Partisan Politics

By

Parhelion

I

Looking back, I give myself some credit.  When I saw Russ was naked I didn't even break my stride.

Hey, this was still a locker room, even if it was tiny enough to be crowded by four guys who'd won a polo match, along with their pals and potential substitutes.  The place was alive with good-looking beef on the hoof, all milling around in various states of undress while shouting, or laughing, or tending to their equipment, or goofing around in the shower as they talked up their victory the same as any other winning team would have done.  True, no one was snapping anyone else on the ass with a towel, but these guys were raised richer than our state's 1956 football champs.  More important, these guys were also older than the high school team I'd watched Senator Fairfax congratulate back in June.  Russ's polo-playing friends were in their late twenties, just like Russell Fairfax himself, something I could stand to remember around now.  This group – including Russ – was old enough to know about my sort and to worry, even when they didn't need to.  So I kept my gaze casual and moved on.

Russ had been digging into his locker, probably looking for some clothes to go with the skimpy outfit of sock garters and black wool socks.  He turned, caught sight of me, and grinned.  "Well, well, well.  If it isn't Father's second-best political fixer, all dressed up for the public arena.  Nice hat.  I thought you didn't believe in watching 'croquet on horseback.'"

I shook my head.  "I don't.  I'm here on business."

"Uh-oh."  He hoisted eyebrows.  "Here goes my Labor Day weekend."  His expression sobered.  "Not—grim business, I hope."

"We're talking a mess, not a tragedy."  I let him see me looking around at the crowd.  "No details, but the Senator wants to see you real soon.  Like ten minutes ago soon."

"Christ."  He turned to the locker, hesitated, then turned back to me.  "Bert.  Do you have a cigarette?"

Russ wasn't big on the smokes and neither was I, but he'd indulge under pressure, and I carried them for my job.  If I'd worked back during prohibition, I'd have carried a hip flask, too.  Anyhow, I brought out the sterling case, let him take his pick, then dug out my box of matches and lit the cigarette up for him.

His cheeks hollowed out some as he drew, and I couldn't swallow my smile.  Yeah, okay, he had a lean build I liked, an impressive ass from all that horseback riding, and what I now knew to be one beaut of a long, slim cock.  But I could stamp that knowledge down.  For all that Russ had grown up to look like one of the physique models in the sort of magazine that I studied on the sly and then destroyed, when his face thinned out I could see the skinny teen I'd chaperoned through his first time working on one of his father's political campaigns, over a decade ago.  We'd gotten along then and we got along now, nifty dick or no.

Russ turned away from me to blow some smoke before he asked, "From your fedora and still-buttoned overcoat, can I assume we'll be traveling?"

"Taxi, airport, then car.  We're headed up to the summer house for a lovely family weekend.  Also a full family conference, minus the mess-maker of course."

That's when his shoulders slumped a little and his stomach muscles relaxed, so I could tell he hadn't figured out until now he wasn't the source of the problem.  He must've been up to something.  Making a mental note to dig for details later, I said, "I should talk to you more often when you're stripped."

For a second, he blinked before he rearranged his face the way he'd been taught.  But I'd learned the name of that quick expression that escaped him:  nonplussed.  "Why?"

I nodded approval at how little information his question had contained.  "Your body's telegraphing what you're feeling all the way across this locker room."

This time his muscles stayed as still as his face.  Everything was serene while he said, "Thanks for the tip.  I'd better watch for that."

"The press sure will."

"The press.  Yes."

This time we both glanced around the room.  No one was keeping an eye on us, one advantage to a crowd mostly as loaded and occasionally as famous as any Fairfax.  Then Russ dove back into his locker and pulled out a buttoned-down Oxford neatly sharing a hanger with a t-shirt.  He could get a little fussy every now and then, but so could I:  I reached over, plucked the cigarette out from between his lips, and went to toss it into the locker room can.  As far as most folks know, he doesn't do cigarettes at all.  No sense in sending up smoke signals that anything was going on.

Smart guy.  He knew I wasn't kidding around about what the Senator wanted.  He made his excuses to his pals, got us out of there, and boarded the plane with a minimum of fuss.  He didn't dig for details, either.   When it came to my holding out on news, his mother would have asked me up front and then frosted when I refused to tell.  His older brother Quentin would have tried to charm the story out of me.  His younger sister Edith would have studied me like a bug under a microscope until I felt like giving her any news I had just to get her to stop.

For his part, Russ talked movies and told some stories about a few cocktail parties he'd attended since I last saw him a couple of weeks ago.  He kept his eyes open, though, and seemed to relax a little more as he read that I wasn't tensed up.

For my part, I kept my thoughts to myself.  Senator Fairfax wanted to be the guy telling his family about this mess, and the Senator was the man who signed my paycheck.  With one big exception, I try to keep clean.  It makes me stand out against the smudged political background. That's my take on the matter, at least.

