Insatiable Appetites

12

Ann Keaton sat in an office in the Executive Office Building, across from the West Wing, and methodically worked her way through a stack of mail that had already been seen by two other senior staffers. Each had a note stapled to it recommending an action of one kind or another. The one in her hand carried the notation: Decline — person rumored to have Mafia connections. The handwritten letter to Kate was from Mary Ann Bianchi, a name that meant nothing to her. The name of the “person,” however, had a very familiar ring. Ann gathered up the mail she had already approved for Kate’s eyes, put the Bianchi letter on top of the pile, and went next door to where Kate Lee sat at a big desk, leaning back in her chair, her trousered legs on the desk, reading documents. “Hey,” she said to Ann, “what’ve you got?”

“Standard stuff,” Ann said. “Except for the one on top.”

“Ooh,” Kate said when she had read the note. “I read the obit in the Times. Tell ’em I’ll be there.”

“You saw the staff recommendation?”

“Sure, I saw it. Tell Mary Ann I’ll be there, to save me a seat.”

“Let’s think about this one more time,” Ann said.

“Ann, do you remember the cocktail party that kick-started my campaign? The one where twenty-one people gave me a check for a million dollars each?”

“Of course, but I don’t remember Eduardo Bianchi being there.”

“He was there, without being there,” Kate said.

“Maybe that’s how you should attend his funeral.”

“No, I’m going to attend his funeral in person, dressed in black, looking sorrowful, because that’s how I’m going to feel. When you call Mary Ann, tell her I’d be very grateful if I could sit in the family pew. Eduardo didn’t have that big a family — maybe I can flesh it out a little bit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ann said, rising to go.

“Ann, sit down.”

Ann sat.

“Eduardo Bianchi did things for me when I was at the Agency, and afterward, that nobody else could have done. He could make a phone call and find out stuff it would have taken us a year to unearth. He once got an Agency officer back from a kidnapping by the Naples Mafia, in less than four hours. He was a patriot and my dear friend, and that’s what I’m going to say when somebody sticks a microphone in my face and asks me what I’m doing there. As for the Mafia business, I suggest you read Eduardo’s FBI file.”

“I don’t have that on my desk,” Ann replied. “What does it say?”

“A great deal, but absolutely nothing about the Mafia.”

“Can I tell the press that?”

“Certainly not. You’re not supposed to know what’s in anybody’s FBI file. Anybody asks, tell ’em to make a Freedom of Information request for it.”

“If they do that, will they get the file?”

“Not in my lifetime,” Kate replied. “Maybe not in yours.”

She made a shooing motion with her hand, then went back to reading documents. “Wait,” she said, as Ann reached the door.

Ann stopped.

“Call all the lawyers in the Twenty-one group and ask each of them to give me a list of five names who they think would make a sensational Supreme Court justice, along with not more than five hundred words saying why. And tell them there’d better not be more than two white men on their lists.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kate smiled. “It’ll give you an excuse for calling Stone.”

Ann laughed, then she stopped. “Why now? Is there a justice with a really bad cold?”

“I saw one at a cocktail party not so long ago who looked like he might not finish his martini. As Fats Waller used to say, ‘One never knows, do one?’”

Ann returned to her office and called Stone’s cell number. “Well, hello there,” Stone said. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“This is official business of the office of the President-Elect of the United States of America.”

“Oh, that. I was hoping you were in town and wanting to get laid.”

“Next week, maybe, if you play your cards right.”

“That’s good news. I can’t wait.”

“There are only about two hundred things that could go wrong, so don’t count on it.”

“I’ll hold my breath.”

“Now, to business: Kate would like you to submit the names of five people who you believe would make a very fine Supreme Court justice. She would like no more than five hundred words in support of each of them, and no more than two may be white males. Got it?”

“Is somebody over at the Court looking a little peaked?”

“Who knows? I think she’s just being prepared — it’s in her nature.”

“Okay, when?”

“Soon. Fax them to me. You already have the number.”

“I’ll give it some thought. Tell me, is your reason for coming up here that Kate is coming to Eduardo Bianchi’s high mass at St. Patrick’s?”

“She is, and she told me to ask his daughter if she can sit in the family pew.”

“I’ll take care of that for you, if you like.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that. It seems like rather a personal request for me to be making to someone I don’t know.”

“Consider it done.”

“Okay, I have to get back to work here, the paper level is rising around me.”

“Right. See ya.”

“Oh, Stone, one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Who the hell is Fats Waller?”