K
ONE
itty Cohen leaned back against the peach-beige
cushion of the Mercedes ds the chauffeur drove along
Independence Avenue past the Rayburn Building， a
pseudo-classical monstrosity that seemed absurdly grandiose
for the rotund figure of Mr. Sam， who had been the Speaker
for more years than she could remember. His most memora-
ble words were not carved in marble on the frieze， but they
should have been， because they described the way things ran
on the Hill for a long time: \"To get along， you go along.\"
Kitty looked up at a third-floor window. Mr. Henkling，
South Carolina. He padded his campaign revenues with cash
under the table from certain elements in the tobacco industry，
and his wife on occasion slept with the tennis pro at Chevy
Chase Club， a young man from Port Washington who had
ranked fourth in collegiate singles at USC， but had suffered a
nervous collapse from the pressures of the pro circuit and
went to the same therapist as the ex-wife of the Secretary of
the Treasury. The next window belonged to Mr. Grillo， New
Jersey， whose second cousin was a minor Mafia chieftain in
Bayonne.
\"The usual route， Mrs. Cohen?\"
Kitty nodded， and the chauffeur headed up the Hill past the
House side of the Capitol， then turned to drive by the Su-
preme Court， where a group of tourists climbed the broad
stairs so they could gape at the chamber where so many great
battles had been decided. Mr. Justice Sourbine would be in his
office now， having tea. He was something of an Anglophile.
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