Stuart, youve known me a long time. In my entire political career, every path that Ive taken, youve known about. Youve taken most of them hell, youve taken all of them with me.
For me to do my job-
Stuart, you know all there is to know.
The tone was final. The President picked up the papers at his side, a gesture that signalled the meeting was over. Goldstein began the mammoth effort required to eject himself from the sofa.
For me to do my job-
Stuart, you know all there is to know.
The tone was final. The President picked up the papers at his side, a gesture that signalled the meeting was over. Goldstein began the mammoth effort required to eject himself from the sofa.
Before you go, Stu: this morning I found myself remembering a golden Goldstein rule.
Whats that, sir?
Never forget the base.
If I said it, it must be true.
We need to mobilize them. We have enemies out there, girding themselves for battle. The Iran thing is going to be very hard for us. We need our friends saddled up.
What do you have in mind?
An outreach effort. Below the radar at this stage. But finding a way for them to keep talking to us and for us to keep talking to them.
For example?
Nothing showy, nothing that will look defensive. Just getting obvious people to talk to their constituencies. Get Heller in front of the Jews, get Williams on a few black radio stations.
The Vice Presidents got his hands full with the Helsinki process, but if-
I know. Just something to be aware of. Like I said, nothing over the top. But best to be ready. Thanks, Stu.
He had just reached the door when the phone rang. The private line.
Baker looked at his watch and gave Goldstein a raised eyebrow. Who could be calling who would be put through this late? Some foreign leader, asking for urgent help? He picked up the phone, silently indicating that Stuart should stay.
Yes. Good evening, Senator.
Goldstein made a face. Who?
Baker mouthed back a single word: Franklin.
Franklin? What the hell was that prick doing phoning here, and at this time? Goldstein watched his boss listening intently. Then he saw a change in him he had never witnessed before. The telephone conversation ended with Baker saying, Senator, I appreciate the courtesy of the call. Good night. But Stuart was hardly paying attention to the words. He was transfixed by the sight of the President of the United States turning the colour of death.
21
New Orleans, Thursday March 23, 00.06 CST
The cab threaded its way first through the streets close to the hotel, where blues licks still drifted through the air wreathing themselves around the wobbling groups of miniskirted girls, drunk in their stilettos. But then it left the French Quarter behind and the streets slowly became wider and more desolate. Soon they were passing boarded-up shops and whole blocks that seemed abandoned.
Maggie leaned forward to speak to the cab driver, an African-American whose hair was tipped with grey. Where are we going?
Just where you told me to go.
Is it far?
Bout ten minutes. Maybe less. You dont want to go?
No, I want to go. I just thought it was closer, thats all.
Not many tourists come round here. Im taking you the scenic route. This is the Ninth Ward.
I see. Everyone in America knew of the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans, the part of the city where Katrina had packed her hardest punch. Maggie had seen the footage on the news a hundred times, but still it was a shock to see a house that had clearly been swept clean off its pilings wedged against a tree some three yards away. It was a shock to see it was still there and that so much of the area looked as if the hurricane had just struck.
Even in the dark she could read the warning daubed in white paint on the door of one ruined home U Loot U Die and the other houses still marked by crosses, spray-painted in orange, the legacy, the driver explained, of rescue workers who hastily marked those buildings they had already searched for survivors or corpses. Harder to make out in the dark, but no less striking, were the gaping gashes visible in roof after roof: the holes people had chopped as they tried to escape the rising flood waters that had chased them up into the attic and continued to rise, even there.
Eventually there were a few lights at the side of the road: a gas station, a Dennys, a liquor store, outside of which four men sat on the sidewalk drinking from bottles clad in brown paper bags. And then, what looked like a warehouse or a giant shed, a single-storey building of grey corrugated steel decorated by a vertical sign: The Midnight Lounge. The illuminated black-and-white graphic of a curvy, thick-lipped stripper might have conveyed glamour once. Now it just looked forlorn and tatty.
Maggie paid the driver, nodded to a bouncer the size of a fridge on the door, as if she came to places like this all the time, and walked in.
Save for a few feeble table candles, the place was cast in a deep gloom, one that matched the rancid smell in the air. She had to walk past a cloakroom and a bar in order for the dimensions of the room to reveal themselves. Now she saw what it was: a stage area, dully lit in low purple, facing a clutch of small tables, all of which lay under a blanket of darkness. A strip joint, designed to spare the blushes of the audience and judging by the performer bending into an improbable angle at that moment to spare nothing of those on stage.
