The question Uncle Max had asked that had brought Stanley to Washington, at the moment, had no answer: ‘‘What about Monica Carlisle’s kid? He’s in Morocco for some goddamned half-assed reason. Find out. Also find out what he’s a citizen of,’’ Uncle Max had said. ‘‘We’d look like shit if he joined the Nazis.’’
Uncle Max had thought that over a minute and then added, ‘‘Do it yourself, Stanley, and do it next.’’
Stanley had taken the first plane he could get, a Transcontinental and Western Airlines Douglas Skyliner to Chicago, and when his connecting flight to New York had been delayed, the train. The man to ask about this was obviously Colonel William B. Donovan, a man who was not only a good friend of Max Lieberman and Continental Studios but who also was the man Franklin Roosevelt most depended on for foreign intelligence.
Donovan was glad to hear he was in New York, he said. He had a few things to bring up involving the Whitworth Building—one of the buildings Continental owned a piece of—and if Fine was free, why didn’t they have lunch downtown? Chesty Whittaker belonged to a luncheon club at 33 Wall Street, twenty-first floor, and he should be there, too.
After they had finished the Whitworth Building business, Fine brought up the question of Monica Carlisle’s son. He asked Donovan if he happened to know anyone at the Department of State with whom he could discuss a confidential matter. Donovan not surprisingly did. Chesley Haywood Whittaker then insisted—not invited, insisted—that Fine come to Washington with him on the Congressional Limited and spend the night with him at his house on Q Street.
‘‘I hate that damned train, alone, and there’s no sense in you going to a hotel. I won’t be able to have dinner with you tonight, but I’ll see that you’re entertained, and meet you afterward.’’
‘‘Why don’t I just go to the Hotel Washington? It’s right around the corner from the State Department, and the studio keeps a suite there. . . .’’
‘‘Don’t be silly,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘What I have to do is have dinner with Roosevelt. My nephew, Jim, is being sent to the Philippines, and Roosevelt wants to see him before he goes. He was close to Jimmy’s father. I don’t see how I can get out of it. But it’ll be just that, dinner. It starts at eight-fifteen, and it’ll be over by ten or ten-fifteen. What I’ve done, and I hope this is all right with you, is arrange for a very pretty woman, a lawyer by the way and the daughter of an old friend, to take you to dinner at the Mayflower, and we’ll meet you there afterward.’’
‘‘Aren’t I putting you out?’’
‘‘Not at all. I’m just sorry about the damned dinner.’’
There were few people in the United States, Fine thought, who could be sincerely annoyed by the necessity of taking dinner with the President of the United States.
The young woman had turned out not only to be as promised, young, attractive, and a lawyer, but also the daughter of the late Thomas Chenowith, another pillar of the New York legal establishment. And he was dining with the son of Chandler Bitter and nephew of Brandon Chambers.
The odd thing, Stanley S. Fine decided, was that he liked these people and was comfortable in their presence. He felt a little jealous of Canidy and Bitter—younger men about to embark on a great adventure. It was certainly illogical that he should be jealous of young men going off to war, but he had learned at Cornell something that had stuck in his mind: War was as much a part of the human condition as love and birth.
And there was a secret side to Stanley S. Fine that not even his wife understood. If he had had his way, he would have been an aviator, not a lawyer. His heroes were Lindbergh, Doolittle, and Howard Hughes, not the august members of the Supreme Court. And while of course it could be the wine that let him think this, he sort of had the feeling that after he told Canidy and Bitter that he’d earned his commercial ticket and that he was trying to come up with the money to buy a Beechcraft, they seemed to hold him in a different light, maybe even consider him sort of an associate member of their fraternity. So far as Stanley S. Fine was concerned, being a fighter pilot was the realization of the ultimate dream.
About 10:30, Chest
y and Jim Whittaker came into the dining room, followed by the headwaiter and a busboy carrying two chairs.
Jim Whittaker quickly ducked his head and gave an unsuspecting, and immediately annoyed, Cynthia Chenowith a quick, wet kiss.
‘‘Jim!’’ she cried out, blushing. ‘‘Would you stop acting like a child and behave yourself?’’
‘‘I have been behaving myself,’’ he said. ‘‘Isn’t that right, Chesty?’’
‘‘With one or two minor little lapses, he was on his very best behavior,’’ Chesty said, and turned to order brandy from the headwaiter.
‘‘And did you tell Uncle Franklin how miffed you were that he’s kept you in uniform?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘Oh yes,’’ Chesty Whittaker replied, laughing. ‘‘He told him.’’
‘‘And what did he say?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘He told me how proud the nation is of all of us who stand at the gates, defending freedom,’’ Jim said dryly. He turned to Cynthia. ‘‘Has Canidy been making passes at you, my love?’’
‘‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jimmy!’’
‘‘Bitter has,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Bitter’s been feeling my knee and simultaneously making eyes at her. He’s not very good in the dark. I would have said something, but he looked so happy.’’
Chesty Whittaker’s smile was strained.
I did that, Canidy realized, to see what his reaction would be. And he did just what I expected.
‘‘Why don’t we change the subject?’’ Cynthia said. ‘‘And not back to airplanes, if you don’t mind.’’
‘‘Well, I for one would like to hear,’’ Chesty said, ‘‘about the Great Cedar Rapids Fire Dick Canidy had, as it were, his hand in.’’