Death of a Political Plant Read Free Page B

reelection.
    And she had no doubt Paschen expected to get everything he asked for.
    She stepped back and slid her hands against the stone railing to keep from stumbling awkwardly in her satin stiletto heels.
    Quietly, she said, “I hope you realize I do not call the shots on program topics, Tom. That’s up to Marty Corbin. I think the new environmental law is great, and I will do everything I can to persuade Marty.”
    Paschen smiled. It added a more attractive, vulnerable element to his thin face.
    “But please,” she said, “just because I like the idea, that doesn’t mean it’s a
fait accompli
, Tom. Public television is very chary about promoting things. It is not what we do. In fact, why don’t I simply have Marty call you and you can settle it between the two of you?”
    He gave her an unfathomable look. Louise had heard from Bill that this man was in the midst of a divorce from his powerful businesswoman wife, who had gone to New York to join a top firm at top salary. As her husband put it, “Tom has had to do some heavy couch time to get over the trauma of it, and even then it’s left him with a jaundiced view of women.”
    Now he looked down at her speculatively, as if considering whether or not she was trustworthy. “I think I’d rather deal with you, Louise. Getting all clicked in with another source takes time. I already spend one hundred fifty percent of my time on this job.”
    She studied the chief of staff—the tired eyes, the cowlicked hair that wouldn’t stay in place. Standing so close, she could detect a tic that was bothering his right eye. Compassionwelled up from somewhere inside her and she thought of an idea to help this beleaguered public servant. “Torn, I bet you don’t have much fun these days.”
    “You got that right,” he said, hands in pockets now, and rocking back and forth on his expensive Italian patent leather dress shoes. “Boring embassy receptions and White House dinners are about all I have time for.” He looked like a petulant overaged youth on whose life a curfew had been clamped.
    Impulsively, she put out her hand and took his. “Just come with me for about four minutes. I want to show you something really great—that is, unless you’ve already been to the tower.”
    “A tower, in this building?”
    “Come on,” she said, tugging on his hand, and skirted past the glittering crowd across to the art galleries themselves. As they passed a display of Claes Oldenberg’s pop art, Tom Paschen stared at the grossly distorted objects—a half-deflated toilet, an inflated pile of raisin toast, a giant lipstick—as if they had come from an alien planet. “We’re not going to see more like this, are we?”
    “Not to worry,” she said. The marble-lined stairwell to the tower echoed hollowly as they hurried up the steps into the quiet tower room. Now they were in the world of Matisse cutouts. The pictures danced out from tall, stark walls: artworks in vibrant colors with delightful forms as simple as a child’s paper cutouts, but with all the depth of the artist’s imagination and humor.
    Paschen stood with hands on hips, surveying it all. “Well, I have to admit, I’ve never been here, but it’s interesting.”
    “I just thought a little change of pace would be nice for you. So, do you like them?” She strode around to give each a closer look, then circled back to Tom.
    “Yeah, I guess I do. It’s a nice interlude here, Louise, and it would probably do me good to just take some time in this place”—he jerked a thumb toward the west—“or better still, in the main gallery where they have the old masters.”
    She noticed his attention had refocused from the Matisse cutouts to her, and suddenly she realized how alone they were up in this tower. “Um, I suppose Bill will be wondering where I am….”
    Tom guided her toward the door, and they went back down the stairway. At the sound of their feet clattering on the pink marble steps, they looked at each