Mark Coffin U.S.S. Read online

“Damned depressing, frankly,” Chauncey says somberly. “Things are, as usual, in one hell of a mess. Africa is threatening to explode again at any minute, ditto the Middle East, ditto Latin America, ditto Asia, ditto you name it. The Soviets have reached a point in their power build-up where they’re about ready to begin some serious bullying and blackmailing, and I’m not sure we have the strength or the will to stand up to them. Other than that, things are in great shape everywhere.”

  “And yet you and your new President-to-be want to take on the job!” Herb says.

  “Somebody has to.”

  “And you think you can do it best.”

  “Don’t we all think that in Washington, whatever we do?” Art inquires. “We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  “What are you going to do with young Mark if he makes it?” Herb asks Art.

  “I’d like to see him on the Foreign Relations Committee,” Chauncey offers. “Can’t you get him on there, Art? He’s written a couple of books on America’s place in the world that have mightily impressed me, even though I don’t agree with some of his arguments. I don’t know whether you two have read them, but—”

  “I haven’t,” Art says, “but I know he’s a smart boy. I don’t know how I can get him on that committee, though. We don’t have that many seats available. Unless”—his eyes brighten mischievously as he turns to his colleague—“we can persuade the minority to give us a seat.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” Herb Esplin says crisply. “But I’ll tell you what you can do. You can get old Luther Hanson of Minnesota off there and put Mark in his place.”

  “Luther would bellow like a wounded moose.”

  “Nobody likes him, anyway. And I tell you what we’ll do in return. We’ll bounce Johnny Johnson of New Hampshire, who is in the same category, and replace him with Kal Tokumatsu of Hawaii, whom everybody likes. How’s that?”

  “God!” Art Hampton exclaims wryly. “All this bloodshed just for a freshman from California.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Chauncey Baron says quietly. “I could work with him.”

  “We’ll see,” Art Hampton says. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Do that,” Chauncey says, flicking up the volume of the television to find the anchorpersons outdoing themselves. Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Georgia, Vermont, Illinois and Ohio are all toss-ups. Washington and Oregon have definitely gone for the opposition candidate for President. Mark Coffin has increased his lead to 10,000 votes with some one thousand precincts still to be reported. Millimeter by millimeter the presidential candidate, though his margin is less, is creeping up with him. “California may very well be deciding the fate of the nation and the world tonight!” Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble, maps, graphs, lights, computers, talk, talk, talk, smile, smile, smile, strain, strain, strain, Importance, Importance, Importance. Elsewhere in Washington on this cold and blustery night they are also discussing Mark Coffin and his coat-tail-rider.

  In the vast concourse of the Kennedy Center—red carpet, gleaming glass chandeliers, giant two-story windows looking out upon the terrace over the dark Potomac to the deep woods and scattered lights of Virginia—it is intermission. Ten television sets have been established here, too, evenly spaced down the length of the concourse. Crowds are milling about, smoking, laughing drinking, talking; big groups are gathered around each set. Near one of them the British ambassador, Admiral Sir Harry Fairfield, spare, leathery, bright-eyed, is standing thoughtfully beside stocky, impatient-looking Valerian Bukanin of the Soviet Union and thin, permanently disapproving Pierre Duchamps DeLatour of France.

  “Well,” Sir Harry says, puffing on a cigarette, “I see our friend may be making it. Thanks to young Mark Coffin, that is.”

  “And Britain is pleased,” Bukanin observes, not looking very pleased himself.

  “The town’s become dull lately,” Sir Harry says lightly. “I think it will liven things a bit. Might liven ’em for the whole world, in fact.”

  “The candidate is no friend of France,” Pierre DeLatour says dourly.

  “Nonsense!” Sir Harry says jovially. “You take your ambassadorial duties too intensely, Pierre. Everyone is a friend to France! As France, of course, is a friend to everyone.”

  Pierre gives him a sharp look; Bukanin snorts.

  “The government of the Soviet Union is not pleased,” he says sourly. “More lectures, more moralizing, more meddling! He will be no better than the last one.”

  “If he has as much cause as the last one,” Sir Harry says calmly, “more power to him.”

