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