Chapter 19
Only Lafayette Square separated us from the White House. A four-minute walk at most. Maybe five in heels, stumbling, tipsy, on the arm of the president’s man.
I swallowed, feeling none of Patricia’s bubbly joy. Either I would find nothing and be stuck in the typing pool indefinitely, or I was about to uncover something that would change everything.
The former was obviously far more likely.
But on the sidewalk, I couldn’t help but pause as I looked up at the historic building. Did my career as a journalist start here tonight?
Patricia elbowed me. “You’ve got to land a big fish to wind up in one of those rooms,” she said with a wicked grin. Then she nodded toward the White House. “Or one of those.”
“Patricia!”
She laughed. “Fresh off the farm. Would you really say no to the most powerful man in the world?”
Yes, I thought primly. I had no interest in an affair, even if it was with someone who could launch a nuclear war or declare me the journalist laureate of the nation—a title he would have to create specifically for me. Okay, if he was willing to do that, then maybe.
“Hard to say,” I said to appease her. She linked her arm through mine, and we walked arm in arm under the portico, where a sharply dressed bellman in a red coat and buttons so polished that they sparkled opened the door for us.
Our heels clacked on the marble floor, and I felt my breath catch as I looked around the archways of the lobby, lit from beneath.
The only hotels I had ever spent time in were a Catskills resort, where we shared a bungalow for a week with my aunt and uncle’s family, and a small hotel on the Jersey shore that had sand in the bedsheets when we arrived. Nothing like this.
“Don’t stare,” Patricia whispered. “Act like you come to places like this all the time.”
“But I’ve never seen a place like this,” I whispered back.
“Look bored,” she instructed. “Almost disdainful. Like you spend the night in fancier hotels all the time.”
“There are fancier hotels than this?”
She chuckled. “Loads. In town alone, there’s the Mayflower and the Willard, not to mention the Georgetown ones.”
I shook my head. This was a world I hadn’t even truly considered. And if I was working as a journalist, I could be reporting on the happenings at places like this one.
Patricia directed me to a small staircase leading down into the basement of the hotel.
The walls were painted red, and the tufted leather chairs matched, with wooden legs that complemented the polished wood flooring.
Small windows placed high on the walls reminded us that we were below ground, and framed caricatures of politicians of old hung as decor.
A huge marble fireplace took up much of one wall, opposite a mahogany bar.
It wasn’t crowded, with pockets of suited men and well-dressed women sitting around tables laughing, and men sitting alone at the bar nursing drinks.
Part of me instinctively wanted to leave.
This was so far outside the world I inhabited.
What was I doing in a swanky hotel bar? My father had a drink before dinner.
Wine at Passover was all I’d had. But this?
I wouldn’t know how to begin to fit in, let alone look for a Cuban woman who was implicated with a Texan.
I was way out of my depth here, and I was sure that everyone who even glanced my way would see it instantly.
And the more I thought about it, the more ridiculous this was.
A Cuban nightclub singer had a drink here Friday night, and I thought I had found a story lead?
Mr. Pullman was right. The typing pool was where I belonged.
My confidence slipped away. Maybe my mother was right and I should be looking for a husband, not story leads that would ultimately lead me nowhere.
This whole thing was foolish. I wanted to go home, but it was too late to do so without Patricia getting upset with me.
“Let’s get a drink,” Patricia said, guiding me toward the bar. “Better yet, let’s find someone to buy us drinks.”
I looked at her askance. “Won’t they get ideas, then?”
She winked. “Men can have any sort of ideas they want. We’re modern women—we get to decide which ideas are good ones.” Then her posture straightened, and she turned around. “How’s my lipstick?”
“Perfect. Why?”
“Remember the congressman I went out with last night? I kind of . . . may have . . . told him we’d be here tonight.”
I looked at the far wall, where a man with gray hair and an unmistakable wedding ring sat at a table.
He looked vaguely familiar, but I could place neither a name nor the state that he represented.
And I fought to keep my shoulders from dropping.
No, I hadn’t told Patricia the real reason I wanted to come tonight, but I had thought I would have some backup at least. This was definitely a mistake.
The man raised his drink at us, and Patricia sauntered over, her hips swinging like she was Marilyn Monroe.
He stood to greet her, and she let him kiss her cheek.
She gestured toward me, and he waved me over.
The last thing I wanted to do was be a third wheel on Patricia’s date with a married man.
But to avoid being rude, I went to the table.
“Darling, this is my dear friend Judy. Judy, this is Cong—”
“Phil,” he said, cutting her off smoothly and holding out his hand.
Phil, my brain repeated over and over until it clicked.
Phillip Clement. South Carolina. There had been some scandal a few years back.
Something with a girl. I couldn’t remember what, but it clearly hadn’t had much of an impact on his career or his marriage.
I just hoped Patricia was wise enough to not become the next tabloid headline.
“So nice to meet you.” His accent told me I was correct about his identity.
“Likewise,” I said guardedly.
“Let me get you ladies a drink.”
“A martini for me,” Patricia said. She looked at me.
I had no idea what one ordered at a bar. And I doubted they had kosher wine back there, which was the one thing I knew.
I swallowed again. “I’ll have the same.”
“But just one for Judy,” Patricia trilled. “She drove me here tonight.”
“I’ll go get those drinks,” he said, winking at Patricia.
When he got to the bar, I put a hand on Patricia’s arm. “Isn’t he the one—”
“Shh,” she said. “It was all a misunderstanding. The baby wasn’t his. He explained it all on Saturday. Total frame-up to get money, you know?”
I did not know. And if he was now on a date with Patricia, I didn’t buy that for one second. “Just be careful.”
She mimed crossing her heart. “I’m practically a safety patrol.” She leaned closer. “Besides, I’m protected.”
Against babies, I thought. Not against reporters with grudges or jealous wives.
Congressman Phil returned to the table, two drinks in hand. They were clear, with an olive on a toothpick in each one. Didn’t look so bad. And I liked olives. He handed us each a drink, and Patricia held hers out, clinking it to mine. “Cheers,” she said merrily.
I almost replied, L’chaim, but, looking around, I was likely the only Jew in the establishment that night—possibly ever. As I brought the glass to my lips, I spotted a familiar face watching me from a booth, his back against the wall.
Jack Fields raised his glass to eye level, then brought it to his lips as I took my first sip.
I started coughing as soon as the gin hit my throat. Patricia gave me a few whacks on the back, and suddenly Fields was beside me. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Patricia rolled her eyes. “She’s fine, Fields. What are you doing here anyway?”
He ignored her, crouching down so our faces were level. I managed a nod, wishing I had a glass of water instead of whatever that olive was marinating in.
“Let me get you some water,” he said, as if reading my mind. A moment later, he reappeared with another glass, which he shoved into my hands. “Here. This’ll help.”
I took a slow sip and was finally able to respond. “Thank you,” I said. “Just a little—stronger—than I’m used to.”
“Listen, I—” He looked up to see Patricia and Phil watching him. “I—uh—do you mind if I borrow Miss Greenberg for a couple minutes? I wanted to say I’m—I wanted to talk to her.”
“She’s a big girl,” Patricia said frostily. “Judy, do you want to talk to Fields?”
Not really, no. I was embarrassed about choking on a drink in front of him, and I wasn’t proud of how rude I had been when he apologized. But it was preferable to watching Patricia and the congressman make eyes at each other, so I stood, picked up my martini, and excused myself.
Fields nodded. “Patricia. Congressman Clement.” The congressman blanched at the use of his title and last name, and I suppressed a grin as Fields led me to his table.