Joe Steele (57 page)

“You and me both!” Charlie said.

When he got to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue the next morning, he knew right away that the place was under new management. More guards than he'd ever seen stalked the grounds, and he recognized only a couple of them. Every single man carried a grease gun and looked ready to use it. Charlie gave his name at the gate. A guard checked it off. “Go on in, Mr. Sullivan,” he said. “The Director wants to see you, in fact.” As with the TV announcer the night before, you could hear the capital letter slam into place.

“J. Edgar Hoover is in there?” Charlie asked. Hoover hadn't wasted much time. No time at all, in fact.

“That's right.” The guard's head bobbed up and down. “I'd step on it, if I were you. The Director's a busy man with a lot on his plate.”

When Charlie went into the White House, a Jeebie he'd never set eyes on before frisked him. Persuaded he was harmless, the man sent him upstairs. Now J. Edgar Hoover sat behind the heavy redwood-and-granite desk. A few days before, that had been John Nance Garner's spot (Charlie wondered if the bourbon bottle still sat in the drawer). For all the years before, it had been Joe Steele's.

“Hello, Sullivan,” Hoover said.

“Mr., uh, Director.” Charlie swore at himself for stumbling over the title.

“We've known each other a long time. I like the work you do,” Hoover said. That could have led up to anything. But then he added, “Don't get me wrong—I do,” and Charlie knew he was in trouble. The Director went on, “The sad fact is, though, that you've got too many links to the past that put us in the mess we're in now.”

The mess that put you in the White House,
Charlie thought. He didn't say it. Why make a bad spot worse?

“So I'm going to have to let you go,” Hoover said briskly. “I'm sorry, but that's the way the ball bounces. I'm sure a man with your talent won't have any worries about finding something new. You don't need to bother going back to your office. You can pick up your last check at the door as you head out. I've put in a three months' bonus. Not much of a good-bye after such a long time here, I'm afraid, but I hope it's better than nothing.”

“Thank you, sir,” Charlie mumbled, when he really wanted to echo John Nance Garner's
Fuck 'em all!

“Keep your nose clean, Sullivan,” the Director said, which was dismissal. Charlie nodded, turned, and walked out of the oval study.

*   *   *

C
harlie knew he was a nuisance around the apartment. Except on weekends, he wasn't supposed to be there during the daytime. Sometimes he went out to look for work. No one had the nerve to hire a man who'd been at the White House so long. A few people blamed him for everything that had gone wrong since 1932, the way Congress had blamed John Nance Garner.

Under a pseudonym, he tried his hand at writing fiction stories. It was different from speechwriting and reporting, but he could write. He sold the second one he turned out, and the fourth. He knew he'd never make anybody forget Steinbeck or Salinger. That didn't bother him. He brought in a little money, and the writing gave him something focused to do.

Half an hour after J. Edgar Hoover left GBI headquarters in Richmond, Virginia, a bomb blew up inside and killed twenty-six people. The Director tightened the screws on the state of emergency. The man the Jeebies arrested for planting the bomb was first cousin to a Representative who'd voted against impeaching Garner. Hoover tightened the screws on Congress, too.

Day by day,
Charlie told himself.
Take it one day at a time. That's how you get through the rough patches.
By all the early signs, this might be a mighty rough patch. J. Edgar Hoover made Joe Steele seem downright friendly by comparison. Charlie wouldn't have believed anyone could.

He got a postcard from Mike, letting him know he had a half-Japanese niece named Brenda. He started making notes for a novel about brothers whose lives went different ways. His working title was
Two Roads Diverged
. Nobody didn't like Robert Frost.

He was drinking more again, but Esther didn't nag him about it. She knew what was wrong. Hoover wasn't even sixty yet—he was just a handful of years older than Charlie. He might be Director a long time yet, unless somebody like that funny-looking assistant attorney general from California brought him down while he wasn't looking. Talking about things like that, Esther started drinking more herself.

No matter what, you never thought it could happen to you. When the knock came, it was actually closer to one in the morning than to
midnight.

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