Fluke

PROLOGUE

San Francisco, August 24th, 1923.

Beneath a pewter sky on a misty afternoon, a presidential funeral procession inches down Market Street. The broad boulevard is lined twenty or more deep with bereaved of every age--hats in hand, tears, heads bowed, a flutter of damp handkerchiefs. Wordlessly they watch as the coffin of Warren Gamaliel Harding, draped in black crepe and resting in an uncovered carriage, rolls slowly past them pulled by four horses. Following are a half-dozen gargantuan, open limousines--Packards, La Salles, and Pierce-Arrows--bearing dignitaries and family, for whom the President's voice, rich, warm and resonant--like fine bourbon--has been forever stilled.

With so much left to say:

Being dead has its good points. The pain ends. No more insoluble problems. No more betrayals. You're well out of the turmoil, the futile struggle. Now it's all in someone else's hands. Well good riddance. To the whole damn lot. 'Cept for my sweet Nan--I sure wasn't ready to give her up. Not in this lifetime.

He sighs.

Nor the next.

A light breeze rustles the crepe covering the coffin.

Yup, that's me in the box. Or I suppose, what used to be me. Warren G. Harding, your twenty-ninth President. Till a few nights ago.

The procession creeps forward past mist-heavy flags hanging lifelessly at half-mast. Drowsing in the Packard phaeton just behind the presidential caisson is a gaunt, dour sixty-three-year-old man in a black coat and top hat.

That there's the new fellow. Calvin Coolidge. God help America. Old Pickle-Face can fall asleep any time, anywhere.

Coolidge yawns.

Sorry if we disturbed your rest, Calvin. You get to nap in the White House all you want now.

Staring straight ahead, the late President's wife, Florence, sits stiffly alongside Coolidge. There is no discernible human connection between them--they could be at opposite ends of the earth. A veil obscures Florence's deeply lined face but can do little to soften a jutting iron jaw.

And of course, my missus. Stuck next to Pickle-Face, poor dear. Talk about a determined woman. Fact is, she would have made one heck of a stronger president than I ever was. Loved you, Duchess. The best I could. Lord knows you deserved better. Hmmph, hope she doesn't spot Nan. Where is that child anyway?

As the cortege lumbers past, one, then others amongst the mourners point, or tug on a neighbor's sleeve, as they recognize the smug face of Harry Daugherty, a bluff, bald, middle-aged man sitting opposite Coolidge.

Now there's the man of the hour. Harry's a famous fellow these days in his own right. Naturally, elbowed his way into the first car.

From time to time, Daugherty responds to his newfound celebrity with a nod, or tip of the hat.

An old and devoted friend, too, Harry Daugherty. More than anyone, it was Harry who got me to Washington. Then all through my presidency he labors quietly by my side. Your model selfless, anonymous public servant. Today that crooked puss of his is on the front page of every goddamn newspaper in the country! Jeez, was I ever blind! "Half-step Harry" they're calling him now--barely a half-step ahead of the law. Turns out the sonofabitch had his hands in every till. God Almighty, who can a man trust?

And where the hell's Nan?

Desolate young people are everywhere along Market Street, though apparently, none of them Nan. The procession crosses the intersection at New Montgomery. Two weeping pubescent girls toss handfuls of rose petals on the readjust ahead of the caisson's wheels. Nearby, an inconsolable, elderly black man blows his nose. A small boy in a sailor suit salutes.

Will you look at all these good people! You'd think some great personage had passed on. They know so little about the mess I left. Tell ya--I had no business in that job. None. Awful place, the White House. Killed a lot tougher men than me.

And there's another weasel who sure didn't help matters.

Chewing on a plug of tobacco, a lanky, ruddy, mustachioed man in his sixties dominates the second car in line, an elephantine Pierce-Arrow.

Tuh! Albert Fall. Ever loyal. Salt of the earth. "Just call me Al." Always ready to lend a hand. Sure. The bastard might as well have put a gun to my head. Lemme tell ya, in Washington if you want a friend, get your self a dog.

Fall puckers, fires a squirt of tobacco juice over the side of the car, then readjusts his derby.

Pretty jaunty for a guy hit last week with a six-count federal indictment, dont'cha think? The nerve of him--showing up here. Guess that's a problem with funerals--the fella it's all about no longer has any say. You can bet Henry wouldn't have been invited either, had I been consulted. Ya see him--that prissy dwarf?

Perched next to Fall is venerable Henry Cabot Lodge, an impassive, elegantly goateed, elfin man, all but engulfed by the cavernous phaeton around him.

The most bloodless, joyless, constipated fellow you'd ever want to meet. The moment Henry walks into a room it feels emptier. I'll wager he's savoring every minute of this, the skunk, though you really can't be sure--with Henry it'd be hard to distinguish grief from ecstasy. No regrets if I never see his face again.

But where in blazes is my precious Nan? Gal would be late to her own funeral, but you'd think she'd at least be on time for--hey, there she is.

More desolate faces as the coffin rumbles by, at last drawing parallel to a golden-haired woman at the curb, twenty-seven-year-old Nan Britton. Tears spill from her startling green eyes.

Now take a gander at that. Ever in your life see a lovelier little lady?

Nan is indeed lovely--and about five months pregnant.

Yeah, that's my bun in the oven. My very first, and--evidently--my last.

Harding's coffin passes no more than three feet in front of her--just a small step forward and Nan could touch it. Harding's voice thickens.

Ah dearest, dearest Nan Britton--the one blessing in this whole benighted world I'm really gonna miss.

Tentatively, Nan reaches out, then pulls her hand back. She gives her President a sad little wave goodbye.

President Warren Harding is remembered--if at all--as having presided over the most corrupt administration in the history of the White House.

He died in office just as the first scandals were breaking, never having had the chance to tell his side.

I know most of what went on, I think, and what he would have had to say about it, had he lived.

I loved him--and only him--almost all my life.

My name is Nan Britton, and I was his mistress.

Let me start back in a happier time, a far simpler time ...