Grasping for the Wind

CHAPTER 28 June 1968 Walker, scheduled for an early takeoff, learned of Robert Kennedy’s assassination while driving to the squadron in the cool morning darkness. He pulled the MGB to the side of the street and killed the motor. The desert air smelled fresh and clean as the radio reported that Kennedy had been shot by a foreign national in a Los Angeles hotel following his victory in the California primary. Bizarre. Senseless tragedies seemed to go on and on, their own troubled world played against a background that seemed pure theater. Theater, 1968. In January, the Tet offensive had been a military defeat for the North Vietnamese, but described by the American press as an extraordinary NVN success, and used to predict the inevitable defeat of the South and the futility of U.S. involvement. The surprise near-victory of Eugene McCarthy in the New Hampshire primary had added to the drama. Students seizing university administration buildings. Blacks burning down ghettos. A president, who had been elected by a landslide, forced out of office. Martin Luther King’s assassination in Memphis, triggering riots in 48 cities. Machine guns placed around the White House as black smoke from a burning neighborhood obscured the sky over Washington D.C. Pure drama. The death of another Kennedy. A year of dark and dangerous directions leading to unknown shadows. Walker started the engine, and with a solid growl the MGB moved slowly from the narrow shoulder back onto the paved roadway. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching the nation being burned down by its own torches. * * * “Nicely played, partner,” Walker said. Lynn Stevens acknowledged his compliment with a hesitant smile as she led her final club, reached across the brown leather surface of the card table to play the last remaining card from the dummy, and then watched as opponents lay down cards that suddenly had no value. Lynn picked up the four cards, tapped them softly into a uniform, thin stack and placed them upon five other identical stacks. Brad frowned as he started on the scorecard. “Let’s see. Six No Trump. Vulnerable,” he said grimly. “Five hundred points above the line and that, ladies and gentlemen, is a five hundred rubber for the bad guys.” Walker thought back over the bidding and the play of the hand. Lynn had opened with one club. He, with fourteen points and four spades, had responded with one spade. Lynn had then bid two no trump, indicating 19 to 20 points and he knew they had slam. Through the bidding of conventions, he had determined that a king was held by their opponents. One loser out against them. He had closed out the bidding at six no trump. Lynn had played the hand flawlessly, waiting until the correct tactical moment to play the one loser she couldn’t protect, then immediately reclaiming the lead, playing out her long clubs perfectly for the contract. “Congratulations,” Brad said. “Helen, we’ll destroy them next time.” “In your dreams,” Walker laughed. “No taunting!” Lynn rose from the card table. “Coffee everybody? Cheesecake?” “I always enjoy cheese cake, don’t you, Rob?” Brad grinned. Helen swung about provocatively in her chair, extended long legs over the arm, revealing an expanse of smooth, tan thigh. “Is this cheesy enough for you two?” She had been determined to enjoy the evening, to escape the terrible events of last night. “You can be my Playmate of the Month, any time,” Brad said. Walker turned to his wife. “Before we were married, I told you to never show off your body in such a shameless way.” Her voice was low and husky. “Before we were married, I didn’t.” It was not a planned evening, but when troubled, the friends always got together. It was the natural thing to do, and they had gathered at the Stevens’s. The Walkers had walked over, for the Stevens lived only two blocks from them. The Jones had been unable to come because their four-year old had an earache. Now Lynn served coffee and cheesecake to the men. The old friends seemed more comfortable tonight. There was, of course, the enormity of the assassination, but the bridge game had kept minds and hands occupied. Most of all, Helen didn’t seem nearly so tense. Conversation was filled with teasing once more. Walker sipped coffee and half-listened to Helen describe her most recent Las Vegas experience, an attempted pick-up at an exclusive lady’s shop—by a sales woman. He looked from Helen to Lynn. Both were lovelier than when they first became friends. And, he thought, Lynn was a hell of a card player. Although many women were technically correct card players—attentive to detail and rigidly faithful to Goren—they seldom had a sense of the game or for the cards. Lynn was different. She felt the way the cards were running. She had good instincts. Helen was now finishing her story, giving it a more risqué flavor than he had heard before. “…and as far as I know, she’s still waiting for me at the Stardust lounge, where I promised to meet her,” Helen concluded. “I gave it some serious thought,” she said softly, looking at them with a mysterious smile. “I was curious.” They chuckled at the story, and then conversation turned to the subject most on their minds. “What will the Democrats do now?” Brad asked. Walker shrugged. “LBJ left his party in a helluva mess. McCarthy can’t get the nomination. Hubert Humphrey? He’s weak.” “Who would’ve believed that Lyndon Johnson would be run out of office? My God, Bobby Kennedy was their only hope. But he would’ve lost the South.” Lynn spoke for the first time. “First, Dallas. Then Memphis. And now Bobby Kennedy. Is it possible for things to get worse?”