The family met in the Senator's study, a room with large windows overlooking the pine-forested hillside sloping down to Stony Creek.  Like most of the house, the furniture in this room was fake rustic, the kind of logs-with-cushions stuff they named Adirondack.  It's supposed to look simple, costs a mint, and decorates a lot of the turn-of-the-century so-called hunting lodges up in these mountains.

Mrs.  Fairfax manages to make even a rustic chairs look like a throne, though.  She was settled in, needlepointing someone's initials onto a belt, when we arrived, and I faded towards the back of the room, over by the bar, while she presented her cheek to Russ for a kiss.

"Did he struggle?"  The high, bland voice belonged to Harry Lewis McMillan, the Senator's number one fixer.  His official job title was chief of staff, and I was on the books as his senior assistant, even though we both were clear on who really paid me.  He handed me a Scotch.

"Nah.  Like usual, he rallied round."  With that, I cut off my report.  Edith Fairfax was already sitting on the sofa, and now Russ was settling in next to her.  Any second now—

The doors opened and the Senator came in.  He was sixty-two, resembled a silver-haired Roman senator redone in Ivy League, and didn't do a damn thing for my libido. Not that I failed to feel the strength or see the looks that hadn't faded much with age, but he'd have scared the crap out of me if he hadn't already scared the crap out of a lot of men I'd met and despised.

Fortunately, the Senator enjoyed a good fight for his principles nearly as much as he liked the perks of power.  The way he'd stood up to Joe McCarthy over the last few years, for example, had repaid the citizenry for a lot of pork-barreling, log-rolling, and other politics-as-usual.  He enjoyed chewing on deep-fried Dixiecrats, too.   That was a big reason I still worked for him even though I got pretty fed up with Washington from time to time.

"Hello, all."  The Senator kissed his wife and daughter, smiled at them both, and then went to shake Russ's hand.  "Thanks for coming up, son.  I understand you had to forego some well-earned celebration to be with the family."

"I don't mind, sir.  Tomorrow's Sunday and, because it's Labor Day Weekend, I'd cleared off my desk at the firm."

Harry had carried another scotch over to the Senator, who'd taken it with a nod of thanks after settling into his favorite armchair.  That chair, unlike most of the others in the room, was upholstered in leather and well-padded.

"Nonetheless, good of you to show up on short notice.  I hope we can all have a pleasant weekend together."  The Senator paused for a sip.  "So I won't waste all your times with unneeded niceties.  Susan has asked Quentin for a divorce."

Mrs.  Fairfax kept on with her needlework, unperturbed.  She'd probably already heard the news.  Russ hoisted his eyebrows.  His sister Edith pursed her lips in what might be astonishment or might be annoyance.  She was the first one to speak, too.  "On what grounds?"

The Senator made his response dry.  "She won't say.  Seemingly, not adultery."

Yeah, okay.  Quentin was discreet and polite about his occasional affairs, and he'd been fooling around for years, even while he and Susan were engaged.  Susan knew, and she put up with all the outside romancing.  She liked Quentin, she wasn't stupid about money, and she loved being married to a rising young congressman.  Boy, a divorce would sure put a spoke into that particular wheel.

"Which is why your mother and I have asked you two to come and talk with us.  You both spend more time with Susan than we do."

"When she's in town, certainly."  Edith snorted.  "Although she hasn't exactly rushed to throw herself onto my bosom and confide any marital problems.  She's always claimed Quentin's an easy husband."  Edith wasn't pulling her punches because of any sisterly loyalty, either.  She was clear-sighted to the edge of icy in her opinions and honest to boot.  "What about you, Russ?  The two of you dine together a lot."

Russ raised his eyebrows.  "Nothing to report.  The last matter Susan complained to me about was some kafuffle in the Junior League over a week ago."

Around then was when I realized that Harry, who'd returned to lounge against the bar, arms crossed, next to me, was watching Russ very carefully.  More:  I couldn't say quite how I knew, but my shyster's antennae were telling me he was also keeping an eye on me.

***

Later on that evening, after dinner, Russ leaned on the wooden railing of the terrace as he asked me, "Got another smoke?"

That may have been some kind of spike in his cigarette consumption due to nerves, but more likely it was a good excuse for a quick, private talk.  "Sure."  Once again, I got out my case, gave him his smoke, and matched him.  The contrast between the nude with a cigarette at noon and the evening-clothed gent at dusk was interesting but tough on my nerves.  Making a mental note to get laid real soon, I asked Russ, "So, your conclusions from that conversation before dinner?"

"Was it a conversation?"  His eyes narrowed.  "No, that crack was pique.  Father thinks the divorce does have something to do with an outside interest, but on Susan's part, not Quentin's. Mother's not sure, so she's playing the neutral.  I don't know what Quentin thinks.  He's probably staying in Washington so that he doesn't have to think.  Smart, practical, and a little lazy all at once, about what I'd expect from him."

He was ducking and weaving nicely, but I'd been a Golden Gloves champion in my day, way back before my evenings were dedicated to night-school law courses.  "And?"

"Father's looking for suspects.  For some reason he's chosen not to share, he's looking close to home."  I kept quiet.  He knocked off ash with a single, sharp tap on the railing, and said, "Me.  He suspects me."