You here alone?
She looked up to see a waitress wearing a strip of material that few would recognize as a skirt and the skimpiest of bras, inside which were two unmoving globes of not-quite-flesh. She could see Maggie staring.
You here on business, darling? How about we get you nice and relaxed with a private dance, just us two girls, now what dya say?
Maggie had her response ready. I need to talk to your manager right away. A personal matter. Nervous, but doing her best to be friendly.
The expression on the human blow-up doll dropped instantly; now she looked as bored and surly as a checkout girl at an all-night supermarket. She inclined her head towards a table near the bar and slunk off, heading for richer pickings in the corner, where a bearded man, the sweat visible on his pate, was staring at the stage open-mouthed, as if hed been hypnotized into a deep trance.
It was impossible to see who was at the managers table until she was just a few feet away. A woman, short blondish hair, Maggies age, dressed to Maggies relief in actual clothes. Black cigarette pants, a spangly top.
Can I help you?
Can we speak in private?
This is private. The voice, like the words, was firm but not quite harsh.
Maggie stayed in character for the part she had sketched for herself during the cab-ride over. She leaned in closer, then lowered her voice. I need to speak about something personal. Very personal.
Its going to have to be right here.
OK. Can I sit down?
The woman gestured her into the seat opposite. A black leatherette portfolio wallet filled the space between them on the small circular table. On top were papers that looked like inventories, invoices and the like as if the Midnight Lounge was a regular American small business. Which, Maggie supposed, it was.
I know you have your rules about privacy and all, Maggie began, her voice wavering just as she intended it to. But I need something from you. I need to know if my husband was here last night.
Im sorry, we have a strict pol-
I knew you would say that, but this is different. Maggie hoped her eyes were full of imploring desperation and, to her surprise, she saw something that was, if not quite warm, then at least not cold, in the eyes scrutinizing her.
I know you have a business to run, but this is about my life.
I know you have a business to run, but this is about my life.
Id love to help, but we couldnt function if our guests didnt feel their confidentiality would be resp-
You see, Maggie whispered, playing her trump card, Im pregnant.
The face of the woman opposite softened, only for a fleeting second, but visibly.
And I need to know what kind of man I am married to. She looked down, examining her own hand. I took the ring off my finger this morning. You see, I need to know if this man is capable of being a father to my child. Or if I need to protect myself.
What do you mean?
I dont want to insult what you do here.
Why dont you go right ahead?
The tone was sardonic but the womans face told Maggie she should press on.
He said he had stopped all this: coming to strip clubs, seeing hookers. He promised me months ago. I told him I needed that if we were to be a family.
But you think hes been coming round here?
Maggie nodded mutely, trying to look as distressed as possible, though it required an effort on her part. She had learned long ago that some men simply couldnt stay away from places like these. That was just how they were.
I tell you, honey, if a woman didnt hate men before working at this jointId say you were better off without him. But you didnt come here for relationship advice.
Maggie gave a weak smile.
Like I say, Id really like to help. But we dont exactly take names at the door.
You have CCTV though.
Yeah, but-
Why not let me just see the tapes for last night? Youve got a camera over the door; I saw it on my way in. Thats all I need. Put me in a room and let me look. Please
There must be, like, a million rules against that.
I wont make any noise, I promise. But then at least Ill know if Im being taken for a sucker or not. She laid her hand on her stomach. Just let me look.
The blonde woman shook her head, with a small, world-weary smile. Theres not a man in this town who would let you go anywhere near those tapes. I must be an idiot.
Maggie let out a sigh of relief and extended her hand across the table in thanks. The manager clasped it, holding it for a long second or two, her eyes not shifting from Maggies. Finally she stood up and, as Maggie did the same, she saw the woman take in the full sight of her, her gaze lingering, she thought, around her bottom.
I gotta say, guilty or innocent, your husband must be a major league asshole. Why would he drink Sprite here when he could be having vintage champagne at home?
Maggie said nothing, following the manager down a flight of stairs, past the restrooms and through a door marked Authorized Staff Only. Inside was a corridor with three glass-panelled doors, all apparently opening onto offices.
They stopped at the third, the only one that seemed to be unlocked and whose light was on. One side was cluttered with old equipment, including what seemed to be a long-deceased fax machine, its cord coiled up like a defunct tail, while the other was dominated by four TV screens. Barely watching them, preferring to concentrate on the Puzzler magazine in front of him, was a man Maggie identified as the companion bouncer to the fridge she had seen upstairs. Perhaps he was the freezer.