  “You are clever,” Bukanin says, “but your country is pathetic, so it does not matter.”

  “Spoken with true Soviet diplomacy,” Sir Harry says acidly, while his French colleague looks pleased at his discomfiture.

  Bukanin shrugs.

  “When one has power, who needs diplomacy?”

  “Not as much power as you think, I venture,” Sir Harry says, “when that one”—gesturing to the television set on which a single face is momentarily appearing—“becomes President.”

  “He is not President yet,” Bukanin says.

  “And if he becomes so,” Pierre DeLatour remarks, “he will owe it to this young Mark Coffin, will he not? Therefore I shall spend some time cultivating young Mark Coffin.”

  “So will we all, I dare say,” Sir Harry agrees. “I believe in cultivating all the new ones, particularly in the Senate. It has great influence on American foreign policy.”

  “Ha!” Bukanin snorts. “It takes no great intelligence to support a policy of bullying and meddling!”

  “True,” Sir Harry murmurs, bland once more, and again Valerian looks at him sharply. “Alas, how true.”

  “Well,” Pierre says as bells begin to ring and the crowd begins to drift back into the three theaters of Kennedy Center, “we shall see what these young ones have to offer. Mark Coffin may be the most important of all, but there are others.”

  “Yes,” Sir Harry agrees. “It promises to be an interesting ‘freshman class,’ as they call it. Good night, Valerian. Her Majesty’s Government hope the government of the Soviet Union will not be too overwhelmed by today’s results.”

  “Ha!” Bukanin says, gives him a look, turns on his heel and stalks off.

  “Do you hope young Mark Coffin and his candidate win?” Pierre inquires as they watch him plod away, and then begin to walk through the throng toward their waiting wives.

  “Devoutly,” Sir Harry says.

  “So do we,” the French ambassador agrees. “And along with many other stout hearts as well.”

  The crowd thins, the concourse gradually becomes almost deserted, but Mike the anchorperson is still hard at work. “And up there in Vermont we’ve got an interesting Senate race, too, though it isn’t having the national impact of the race in California because the presidential candidate has already carried the state. In this instance he appears to be carrying the candidate for the Senate—Lieutenant Governor Richard “Rick” Duclos—that’s spelled D-u-c-l-o-s but pronounced Du-cloh, ladies and gentlemen—an attractive young liberal who comes to the national scene with a reputation for good government and an equally notable reputation as a political Romeo. Washington has already seen a good deal of Rick Duclos in recent months, when he’s been down there on frequent visits as his state’s emissary seeking federal funds. We understand he’s already fluttered a good many feminine hearts in the capital, and now as a United States Senator he’s bound to flutter even more. Let’s go to Vermont and see what’s happening to Rick Duclos—”

  But although the camera eye is in Duclos headquarters in Montpelier, a scene of much excitement with large banners and posters of the candidate, he is nowhere to be found.

  “Well,” Mike says as campaign aides can be seen running about, wildly agitated, trying to find their candidate to take advantage of this unexpected national exposure, “at the moment Rick doesn’t seem to be available, so we’ll take you back to California now to see what’s new with young Mark Coffin—”

  His voice trails away, the agitated campaign staffers fade from the nation’s sight. In a far back room of the hotel that houses his headquarters the candidate, unaware of the search for him because he has a more pressing matter on his hands, is backed up against the door, pinned by a very upset young lady.

  “You aren’t going to do this to me, Rick Duclos!” she cries angrily as she struggles into her dress, he into his trousers. “I’ve kept quiet all through this campaign when I could have blown it sky-high. God, why didn’t I? Why was I ever so stupid as to let you persuade me that you really wanted to marry me? ‘You’ll be Mrs. Senator Rick Duclos.’ Oh hell, yes! What a stupid fool I’ve been!”

  “No, you haven’t,” Rick says, turning on the charm as much as possible in the midst of his hasty struggle to resume his clothes. “You’ve been everything to me.”

  “ ‘Everything to you!’ Don’t give me that corny crap! Unless you announce our marriage tonight I’m going to tell the whole wide world what a cheat you are. I’m going to tell everybody! I’m going on television! I’ll destroy you!” And, by now half-presentable, she tries to dodge around him.