"Not only you."

The way he turned to face me was deliberately slow.  "You too?  I don't think Harry's on his list."

We both snorted at the idea, and not just because of Harry's looks.  Although he fades into the background, a real gift for a fixer, Harry'd still gotten around in his day. However, Harry was also part of Quentin's political inheritance.  Harry had once-upon-a-time nursemaided Quentin the same way I had Russ, and he'd rather cut off his right nut than do something that'd betray both the Senator and Quentin at once.  One reason the Senator had two fixers was so that Harry could concentrate on mentoring Quentin through his first term in Washington.  Besides, Harry treated Susan like he was her old uncle, and he wasn't the sort to sleep with women he treated that way.

I didn't answer Russ's question.  For a few seconds I studied the pine branches shifting in the evening breeze, and then I asked him, "Was it you?"  Thinking he'd earned more than a stark question, I added, "You have been up to something.  I helped teach you how to hide the signs, so I can tell."

"Not me, not Susan, no.  But Bert, how about you?"

"Nope."  The pride and irritation that his persistence fueled in me jostled around some, and may have showed up in my tone.

Russ reached over and clapped my upper arm before he said, "Then we need more time to work on the tangle.  Damn this fishbowl."  He didn't make clear if he was referring to the public eye or the private household.  Instead he stubbed out his cigarette with the kind of care that showed he'd rather chuck it out towards the woods, and we both went back inside before we were missed.

The next morning, Sunday, we took the excuse of fishing to find some solitude while the rest of the family trooped off to attend the local Congregationalist Church.  Stony Brook had a few good trout pools about a quarter mile upstream from the main house, still on Fairfax land.  Strictly speaking you're supposed to split up when you fly fish, one person per pool, but I parked on a log jammed into the bank close enough to Russ that he didn't have to shout across the distance and the rush of the brook water.  I told him, "Harry's playing dumb."

He drew back and cast before he said, "What a surprise.  I tackled Edith."

"Better you than me, Bub."

"Remember, she's as intimidated by you as you are by her."  I opened my mouth, but shut it as he kept going.  "Nothing.  Mother was a little more forthcoming, though."

Not a shock.  Russ was her favorite.  "Going to share?"

"Of course."  He was reeling in his line as he spoke.  "Father's flying by instinct.  Seemingly, Susan's being white-lipped and noble, not flair-nostriled and angry, so Father thinks she's protecting someone by keeping quiet.  Also, Mother says Quentin truly is bewildered about the whole matter, providing some evidence that he hasn't done anything recently he thinks could have triggered this."

"Susan could just be fed up, but I wouldn't want to bet against one of the Senator's hunches."

"No more would I."  He cast again.  The line arced out and dropped a little downstream of the sweet spot for that particular pool.  Russ frowned.

I asked, "Why doesn't the Senator think she's screwing with someone from, say, the political staffs or the family foundation?  Any of those names could be one she wouldn't want to give up."

"Something about her not being willing to talk at all."  Russ shook his head, reeling in again.  "Oh, I don't know.  Maybe I should be using a heavier fly than a Coachman wet."

"Maybe you should stick to the subject.  Life's going to be no fun around here until this all gets sorted out."  I chucked away the piece of grass I'd been chewing on, which earned me a wary, sideways glance.  "I'm asking again, what have you been up to?  Come on, now, if you're shacked up with some other woman, that'll take the heat off you about Susan."

"You're the one who has affairs with married women, not me."  A good block, but he didn't actually need it to distract me.  This time his cast showed he was pretty pissed, which must have helped his wristwork.  By the time he'd landed his trout, my question had gotten lost.  But I was also raking over some possibilities of what he'd been doing that I should have considered before.

One notion made me blink.  That one had to be my dick talking to my brain.  I stuck to the more likely choices when I asked, "Are you having a rough time at work?"

"No."  He'd waded out of the brook after leaving the trout in his wickerwork creel, and was now sitting on the other end of the log, replacing his trout fly.  "They're talking about making me a partner, but that's only the family connection coming into play.  Before they truly take me that seriously, I need to win a few more big cases, and not the pro-bono sort I like, either."  He paused, then added, "Although I'm enjoying myself more than I thought I would.  There's something about the law.  It's, well, useful sometimes."

"Looking to help out the nation?  You could always go into politics."  Sure, he'd already said he didn't want to join the other family business, but it was part of my job to try to get him interested, every now and then.  I'd asked him enough times over the years that I'd almost stopped listening for his reply.

However, I'd never tried asking him this close up before, and without warning.  When he asked, "Haven't we had this chat about a thousand times?" it was in the way someone talked about something impossible to have, not something he didn't want.

My mouth dried.  He wasn't blocked from politics because of you-know-what, stupid, I told myself.  Forcing my mind into action, I wondered what was actually keeping him from trying for public office.  Not drink, not dope, not shady dealings at work or he wouldn't have shaken off the question about his law firm so easily.  Maybe he was courting the wrong kind of girl?  Russ was the type to take a shine to some cute, smart Negress, for example, and he did do some work for the A.C.L.U. on the side.  "Whatever happened to that Bennington deb who liked the abstract expressionists?"

