The Fourth K Read online

  When David Jatney arrived in Los Angeles, he did not know a single soul. That suited him, he liked the feeling. With no responsibilities, he could concentrate on his thoughts, he could figure out the world. The first night he slept in a small motel room and then found a one-room apartment in Santa Monica that was cheaper than he had expected. He found the apartment through the kindness of a matronly woman who was a waitress in a coffee shop where he took his first breakfast in California. David had eaten frugally—a glass of orange juice, toast and coffee—and the waitress had noticed him studying the rental section of the Los Angeles Times. She asked him if he was looking for a place to live and he said yes. She wrote down a phone number on a piece of paper and said it was just a one-room apartment but the rent was reasonable, because the people in Santa Monica had fought a long battle with the real estate interests and there was a tough rent control law. And Santa Monica was beautiful and he would be only a few minutes away from the Venice beach and its boardwalk and it was a lot of fun.

  David at first had been suspicious. Why would this stranger be interested in his welfare? She looked motherly, but she had a sexy air about her. Of course she was very old—she must be forty at least. But she didn’t seem to be coming on to him. And she gave him a cheery good-bye when he left. He was to learn that people in California did things like this. The constant sunshine seemed to mellow them. Mellowing. That’s what it was. It cost her nothing to do him the favor.

  David had driven from Utah in the car that his parents had given him for college. In it was his every worldly possession, except for a guitar that he had once tried to learn to play and which was back in Utah. Most important was a portable typewriter, which he used to write his diary, poetry, short stories and novels. Now that he was in California he would try his first screenplay.

  Everything fell into place easily. He got the apartment, a little place with a shower but no bath. It looked like a doll-house with frilly curtains over its one window and prints of famous paintings on the wall. The apartment was in a row of two-story houses behind Montana Avenue, and he could even park his car in the alley. He had been very lucky.

  He spent the next fourteen days hanging around the Venice beach and boardwalk, and taking rides up to Malibu to see how the rich and famous lived. He leaned against the steel link fence that cut off the Malibu colony from the public beach and peered through. There was this long row of beach houses that stretched far to the north. Each worth three million dollars and more, and yet they looked like ordinary countrified shacks. They wouldn’t cost more than twenty thousand in Utah. But they had the sand, the purple ocean, the brilliant sky, the mountains behind them across the Pacific Coast Highway. Someday he would sit on the balcony of one of those houses and gaze over the Pacific.

  At night in his dollhouse he sank into long dreams of what he would do when he too was rich and famous. He would lie awake until the early hours of the morning weaving his fantasies. It was a lonely and curiously happy time.

  He called his parents to give them his new address, and his father gave him the number of a producer to call at one of the movie studios, a childhood friend named Dean Hocken. David waited a week. Finally he made the call and got through to Hocken’s secretary. She asked him to hold. In a few moments she came back on the phone and told him that Mr. Hocken was not in. He knew it was a con, that he was being sloughed off, and he felt a surge of anger at his father for being so dumb. But he gave the secretary his phone number when she asked. He was still on his daybed brooding angrily an hour later when the phone rang. It was Dean Hocken’s secretary, and she asked him if he was free at eleven the next morning to see Mr. Hocken in his office. He said he was, and she told him that she would leave a pass at the gate so that he could drive onto the studio lot.

  When he hung up the phone, David was surprised at the gladness welling up in him. A man he had never seen had honored a schoolboy friendship. And then he was ashamed of his own debasing gratitude. Sure, the guy was a big wheel; sure, his time was valuable—but eleven in the morning? That meant he would not be asked to lunch. It would be one of those quick courtesy interviews so the guy wouldn’t feel guilty. So that his relatives back in Utah could point out that he didn’t have a big head. A mean politeness basically without value.

