The girls led Maria into a changing room where a dozen or more swimsuits hung on hooks. Jenny and Jerry stripped off quickly. Maria noticed that both had superb figures. She did not often see white girls naked. Although blondes, both had dark pubic hair in a neat triangle. Maria wondered whether they trimmed it with scissors. She had never thought of doing that.
The swimsuits were all one-piece and made of cotton. Maria rejected the more flamboyant colours and picked a modest dark navy. Then she followed Jenny and Jerry to the pool.
The walls on three sides were painted with Caribbean scenes, palm trees and sailing ships. The fourth wall was mirrored, and Maria checked her reflection. She was not too fat, she thought, except for her ass, which was too big. The navy blue looked good against her dark-brown skin.
She noticed a table of drinks and sandwiches to one side. She was too nervous to eat.
Dave was sitting on the edge, barefoot with his pants rolled up, paddling his feet in the water. Jenny and Jerry were bobbing around, talking and laughing. Maria sat opposite Dave and put her feet in. The pool was as warm as a bath.
A minute later, President Kennedy appeared, and Maria’s heart beat faster.
He was wearing the usual dark suit, white shirt and narrow tie. He stood at the edge, smiling at the girls. Maria caught a lemon whiff of his 4711 cologne. He said: ‘Mind if I join you?’ just as if it was their pool, not his.
Jenny said: ‘Please do!’ She and Jerry were not surprised to see him, and Maria deduced that this was not the first time they had swum with the President.
He went into the dressing room and came out again wearing blue swimming trunks. He was lean and tanned, in great shape for a man of forty-four, probably on account of all the sailing he did at Hyannis Port, on Cape Cod, where he had a holiday home. He sat on the edge then eased himself into the water with a sigh.
He swam for a few minutes. Maria wondered what her mother would say. Ma would disapprove of her daughter going swimming with a married man if he were anyone other than the President. But surely nothing bad could happen here, in the White House, in front of Dave Powers and Jenny and Jerry?
The President swam over to where she sat. ‘How are you getting on in the press office, Maria?’ He asked this as if it were the most important question in the world.
‘Fine, thank you, sir.’
‘Is Pierre a good boss?’
‘Very good. Everyone likes him.’
‘I like him, too.’
This close, Maria could see the faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the touch of grey in his thick red-brown hair. His eyes were not quite blue, she saw; more like hazel.
He knew she was scrutinizing him, she thought, and he did not mind. Perhaps he was used to it. Perhaps he liked it. He smiled and said: ‘What kind of work are you doing?’
‘A mixture.’ She was overwhelmingly flattered. Maybe he was just being nice, but he seemed genuinely interested in her. ‘Mostly I do research for Pierre. This morning I’ve been combing through a speech by Castro.’
‘Rather you than me. His speeches are long!’
Maria laughed. In the back of her mind a voice said:
The President is joking with me about Fidel Castro! In a swimming pool!
She said: ‘Sometimes Pierre asks me to write a press release, which is the part I like best.’
‘Tell him to give you more releases to write. You’re good at it.’
‘Thank you, Mr President. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.’
‘You’re from Chicago, is that right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where are you living now?’
‘In Georgetown. I share an apartment with two girls who work in the State Department.’
‘Sounds good. Well, I’m glad you’re settled. I value your work, and I know Pierre does too.’
He turned and talked to Jenny, but Maria did not hear what he said. She was too excited. The President remembered her name; he knew she was from Chicago; he thought highly of her work. And he was
so
attractive. She felt light enough to float up to the moon.
Dave looked at his watch and said: ‘Twelve-thirty, Mr President.’
Maria could not believe that she had been here for half an hour. It seemed like two minutes. But the President got out of the pool and went into the changing room.
The three girls got out. ‘Have a sandwich,’ Dave said. They all went to the table. Maria tried to eat something – this was her lunch break – but her stomach seemed to have shrunk to nothing. She drank a bottle of sugary soda pop.
Dave left, and the three girls changed back into their work clothes. Maria looked in the mirror. Her hair was a little damp, from the humidity, but it was still perfectly in place.
She said goodbye to Jenny and Jerry then went back to the press office. On her desk was a thick report on health care and a note from Salinger asking for a two-page summary in an hour.
