ON THE HILL
SENATOR MARSDEN MADE HER WAIT ONLY A FEW minutes, then Gin was ushered in.
The office was pretty much as she remembered it, the stacked files, overflowing bookcases, photos, plaques, and the miniature basketball hoop over the wastepaper basket.
Joe Blair was there, again in a white, short-sleeve shirt, a different but equally nondescript tie, and dark slacks. Strangely, he greeted her warmly, a smile beneath the wispy mustache as he moved forward to shake her hand and lead her toward the senator's battered old desk.
Gin wasn't sure what to make of the uncharacteristically gracious behavior. An act for his boss? It was in Blair's honor that she had worn a longer skirt today.
Senator Hugh Marsden leaned forward over his desk and extended his hand. He was average height, sixtyish, balding, portly, but possessed a commanding presence. It was his eyes, Gin decided, intensely, piercingly blue, they caught her and held her as firmly as his hand gripped hers. His voice was deep and commanding as well.
"Dr. Panzella. Welcome." A third person was in the room, a short, compact, darkhaired woman of about forty. She introduced herself.
"Hello, Dr. Panzella," she said, extending her hand. She had a warm, easy smile and bright brown eyff. Gin liked her immediately. "I'm Alicia Downs, the senator's press secretary."
"Gin. Please call me Gin."
"All right, Gin," the senator said. "Pull up a chair. I hope you don't mind if we get right down to business. Senator Moynihan moved a five o'clock budget briefing up to four-thirty, so time is short." He seated himself in the straight-backed chair behind the desk and cleared the files from his desk blotter. Gin took one of the two chairs on the other side of the desk, Alicia took the other. Blair stayed on his feet, hovering. Positioning himself where he could get a good look at her legs, maybe?
"I can't help being intrigued by the fact that a young physician with your qualifications would want this position," he said. "I'd say you were overqualified. What is it you hope to accomplish here?" Here we go again, Gin thought.
She went into her spiel of how she thought the impact of the Medical Ethics and Practice Guidelines Act would be so far-reaching, so important to the future of medical practice, that she couldn't sit idly by without attempting to have some input.
"You can't have guidelines that smother individuality," she concluded.
"Do you want all doctors to be exactly the same? I hope not. Minimum standards of training and care, sure. But then allow variety in style of practice. Each practice should have its own personality, otherwise you've deprived patients of a critically important choice." The senator studied her a moment in silence, his blue eyes intent on her.
Gin was beginning to feel uncomfortable when finally he spoke.
"You realize that this is a part-time position for which I doubt we'll be able to squeeze twenty thousand, if that, out of the budget."
"I explained that to her, Senator," Blair said. He seemed vaguely anxious, while not actually moving, he seemed to be pacing in place.
"The money's not important," she said. "I've-got the rest of my life to make money. This is a chance to matter, to be part of something that will affect the rest of my professional life. If I were already in practice, with a mortgage, kids in school, I wouldn't be able to drop everything and devote months to this committee. But I'm not. There's only me to worry about. This is something I want to do, something I can do, and do well. And if I don't do it now, I'll never do it. And. . . " dare she say it? "your committee will be poorer for it."
"Is that so?" Senator Marsden said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Blair bite his upper lip and ever so slightly shake his head.
Had she overplayed it? "At least that's my opinion."
"Yes, well, you may have a point there. Will you give me a day to make a final decision?"
"Of course." Do I have a choice?
"Fine." He glanced at his watch, rose, and extended his hand. "Sorry to cut this short, but that budget briefing, you know."
Gin smiled as she shook his hand. "I understand."
"I'll walk you out," Alicia said.
Gin glanced back as she exited and saw Joe Blair leaning over the senator's desk, yammering in a low voice.
'"I don't think your chief of staff is in my corner," Gin said as she and Alicia wound through the cubicles.