  But the next day turned out differently from what he had expected. Dean Hocken’s office was in a long low building on the movie lot, and impressive. There was a receptionist in a big waiting room whose walls were covered with posters of bygone movies. Two other offices behind the reception room held two more secretaries, and then a larger, grander office. This office was furnished beautifully with deep armchairs and sofas and rugs; the walls were hung with original paintings, and there was a bar with a large refrigerator. In a corner was a working desk topped with leather. On the wall above the desk was a huge photograph of Dean Hocker shaking hands with President Francis Xavier Kennedy. There was a coffee table littered with magazines and bound scripts. The office was empty.

  The secretary who had brought him in said, “Mr. Hocken will be with you in ten minutes. Can I get you a drink or some coffee?”

  David was polite in his refusal. He could see that the young secretary was giving him an appraising glance, so he used his real shit-kicker’s voice. He knew he made a good impression. Women always liked him at first; it was only when they got to know him better that they didn’t like him, he thought. But maybe that was because he didn’t like them when he got to know them better.

  He had to wait for fifteen minutes before Dean Hocken came into the office through a back door that was almost invisible. For the first time in his life David was really impressed. This was a man who truly looked successful and powerful; he radiated confidence and friendliness as he grabbed David’s hand.

  Dean Hocken was tall and David cursed his own shortness. Hocken was at least six foot two and he looked amazingly youthful, though he must be the same age as David’s father, which was fifty-five. He wore casual clothes, but his white shirt was whiter than any Jatney had ever seen. His jacket was some sort of linen and hung beautifully on his frame. The trousers were linen also, sort of off-white. Hocken’s face seemed without a wrinkle and painted over with bronze ink sprayed from the sun.

  Hocken was as gracious as he was youthful. He diplomatically revealed a homesickness for the Utah mountains, the Mormon life, the silence and peace of rural existence, the quiet cities with their tabernacles. And he also revealed that he had been a suitor for the hand of David’s mother.

  “Your mother was my girlfriend,” Dean Hocken said. “Your father stole her away from me. But it was for the best, those two really loved each other, made each other happy.” And David thought, yes, it was true, his mother and father really loved each other and with their perfect love they had shut him out. In the long winter evenings they sought their warmth in a conjugal bed while he watched his TV. But that had been a long time ago.

  He watched Dean Hocken talk and be charming and he saw the age beneath that carefully preserved outward armor of bronzed skin stretched too tight for nature. The man had no flesh beneath his chin, not a sign of the wattles that had grown on his father. He wondered why the man was being so nice to him.

  “I’ve had four wives since I left Utah,” Hocken said, “and I would have been much happier with your mother.” David watched for the usual signs of egoism, the hint that his mother too might have been much happier if she had stuck with the successful Dean Hocken. But he saw none. The man was still a country boy beneath that California polish.

  Jatney listened politely and laughed at the jokes. He called Dean Hocken “sir” until the man told him to please just call him “Hock,” and then he didn’t call the man anything. Hocken talked an hour and then looked at his watch and said abruptly, “It was good seeing somebody from down home, but I guess you didn’t come to hear about Utah. What do you do?”

  “I’m a writer,” David said. “The usual stuff, a novel that I threw away and some screenplays, I’m st
ill learning.” He had never written a novel.

  Hocken nodded approval of his modesty. “You have to earn your dues. Here’s what I can do for you right now. I can get you a spot in the reader’s department on the studio payroll. You read scripts and write a summary and your opinion. Just a half page on each script you read. That’s how I started. You get to meet people and learn the basics. Truth is, nobody pays much attention to the reports, but do your best. It’s just a starting point. Now I’ll arrange all this and one of my secretaries will get in touch with you in a few days. And soon we’ll have dinner together. Give my best to your mother and father.” And then Hock escorted David to the door. They were not going to have lunch, David thought, and the promise of dinner would stretch out forever. But at least he would get a job, he would get one foot in the door, and then when he wrote his screenplays, everything would change.

  Vice President Helen Du Pray’s refusal to sign was a shocking blow to Congressman Jintz and Senator Lambertino. Only a female could be so contrary, so blind to political necessity, so dull of wit as to not grab this chance to be President of the United States. But they would have to do without her. They went over their options—the deed must be done. Sal Troyca had been on the right track; all the preliminary steps must be eliminated. The Congress must designate itself the body to decide from the very beginning. But Lambertino and Jintz were still trying for some way to make Congress seem impartial. They never noticed that in that moment Sal Troyca had fallen in love with Elizabeth Stone.

