Chapter 38
The hotel’s desk clerk looked at Jack questioningly as we walked in, and I tried hard not to flinch. I was very definitely seen as a woman of the night at this particular establishment now.
I wondered if, once the story was out, I could come back and explain that I was a nice girl on an assignment.
Then again, the desk clerk had likely heard much crazier stories than that and believed none of them. Besides, I was sure Nellie Bly had certainly gotten worse looks in her day.
Jack shook his head subtly at the desk clerk, and we walked down to the bar. Alejandra de Bernal was nowhere to be seen.
“What if your guy doesn’t show?” I asked, nervous.
“Then we try again,” Jack said. He led me to a table before excusing himself to get us drinks.
I hesitated when he passed me a champagne cocktail, torn between needing the liquid courage and wanting to maintain a clear head for what I needed to do.
I settled on a small sip. Finishing my drink last time had only led to trouble, and I was about to try to outsmart one of the most powerful men in the world.
“So,” Jack said, “Shabbat dinner tomorrow night?”
“Don’t you start with that.”
He grinned at me. I wondered if he would still be smiling when my mother was interrogating him about his career prospects and how many children he wanted.
He probably would. He had no idea how hard it was going to be for me when I had to tell my mother we “broke up” after the story came out.
Even with a joint byline, I would never be able to come clean to her that none of this had been real.
She would never forgive me. But would he play along with being the one to break my heart?
Our mothers being friends complicated it all.
As did Jack admitting he cared about me. I didn’t want to consider what that warm feeling in my chest every time I thought about that meant. Because feelings or no feelings, I was not ready to get married, give up my dreams, and become my sister, no matter who the guy was.
“Where’s your head?” he asked. “Nervous?”
“I’m fine with tonight.” I took another small sip of my drink. “It’s what happens after the story is done that worries me.”
“What happens after?”
“I have to tell my mother we’re not together.”
Something unidentifiable crossed his face, and he opened his mouth to speak, then he shook his head. “That’s him.” He gestured toward a man in a suit who had just come down the stairs. “Collins,” he called, waving him over.
The man startled, but came to our table. “Nix the name here,” he said quietly.
Jack shrugged. It was an open secret anyway, both whom he worked for and what he was doing in the bar. But several women at tables were now looking in our direction and fluffing their hair.
I frankly wondered at the appeal. The vice president had a nice-enough smile, but he wasn’t what I would call handsome by any stretch. The president, well, I could see it. But the idea of just wanting to be adjacent to power was foreign to me.
“This is the girl I was telling you about,” Jack said. “Meet Judy Greenberg.”
“Greenberg, huh?” Collins sat heavily at our table, and the bartender showed up almost immediately with a glass of liquor. No ordering—or bill apparently—necessary here.
I looked him right in the eye. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, our man won’t have a problem with that, though his predecessor would have.” That was another open secret. “Tell me, young lady, why do you want to go upstairs so badly?” He drank half of his glass in one go while he waited for my response.
Jack reached under the table and took my hand, squeezing it.
“Well”—I batted my eyes at him the way Patricia had shown me—“I always thought he looked awfully dashing at the president’s side.”
“You don’t prefer the president?”
I laughed. “Who can compete with the first lady? I know I’m not exactly Marilyn Monroe. No, I like a man who appreciates what he’s getting with me.” It was a definite dig at the vice president’s wife, who was decidedly less glamorous than the first lady, but, well, it did the trick.
“You were right, Fields. This one is a firecracker.” He checked his watch.
“Well, come on, then. The quicker I take care of him, the quicker I can get home.” He looked back at Jack.
“Atlanta was a mess yesterday, and his wife wants the whole family in Texas for the weekend. I’d like to at least see my family before that. ”
Jack pressed my hand again, and I squeezed his before releasing it.
“Does he not have a steady girl anymore?”
“Between you and me,” Collins said, “he’s got three of them.
But I told him about this one.” He gestured to me.
I wanted to punch this man in his smug face for treating me like a piece of meat.
But I had to play my part. “And he liked the description you gave me, so he canceled his plans for tonight.”
