(1980) The Second Lady Read Free Page A

Just telling you as one writer to another. Now forget it.’
    Curious fellow, Parker thought, drinking the last of his coffee. There weren’t too many of these don’t-want-no-credit people around any more.
    ‘I appreciate that,’ said Parker. ‘So, after the Salk story, she was on the staff. She did about three years of big-name interviews.’
    ‘Right. And one of the last was with a California senator named Andrew Bradford. That’s when it began for her.’
    ‘Yes, of course. I’d like to hear about some of the other celebrities she interviewed before she got to Bradford.’
    ‘If you like,’ said Kilday.
    That moment, the cafe cashier came to their table. ‘Pardon,’ she said. ‘Is either one of you Mr Guy Parker?’
    Parker looked up, surprised. ‘I am.’
    ‘Call for you from the White House. Phone’s next to the register.’
    Puzzled, Parker put down his napkin, excused himself and crossed the room to the telephone.
    The voice on the other end was Nora Judson’s.
    ‘I had trouble finding you,’ she was saying. ‘Then I remembered you were going to have lunch at The Madison.’
    ‘With George Kilday. On the book.’
    ‘Can you cut it short? Billie would like to see you as soon as possible.’
    ‘But I’ll be seeing her in an hour anyway for our —’
    ‘No, that’s cancelled. Her schedule is too heavy. I mean, she’s leaving for Moscow tomorrow afternoon. There’s no time to work with you on the book today. But there’s something else she wants to talk to you about. If you can get right over — well, in fifteen minutes or so —’
    ‘Okay, I’ll try. It’s just that it’s been so hard to get together with Kilday -‘
    ‘See him another time. Please hurry, before everything piles up.’
    With that she hung up. Parker replaced the receiver on the phone and wondered what he could tell George Kilday. But, as it turned out, he did not have to tell him anything. When
    he returned to the table, Kilday was already standing, gathering up his cigarettes, matches, key ring.
    ‘I know,’ he said with mock exasperation. ‘The White House. Something important’s come up. It always does.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Parker, as he glanced at the bill and laid down some notes. ‘I’m glad you understand. You were being very helpful. Can we finish this another time?’
    ‘Whenever you’re ready, just call.’
    They went out together and stood in front of the hotel. The street was an oven. Nevertheless, Parker decided to leave his car and walk to the White House. He could make it in fifteen minutes. He wanted the interval to be alone in his head. As Kilday ordered his car, Parker thanked him once more and was on his way.
    Despite the heat, he walked rapidly in long strides. Across the street, two reporters emerging from the Washington Post building, hailed him. He saluted back but kept going. Several times, he caught his moving reflection in shop windows. What he saw of himself always surprised him. He looked so neat, so sure of himself, from the outside. This was deceptive. Inside he carried a tangle of anxieties and uncertainties.
    It sometimes surprised him that he had become a writer. Although he was good at it, no question. People always told him that he looked like a writer, whatever that meant. He was almost tall, just under 6 feet. He was thin, lanky, sinewy. No fat whatsoever. His thick black hair parted at one side, his brown eyes set deep above the high cheek bones, his nose slightly Roman, sensuous lips (the women always said), a dimpled jut of a jaw.
    Actually, there had never been a writer in his family. His father was a professor of political science at the University of Wisconsin. His mother was a psychologist. Parker had gone to Northwestern University, had become involved in American history with the vague notion that he might teach one day. His avocation had been voraciously reading suspense and mystery novels. This had heightened his desire to lead a more active and exciting life.