"Whatever happened to that auburn-haired Congressman's wife?"

"She's a Governor's wife in the Midwest now, thank you."  I studied him.  "You half want to tell me whatever it is, or you'd have brought out your version of shut up by now.  Come on, kid, cough up for your ol' Uncle Bert.  What is it?  Debts?  Socialists?  Girls?  Boys?"

On that last word, he jammed his hook right through the tip of his index finger.

There are days when I hate the special relationship between my dick and my brain.  At least he let me help him get bandaged up before he politely suggested that it would look funny if he came home with a full creel and I came home with nothing:  his version of shut up.  Going back empty-handed didn't turn out to be a problem, though.  Two hours later I brought back three fishes to his one.  I should try fly-fishing like a zombie more often.

Russ proved what he was made of on the hike back up to the house.  We'd been talking trout flies when he said, seemingly to do with nothing, "Given my propensities, I'll never be able to come up with an acceptable way to clear myself with Father."  Kind of gutsy on his part, if you think about it, confirming my guess rather than trying to play clumsy.

"Don't worry about your excuse.  That's my job."

He stopped quickly enough that I almost jostled into him, turned, surveyed me, and smiled.  Then he got going again, and I stood still beneath the maples for a moment, looking after him, before I did the same.  This was going to be touchy, very touchy.

Not until we'd dropped off the fish in the kitchen, gotten cleaned up, and were seated at the lunch table listening to the Senator growl about Adlai Stevenson's highbrow idea of electoral strategy, did I realize I'd forgotten something during Russ's and my little strategy conference.  Unfortunately, one good confession deserves another.

II

One problem with making your living hanging around a family of political types is that you're never the only one watching every word and gesture, trying to figure out what's going on.  It's like playing pool in a parlor full of guys named "Fats" or chess in a park full of fellows titled "Doc."  Before I could talk to Russ again, Harry ran me to ground.

As usual, if you actually managed to focus on him, Harry looked a little rumpled.  He was a chain-smoker, too, so the overall package was pretty undistinguished until you got a look at the eyes.  Those were as pretty a china blue as I'd ever seen, but with a keen enough expression around them to cut you to the bone.  He was wearing a tie I'd bought him two Christmases ago, as much warning as I'd get that I was his target for the day.

"Bert.  Good.  C'mon out onto the terrace for a breath of fresh, country air."

It was the same air as it'd been down at Stony Creek this morning, but I didn't protest.  I didn't say anything even when Harry whipped out one of his foul menthol cigarettes to unfreshen the air.  I only lit a match for him.

He took a couple of puffs.  "Thanks."  Uh-oh:  now I knew I was in for it.  "So, you had a little talk with Russ."

"We caught some trout, yeah."

"That'll please Mrs. Hewitt."  He studied me for a while.  "Did Russ say anything about how he's being treated at that law firm of his?"

"They're talking about making him a partner, but way too early.  He thinks it's the family connection."

"Maybe.  Probably.  We've taught him to look out for the ulterior motive.  Still, he got into the firm all on his own, so they might be sincere."

I hoisted eyebrows at him.  "Really?  I know he talked to Eaton and Pierce without bringing in the Senator, but that doesn't mean other conversations didn't take place before he was hired."

"Eaton doesn't like the boss, some old problem going back to their school days.  Pierce is interested in politics and likes to think of himself as a talent spotter.  Result:  a stalemate broken by a good application folder."

"It probably doesn't matter.  I do know Russ has done well.  I've read his articles in the law journals.  Pretty good for a guy a few years out of school and not long done with clerking."

Harry plucked out the cigarette from between his lips and gave me a cold look. "Egghead stuff.  And those pro-bonos of his are only storing up controversy.  When's he going to stop screwing around and get serious?"

When was Russ going into politics, Harry meant.  "Try never, or so Russ says."

He only snorted.  "Talk to him again."

I shrugged.  "I will, for all the good it'll do."

"You can point out to him that, with Quentin being busy at home, he's next up in line."

There was the true heart of the conversation:  sort out the mess with Susan, or else.

Harry kept going, though.  "In fact, you're being shipped back home for a while to help beef up the city headquarters for the Senator's next bid.  Which will also let you spend some time with Russ."  The Senator's next reelection campaign was still two years away and, unless a disaster occurred, he'd win in a walk.  No, this was to put pressure on me to put more pressure on Russ.  My transfer would leave us both in the same city.  Not that I minded the notion, much.  I needed a vacation from the Washington swamp.

"Sounds good."  I smiled.  Harry eyed me, and then changed the subject to the upcoming appropriations bill.  He knew better than to crack the whip too hard when I donned that particular smile.

***

I found Russ wandering absently around on the back lawn with a croquet mallet.  I could sympathize.  The thought of taking a good whack at something was pretty tempting right now.

"Hi."