She caught the eye of Nelly, who said: ‘Well? What was that all about?’
Maria thought for a moment then said: ‘I have no idea.’
* * *
George Jakes got a message asking him to drop in on Joseph Hugo at FBI headquarters. Hugo was now working as personal assistant to FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover. The message said that the Bureau had important information about Martin Luther King that Hugo wished to share with the Attorney General’s staff.
Hoover hated Martin Luther King. Not a single FBI agent was black. Hoover hated Bobby Kennedy, too. He hated a lot of people.
George considered refusing to go. The last thing he wanted was to speak to that creep Hugo, who had betrayed the civil rights movement and George personally. George’s arm still hurt occasionally from the injury he had received in Anniston while Hugo looked on, chatting to the police and smoking.
On the other hand, if it was bad news, George wanted to hear it first. Perhaps the FBI had caught King out in an extramarital affair, or something of that kind. George would welcome the chance to manage the dissemination of any negative information about the civil rights movement. He did not want someone such as Dennis Wilson spreading the word. For that reason he would have to see Hugo, and probably suffer him gloating.
FBI headquarters was on another floor of the Justice Department building. George found Hugo in a small office near the Director’s suite of rooms. Hugo had a short FBI haircut and wore a plain mid-grey suit with a white nylon shirt and a navy-blue tie. On his desk was a pack of menthol cigarettes and a file folder.
‘What do you want?’ said George.
Hugo grinned. He could not conceal his pleasure. He said: ‘One of Martin Luther King’s advisors is a Communist.’
George was shocked. This accusation could blight the entire civil rights movement. He felt cold with worry. You could never prove that someone was
not
a Communist – and anyway, the truth hardly mattered: just the suggestion was deadly. Like the accusation of witchcraft in the Middle Ages, it was an easy way to stir up hatred among stupid and ignorant people.
‘Who is this advisor?’ George asked Hugo.
Hugo looked at a file, as if he had to refresh his memory. ‘Stanley Levison,’ he said.
‘That doesn’t sound like a Negro name.’
‘He’s a Jew.’ Hugo took a photograph from the file and handed it over.
George saw an undistinguished white face with receding hair and large spectacles. The man was wearing a bow tie. George had met King and his people in Atlanta, and none of them looked like this. ‘Are you sure he works for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference?’
‘I didn’t say he
worked
for King. He’s a New York attorney. Also a successful businessman.’
‘So in what sense is he an “advisor” to Dr King?’
‘He helped King get his book published, and defended him from a tax-evasion lawsuit in Alabama. They don’t meet often, but they talk on the phone.’
George sat upright. ‘How would you know a thing like that?’
‘Sources,’ Hugo said smugly.
‘So, you claim that Dr King sometimes telephones a New York attorney and gets advice on tax and publishing matters.’
‘From a Communist.’
‘How do you know he’s a Communist?’
‘Sources.’
‘What sources?’
‘We can’t reveal the identities of informants.’
‘You can to the Attorney General.’
‘You’re not the Attorney General.’
‘Do you know Levison’s card number?’
‘What?’ Hugo was momentarily flustered.
‘Communist party members have a card, as you know. Each card has a number. What’s Levison’s card number?’
Hugo pretended to search for it. ‘I don’t think that’s in this file.’
‘So you can’t prove Levison is a Communist.’
‘We don’t need
proof
,’ Hugo said, showing irritation. ‘We’re not going to prosecute him. We’re simply informing the Attorney General of our suspicions, as is our duty.’
George’s voice rose. ‘You’re blackening Dr King’s name by claiming that a lawyer he consulted is a Communist – and you offer no evidence whatsoever?’
‘You’re right,’ said Hugo, surprising George. ‘We need more evidence. That’s why we’ll be asking for a wiretap on Levison’s phone.’ The Attorney General had to authorize wiretaps. ‘The file is for you.’ He proffered it.
George did not take it. ‘If you wiretap Levison, you’ll be listening to some of Dr King’s calls.’
Hugo shrugged. ‘People who talk to Communists take the risk of being wiretapped. Anything wrong with that?’
George thought there
was
something wrong with that, in a free country, but he did not say so. ‘We don’t know that Levison is a Communist.’
