said. It was a dismissal. The
Padre turned to the others.
"You, Rocco, must stay outside too."
Rocco nodded.
The Padre would need both these men, Angelo to facilitate
what was necessary and Rocco to keep the organization going in his absence, which
could be forever. In any event, Rocco could be the only one to succeed him. And
yet he could not simply put his mantle on him. Rocco would have to demonstrate
his authority, as the Padre had demonstrated his ability to command after his
father's death.
"Now someone call Luigi to teach us how to be good
waiters," the Padre said.
13
AMY PUT THE STUDS in her husband's shirt and laid it neatly
across the bed. He sat in his shorts on one of the rose chairs, legs crossed,
going over his prepared toast.
"Clichéd pap," he muttered. Even though he would
not read the toast word for word, it would reflect the usual flattery and
innocuousness that characterized the tradition.
"The King's supposed to be a really nice guy,"
Amy said, hoping to get her husband in a festive mood. Lately it had been
impossible to jolt him out of a deep funk. The hostage thing was getting to
him. He wasn't sleeping. Last night she had awakened suddenly and found him
gone. She was alarmed at first. Then the Secret Service man on all-night duty
in the upstairs corridor informed her that the President was resting on the
Truman balcony on the floor above.
When she found him, he was seated on a straight-backed
chair, with his feet on the railing, looking out toward the Potomac. It was a
surprisingly clear summer night. At Camp David it wasn't unusual for them to
sit quietly on the porch of the main cabin, holding hands and staring into the
dark shapes of the forest and listening to the crickets.
They were both descendants of Midwestern porch people and
knew the value of the soothing nature of quiet watchfulness. But it troubled
her that he had not awakened her. She moved another chair, placed it beside
him, and sat down, angling her legs on the railing so that her toes rested on
his shins.
"Generally speaking, it's a beautiful planet," he
had whispered, touching her arm, but without taking his eyes off the night
view. "Except for the people."
"Not all."
"Taking hostages is such an ugly business." It
was clear now where his mind was. More and more the awful reality absorbed his
thoughts.
He shook his head. "I really feel for those people and
their families." In the long silence, she turned and watched his profile
silhouetted against a white portico. "They're gonna die, Amy, and there's
no way in the world I can stop it from happening."
"Except to give in," she said. She had
deliberately posed the idea as an oblique comment, gentle and noninsistent. It
had nothing to do with strategy or affairs of state. It was simply a wifely
response. He was being devastated by the situation. It affected everything,
permeated all other issues, political and personal. It exacted a fearful toll.
"All day long I've been on the phone kissing the asses
of those tinhorns who run those lousy countries. The Syrian is a polite little
bastard. I get reassurances, sympathy. But no action. The Saudis? Masters of
evasiveness. Talking to those people is like talking into a soft cloud. The
Israelis love all this angst. I'll give them this. They're tough. They'll take
it all the way. A counterpunch is an acceptable state action, no matter who or
how many get hurt. Not us. Couldn't do it and get away with it. Not up front.
And I'm afraid to do it covertly. If it backfires, we're finished. Had my way,
I'd send everyone connected with those terrorist bastards a letter bomb airmail
special delivery. Maybe even one of those small A jobs."
"Very funny," she said. Considering that her
husband was always shadowed by someone carrying that horrid little briefcase,
she failed to respond to what he had intended as black humor. Only way you can
preserve your sanity, he had argued, was to joke about "it." He had
never convinced her.
"And this is
Padre turned to the others.
"You, Rocco, must stay outside too."
Rocco nodded.
The Padre would need both these men, Angelo to facilitate
what was necessary and Rocco to keep the organization going in his absence, which
could be forever. In any event, Rocco could be the only one to succeed him. And
yet he could not simply put his mantle on him. Rocco would have to demonstrate
his authority, as the Padre had demonstrated his ability to command after his
father's death.
"Now someone call Luigi to teach us how to be good
waiters," the Padre said.
13
AMY PUT THE STUDS in her husband's shirt and laid it neatly
across the bed. He sat in his shorts on one of the rose chairs, legs crossed,
going over his prepared toast.
"Clichéd pap," he muttered. Even though he would
not read the toast word for word, it would reflect the usual flattery and
innocuousness that characterized the tradition.
"The King's supposed to be a really nice guy,"
Amy said, hoping to get her husband in a festive mood. Lately it had been
impossible to jolt him out of a deep funk. The hostage thing was getting to
him. He wasn't sleeping. Last night she had awakened suddenly and found him
gone. She was alarmed at first. Then the Secret Service man on all-night duty
in the upstairs corridor informed her that the President was resting on the
Truman balcony on the floor above.
When she found him, he was seated on a straight-backed
chair, with his feet on the railing, looking out toward the Potomac. It was a
surprisingly clear summer night. At Camp David it wasn't unusual for them to
sit quietly on the porch of the main cabin, holding hands and staring into the
dark shapes of the forest and listening to the crickets.
They were both descendants of Midwestern porch people and
knew the value of the soothing nature of quiet watchfulness. But it troubled
her that he had not awakened her. She moved another chair, placed it beside
him, and sat down, angling her legs on the railing so that her toes rested on
his shins.
"Generally speaking, it's a beautiful planet," he
had whispered, touching her arm, but without taking his eyes off the night
view. "Except for the people."
"Not all."
"Taking hostages is such an ugly business." It
was clear now where his mind was. More and more the awful reality absorbed his
thoughts.
He shook his head. "I really feel for those people and
their families." In the long silence, she turned and watched his profile
silhouetted against a white portico. "They're gonna die, Amy, and there's
no way in the world I can stop it from happening."
"Except to give in," she said. She had
deliberately posed the idea as an oblique comment, gentle and noninsistent. It
had nothing to do with strategy or affairs of state. It was simply a wifely
response. He was being devastated by the situation. It affected everything,
permeated all other issues, political and personal. It exacted a fearful toll.
"All day long I've been on the phone kissing the asses
of those tinhorns who run those lousy countries. The Syrian is a polite little
bastard. I get reassurances, sympathy. But no action. The Saudis? Masters of
evasiveness. Talking to those people is like talking into a soft cloud. The
Israelis love all this angst. I'll give them this. They're tough. They'll take
it all the way. A counterpunch is an acceptable state action, no matter who or
how many get hurt. Not us. Couldn't do it and get away with it. Not up front.
And I'm afraid to do it covertly. If it backfires, we're finished. Had my way,
I'd send everyone connected with those terrorist bastards a letter bomb airmail
special delivery. Maybe even one of those small A jobs."
"Very funny," she said. Considering that her
husband was always shadowed by someone carrying that horrid little briefcase,
she failed to respond to what he had intended as black humor. Only way you can
preserve your sanity, he had argued, was to joke about "it." He had
never convinced her.
"And this is
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