Russ didn't start.  He seemed too glum for that. "Hello.  Why did Harry have you pinned on the terrace?"

"The usual reasons.  Politics and your future participation in them."

"I hope you told him that I haven't changed my mind." Russ took a vicious swipe at nothing in particular with the hand that lacked a bandaged finger, "If not why."

"I'm not all that convinced by your latest why."  I plopped down on one of the cedar-slat chairs provided for spectators.

"Why not?  I seem to remember, oh, various state statutes against sodomy, not to mention that charming executive order firing 'sexual perverts' from federal jobs."  He scowled.  "They're hunting hard for characters like me these days.  We're crypto-communists, you know, juicy targets for blackmail.  Predators.  Criminals."  His eyes narrowed.  "Pinko fags."

I raised my eyebrows at him.  "Tough talk, buddy.  You changed your mind about 'the strangling grip of Soviet Communism on Eastern European culture' that you wrote about back in university?"

"Do you really believe anyone cares what I think?"  Now he sounded bitter.  "I'm enough of a risk to Father and Quentin even as matters stand.  I barely dare to associate my name with the causes I support, for fear of discovery.  Why ever would I paint a gigantic bull's-eye on my chest by entering public life?"

Okay, I'd stalled long enough.  "Because you can't leave all the power to mugs like that."  I took a deep breath.  "The witch-hunters can rough up all the so-called pinko fags they want, Russ, and they'll still miss more because they don't know crap.  This isn't about criminal behavior or inborn politics.  Lots of queers live quiet, decent lives, ignore the Reds, serve in the military, never break another law but that one.  Even the most limp-wristed guys salute the flag and mean it, although I sometimes wonder why.  So, given that the witch hunters don't even know who we are, why should they be the only ones who can judge us?"

Russ went very still.  His eyes narrowed.  He said, "We."

I shrugged.  "Yeah, Your Honor, the witness said, 'we'.  I'm not taking the fifth, here."  I slapped myself hard in the chest.  "This former amateur boxer, veteran of the Big One, and centrist political fixer is as fruity as they come.  Like I said, the witch-hunters don't know crap."

Russ took a few steps towards me, and then whirled around to face away from me, his posture as tense as I'd ever seen it.  "Christ, Bert.  Oh, Christ."  That put us both into position to spot the maid picking her way down slope from the house to tell us all about dinner being served.  We waited for her to come and go before we resumed talking, of course, and it took some of the steam out of the conversation.  Russ put his mallet away in the rack, started to say more, and then shook his head instead.

"Breathe deeply," I told him, probably sounding pretty sour.

He drew in some air and said, "This weekend's like some fast chukka in the middle of a monsoon.  What in hell is coming next?"

"You'll be okay.  You're just not used to blunt revelations, is all.  Usually, in this family, you get a thirty minute warm-up before any new notion is introduced."

"That's certainly true."  Russ allowed a frustrated expression onto his face.  "Talking is our favorite family sport.  So why is it that, with all the conversation, lecturing, and speechifying around this place, no one ever straight out *says* anything?"  Now he was only gassing to release some more pressure.

"Gee, I don't know."  I counted on my fingers.  "Four law degrees involved – five if you count Quentin's down in Washington – three finishing school educations – if you include Susan's – and one distaff graduate degree in political science that I almost forgot about, and you expect anyone here to speak straight from the shoulder?"

Russ started.  His eyebrows went up.  Then he visibly relaxed.

"You have an idea."  I didn't make it a question.

"Yes.  Oh yes, of course.  It's so easy to forget."  He bit his lower lip, let it loose.  "I want another cigarette, but don't give me one."

"You figured it out.  The Susan problem, I mean."

That earned a big sigh.  "We're going to have to find some place for yet another talk, but this time we'll have a guest."

Okay, you probably got to the answer long before I did.  But remember, I wasn't just trying to puzzle out the mystery, I was also trying to hide an unexpected bootleg rhinoceros in a room full of zoologists.  Two rhinoceri.  Never mind, the three of us ended up playing monopoly.  No, not the rhinoceri and me, but me, Ross, and Edith.

***

"All right," Russ said, rattling the dice caddy, "now I know what's been going on around here."  He moved the top hat five spaces and landed on Illinois Avenue, complete with hotel.  It had taken a long time playing to bore everyone else into drifting out of the drawing room that evening.

"Yes, I thought so."  His sister held out one perfectly manicured hand.  Edith had very short nails, which, God knows, I should have noticed before.  Russ started counting out the monopoly money into her palm.  She waited until he was done and she had double-checked his total to speak, typical of her.  Her tone was perfectly calm and level, calculated not to attract attention from outside the room.  "Susan overreacted.  She seems to think she's been harboring a previously undiagnosed case of leprosy.  It was nothing like that, only too many martinis.  One of those Wellesley moments, in fact."

"Christ."  Russ shook his head.  "You could have said no."

She rolled the dice.  "We can't all take after Father, Russ.  You know perfectly well that both Quentin and I favor Mother's side of the family in these matters.  Mother and Great Uncle Martin and Cousin Gertrude all—"

Now, there were some family memories I sure didn't want to visit, verbally or otherwise.  "Hey, do you want to buy the B&O, or just sit?"

