I looked at the President. "Bought any butter lately?"
The President strangled a cough. "Have you, Mr. Hoover, bought any butter lately?"
J. Edgar Hoover couldn't say anything. It wasn't his fault.
I flicked a glance at General Hayes. "How much does it cost the Army for an antiaircraft gun?" I looked at one of the admirals. "And how much goes down the drain when you launch a battleship? Or even a PT boat?"
The President took over. "Rest assured, Mr. Miller. Your wife's pension is quadrupled, effective immediately." He swung his chair to face Hoover; "Cash will be transferred tomorrow to the Bureau from the State Department's special fund. You'll see to that?" to the Old Man. So that was what he did for a living. That State Department is a good lifetime job, I understand.
That took a load from my mind, but not all. I spoke to Hoover directly.
"How is my ... widow?"
As tense and as bad as I felt just then, I was sorry for him.
"Quite well, Mr. Miller. Quite well, considering. It came as a blow to her, naturally—"