  “Never fuck a woman over thirty” had always been Sal Troyca’s creed. But for the first time he was thinking an exception might be made for the aide to Senator Lambertino. She was tall and willowy with wide gray eyes and a face that was sweet in repose. She was obviously intelligent yet knew how to keep her mouth shut. But what made him fall in love was that when they learned Vice President Helen Du Pray was refusing to sign the declaration, she gave Sal a smile that acknowledged him as a prophet—only he had proposed the correct solution.

  For Troyca there were many good reasons for his stance. One, women didn’t really like to fuck as much as men, they were more at risk in many different ways. But before thirty, they had more juice and less brains. Over thirty their eyes got squinty, they got too crafty, they started to think that men had it too good, were getting the better of nature and society’s bargain. You never knew whether you were getting a casual piece of ass or signing some sort of promissory note. But Elizabeth Stone looked demurely horny in that slender virginal way some women have, and besides she had more power than he did. He would not have to worry that she was hustling. It didn’t matter that she must be close to forty.

  Planning strategy with Congressman Jintz, Senator Lambertino noted that Troyca had an interest in his female aide. That didn’t bother him. Lambertino was one of the personally virtuous men in the Congress. He was sexually clean, with a wife of thirty years and four grown children. He was financially clean, wealthy in his own right. He was as politically clean as any political man in America can be, but in addition he genuinely had the interests of the people and country at heart. True, he was ambitious, but that was the very essence of political life. His virtue did not make him oblivious of the machinations of the world. The refusal of the Vice President to sign the declaration had astonished Congressman Jintz, but the senator was not so easily surprised. He had always thought the Vice President a very clever woman. Lambertino wished her well, especially since he believed that no woman had the enduring political connections, or money patrons, to win the presidency. She would be a very vulnerable opponent in a fight for the coming nomination.

  “We have to move fast,” Senator Lambertino said. “The Congress must designate a body or itself to declare the President unfit.”

  “How about ten senators on a blue-ribbon panel?” Congressman Jintz said with a sly grin.

  Senator Lambertino said with a burst of irritation, “How about a fifty-member House of Representatives committee with their heads up their asses?”

  Jintz said placatingly, “I have a helpful surprise for you, Senator. I think I can get one of the President’s staff to sign the declaration to impeach him.”

  That would do the trick, Troyca thought. But which one could it be? Never Klee, not Dazzy. It had to be either Oddblood Gray or the NSA guy, Wix. He thought, no, Wix was in Sherhaben.

  Lambertino said briskly, “We have a very painful duty today. A historical duty. We better get started.”

  Troyca was surprised that Lambertino did not ask for the name of the staff member, then realized that the senator did not want to know.

  “You have my hand on that,” Jintz said and extended his arm to give that handshake that was famous as an unbreakable pledge.

  Albert Jintz had achieved his eminence as a great Speaker of the House by being a man of his word. The newspapers often carried articles to this effect. A Jintz handshake was better than any handcuffing legal document. Though he looked like an alcoholic bank embezzler cartoon character, short and round, with a cherry-red nose and head dripping with white hair like a Christmas tree in a snowstorm, he was considered the most honorable man in Congress, politically. When he promised a chunk of pork from the bottomless barrel of the budget, that pork was delivered. When a fellow congressman wanted a bill blocked, and Jintz owed him a political debt, that bill was blocked. When a congressman who wanted a personal bill came through with his quid pro quo, it was a done deal. True, he often leaked secret matters to the press, but that was why so many articles on his impeccable handshake were printed.

  And now this afternoon Jintz had to do the scut work of making sure the House would vote for the impeachment of President Kennedy. Hundreds of phone calls and dozens of promises had to be made to ensure that two-thirds vote. It was not that Congress wouldn’t do it, but a price had to be paid. And it all had to be done in less than twenty-four hours.