Alicia snorted. "Joe's a dickhead. He's pissed because he already told the senator you're not right for the job but the boss wanted to meet you anyway."
"So he's back there now trying to scuttle me?"
"Maybe. Don't take it personally. He's a control freak. Wants it to be his staff, handpicked by Joe Blair."
"Fair enough, guess," Gin said with far more equanimity than she felt.
"Maybe, but he's still a dickhead."
"Gin!" She was almost to the elevators. She turned and saw Joe Blair hurrying after her.
"Glad I caught you," he said as he reached her.
"What's up?" she said, watching him closely. "Has he made up his mind?" She didn't trust this guy. And there was something in his eyes . . .
"Despite my strong recommendation, the senator's still undecided. More of a budgeting problem than any difficulty with your qualifications." He unfolded the piece of paper in his hand and passed it to her. "But we need to figure out how to respond when he sees this."
We? Gin thought. Since when are we a we?
She looked at the sheet and suppressed a groan. It was a Xerox of an article she'd written for the New Orleans Times/Picayune during the second year of her residency. She'd been in a particularly grouchy mood after reading that paper's series on what was wrong with American medicine. She'd fired off a long letter vehemently disagreeing with their delineation of the problems and the proposed solutions. The paper told her if she'd expand it they'd publish it as an op-ed piece.
Giddy with the prospect of having an audience, Gin had fired all her guns, sparing no one. It was a diatribe Duncan himself would have been proud of.
But . . . a very negative, even strident article, with no attempt at a balanced argument, and she'd cringed when she'd reread it on the day it was published. If only she'd put it in a drawer for a week before sending it in, she certainly would have leavened some of her remarks.
She hadn't given it much thought since, and yet here it was, resurrected and staring her in the face.
"This isn't really me," she said.
"I'm sure it isn't." Blair touched her hand solicitously. "But we've got to do some brainstorming to assess our options if it reaches the senator's desk." She backed up an inch and his hand broke contact.
There it was again, we.
"What do you suggest?"
"Oh," he said so casually, "how about my place? Tonight. And wear something nice." Gin felt her hands close into fists. She wanted to ram one of them into his nose, and then yank out that wimpy mustache one hair at a time.
"Sorry," she said calmly, moving her jaw so she wouldn't be talking through gritted teeth. "I've got plans for tonight."
"Tomorrow night, then. We haven't much time" We have no time.
She regarded him coolly, levelly. "Nope. Sorry. I'm busy. Tonight, tomorrow night, every night." He stared back at her, obviously confused. Then his eyes narrowed, but only for a second. He shrugged carelessly and turned away.
"Okay," he said over his shoulder. "Your loss. But don't say I didn't offer to help."
"I won't," she said softly as she stretched a trembling finger toward the DOWN button.
She dammed up the rage and humiliation as she waited. It wasn't supposed to be like this, wasn't supposed to work this way.
The car finally came, the doors closed behind her and the box began its slow fall. Alone, sealed off, she wanted to scream, wanted to sob.
She did neither. She wiped a single tear from her right eye and whispered one word.
"Damn." She found Gerry waiting for her in the atrium. She
forced a smile and hoped her eyes weren't red.
"What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you. What else?"
He looked good. Even at the end of a workday with a little five-o'clock shadow stippling his cheeks, he looked damn good. But the excitement Gin had felt the last couple of times they were together was missing today.
She didn't want to be with anyone now.
"But how did you know?"
"You told me. Remember? On the phone? Maybe five hours ago?"
"Oh. Right." Her mind wasn't working too well at the moment.
"So how about a drink?"
A polite demurral began in her throat but she held it back. She'd been injured and her instincts urged her to retreat to a corner and be alone.
But that was what Pasta would have done.
"Sure. I'd love one."
"Great. I know just the place. We'll take a shortcut." He took her arm and led her toward the rear of the Hart Building. "A celebratory drink, I hope."
"No," she said slowly. "I'm afraid not."
