by Joseph Flynn
Crosby said, “You made us fear what might happen to us, if we hurt or killed you.”
“That was a pretty good strategy, but there’s this Hawaiian guy Arn and I know. Talking about his approach to life took the chains right off us,” Anderson said.
Crosby told Todd the story of Danny Kahanamoku and his plan to end his days by making love to Pele the Hawaiian goddess of volcanoes. All they had to do to stop worrying about what hurting Todd might do to them was to embrace the goddess, too.
“You’re going to throw yourselves into an active volcano?” Todd found that hard to believe.
Anderson saw his incredulity and laughed. “Sure, it might sting a bit, but not for long, and think about the upside. Better to become a part of nature at its most powerful than turn into worm food in a bone yard.”
Crosby smiled. “Look at that, Doc, you’ve turned Olin into a poet.”
Anderson feigned a moment of bashfulness. Then he and Crosby laughed.
“No, Doc,” Anderson said. “We don’t have to go all the way to Hawaii. You’ve given us something much better to jump into, a final mission. For Arn and me that’s the only good way to retire. So I’m either going to grab or pop Margaret Sweeney or die trying. I’ll be on hand when that other babe does her first speaking gig in Washington. While Sweeney’s pretending to be her bodyguard.”
“It has to be a trap,” Todd said.
“Sure, but that’s what makes it fun,” Anderson told him.
Crosby added, “If Olin fucks up, his worries are over and it’s my turn at bat.”
Todd could discern no sign that both men were anything but sincere.
So there he was, Todd thought, helping people again. His cell phone rang. Only one person outside the Virginia hotel room had the number. Todd answered and listened. “You’re welcome. No just tell me, I’ll remember. Good. Yes, goodbye.”
Crosby said, “Jaime Martinez?”
“Yes, the mercenaries that you recommended and I paid for have freed his wife. She and Jaime have made it out of Mexico. No one at the drug lord’s hacienda was left alive.”
“Makes you feel warm all over, doesn’t it?” Anderson asked.
First Street — Washington, D.C.
McGill, cane in hand, gave in and turned to talk to the crowd of reporters that had pursued him out of the Capitol. After some cajoling, he even changed places with the mob so they could have the grand building as the backdrop to their pictures. McGill looked at Putnam and asked, “Do I have anything stuck in my teeth?”
Putnam said, “No, you’re good.”
Addressing the newsies, McGill asked, “What can I do for you ladies and gentleman?”
A babble of shouts almost knocked McGill over, but he was able to make out the predominant question. The media wanted to know the same thing Representative Kaline had asked: What would the grounds be to cite Congress for contempt of the American people?
“Failure to do their jobs,” McGill said.
He was asked for specifics.
“Well, there’s any number of measures that could be applied. Over the course of a calendar year, has the unemployment rate gone down? Has the number of jobs paying a living wage gone up? Has the number of people with substantial health insurance gone up? Has the number of people using emergency rooms for their medical needs gone down? Has the number of U.S. made manufactured goods gone up? Has the number of imported manufactured goods gone down? Has the number of students graduating from high school gone up? Has the number of dropouts gone down? Has the number of admissions to colleges, universities, technical and trade schools gone up? Has the amount of student debt gone down? Has the number of cops on patrol gone up? Has the number of crimes against persons and property gone down? Has the number of people working their way out of poverty gone up? Has the number of whining fat cats gone down?”
McGill paused to catch his breath and collect his thoughts.
Then he said, “Maybe I can get in touch with Billy Joel and we can make a song out of all that.”
As the newsies were laughing, McGill continued, saying that if Congress failed in two or more areas of critical concern they would, de facto, be cited for contempt of the American people. Every member of Congress would have his or her pay reduced by twenty-five percent, they would receive no pension contribution for that year or health care coverage for the following year and members of the leadership would be confined at minimum security prisons during Congressional recesses.
The reporters were left in awe by McGill’s vision.
How, he was asked, would such a situation come to pass?
“Congress would have to pass a law,” he said.
The newsies laughed harder than before, and McGill shot the gap, slicing through the middle of the mob and made it to his Chevy. He let Putnam slide into the back seat first. Then he turned to face the crowd again.
He told the reporters, “The voters could make Congress do that, if they wanted.”
He slipped into the Chevy. The moment the door closed, Leo sped away.
They hadn’t made it a block before Patti called.
“That was quite the speech you just made,” she said.
McGill, no longer surprised that his wife was damn near omniscient, replied, “What? You think Galia’s the only one who can come up with good ideas?”
McGill Investigations, Inc.
FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt was waiting for McGill when he got back to his office, after dropping Putnam off at his townhouse on Florida Avenue.
“Your landlord let me in,” DeWitt told McGill, “but I stayed here in the outer office.”
“Dikki’s a trusting soul. Am I going to have to make you a partner in the firm?”
DeWitt smiled. “I probably will leave government work someday, but not quite yet. Where are your Secret Service people?”
“Out having their earbuds cleaned, I think. They should be here soon.”