"Buy."  She passed over the cash to me as banker, and then pursed her lips before saying, "I have to say, you're both taking this extremely well."

My turn to throw the dice.  I landed on Chance, an opportunity not to be missed.  I picked up my card from the pile and faked reading, "The male players redecorate the hotels with inborn style and grace.  Distaff players, pay them each five dollars for all the gossip, theater reviews, and good fashion advice."

There was a moment of silence as comprehension hit and her eyes got real wide.  Then she floored me.  Son of a bitch if she didn't giggle.  She's always been the fastest thinker among the offspring, the first to adjust to a new situation.  She caught herself, though, and forked over a fake fin to both me and her brother with a grave face.

Russ said, his own face just as grave, "This isn't funny, Edith.  Susan must be suffering."

Did she look a little haunted?  Or was that hunted?  "I know, but she won't talk to me.  And it's a pity, too.  Quentin had merely worn her down a bit too much, what with the reelection campaign and all.  I don't think she usually would have, hmm, you know."

Giving her the sibling stare, he said, "No, I don't know.  And I don't want to know, either."

"I think she backed herself into a corner during that first, fine frenzy of comprehending exactly what had happened." Edith frowned.  "Going by what Mother says, at least.  And now that politics are involved, Father's guarding her corner like a bulldog.  You know him.  He doesn't let loose once his teeth have a target.  Poor Susan.  Poor me, come to that.  We're really in for it."

"Maybe not," Russ said slowly.  He rubbed one thumb between his eyebrows as if he had a headache.  "Father will likely let loose if Quentin forgives her."

I snorted.  "Here's a political bulletin hot off the wire machine, kids.  Quentin's already forgiven Susan.  He can't afford a divorce at this point in his career, remember?"

"No, I mean not if Quentin actually, enthusiastically forgives her."

I looked at him.

"You do realize that he will forgive her if he's given some idea of, ahem, what exactly happened."

I looked at him some more.  Edith, catching on, said, "Russell Fairfax, if you think for one second—"

"Not who, just what," I interrupted.  "Once Quentin knows roughly what happened, he'll think that was enough cause for Sue to have filibustered without looking any closer to home for additional explanations."

"In any case, better if he doesn't know exactly who was involved," Russell said, voice dry.  "Quentin needs competition to be at his best.  Otherwise he gets lazy."

"This still doesn't solve the problem of getting Edith to Susan, so that she can explain the facts of life and calm Susan down," I pointed out.  "If Susan will calm down.  That'll take some smooth talking."

Now they both looked at me.  I closed my eyes and opened them, and they were still both looking at me.  "Crap."  Edith had worked too many political campaigns to blink at backroom language.  "If I talk to her, the Senator's going to think it was me for sure."  Now they looked at each other, and then back at me.  Edith was the one to open her mouth, but before she could come out with what I already knew about the Senator's pragmatism once a problem was solved, I said "Okay, okay, so I'll find a way to speak with Susan.  Are you going to roll the dice now, or do we quit?"

"With three of my hotels on this board?  You must be joking."  Edith pushed the dice caddy towards her brother.

***

After Edith finished cleaning us out, she went up to bed.  Russ and I lingered to put down a little scotch we'd skipped during the game.  You needed every advantage you had when you went up against Miss Monopoly Shark of 1956.

I said to Russ, "Well, you can relax."

"What, because you're talking to Susan?  If it's all that difficult—"

"No, not that difficult, and my job in any case.  You can relax because now Harry won't pick you up bodily and shove you into politics as Quentin's substitute."

Russ rolled his eyes.  "I certainly know how to block that maneuver, don't I?"

"Don't take any bets, guy."  Given that we were now both out in the open, there were a few more facts he needed to hear.  "Like I was about to mention earlier, witch hunts or no, the District's livelier than you think."

I caught his eye where he stood over by the decanter rack, and named four names.  He kept up the pretense of disinterest through two, but he blinked at the third and, after the fourth, said, "You're kidding me."

"Nope.  I can keep going.  You really haven't been getting out much, have you?"

All at once, his expression came back under control.  In fact, he somehow looked like stone.  He said, tone flat, "There were six of us."  Pausing to drain his glass, he examined it and visibly decided against a refill.  "From school.  University.  At least, in the beginning there were six of us."

"Yeah?"

"The first little Indian decided to stop seeing the rest of us.  He made himself sick; that's what he said, sick.  I guess he wasn't kidding because later he drowned under suspicious circumstances.  The second moved to Europe, taking his little black book with him, and the third got married."

I shook my head at that but didn't say anything.

"Number four," his eyes seemed to darken, "was in a car crash.  He'd been drinking.  He was the one who'd kept trying to get me to visit bars with him, meet more people, that sort of thing.  Maybe if I had—"  He walked back and forth some.  "No, probably not.  In any case, Indian five and I looked at each other and realized that there was nothing left that we had in common.  Nothing but sex, that is."

