The Last President. Michael Kurland

      “You quoted that to a friend of ours once,” she said softly, into his ear.

      Calvin was developing a very strong urge to find out what this girl looked like. “Go away,” he told her, “and tell whoever you work for that either I deal face to face and only with principals, or I don’t deal.”

      She thought that over. “You’ve got the merchandise?”

      “Yes.”

      “Why do you care who deals?”

      “I got high ethical standards,” he told her. “You want these beautiful pieces of machinery for revolutionary activities, that’s one thing. You want to start a gang war or go shooting up the proletariat, that’s something else.”

      She got up and walked around the table, sitting in the chair opposite Calvin. She had short, fluffy blonde hair and a round face, and might have been as old as twenty, maybe.

      The dungarees and pea jacket didn’t go with the hair, which looked as though it had seen the inside of a beauty parlor in the recent past. Then Calvin caught on: it was a blonde wig—and she had shaved her eyebrows off.

      “Okay,” he said, “we deal. What’s your name?”

      “Zonya. How many pieces can you get?”

      “How many can you pay for?”

      “We can take five now,” she said. “What about ammunition?”

      “I can get you a little.”

      “A little isn’t good enough. Our people have to have practice.”

      “Hell, they use standard forty-five caliber ammo,” he told her. “Any gun store in the country outside of New York will sell it to you.”

      “Oh,” she said. ‘That’s okay then. Five pieces and whatever ammo you have for a thousand dollars. Are they near here?”

      “I can put my hands on them,” he said. “But the price has gone up since you overheard that conversation.”

      She pushed her chair back. “Listen, mister,” she said, her voice a hard squeak, “don’t try to rip us off.”

      Calvin put his hands palms up on the table. “Look, Zonya, machine guns don’t grow on trees. You want to wait awhile, I can probably get you some cheaper guns—but these ain’t them. Besides, whatever you think you need machine guns for, shotguns will probably do just as well, and them you don’t need me for.”

      “We want machine guns,” she said stubbornly, not willing to discuss it.

      “Fourteen hundred dollars,” Calvin said.

      “Twelve,” she said.

      “I don’t bargain,” Calvin told her. “Whoever told you about me should’ve told you that.”

      “He said you were interested in helping revolutionary movements,” she said. She was gradually working her way up into a rage, her hands opening and closing in her lap.

      “Cool it!” Calvin said. “Keep your cool!”

      Zonya sat there for a minute, staring at him as though she were trying to read his face, and then she said, “I guess I’m not very good, am I?”

      “Nope,” Calvin said immediately. “You came here to score weapons, not to get insulted by what I say. You haven’t been at this very long.”

      “I’ll learn,” she said. “We’ve got to get as tough as iron, resilient as earth, and relentless as rain. Mao said that.”

      “What’s the name of your group?” Calvin asked.

      “We’re the People’s Revolutionary Brigade,” she told him.

      “I’ve never heard of you.”

      “We’re new.”

      The waitress brought over the refill and took his soiled cup away. Calvin watched her leave—she had a nice ass—and turned back to Zonya. “You have friends in any other groups, one I might’ve heard of maybe, who can vouch for you?”

      She thought about it for a minute and came out with a name.

      “Never heard of him,” Calvin said.

      “He’s in the Weatherpeople,” she said. “At least that’s what he told me.”

      “Well, I never heard of him. But then I don’t know all the Weatherpeople.”

      After a little more thought, Zonya came up with a name that Calvin allowed he had heard of. “Okay,” he said. “Twelve hundred it is. I’ll even throw in a couple of free lessons; you shouldn’t waste too much ammo.”

      “Good,” she said. “Very good.”

      “Is tomorrow soon enough?” he asked. “Meet me here about ten, we’ll arrange a trade.”

      “I can manage that,” she said.

      “You leave now,” he told her. “And don’t wait around to see where I go.”

      “I wouldn’t do that,” she said. “We have to trust each other.”

      “Right.” Calvin waited until she was out the door, then lay put a bill down on the table to pay for the coffee and hurried out to a pay phone on Bleecker Street. He dialed a number he had memorized. “Made contact,” he told the man who answered. “A young female calling herself Zonya. Set up a meet for tomorrow.”

      “Very good,” the phone voice said.

      “I need five Thompsons.”

      “What are they planning to do, rob the Mint?” the voice asked. “What the fuck do they need five Thompsons for?”

      “I didn’t ask,” Calvin said. “Do I get them?”

      “Sure thing,” the voice told him. “We’ll send them to your apartment. Don’t lose them. Join their group.”

      “It’s all arranged,” Calvin said. “I’m teaching them how to use the damn things.”

      “Very good.”

      “Send along a manual, will you?”

      “Sure thing.” The voice hung up.

      CHAPTER SIX

      On the first and third Thursday of each month TEPACS met in Professor Adams’ study. Starting in 1965 as a biweekly poker game, the gatherings had quickly attained the mock formality of the Thursday Evening Poker and Conversation Society. From there, given the bureaucratic orientation of most of the members, the acronymic TEPACS became inevitable.

      As TEPACS had evolved over the years, Aaron Adams had chosen men who were personally and professionally interesting to him. After all, it was his house. Now the group was a good cross section of the decision-making level of Washington bureaucracy, articulate, intelligent men who played damn good poker.

      Early in the afternoon, Adams’ silent myrmidon, Gerald, turned the felt side of the gaming table up, set out the chips, set up the wet bar for heavy use, and filled the ice bucket. Adams padded in from the pool and performed the ritual of placing TEPACS’ framed constitution on the wall over the table. Calligraphed on parchment by a former member of the group who was now Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the constitution was to hang only at meetings. Its presence was as important to the games as the ritualistic opening of two new decks of cards. Tradition, after all, is tradition.

      The CONSTITUTION of the

      Thursday Evening Poker and Conversation Society

      one

      TEPACS shall exist to further the art of good poker, and otherwise benefit mankind.

      two

      TEPACS shall meet on the first and third