In the presidential suite, Alvin McDowell was still waxing indignant over the affront to Richard Nixon at the tea dance.
“Damn parlor pinks, that’s what they are,” he sputtered. “How do they expect these spies or anyone else to have any respect for the vice president of the United States if they don’t have?”
Myra McDowell sat in front of the make-up mirror over the dressing table, jabbed with the tips of carefully manicured fingers at the shellacked waves in her blue-white hair. “Ex.”
McDowell, temporarily sidetracked, turned to her. “Ex what?”
“Ex vice president.”
“Just a technicality. He was the vice president when they spit at him, wasn’t he? He’d have been president now if he didn’t make an a*s of himself on that i***t box, wouldn’t he? It’s the principle of the thing. In the old
