Free The Rake by William F. Buckley

Chamber of Commerce office, in the great Republic Plaza skyscraper on Seventeenth Street.
    â€œAre you available to handle a Miss America lady?”
    â€œIf I think she has a chance.”
    Bert showed him two photographs.
    Amos looked hard at them. And then, “I’d have to meet her.”
    â€œOf course. What does it take?”
    â€œYou mean for an exclusive?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI said I’d have to see her.”
    â€œI know you said that. Obviously if you think she hasn’t a pig’s chance, you’d say no. At least, I hope you would.”
    â€œI’d want thirty-five plus expenses. Plus ten if she makes it to Miss Colorado. Plus fifty if she makes it to Miss America. And expenses. That includes a couple of hot dogs for cooperative photographers and other nice people.”
    â€œWell, the next step is you interview Priscilla Avery.”
    â€œAnd your next step, Mr. Whitman, is to make a commitment.”
    â€œIf you say it’s a go at your end, I think—I said I think —I can manage your fee with the Chamber of Commerce. I’ll tell them that to get a Miss America will be worth a billion dollars to Colorado.”
    â€œThat’s a good safe figure.”
    â€œYou won’t have any trouble getting through to Priscilla.” He passed over the photographs. “Give me a call when you’ve talked to her.”
    â€œWhen I’ve seen her.”
    â€œYep. Maybe by the end of the week?”
    â€œMaybe. I’ll call you.”

CHAPTER 14
    Washington, D.C./Aiken, South Carolina, March 1987
    â€œDoes Castle like golf?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhy don’t we make it then for next month, look in at the Masters? Everybody goes there, nobody is really conspicuous.”
    â€œI’ll check it out with him,” said Susan, chief aide to Senator Castle. “His calendar is clear for that weekend. He would probably need—I mean, it would make sense—to have an invitation. Senator Castle doesn’t like to do things that can be thought pure self-indulgence. He should be, in some way, part of the show.”
    â€œGood. If you have any trouble getting a personal invitation, I know one or two of the pros. ‘Dear Senator Castle: I know that you like our sport— the sport! I would be honored if you came to the Masters and were there when, I hope, I finally get that green jacket. If you find you can work it into your schedule, I would love to have you as my guest.’ Signed, ‘Your fan, Hank Wright.’”
    â€œSounds good.” Susan was taking notes, in her fabled shorthand. Nobody, she had boasted at age twenty-two, could speak more rapidly than she could take it down. She winced when reminded, as occasionally happened, that she had once made thisclaim. Vainglory. Not because it had ceased to be true—her fluency on her notepad was dazzling—but because to say what she had said smacked of, well, exhibitionism.
    In her twenties she had developed into a secretary and confidante utterly free of self-concern. She was the secretary about whose private life nothing was known and, after a while, nothing was asked. When, on the death of Congressman Adam Benjamin Jr., she was approached by the personnel hand Howell Anderson and asked to sign up with the newly elected senator from North Dakota, she deliberated the proposal. She was fifty years old, and liked the prospect of a prolonged attachment. It didn’t surprise Anderson when she said she would look into Senator Castle’s background and only then decide.
    While it didn’t surprise Anderson that Susan Oakeshott would want to think it over, he was surprised that she didn’t ask him for the substantial packet of information about Reuben Castle that had been accumulated for the campaign. “Thanks very much, but I can put my hands on everything I’ll need to consider.”
    â€œReuben,” Anderson had said to him,