Out of the Humidor
From the Print Edition:
Rush Limbaugh, Spring 94
(continued from page 4)
"I think they'd really like some more--how many you got?"
The son of a bitch has been reading my mind. Now he's got me. It would be against the national interest, nay, against humanity, for me to refuse at this point.
"Would you believe six, William?"
"I'll settle for eight," he replies.
"Look Bill, this isn't my beat, and I don't want to cramp your style," I say, "but I would like a little acknowledgment. I know I can't go in there--just give me your word that he knows who's supplying them."
"Scout's honor," says Bill, and he's off to the president's office looking like a cigar-store Indian come to life.
Fade to the next morning when the president has a meeting scheduled with the National Security Council just prior to a national announcement of a blockade of Cuba. I am standing in the corridor alongside the Rose Garden as the president comes striding down the hall, his back and shoulders stiff and erect from the brace that makes him look taller than he really is. He looks a little tired and drawn, puffy around the eyes. But he is smiling as I say, "Good morning, Mr. President."
He stops for a moment, looks quickly, almost surreptitiously, over his shoulder before looking back at me. JFK pats his breast pocket gently, raises his right hand to his mouth, takes a puff from an imaginary cigar and exhales. His face breaks out into a big grin and he makes an A-OK sign by forming a circle with his right index finger and thumb, extending the last three fingers. He tops it off with a wink and is off down the hall.
"Good luck, Mr. President," I call after him. "And thanks, Bill," I say to myself. "There are some honorable newsmen left."
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