The truth was, the Capitol Hill cops didn’t allow anyone but themselves to be armed on their turf, and Secret Service agents just hated to check their Uzis at the door. Also, Putnam had thought the situation would be less confrontational — ha! — if McGill didn’t appear with bodyguards who might seek to ignore the chairman’s right to have the witness bound and gagged. Drawn and quartered.
Besides all that, everyone had been expecting the proceedings on the Hill to last far longer than they had, as one pol after another phrased his or her questions in the form of an eye-glazing speech. McGill’s provocative behavior had cut things short and given him the opportunity, as was his wont, to go his own way.
He hadn’t felt particularly vulnerable. Leo was armed, and he retook possession of his Beretta once he was back inside the Chevy.
Putnam had seen that and asked, “You think I ought to carry one of those?”
McGill remembered that Putnam had been shot at as he sat in his own living room, but he hated the idea that everybody needed to be armed at all times. The old saw that, “God made man but Colonel Colt made them equal,” had several real-world flaws in its reasoning.
If someone attempting to use a handgun against an unarmed opponent wasn’t quick enough to get the weapon clear of wherever it was being carried, disengage the safety and aim it accurately, then the unarmed opponent, should he be stronger, quicker and even trained in doing gun disarms, might turn the weapon on its owner.
Bang, I’m dead? No, bang, you’re dead.
McGill had told Putnam, “Talk to Sweetie.”
First Carolyn and now Putnam feeling the need to be armed, McGill thought.
What the hell was the world coming to?
As he and DeWitt went into his office, the deputy director told him.
“An FBI team searched a house in Ottawa, Illinois that Damon Todd and friends had used. It will be continuously monitored until we have all three men in custody. But we found a page of notes Todd wrote. He’d torn the page into many small pieces, but we have people who are very good at jigsaw puzzles.”
“And you found?” McGill said.
“Todd used his hypnotic techniques on both Arn Crosby and Olin Anderson. He noted substantial improvements in the mental focus and physical response time of both men.”
“Great,” McGill said. “Refurbished killers.”
“Yeah. What Todd didn’t say but might be reasonably inferred is he might have managed to make both men susceptible to taking risks they normally wouldn’t.”
“Making suicide runs,” McGill said.
“Yeah.”
McGill shook his head. “I’m liking that sonofabitch less all the time.”
Ruth’s Chris Steak House — Kansas City, Missouri
Senator Roger Michaelson and Bobby Beckley sat opposite each other in the restaurant’s Plaza Room, a private area that could accommodate up to twenty diners. There would be only the two of them that night. Beckley was picking up the tab, for Michaelson’s travel expenses as well as the meal. The two men had never met before but they knew of each other by reputation.
They’d agreed on Kansas City for their first meeting because neither of them had been there before, and Michaelson had dropped out of the primaries before a campaign poster ever went up in Missouri. They were unlikely to attract any notice from the media. Their private dining planner had treated them with great courtesy, but had shown no particular awareness of their political standing. Under present circumstances, Michaleson was not irritated to be called mister instead of senator. The two men talked about the new baseball season until dinner was served and they requested an hour to themselves.
They each took it as a good sign that the other had ordered a steak — New York Strip for Michaelson, Cowboy Ribeye for Beckley — rather than seafood or a veggie platter. The fact that both men also liked their beef blood red was another bond. The capper was neither minded talking business as he ate.
Beckley kicked things off.
“I’d never ask you to come out and say so, but if you had anything to do with that TV spot that got Elton Galbreath locked up for twenty-four hours, you have my sincere admiration.”
Michaelson grinned and asked. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, be working for Galia Mindel, would you?”
Just the idea was enough to make Beckley choke on his steak.
The senator continued, “I have to admit, it’s not likely, but I’ve been burned underestimating that woman before.”
Beckley cleared the obstruction in his throat, took a sip of water and collected himself.
“You’re gonna have to give me fair warning, you keep talking like that. I would have laughed if I wasn’t so busy choking to death.”
“So, you’re saying you don’t work for anyone in the president’s camp?”
“I don’t, and I’ll give you proof in just a little while.”
“Why not now?” Michaelson asked.
“Okay, if you don’t mind putting your knife and fork down.”
“I’ll make the sacrifice.”
Beckley put his own utensils down and picked up the attaché case he’d brought with him. He popped it open and handed a manila folder to Michaelson. The senator opened it and looked at a black-and-white photo that lay atop a stack of printouts. Beckley closed his case and put it back under the table.
“Do you recognize either of those men?” he asked.
“Frank Morrissey, the new vice president’s brother and her chief advisor, is the guy getting a hickey. Can’t tell who the other guy is.”
“His name’s Soren Gilby. He’s a state cop up in Minnesota.”
Michaelson chuckled. “You don’t say?”
Beckley said, “I do. Your people didn’t find out Frank Morrissey is gay?”
The senator’s jaw tightened. “The guy who would have dug up something like that for me is now running for my seat.”
“Bob Merriman,” Beckley said. “Looks like he’s going to win, too.” He held up a hand to placate the senator. “I’m not trying to rub it in. I mention that only as a way of saying I can understand how you might like to get even with Patti Grant. The gossip on my side of the aisle had you becoming her vice president. Must’ve pissed you off pretty good when she chose Jean Morrissey.”