‘So we need to find out.’
George took the file, stood up, and opened the door.
Hugo said: ‘Hoover will undoubtedly mention this next time he meets with Bobby. So don’t try to keep it to yourself.’
That thought had crossed George’s mind, but now he said: ‘Of course not.’ It had been a bad idea anyway.
‘So what will you do?’
‘I’ll tell Bobby,’ George said. ‘He’ll decide.’ He left the room.
He went up in the elevator to the fifth floor. Several Justice Department officials were just coming out of Bobby’s office. George looked in. As usual, Bobby had his jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled, and his glasses on. He had evidently just finished a meeting. George checked his watch: he had a few minutes before his next meeting. He walked in.
Bobby greeted him warmly. ‘Hi, George, how are things with you?’
It had been like this ever since the day George had imagined Bobby was about to hit him. Bobby treated him like a bosom pal. George wondered if that was a pattern. Maybe Bobby had to quarrel with someone before becoming close.
‘Bad news,’ George said.
‘Sit down and tell me.’
George closed the door. ‘Hoover says he’s found a Communist in Martin Luther King’s circle.’
‘Hoover is a troublemaking cock sucker,’ said Bobby.
George was startled. Did Bobby mean that Hoover was queer? It seemed impossible. Maybe Bobby was just being insulting. ‘Name of Stanley Levison,’ George said.
‘Who is he?’
‘A lawyer Dr King has consulted about tax and other matters.’
‘In Atlanta?’
‘No, Levison is based in New York.’
‘It doesn’t sound like he’s really close to King.’
‘I don’t believe he is.’
‘But that hardly matters,’ Bobby said wearily. ‘Hoover can always make it sound worse than it is.’
‘The FBI say Levison is a Communist, but they won’t tell me what evidence they have, though they might tell you.’
‘I don’t want to know anything about their sources of information.’ Bobby held up his hands, palms outwards, in a defensive gesture. ‘I’d be blamed for every goddamn leak for ever after.’
‘They don’t even have Levison’s party card number.’
‘They don’t fucking know,’ Bobby said. ‘They’re just guessing. But it makes no difference. People will believe it.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘King has to break with Levison,’ Bobby said decisively. ‘Otherwise Hoover will leak this, King will be damaged, and the whole civil rights mess will just get worse.’
George did not think of the civil rights campaign as a ‘mess’, but the Kennedy brothers did. However, that was not the point. Hoover’s accusation was a threat that had to be dealt with, and Bobby was right: the simplest solution was for King to break with Levison. ‘But how are we going to get Dr King to do that?’ George asked.
Bobby said: ‘You’re going to fly down to Atlanta and tell him to.’
George was daunted. Martin Luther King was famous for defying authority, and George knew from Verena that in private as well as in public King could not easily be talked into anything. But George hid his apprehension behind a calm veneer. ‘I’ll call now and make an appointment.’ He went to the door.
‘Thank you, George,’ Bobby said with evident relief. ‘It’s so great to be able to rely on you.’
* * *
The day after she went swimming with the President, Maria picked up the phone and heard the voice of Dave Powers again. ‘There’s a staff get-together at five-thirty,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come?’
Maria and her flatmates had plans to see Audrey Hepburn and the dishy George Peppard in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. But junior White House staffers did not say ‘No’ to Dave Powers. The girls would have to drool over Peppard without her. ‘Where do I go?’ she said.
‘Upstairs.’
‘Upstairs?’ That usually meant the President’s private residence.
‘I’ll pick you up.’ Dave hung up.
Maria immediately wished she had put on a more fancy outfit today. She was wearing a plaid pleated skirt and a plain white blouse with little gold-coloured buttons. Her hairpiece was a simple bob, short in the back with long scimitars of hair either side of her chin, in the current fashion. She feared she looked like every other office girl in Washington.
She spoke to Nelly. ‘Have you been invited to a staff get-together this evening?’
‘Not me,’ said Nelly. ‘Where is it?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘Lucky you.’
At five-fifteen Maria went to the ladies’ room to adjust her hair and make-up. She noticed that none of the other women were making any special effort, and she deduced that they had not been invited. Perhaps the get-together was for the newest recruits.