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Roscoe had been a
Marine. He had joined the Corps at seventeen, immediately after graduating from high school. After boot camp at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island, South Carolina, he had been transferred to Camp Pendleton, California. A week after arriving at Camp Pendleton, a forklift had dropped a pallet of 105mm artillery ammunition on his left foot during landing exercises on the Camp Pendleton beach.
Two months after that, PFC Roscoe J. Danton had been medically retired from the Marine Corps with a 15 percent disability. He returned to his home in Chevy Chase, Maryland, and entered George Washington University as a candidate for a degree in political science.
He also secured part-time employment as a copy boy at The Washington Times-Post. By the time he graduated from George Washington, he had acquired a fiancé––a childhood friend he had known since they were in third grade—and decided he had found his niche in life: journalism.
This latter conclusion had been based on his somewhat immodest conclusion that he was smarter than three-fourths of the journalists for whom he had been fetching coffee in the newsroom.
This opinion was apparently shared by the powers-that-were in the executive offices of the Times-Post, who hired him as a full-time reporter shortly after he graduated from George Washington.
He married Miss Elizabeth Warner two months later, shortly after she found herself in the family way. By the time Roscoe J. Danton, Jr., aged five, was presented with a baby brother—Warner James Danton—Roscoe J. Danton had not only grown used to seeing his byline in the rag, but had become one of the youngest reporters ever to flaunt the credentials of a member of the White House Press Corps.
Things were not going well at home, however. Elizabeth Warner Danton ultimately announced that she had had quite enough of his behavior.
“You have humiliated me for the last time, Roscoe, by showing up at church functions late—if you show up at all—and reeking of alcohol. Make up your mind, Roscoe, it’s either your drinking and carousing or your family.”
After giving the ultimatum some thought, Roscoe had moved into the Watergate Apartments. He concluded, perhaps selfishly, that there wasn’t much of a choice between the interesting people with whom he associated professionally in various watering holes and the middle-level bureaucrats with whom Elizabeth expected him to associate socially at Saint Andrews Presbyterian Church in Chevy Chase.
Alimony and child support posed a hell of a financial problem, of course, but he had a generous and usually unchecked expense account, and legions of lobbyists were more than pleased to pick up his tabs at the better restaurants around town.
And, with the lone exception of what divorce does to kids, he’d many times decided he’d made the right decision. And rising to being a syndicated columnist for the Washington Times-Post Writers Syndicate was just one example.
Now Roscoe understood that if he was going to write a think piece on the clusterfuck, he was going to have to find out how it had happened, and the way to do that was get to presidential spokesman John David Parker before ol’ Porky returned from seeing the President off to reestablish some order and decorum.
Roscoe quickly got out of his seat and left Auditorium Three.
He found Parker almost immediately. Porky was leaning against the corridor wall just outside Auditorium Three, looking, Roscoe thought, more than a little dazed.
He’s probably thinking he’ll soon have to face the famed wrath of Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen.
“Dare I hope to have a moment of time with my favorite presidential spokesman?”
“Make that ex–presidential spokesman,” Parker replied.
“You got canned over that royal screwup? So soon?”
Parker nodded.
“They wouldn’t even let me back in there,” Parker said, nodding toward the uniformed CIA security people standing outside the door to Auditorium Three.
“And now you need a ride back to our nation’s capital, right?”
Parker considered that a moment and then said, “Yeah, I guess I do. You have a car?”
“Indeed I do. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Roscoe just then changed his mind about covering this story as a think piece.
The head wrote itself—“Presidential Spokesman Fired”—and he had already composed the obvious lead: “In an exclusive interview with this reporter, former presidential spokesman John David Parker told . . .”
It was almost sure to make Page One above the fold.
The thing I have to do now is keep the rest of the media boys and girls away from him.
The Lincoln Town Car, with Edgar Delchamps at the wheel, was parked very close to the entrance of the garage in a slot that a neatly lettered sign announced was RESERVED FOR ASSISTANT DEPUTY DIRECTOR NUSSBAUM.
I wonder if Delchamps told the guard his name was Nussbaum, or whether the guard recognized Delchamps and, having heard the ice-pick-in-the-ear story, decided that the agency dinosaur could park anywhere he chose to.