  “You can’t do that!” he exclaims in genuine alarm, gripping the door and refusing to budge. “Now, you listen to me. I told you that I was going to take you to Washington—”

  “As Mrs. Senator Rick Duclos!”

  “As Mrs. Senator Rick Duclos. And what makes you think I didn’t mean it? As soon as I get settled—”

  “Ha!”

  “As soon as I get settled, I’ll send for you and you’ll be down there in a jiffy—”

  “You bet I will!”

  “—in a jiffy, and then we’ll get it all arranged. So what’s the problem?”

  “But why can’t you announce it tonight?” she asks, beginning to sound somewhat mollified.

  “Strategy,” he says solemnly, and she begins to flare up again. But he talks fast and she calms down. “It isn’t that I don’t love you, and it isn’t that I don’t have big plans for you—”

  “To be Mrs. Senator Rick Duclos.”

  “To be Mrs. Senator Rick Duclos,” he echoes, gritting his teeth. “But there’s timing in these matters. You can’t just barge into something in politics, you have to have timing. Now, when I get down there, you just sit tight—”

  “In your law office in Montpelier. I’ll be there. Where in hell else would I go?”

  “—and when it’s right, I’ll send for you, and there’ll be a big announcement and everything will be okay.”

  “Really?” she asks uncertainly.

  “Really,” he assures her with great sincerity.

  “Well—”

  “And now, luv”—briskly—“I really must get back out there. I think the tide’s turning and I’m beginning to win, and I’ve got to be on hand for the media. So why don’t you slip out first and I’ll be along in a couple of minutes?”

  “Oh, Rick,” she says, dissolving suddenly as he draws her tenderly toward him and prepares a positively magnificent kiss.

  “Trust me, baby,” he says passionately. “Trust me.”

  There is a knock on the door, a young voice, abrupt, embarrassed.

  “Dad! They want you out there!”

  “Okay,” Rick calls, coming up for air. “Run along now, honey.” He opens the door and pushes her out, giving his tie a last tug as he does so. She goes, exchanging a sharply hostile glance with the dark gangling kid of eighteen who stands in the hall.

  “Thanks, Pat,” Rick says with hearty relief as they watch the girl disappear. “You saved me just in time.”

  He starts to put his arm around his son but Pat isn’t having any. He shrugs it off roughly and stalks down the hall ahead of his father.

  “Well, okay,” Rick says with a jauntiness that doesn’t quite come off. “Well, okay, if that’s the way you feel.”

  Down the hall there is a burst of shouts and lights as he straightens himself defiantly and goes to meet his triumph. But his eyes are bleak and unhappy for a moment before he puts on his smile and the crowd swallows him up.

  At the same moment on Washington’s fashionable Foxhall Road, haunt of former Vice-Presidents and others financially able to achieve the neighborhood, the guests at a formal black-tie dinner party in a beautiful white-porticoed house are now strewn about the enormous living room on chairs, sofas, ottomans, the floor—glasses in hand, eyes and ears attentive to the latest from Mike the anchorperson, still gallantly plugging along as the hour nears 1 a.m. in the East, 10 p.m. on the West Coast.

  “—in Colorado, where the suddenly tragic figure of young Bob Templeton, thirty-six, has won overwhelming election to the Senate. It was just a week ago, as you all remember, that Senator-elect Templeton’s wife and two daughters were killed in the crash of the family plane when they were on their way to join him for a campaign rally. Prior to this tragic event, his election had been considered a certainty, but today’s results seem to indicate that he has, understandably, received an enormous sympathy vote as well. Robert Templeton, new United States Senator from Colorado, a man who takes to Washington a ravaged heart but great promise as a legislator, is expected to—”

  “Tell me,” a woman’s voice inquires, “is this your first Election Night party at Lyddie’s?”

  “You know it is, darling,” rejoins another. “How long have you been coming, since 1916?”

  “Not quite, sweetie, but long enough to have left the category of gate-crasher and be considered a Real Friend.”

  “Well!”

