigation. Second, as you must know, we can’t discuss it before we have made our final report to the president, and maybe not even then.”
The columnist gave a snort. “I would imagine that the collective knowledge about your investigation by those present at this table amounts to very nearly everything you have learned so far. For instance, I hear that you had a conversation with the notorious Milly Hart yesterday.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” Stone said, “but I would be interested to know why she is notorious.”
“Because she’s a high-priced hooker,” Dino said.
The table made an affirmative noise.
“What is Ms. Hart’s story?” Stone asked the columnist.
“Well, let’s see if I can encapsulate it in one short paragraph,” the man said. “Well-brought-up girl comes to Washington and works for an important senator, one Gerald Hart, of Virginia; marries senator; senator dies, leaving a widow surprised that he left her so little; senator’s federal pension is insufficient to keep widow in style to which she has become accustomed; then someone offers her funds to tide her over, affection presumed; then someone else offers, and pretty soon widow is living stylishly again.”
“I hear Milly has a stylish clientele, too,” the anchorman’s wife said.
“Was Brix Kendrick among them?” the columnist’s wife asked, directing her question to Stone.
“You tell us,” Stone said, “please. We’re new in town.”
“Frankly,” said the anchorman, “I don’t know how Brix could afford her, on his White House salary.”
The senator grinned. “Perhaps someone should audit Brix’s books at the White House,” he said, pointing his fork at Fair. “After all, he reigned over a considerable budget. My committee has seen the numbers.”
“Senator,” Fair said, “the audit has
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