"You're kidding. Why?"
"I’ll tell you about it."
* * *
Gerry clenched and unclenched his fists under the table as Gin told her story.
They sat at an isolated table near the window. He'd brought her to the Sommelier, a little wine bar on Mass, because he'd learned that she preferred wine to liquor, and had a fondness for Italian reds.
Gerry preferred Irish sipping whiskey, preferably Black Bush. But if wine was the only thing, he usually toughed it out with white zinfandel.
No wine snob he.
He could see Gin was hurt. She spoke softly, almost matter-of-factly, over her glass of valpolicella, swirling then sipping it, swirling and sipping. Her voice was steady, as were her hands, she looked perfectly composed. But Gerry sensed the pain.
As his mood darkened, he wished he hadn't brought her here. The gleaming surfaces of the polished brass and chrome and marble of the Sommelier were too clean, too bright for the story she told. They should have been in a seedy cocktail lounge.
No. This was better. Clean and shiny suited her. Here it was only the third time they'd been together and already he was feeling protective.
And so attracted. He hadn't felt this way since college, when he and Karen had started dating and getting serious. A good, warm feeling.
Thoughts of Gin were beginning to intrude on his work. He'd find himself thinking about her at the most inconvenient times, wondering what she was doing, wondering if she was thinking about him.
And now he was sharing her anger, her anguish. She had expected better of a U. S. senator's office. She deserved better.
Sometimes he hated this goddamn town.
"That's the way it is here," he told her after she finished. "Not just with you. With everything. It's a mindset."
"So I shouldn't take it personally?" Her eyes flashed. "Is that what you're saying?"
"Yes and no, " he said slowly. Had to choose his words carefully here. He didn't want to wind up a lightning rod for that anger. "You should be offended, angry, even feel humiliated, but realize too that Blair is simply doing what comes naturally on the Hill. He's just playing by the rules as he's learned them."
"Hill rat," she said, shaking her head. "Boy, if ever a term fit someone. But aren't there laws?"
"Yeah, probably written by the Hill rats themselves, and passed by their bosses. But for other people, for the constituents. They don't apply up here on the Hill. You've entered an ethical Twilight Zone."
"You seem so casual about it."
Was he? Was she right? Had he been investigating political corruption long enough to take it for granted? Maybe. He didn't like that answer. But he wasn't talking about blatant graft here. No, it was more of an atmosphere, an ambience. A different set of values. "I can't be casual about you being hurt."
She gave him a little smile. He loved the way her lips curled up at the corners. Her eyes said thank you.
He reached across and gripped her hand. She didn't pull away.
"Look, Gin," he said. "If you want to be a part of the doings on the Hill, you're going to have to play by their rules. The people up here aren't going to change for you."
"I never expected them to, but,"
"Think of yourself as having entered the world's largest bazaar, where everything is for sale but no prices are marked. The currency is influence, and the best hagglers walk away with the fullest shopping carts."
"That's pretty damn grim, Gerry."
"Gin," he said, leaning forward, "I'm sure you see influence peddling in hospital politics, but that's penny-ante stuff. This is the major leagues. This Blair guy, he's got influence with his senator to get you something you want, you, in turn, have got something he wants. Sounds as if he's experienced at the game, very circumspect in his hallway negotiation, and that's just what it was, a negotiation. And don't think that it occurred in an empty hallway by accident. No quid pro quo proposition, just a generous offer to help you deal with a possible hitch in your appointment. And no witnesses. Very smooth."
"You sound as if you almost admire him."
"I will admire my fist in his face if I ever meet up with him," he said.
Gerry was rewarded with another smile, this one big enough to reveal the glistening white of Gin's teeth.
"Don't get yourself in trouble on my account."
"It's a good account."
"Does that mean I can make a professional request?"
"Professional?"
"Yes. Police-type stuff. I'm trying to find out about Duncan Lathram's daughter."