  The arch conversation, whatever its potentials, is terminated by the entry of Lydia Bates, drenched in diamonds, rubies, emeralds and pearls; at eighty-three Washington’s acknowledged hostess with the mostest, who knows everyone, invites everyone, tosses everyone together in parties that sometimes erupt into major arguments and news stories. Lyddie is the widow of the late Speaker of the House Tillman Bates of Illinois, who is so late—some twenty-one years, by now—that Lyddie has long since become a Washington institution in her own right. Possessed of enormous wealth left her by her father—“Daddy was something big and mysterious in the anthracite industry”—she has used it to fund and support, unknown to the public, many charitable causes at home and abroad. But she has reserved a few millions of it—“my fun money,” she calls it—for the sole purpose of entertaining and being part of the Washington that so thoroughly entertains her. An invitation to “Lyddie’s on Foxhall Road” is a command invitation. Her house, “Roedean,” is the only private home to which all Presidents irrespective of party will go. She is one of those perennially chipper, eternally bright, eternally mischievous and delightful old ladies who ought to be allowed to live to 110 because they enjoy life so. Still a beauty and charmer at eighty-three, she is bright as a button, sharp as a razor and generous as the Potomac is wide. She wouldn’t live anywhere else, do anything other than what she does. She and Washington are perfectly met. Many a promising young career has been socially launched under Lyddie’s wing; and now she thinks she sees another one coming.

  “Now, listen, everybody,” she cries, clapping her hands. “We’re going to make bets. We’re all agreed California is the key to it, right?”

  “Right!”

  “All right, then, we want to know, first, the time when the decision will be final—”

  “My God, Lyddie, that may be six a.m.!”

  “You’re all perfectly welcome, I have twenty beds and the rest of you can sleep on the floor—and we want to know who’s going to win the presidency and we want to know if Mark Coffin is going to be senator. And we want to know your best guess as to the margin of each one’s victory. So, Jan darling, if you will assist in passing out these pencils and sheets of paper —”

  “Can we trust a United States Senator, even one from Michigan?” somebody calls, and laughter greets the tall, gray-haired woman who comes forward to Lyddie’s side: Senator Janet Hanson Hardesty, at sixty still strikingly handsome, always beautifully dressed, beautifully coifed, beautifully organized; a dynamo of high intelligence and great intuition, possessed of a steel-trap mind that is usually a match for any of her male colleagues in the Senate and sometimes more than a match for all of them put together. Tonight she is wearing one of her characteristically simple, characteristically expensive dresses, something floating, in a misty rose pink, with her trademark diamond brooch in the shape of a spray of flowers pinned to her left shoulder.

  “Let’s make it bipartisan, then,” Jan Hardesty suggests with a smile. “Clem Chisholm, come up here!”

  Across the room obediently rises another of those who will have much to do with Mark Coffin’s senatorial career if he has one: a solidly built good-looking gentleman of forty, Illinois’s first black senator, Clement Chisholm, former mayor of Springfield, a political sensation when he defied the machine and won an upset victory two years ago. His wife Claretta, an ex-model and still a beauty at thirty-nine, pushes him forward with a shove as everyone laughs and applauds.

  When the two senators, both tall, handsome and striking, flank Lyddie with great distinction, she looks up at them with her bright birdlike glance.

  “Now, then, dears,” she says. “Jan, you take half of these slips of paper, which will be—Lord, how many of you did I invite to this party? Was it sixty? No, that was four years ago. Forty-six, that’s it. Jan, you count out twenty-three and give the rest to Clem—”

  “Suppose she only gives me twenty-two?” Clem inquires with a smile.

  “Now,” Jan says with mock severity, “the minority would never give the majority a fast count, you know that, Clem. Lyddie will make sure we’re both honest.”

  “That’s right, dear,” Lyddie says, beaming, as Jan counts to twenty-three in a firm voice and hands the remainder to Clem, who chuckles and of course doesn’t bother to count as they start to distribute the tallies among the guests.

  “I do hope this new President will be all right,” Lyddie says thoughtfully as she watches them. “And I hope this young Mark Coffin will be a nice boy, too. We do so need some nice people in Washington.”