“You think?” Michaelson asked.
“I do. So here’s the proof I’m on your side. I’ve got more pictures. Frank’s not the only one in the Morrissey family who likes to have a good time with his own kind.”
Michaelson sat back in his chair and stared at Beckley.
He looked for any sign the man was lying to him.
“Are you still working for Howard Hurlbert behind the scenes?” Michaelson asked.
Beckley shook his head. He had taken a million dollars of Howard Hurlbert’s surplus campaign funds as severance pay and deposited the money in his numbered account in Liechtenstein. The old bastard could have gone to the U.S. attorney about that, but then Beckley knew where Hurlbert hid his rake-off.
“No,” Beckley said, “my days with the senior senator from Mississippi are a thing of the past. Tom T. Wright is running his campaign now.”
Michaelson said, “Wright is rich, but he’s an amateur. There’s no way Hurlbert has a chance of winning with him running the campaign.”
“If it was a one-on-one race, I’d agree. But you put three people in the ring, any crazy ass thing is possible.”
Michaelson said, “I’ve heard that Beau Brunelle and the other people from the Senate and the House who’ve moved to True South won’t have anything to do with the Huey Long populism Wright wants to peddle.”
“True enough. They have a lot better chance than Howard Hurlbert of getting elected. After things shake out, they can make of True South whatever they want. But don’t underestimate the idea of Southern populism. You put some old-time soda pop in a new bottle people just might buy it.”
Michaelson shook his head and said, “Shit, wouldn’t that be something? But don’t tell me it’s what you’re counting on. If you’re not backing Hurlbert, and would never back the president or Mather Wyman, what’s in it for you? You want to sink Patti Grant just for the fun of it?”
“Pretty much, yeah. It’d be something to feel good about in my old age. In the meantime, if you and I throw enough rocks through the big boys’ windows, somebody might ask us to stop by and fix things.”
“You’ve become an anarchist,” Michaelson said.
“I prefer opportunist. So what do you think?” Beckley asked. “Do you have any interest in seeing pictures of the woman who beat you out for vice president having a good time with her girlfriend?”
Michaelson said, “I do.”
Beckley picked up his case and passed another folder to Michaelson.
“Those printouts I gave you?” Beckley said. “They’re the places Frank Morrissey likes to get together with his state trooper. Wouldn’t be surprised if his sister, the vice president, uses some of them, too.”
“Still?” Michaelson asked.
“Old habits and all that,” Beckley said.
Michaelson didn’t comment further. He’d put someone on it and let the gumshoe think he was working for Bobby Beckley. So if any of these dirty tricks came back to bite someone it wouldn’t be him.
That was how one very angry gay snake eater from Virginia decided Bobby Beckley needed to learn a mortal lesson.
8
June, 2012
Q Street — Washington, D.C.
Carrying twins was considered a high risk pregnancy. Advising an expectant mother of that classification was a way to counsel her to take special precautions. It was also a way to keep both expectant parents on edge until everyone came through the pregnancy healthy, happy and ready to put in a lifetime of work to make sure all involved stayed that way.
Kira had more doctor visits than she would have had for a single-fetus pregnancy. She had additional ultrasounds to make sure all was progressing well. Welborn took her blood pressure readings daily throughout the third trimester.
Kira took care that everything
she ate was approved by both her doctor and her nutritionist. She consumed extra folic acid to reduce the chance of neural tube defects. She applauded Welborn when he started eating better, too.
“The way we’ll handle sleepless nights, flyboy,” she told him, “is anyone who doesn’t nurse the girls, gets up, changes diapers and comforts the colicky.”
Welborn said, “Deal. As long as you prepare all my meals, too.”
“Fine. As long as you don’t want to eat them off my chest.”
Welborn laughed. “Now that you raise the idea …”
“Forget it.”
The closer the due date came, each day that passed without cause for alarm, the more excited Kira and Welborn became. They were about to become Mom and Dad. They would have the most beautiful, brilliant, altogether wonderful girls in the world. They decided on the names. Aria would be the first born; Callista would be little sister.
By presidential order, Captain Yates was placed on detached duty for the last three month’s of Kira’s pregnancy and the first three months of his children’s lives. Any work that came his way would be limited to what he could do from home using a secure computer. Welborn set up shop in the bedroom the twins would use.
His workload was light but he still had trouble focusing.
He kept imagining all the things he’d want to teach his daughters.
Kira worked for Mather Wyman’s campaign at a desk that had been placed in the master bedroom. She also wrote longhand on legal pads while lying propped up in bed. She spoke at least once a day with Mattie to tell him, yes, she was fine and still up to helping him.
Welborn and Kira avoided any stress being placed on the girls or their marriage by not discussing the fact that they supported rival candidates for the presidency. That plan worked well until the time came for Kira to go to the hospital.
With the permission of James J. McGill, Leo Levy was on call to them.
“I’ll ride with Elspeth, if there’s a conflict,” McGill told Welborn.
So everything was in place the night Kira told Welborn, “It’s time. Call Leo.”