I'd finished my own drink, but I didn't want more, either.  I put the glass down on a coaster on the pine tabletop.

"That was almost a year ago.  I've thought about bars.  I've considered steam baths.  Hell, lately I've reconnoitered men's rooms."

"You wouldn't."  I made it confident.

"Wouldn't I?  Eleven months, two weeks, and," he paused, "five long days between my last hurrah and your dropping the bomb."  Slowly, he sat down on the couch next to me.  "I had no idea.  Not a goddamned clue.  Over a decade of pornographic fantasies, set everywhere from boxing arenas to the Washington offices, and I never once truly thought you might be interested."  That was when he smiled.

Holding up one hand, I said, "Now, wait just a minute, Russ.  You—"

I guess Russ didn't feel like waiting any more.  He grabbed my hand and used his lips to caress the palm, his eyes happy, his mouth gentle and warm. Then his expression changed.  I could see the mischief, but before I yanked my hand away, he'd parted his lips and drawn in a couple of fingers.

Sure, I could have toughened up against his tenderness, or I could have kept my zipper shut even while his warm mouth and his firm, wet tongue were demonstrating that he hadn't wasted all his time playing polo with his old college buddies.  But I couldn't fight on both fronts at once.  I got my fingers out of Russ's mouth and my arms around him, and then I kissed him as hard as I wanted and as searchingly as he deserved, right there on the sitting room couch.

III

That kiss must have been the single stupidest maneuver I ever tried to pull off, or maybe the single smartest one.  You figure it out.  But there must be something out in the big, wide universe that likes lecherous idiots, because we didn't get caught on the way to Russ's bedroom, and no one knocked to ask about all the noise when the shoes and belts were hitting the floor. At least his bed, a big old monster, didn't creak even though, God knows, we gave it enough reason.

I'd had my own raw fantasies, but I'd wanted to be good and so stuffed them all away, which is probably why it took me so long to see what was directly in front of my face.  Now what was in front of my face was a lot of naked Russ, so I took advantage of that for a while before I flipped him over and checked out the effects of all that polo playing in detail.  Afterwards I decided that I would have to attend a few of his games, out of sheer gratitude if for no better reason.

We kissed a lot more, too, all through the main feature.  You'd have to have been in the life for a while to understand why that detail was so important and why I mention it here.  As for the rest of the details, fill in a lot of curtain fluttering in the night breeze, even though we actually had the sense to keep the window shut.  Enough to say, I did all I could to help Russ forget eleven months, two weeks, and five long days.

In the end, though, good sense had to prevail.  That was why I turned on his bedside lamp and began hunting around for my clothes.  Given that I'd probably never have the chance again, I really wanted to stay the night, to sleep with him, and I do mean sleep.  But I was still sensible enough not to push my luck.  Russ sat up in bed, hair mussed, stark naked, and watched me scavenge.  Finally he said, volume low, "I think that's your left shoe underneath the wardrobe."

It was.  "Thanks, buddy."

He crossed his legs under the sheets and smiled at me, not with a come-hither edge but with something more friendly to it.  "I wish you could stay."

"So do I.  Too bad."  I'd already gotten to my shirt, and was now dealing with cuff buttons.

"But at least I'll see you again."  Punching up his pillow, he laid back.

I paused to scowl at him.  "See me again, or see me again?"

He just grinned.

I said, "We sure as hell shouldn't."

"You will."

I gave him a cold look that bounced right off.  It might have worked better if I had my pants on over my BVDs, rather than half-yanked up my legs.

"You know that, in the end, you'll do what I want.  You always have."

"Yeah, I know.  But don't get cocky because of that.  I could change my mind any day now.  After all, you don't even sign my paycheck."

"I know.  I only wanted to hear you admit that you'll give in about this."

He actually meant that he wanted to hear me admit that I'd give in because I couldn't tell him the other things, the sort of stuff in all those women's movies.  So I told him, "Don't start thinking I'm giving up on common sense.  I'm supposed to help you out of trouble, not follow you in."

"If Father knew, he'd expect you to help me out of this trouble, too."

I snorted.  "Are you kidding?  More likely he'd hound me half way to hell for looking at you funny and making you into a homo."

"How odd:  I don't remember your being around when I was six and kissed the cook's son." Russ grimaced.  "I'm glad no one else but Horace was around for my first effort. It was fairly primitive."

"Horace?"

"I seem to be drawn to males with old-fashioned names, Albert.  Is that somehow a problem?"

No, not really.  I knew that Russ needed a young, refined, and socially smart wife, not an almost-forty, gritty, and politically savvy homosexual.  But I'm only human.  Someone else would have to work with him about the marriage issue.  In the meantime, if he couldn't be talked into the wife, he at least needed ways to indulge his tastes that would minimize the damage to both his insides and outside.  No more college buddies.  With that, I could help.

I sat back down on the bed and reached for my shoes.  "Not a problem.  You need a few more friends, is all, sensible guys who go to sensible parties rather than just sitting around brooding or running off to bars run by hoods."