  Sal Troyca walked through his congressman’s suite of offices, his brain marshaling all the phone calls he had to make, all the documents he had to prepare. He knew he was involved in a great moment of history, and he also knew that his career could be washed away if there was some terrible reversal. He was amazed that men like Jintz and Lambertino, whom he held in a kind of contempt, could be so courageous as to put themselves in the front line of battle. This was a very dangerous step they were taking. Under a very shady interpretation of the Constitution they were prepared to make the Congress a body that could impeach the President of the United States.

  He moved through the spooky green light of a dozen computers being worked by office staff. Thank God for computers, how the hell did things ever get done before? Passing one computer operator, he touched her shoulder in a comradely gesture that could not be taken for sexual harassment and said, “Don’t make any dates—we’ll be here until morning.”

  The New York Times Magazine had recently published an article on the sexual mores of Capitol Hill, where both the Senate and the House and their staffs were housed. The article noted that of the elected 100 senators and 435 congressmen and their huge staffs, the population was in the many thousands, of which more than half were females.

  The article had suggested that there was a great deal of sexual activity among these citizens. The article had said that because of long hours and the tension of working under political deadlines the staff had little social life and perforce had to seek a little recreation on the job. It was noted that congressional offices and senatorial suites were furnished with couches. The article explained that in government bureaus there were special medical clinics and doctors whose duties were the discreet treatment of venereal infection. The records were, of course, confidential, but the writer claimed he had been given a peek and the percentage of infection was higher than the national average. The writer attributed this not so much to promiscuity as to the incestuous social environment. The writer then wondered if all this fornication was affecting the quality of lawmaking on Capitol Hill, which he referred to as the Rabbi
t Warren.

  Sal Troyca had taken the article personally. He averaged a sixteen-hour working day six days a week and was on call Sundays. Was he not entitled to a normal sex life like any other citizen? Damn it, he didn’t have time to go to parties, to romance women, to commit himself to a relationship. It all had to happen here, in the countless suites and corridors, in the smoky green light of computers and military ringing of telephones. You had to fit it into a few minutes of banter, a meaningful smile, the involved strategies of work. That fucking Times writer went to all the publishers’ parties, took out people for long lunches, chatted leisurely with journalist colleagues, could go to hookers without a newspaper reporting the seamy details.

  Troyca went into his private office, then into the bathroom, and gave a sigh of relief as he sat on the toilet, pen in hand. He scribbled notes on all the things he had to do. He washed his hands, juggling pad and pen, with the congressional logo etched in gold computer lines, and, feeling much better (the tension of impeaching a President had knotted his stomach), went to the small mobile liquor cart and took ice from the tiny refrigerator to fix himself a gin and tonic. He thought about Elizabeth Stone. He was sure there was nothing between her and her senator boss. And she was smart, smarter than him, she had kept her mouth shut.

  The door of his office opened and the girl he had patted on the shoulder came in. She had an armful of computer printout sheets and Sal sat at his desk to go over them. She stood beside him. He could feel the heat of her body, a heat generated by the long hours she had put in on the computer that day.

  Troyca had interviewed this girl when she had applied for the job. He often said that if only the girls who worked in the office kept looking as good as on their interview day, he could put them all in Playboy. And if they remained as demure and sweet, he would marry them. The girl’s name was Janet Wyngale, and she was really beautiful. The first day he saw her, a line from Dante had flashed through Troyca’s mind, “Here is the goddess that will subjugate me.” Of course he would not allow such a misfortune to happen. But she was that beautiful that first day. She was never as beautiful again. Her hair was still blond, but not gold; her eyes were still that amazing blue, but she wore glasses and was a little ugly without the first perfect makeup. Nor were her lips as cherry-red. Her body was not as voluptuous as on the first day, which was natural since she was a hard worker and dressed comfortably now to increase her efficiency. He had, all in all, made a good decision; she was not yet squinty-eyed.