Gerry felt his insides tighten as they always did at mention of Lathram's name, but he remained impassive. Obviously she was tired of talking about Joe Blair.
"What about her? She in trouble?"
"No. She died in an accident five years ago."
"What kind of accident?"
"A fall at home."
"You're suspicious about something?"
"Oh, no. Not at all. I just can't find out anything about her. Nobody's talking."
"It's just idle curiosity, then?" He could tell from her manner it was anything but she was holding something back.
"No. I don't know what it is, really. I was just wondering if you could get hold of a copy of the death certificate." Now there was an odd request. But not a difficult one if you knew who to call. And perfectly legal. Death certificates were public records.
"No biggee. Just have to know where she lived at the time. The rest is easy."
"Alexandria, I believe. Northern Virginia for sure."
"Okay. Have it for you in a day or two." And he would. But first he'd give it a thorough going over himself. His curiosity was piqued. "Unless there's a rush." He watched her closely as she answered.
"No. No rush." That settled, he could almost see her drift away as she lapsed into silence. She sighed.
He said, "What are you thinking?" Was it about Lisa Lathram, or about this Blair character, or something else?
"Maybe you and Duncan are right. Maybe I'm not cut out for this town."
So . . . it was back to Blair. An ache grew within him as he sensed the disappointment in her voice, watched discouragement etch lines around her frown. He wasn't sure what, but he was going to do something.
"Don't give up hope," he said. "Things have a way of working out."
"Maybe sometimes, " she said. "Not this time" He drained the white zinfandel.
"You never know, Gin. You never know."
Gerry stood in the wide, fresh-smelling, brightly lit hallway outside the apartment door in the Watergate-at-Landmark, a high-rise condo complex in northern Virginia, and waited for his ring to be answered.
He knew Blair was home, a hang-up phone call had confirmed that. Maybe he was eating. Gerry hoped he was alone. If he wasn't, Gerry would have to improvise. But one way or another, he was going to make this creep see the light.
As soon as he'd left Gin at her car he'd hustled up
Pennsylvania to the Bureau. He ran a check on Blair, but no criminal record. Too bad.
That would have made things easier.
So he'd have to bluff.
Gerry shrugged some of the tension out of his tight shoulder muscles.
This sort of unofficial visit could land him in a serious load of official trouble if Blair called his bluff.
But Gerry knew how these highly placed Hill rats operated. They couldn't vote, but lots of times they had control of the line by line wording of a bill, and that could be more important than a Yea or Nay.
The lobbyists courted them with trips, gifts, and honoraria for speaking engagements, just like their bosses. Gerry remembered one case, still mentioned by Hill rats in awed tones, of two staffers, Michaels and Bill Patterson, who netted a total of twenty eight thousand dollars from a host of lobbyists in forty-eight hours.
Blair no doubt had dreams of topping that record.
Gerry meant to disturb those dreams.
Because if Blair planned to cash in all the influence chips that would accrue from the Guidelines bill, the last thing he wanted was a ticked-off FBI agent watching his every move.
But Gerry didn't have much time Mrs. Snedecker had said she'd keep Martha a couple of extra hours today. Gerry would have to get to it with Blair right away.
The condo door opened and a pale face with a see-through mustache cautiously peered at him through the opening. This was a gated building.
Drop-in company was not the norm.
"Yes?" Gerry held up the same badge that had got him past the doorman.
"FBI, Mr. Blair." Blair opened the door a little wider for a better look. He squinted at the badge.
"What is it? What do you want?" Gerry flipped the leather badge folder closed and stepped closer, quietly wedging his foot against the bottom edge of the door. He slipped the badge into his pocket.
'"Don't worry. It's not official business."
"Then what?"
Gerry put a hand against Blair's chest and gently pushed him back into his apartment. There were times when subtlety was called for and times when it wasn't.
"You and me, Blair. We're gonna have us a little talk."
F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 Page 11