“He didn’t tell you more?” Nick said, amused at Larry’s cat-and-mouse. “One old fox to another?”

“You tell me.”

“Jacobinism,” Nick said flatly. “How the patterns never change. HUAC, the other committees. He’s got me on SISS, the Senate committee.”

“Mr McCarthy,” Larry said after a pause, as if he’d been trying to place the reference. “You know, he never really cared one way or the other,” he said, his voice oddly reminiscent.

“He did a lot of damage for not caring.”

“He didn’t, though. I think he was surprised anybody took it seriously.” They had passed the Palm Court, with its swirl of angels and gilded moldings, when Larry stopped and turned to him. “Do you think this is a good idea, Nick?” he said, still trying to be casual, but Nick was alert now.

“You don’t.”

“I’m not sure what it means to you, that’s all,” Larry said softly. In his voice Nick heard the old protection, transferring him back from the field again.

“It’s a research assignment, Larry, that’s all. There are four of us. Nothing personal,” he said. He smiled at Larry. “It’s okay.”

Larry looked at him, but apparently decided not to press the point. “Well, you know your own mind. I just don’t want you picking at scabs.” He hesitated. “Don’t mention this to your mother.” Nick nodded, wondering for a second if that had been his real point all along.

“You know, when you live through it—” Larry said suddenly, talking to himself. “Wiseman never knew them. Drunks. Opportunists. Little men who wanted to be somebody -that’s all it ever was.” He paused. “They’re not worth your time, Nick. Anyway, they’re gone.”

“Not all of them,” Nick said, looking straight at him. “Your new boss is still there.”

Larry held his eyes for a minute, then turned toward the dining room. “Let’s go in.”

The maitre d‘ recognized Larry and took them across the pink room to a table near the tall windows facing Green Park. The day was still gray and dreary, but overhead, clouds floated across the painted ceiling sky. Gold ran along the walls and hung in long swags between the bright chandeliers, giving the room the summer luster of a giant jewel box. As they opened their napkins, waiters swarmed around them, removing cover plates, dishing out butter, taking drink orders, so that finally, when they were gone, Nick smiled at the sudden peace.

“Imagine what it’s like at dinner,” he said, apologizing by moving on.

But Larry refused to be distracted. “I didn’t elect him.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Yes, it is. I don’t want you protesting me too. You think–well, what do you think?”

“I don’t see how you can do it,” Nick said simply. “Nixon. Of all people.”

“Yes. Of all people,” Larry said slowly, looking down at the table. “Leader of the Free World. One of history’s little jokes.” He paused as the waiter filled their wineglasses, then looked up at Nick and said quietly, “He isn’t Welles, you know.”

“Was he any better?”

“Times change, Nick,” he said gently.

“You think he’s changed?”

“Dick? No. He doesn’t have an idea in his head. Never did.” He took a sip of wine. “He had instincts, though. I guess that was all he needed.”

“And now his instincts are telling him to end the war.”

“No, the polls tell him that. He just doesn’t know how.”

“So you’re going to help him.”

“I’m going to help him.” Larry nodded. “My gray hair. My years of experience,” he said sarcastically. “You can read about it in the papers. I’m going to give him—” He searched. “Credibility. Self-preservation’s a powerful instinct. You can work with somebody who’s got that. They’ll do anything, if you find them an out.”

“No matter what they said yesterday.”

“They don’t remember yesterday. They’re not stuck in the past.”

Nick took the point and looked away. “What if you’re kidding yourself?”

“Well, what if? I don’t think we can wait another four years to find out. This thing–riots, for Christ’s sake. It’s like watching somebody having convulsions. Sometimes it feels like another country to me.” His voice was almost wistful, and Nick saw suddenly that he was older, propped up by the straight shoulders of his tailored suit. “You wonder where the other one went.” Larry looked up. “Nothing’s been happening in Paris, you know. Nothing. They argue about where to sit.”

“And you’re going to change that.”

Larry said nothing, then leaned forward, a gesture at once earnest and conspiratorial. “We have to save face, Nick. We can’t get out of this otherwise. Does it really matter if it’s Nixon’s face that’s being saved?”

Nick looked away. “Why tell me, Larry? What difference does it make?”

Larry kept his eyes fixed on him. “When you lie down with dogs, you pick up a few fleas. Maybe I want you to know why I’m doing it before they start to bite. You’re my son, Nick,” he said, the words drawing Nick back. “I don’t want to be one of your bad guys.”

Nick looked at him, touched and disoriented, as if someone had tried to embrace him in this public, overdressed room. “I’d never think that,” he said.

Larry leaned back in his seat, drawing away. “I know what he is. I’m not buying a car from him. I just want him to make the peace. You don’t have to be honorable to do that. Not even a little. Not to make a deal.”

“You just need a good lawyer.”

Larry nodded, with a faint smile. “You just need a good lawyer.”

“Who knows his way around. God, how you love all this, Larry,” he said, then stopped, suddenly hearing another voice, back at the study door.

But Larry had heard only his. “That’s how it gets done, Nick. Nothing ever got decided in the streets.” He paused, letting the ball hit its court, then shifted in his chair. “Anyway, I didn’t bring you down here to argue about Nixon. I wanted to talk to you before your mother comes down. She hates this sort of thing–she thinks we’re all immortal. Of course, she may be,” he said, smiling.

“What do you mean, immortal? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I’m in the pink. Twenty pounds too pink, according to my doctor, but what does he know?”

He caught Nick’s look. “I’m fine, Nick. It’s not that.” He motioned to the waiter to refill his wineglass. “But I’m not getting any younger either, so we have to think about these things.”

“What things?”

“Money.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Then, seeing Nick’s face, he laughed. “No, I’m not trying to give you a fiver. Here.” He handed Nick a card. “There are some papers you need to sign. Needles is sending them to that address–it’s the firm they use over here. They may already be here, for all I know. Anyway, give a call and they’ll set up a time, okay? It’s not very complicated, but they can walk you through them. Of course, you can still draw on the trust, but this will be yours outright.”

“Larry, what is all this? I don’t need any money.”

“It’ll all be yours one day, Nick. Unless your mother runs through it first. Which she’s capable of doing,” he said, a verbal wink. “Anyway, it’s taxes. Needles says if I don’t start signing some of it over now, the Government will get it later. I’ve given Uncle Sam the best years of my life. I don’t have to give him all my money too. So why wait?”

Nick looked at the card, too surprised to respond. Larry’s heir. He ran his finger along the edge. It was just a card, a harmless token of this easy generosity, yet he felt that merely putting it in his pocket would mark a turning, make what had been provisional something permanent, a formal acceptance.

“You don’t have to give me anything, Larry,” he said quietly. “I never expected—”

Who else?“

“What about your family?”

“Who? My sister? I wouldn’t give Phyllis the time of day. Besides, she’s got her own money.” He leaned forward again.

“Nick, you’re my family. Legally you’re my son. I’m not likely to have another one.” He covered Nick’s hand with his own. “Anyway, I’m happy with the one I’ve got.”