I felt a little queasy at the thought of the vice president canceling a tryst to have one with .
. . me. He was in for a disappointment when we got upstairs.
I wondered if Collins would get in trouble or if he would be called back from home to fetch Alejandra when I left.
I also wondered what “description” Jack had given of me, but that was a question for later.
Collins swigged the rest of his drink. “You coming?” he asked. “I’m sure one of them”—he nodded over his shoulder toward a table where three women sat—“would be happy to if not.”
I stood up. “I’m coming.”
Jack looked like he wanted to object, and Collins laughed, then patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “They always want the man at the top, not us.”
I could feel Jack’s eyes on me as we walked out of the bar, and a part of me wanted to run back to the safety of his side, his hand in mine.
But I had always wanted to write the stories that mattered.
And that meant investigating, even if it put me in danger.
I can do this, I told myself for about the millionth time.
I hardly heard the ding of the elevator arriving over the blood rushing in my ears, and I shook my head to clear it.
Jack’s warnings had gotten to me, that was all.
The vice president was obviously a civilized man.
I remembered my grandmother saying she liked him because he had voted to naturalize Jews into America when things got hairy in Europe.
There were even rumors that he helped bring some to Texas to save them.
This was someone I could have a conversation with.
That’s all this was. A conversation between politician and constituent.
Even if I wasn’t old enough to have voted for him.
Before I knew it, we were at the door, two suited men in front of it.
I straightened my shoulders, taking care not to touch my dress or hair nervously.
Confidence was the name of the game here, and while I wasn’t feeling that much of it, I knew my future as a journalist depended on my ability to pretend I was there because I wanted to be.
“Special delivery,” Collins joked to the men at the door. Neither cracked a smile. “He’s expecting this package.”
If I ever got a real audience with the vice president after this was all over, I was telling him what a louse his secretary was. Granted, with three mistresses, that was probably why he hired him.
One of the Secret Service agents rapped twice at the door, and a few seconds later, a voice I recognized from the radio called to come in.
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and the agent turned the knob.
The room itself was exquisite. I wondered if the vice president paid for it himself, or if this was taxpayer funded.
The rooms, I should say, because I walked into a sitting room, with two sofas, a coffee table, and an armchair.
An open door led to another room, the foot of a bed just visible, and the curtains were open at the far end of the room we were in, showcasing an even better view of the White House than I’d had two nights earlier.
The door closed behind me, and I jumped slightly, turning around to see the second-most familiar face in the country. He had no tie on, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, showing just a glimpse of an undershirt, and he was in socks. It was jarring to see him so undone.
“Well, hello there,” he drawled, his Texas origin evident immediately. “And who might you be?”
“Judy Greenberg,” I said. Then, the unbuttoned shirt unnerving me, I added nervously, “I work for The Washington Digest.” I could have kicked myself for giving that detail away so soon.
“Oh good.” I was confused. He was happy I was a reporter?
He chuckled at the bewilderment on my face, and I hated that he had read me so easily.
“If it was The Post, I’d worry. The Digest won’t run a story against me.
” He likely wasn’t wrong, but this wasn’t about him; it was about an espionage plot.
“Let me guess,” he continued, “a typing pool girl, new to the big city, excited to rub . . . elbows . . . with a powerful man.”
I swallowed, refusing to cringe at the way he had said elbows. But he was describing Patricia to a T. I wondered if she would have been a better choice for this. No. This was my story. “Something like that. Mr. Vice President, I wanted to ask you—”
“Drink?” he asked, crossing to a bar cart in the room.
“No, thank you. I—”
“Want to get right down to it, huh? I like a girl who knows what she wants.”
I looked around, desperately. “Can—can we talk a little . . . first?” If I just ran out of there with no information, I wouldn’t get a second chance at this.
He smiled, amused. “Sure,” he said, sitting on one of the sofas. “Why don’t you come on over here and sit with me, and we can . . . talk.”
I sat at the other end of the sofa from him, but he moved over until our legs were touching, and he put an arm behind me. It wasn’t around my shoulders, but was far too close for comfort.
“What did you want to talk about?” he asked.