self-esteem of another member of the staff, but it was his job to save the president from himself. He looked up from the secretary of transportation's urgent memo about a bridge over the Mississippi that was about to collapse, halting all commerce on the river.
"Is Banion moderating the debates?"
The press secretary gratefully picked up the cue. "I talked to Jed Holcomb at the League of Gay Voters, and he says it's a done deal. This is their first time hosting the debates, and they're going out of their way to have as straight a moderator as there is. Banion's nothing if not straight."
"How did the League of Gay Voters get to sponsor the debates?" the president asked. "For Christ's sake. Where does it end?" "It was their turn." "We have no say in the moderator?"
"Theoretically. But if we veto him, it'll get out and we'll have elevated him into the Man the President Is Afraid Of."
'Afraid, my ass. While he was playing squash at Harvard -" "Princeton."
"- my unit was taking thirty percent casualties in the A Shau Valley. I am not 'afraid' of some pipe-sucking, bow-tied talk-show host whose idea of hell is finding grit in his Wellfleet oysters."
Marine One was circling Burning Bush, preparing to land. The president was lacing his spikes.
The chief of staff said, "Of course we're not scared of him. But why give him a career boost by vetoing him in the debates?"
The president looked out his window at the small army waiting to receive him. 'Aren't Laura and I supposed to go to his house for dinner next week in honor of someone?"
"The British ambassador."
"Schedule something for right before the dinner. Something that might run late. Really late. CIA briefing on the Russian situation."
'"Okay," said the chief of staff. "But wouldn't it be cooler to smother the bastard in honey? What's the point of pissing him off?"
"When did these people get so goddamned important that the president of the United States has to suck up to them? Someone tell me."
They were saved from having to answer by Marine One's landing.
'All right, but you let him know: I'm not doing his show again. You t ell him."
The press secretary nodded.
The president stepped out onto manicured grass and was immediately engulfed by entourage.
A staff car was waiting to take the staff to the white House. The press secretary lay back against the seat with his tie loosened and the thousand-yard stare of a freshly reamed presidential aide.
"What are you going tell Banion?" the chief of staff asked.
"'Great show, Jack. The president really enjoyed himself. He wants to do it again. Soon.'"
The chief of staff nodded and went back to his immediate action folder
The president sliced off the first tee into a stand of sycamores, narrowly missing the skull of a congressman. The ball made a loud thok before disappearing into poison ivy. Prince Blandar, desirous of the president's support with respect to congressional approval for the purchase of fifty shiny new F-20 jet fighters for his desert kingdom, urged him to take a mulligan.
Val Dalhousie, plump, two face-lifts into her sixties, voluptuous and billowy in a Galanos caftan, thousands of dollars of diamond-studded gold panthers chasing each other around her wrists, beckoned the late-arriving Banion into her Matisse-intensive parlor.
"I'm not sure any of us dares be seen with you." She gave him a peck on each cheek in the European manner. She whispered, "If I had known you were going to be so f eral with him, I wouldn't have invited so many of his cabinet."
Val had been a stage actress years ago. Before that, it was said that she had been in a different line of entertainment. She had married up the food chain, eventually reaching the rung occupied by Jamieson Vanbrugh Dalhousie, adviser to presidents, heir to an immense steel fortune, and twice her age. Jamieson had died ten years ago, leaving her a half dozen houses, a number of alarmed heirs by his first wives, a tidy collection of Impressionists, and $500
"Is Banion moderating the debates?"
The press secretary gratefully picked up the cue. "I talked to Jed Holcomb at the League of Gay Voters, and he says it's a done deal. This is their first time hosting the debates, and they're going out of their way to have as straight a moderator as there is. Banion's nothing if not straight."
"How did the League of Gay Voters get to sponsor the debates?" the president asked. "For Christ's sake. Where does it end?" "It was their turn." "We have no say in the moderator?"
"Theoretically. But if we veto him, it'll get out and we'll have elevated him into the Man the President Is Afraid Of."
'Afraid, my ass. While he was playing squash at Harvard -" "Princeton."
"- my unit was taking thirty percent casualties in the A Shau Valley. I am not 'afraid' of some pipe-sucking, bow-tied talk-show host whose idea of hell is finding grit in his Wellfleet oysters."
Marine One was circling Burning Bush, preparing to land. The president was lacing his spikes.
The chief of staff said, "Of course we're not scared of him. But why give him a career boost by vetoing him in the debates?"
The president looked out his window at the small army waiting to receive him. 'Aren't Laura and I supposed to go to his house for dinner next week in honor of someone?"
"The British ambassador."
"Schedule something for right before the dinner. Something that might run late. Really late. CIA briefing on the Russian situation."
'"Okay," said the chief of staff. "But wouldn't it be cooler to smother the bastard in honey? What's the point of pissing him off?"
"When did these people get so goddamned important that the president of the United States has to suck up to them? Someone tell me."
They were saved from having to answer by Marine One's landing.
'All right, but you let him know: I'm not doing his show again. You t ell him."
The press secretary nodded.
The president stepped out onto manicured grass and was immediately engulfed by entourage.
A staff car was waiting to take the staff to the white House. The press secretary lay back against the seat with his tie loosened and the thousand-yard stare of a freshly reamed presidential aide.
"What are you going tell Banion?" the chief of staff asked.
"'Great show, Jack. The president really enjoyed himself. He wants to do it again. Soon.'"
The chief of staff nodded and went back to his immediate action folder
The president sliced off the first tee into a stand of sycamores, narrowly missing the skull of a congressman. The ball made a loud thok before disappearing into poison ivy. Prince Blandar, desirous of the president's support with respect to congressional approval for the purchase of fifty shiny new F-20 jet fighters for his desert kingdom, urged him to take a mulligan.
Val Dalhousie, plump, two face-lifts into her sixties, voluptuous and billowy in a Galanos caftan, thousands of dollars of diamond-studded gold panthers chasing each other around her wrists, beckoned the late-arriving Banion into her Matisse-intensive parlor.
"I'm not sure any of us dares be seen with you." She gave him a peck on each cheek in the European manner. She whispered, "If I had known you were going to be so f eral with him, I wouldn't have invited so many of his cabinet."
Val had been a stage actress years ago. Before that, it was said that she had been in a different line of entertainment. She had married up the food chain, eventually reaching the rung occupied by Jamieson Vanbrugh Dalhousie, adviser to presidents, heir to an immense steel fortune, and twice her age. Jamieson had died ten years ago, leaving her a half dozen houses, a number of alarmed heirs by his first wives, a tidy collection of Impressionists, and $500
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