During their walk through the Capitol, Conditt had been as gruff as always. Addis assumed he knew that Addis had advised Palmer not to hire Conditt, a fast-riser at party headquarters and a veteran of several presidential campaigns. Addis considered Conditt to be in the Hamilton Kelly category: professional political guides. These were aides who cared little for policy particulars, except in one respect: that they lead to political success. Addis knew—he was certain of it—that Palmer saw the difference between a Sal Conditt and a Nick Addis. But Addis also realized that a Conditt was tempting to a politician juggling multiple responsibilities, obligations, and desires. A Conditt made life work, the trains run. He rarely asked uncomfortable questions. Who could resist that?

Addis sat in a birchwood rocking chair and looked at the familiar pictures on the wall. Palmer marching for civil rights. Palmer marching against the war. Palmer and his wife and the movie actress, whose advances Palmer admirably had not accepted. Addis thought about the days when these hideaway offices—reserved for senior members of Congress—were occupied by the old southern bulls. When Addis first worked on the Hill, there were still porters and janitors who could pass on stories of that era. The prodigious booze sessions. The all-night poker marathons. The brawl that left one senator with one less tooth. And all the women granted individual tours of these private areas: aides, receptionists, constituents, lobbyists, interns, and prostitutes. One porter, since retired, told Addis about a janitor who once came upon a senator alone, naked and bound in his hideaway. Addis asked which legislator that had been. “I can tell a story and still keep a secret,” the porter said.

Addis looked at the small refrigerator in the corner. He knew it contained only bottles of spring water.

Palmer burst into the office.

“Shit,” he said. “Lost Sterling and Canton. That probably does it.”

He dragged his hands through his thick, gray hair. His legs still look half-a-foot too long for the rest of his body, Addis told himself.

“Did you have commitments?” Addis asked.

“Yes, I had fucking commitments from them. But I don’t have an army of cell-phone-carrying, god-damn lobbyists who give them money and tell them how to vote. You try holding this party together. Talk about a dysfunctional family. Hell, I have the widows of those poor S.O.B.s killed in that chicken factory fire in North Carolina in the gallery. And it doesn’t mean diddley. Reed and Mahr wouldn’t even see them when they went to their offices.”

“Do you think it’d be different if he was still … ?”

Palmer threw his jacket on the couch and sat behind the desk. He grabbed a handful of roasted peanuts from a jar.