Russ made a rude noise.

"I know you like work.  You like blackmail, too?  You'll get lots of work done if you're paying blackmail, but it won't be for yourself.  There are some nice fellows out there who go to all sorts of places, bars, and parties, whatever.  Ask them.  There are also fellows you'll never meet any place else but private parties, both good guys and bad.  You can learn as much from the bad as the good."

"Like J. Edgar Hoover?"

I'd been thinking of Ray Cohn, actually, but he was my own, personal, political-fixer closet-case red-baiting nightmare.  "Where'd you hear that B.S. about Hoover?  As far as I know, that's all the rumors are, so much bull.  He's the sort who's so far back in the closet he's even hidden from himself.  Which makes him the perfect policeman, the last word in faggot-burners.  I guess that's a lesson, too."

He sat back up and wrapped his arms around his sheet-covered knees.  "School's in.  Oh, I can hardly wait."  His smile was wry but not unhappy.

I didn't give in to the obvious temptation.  Instead I stuffed my tie into my jacket pocket, got up, and made it to the door in what I hoped wasn't too obvious a retreat.

Russ followed.  I raised eyebrows, and not entirely at having another good look at that tasty body.  He said, "Don't worry; I'm only going to lock the door so I don't have to don pajamas after I open the window.  Labor Day or not, it's still hot in here."

It sure was.  Before he got into striking range, I opened the door and backed out into the corridor.  My last sight was of him stark naked, grinning, and waggling his arms at me.  Boo.

Quietly I eased the door shut and turned.  Behind me, the lock clicked.  In front of me, a light flared as Harry lit his cigarette.  Only he would dare the wrath of Russ's mother by smoking indoors, but, even so, I raised eyebrows at him.  He eased the top of his Zippo back into place, jerked a thumb towards the head of the stairs, and padded off.  I waited until I heard the creak of Russ's footsteps moving away from the door towards the bed, before I followed.

Out on the terrace, the moon had gone down.  The starry sky seemed too large to measure and too amazing to describe, and the woods were full of critters discussing Mother Nature's own politics.  Something out there was getting eaten; something else was looking for a mate.  As for me, I was confronting the sneakiest predator for miles around.  The tip of Harry's cigarette glowed red in the dark.

"So, you have that little talk with Russ about his career again?"

"How long have you known?"

He deliberately misunderstood me.  "The kid's shown signs for years.  I decided that the Senator didn't need to be forced to see the bad news.  It's harder to swallow when it's your own offspring, especially if he gets all obvious.  So I found Russ an example of a different way he could—develop."

Like a lot of clever guys, Harry didn't know everything he thought he did about homos.  Russ had picked his own path long before I showed.  I was the one who kept scrambling to keep up.

Having had all the smoke he wanted, Harry dropped the cigarette onto the flagstones and ground it out.  "Of course, if you'd ever bothered him back then—"

"Fuck you very much, Harry."

"Sorry."  He wasn't, but he was at least polite by his own standards, so that was tolerable.

I said, "I'll fix the Susan mess.  Russ had an idea about that, and it's a good one."

"Probably the best balanced of the three kids.  What a shame.  This is too tender for him to try for the big, white house."

"He's no good for the legislative or executive anyhow.  Over-fond of books:  you can see what's happened to Adlai Stevenson because of that.  And Russ really likes the law, for all that the law hates him.  He's admitting that now."

"Oh?"  Harry knew when I was leading up to something.

"Judicial.  He does have what it takes to be a good judge."

"Judicial."  Even in the dark, Harry's voice made it clear he was musing.  "Judicial.  Huh.  There's never been a Hewitt on the Supreme Court."

Crap.  Poor Russ.  But he had to try for something real or he would go sour.  "Yeah.  You'd need to start him someplace he wasn't handling too many morals cases, with that conscience of his.  He doesn't want a reputation for recusing without due reason.  But anyhow, think it over."

"I will."  My eyes had adjusted enough to the light to see him nod.  "Good work.  Good night."

Without another word he left, I hoped to God for his own bed.  There are only so many revelations any man can take in one weekend.

Me, I looked up at all the stars and wondered, but not about the universe overhead.  Instead I wondered about my smaller world, about why nobody around here thought smart types like Susan and Quentin could sort matters out for themselves, and about how I'd get along with Edith now that we both knew, and about whether or not I was paranoid when I thought I sniffed a hint of the Senator's pricy aftershave, or maybe Mrs. Hewitt's Chanel, in all of this.

Behind me, a voice said, "O Romeo, Romeo.  The inconstant moon's gone and set, and there still loiters Romeo."  Russ's words drifting down from above were quiet, dry, and mocking.

Temporary moron.  He was way too giddy with the first flush, taking that kind of risk.   Shaking my head, I turned to go back upstairs and tell him so, and to report on what he couldn't hear of the latest chat with Harry as well.  Maybe I'd even throw in some real talk with him, the women's movie kind, and take my lumps.  After all, what else are alarm clocks for?

Even a fixer can't talk politics all the time.

 

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