The Killing Vote

by Bette Golden Lamb

  Ted pulled the dollar bill from his wallet and placed it gently on the desk in front of Muller. “I’ve always known that someday I’d have a reason to collect on this. Today’s the day.”

  Muller lightly touched the bill; his eyes went soft. He looked at Ted, the wise guy attitude gone from his demeanor. “You saved my ass in ‘Nam, man. Without you, my career would have been shit-canned.”

  “We were both lucky to get out of there in one piece.”

  Muller stood, then quickly sat back down and pretended to be interested in sharpening pencils he’d gathered from the top of his messy desk. After a long moment, he said, “I couldn’t write shit anymore. If you hadn’t filed my copy, I would have been history.”

  “Yeah, talk is cheap, real cheap. I noticed you didn’t sign a fiver as an IOU. And by the way, push that bill back over here. I might need it to tip a cabby.”

  Muller laughed. “And you call me cheap?”

  The room became silent, each of them lost in his own thoughts. Muller was the first to speak again. “Okay, what is it you think you know that might make the front page?”

  “I’m sure you’re following the Medicare funding bill that’s scheduled for a floor vote on Wednesday.”

  “Oh, yeah. Routine procedure. No one expects a fight on that one.”

  “You may be dead wrong.” He watched Muller’s eyes squint with suspicion. “There’s a cost-cutting rider in the wings that’s going to drastically affect Medicare policy and procedures. The wheels are in motion to hang it onto the funding bill. Senator Angelle Savage is carrying it—it’s top secret stuff.”

  “Does this rider have a number or is it a figment of someone’s imagination?”

  “Oh, it’s real all right. But I don’t think it’s been assigned a number yet.”

  “That’s easy enough to find out, provided you can tell me what it’s meant to do.”

  “Legalize selective euthanasia.”

  The seasoned editor’s mouth dropped. “You shitting me, Ted?”

  “Wish I was.”

  Muller cupped his chin in one hand, turned his chair to look out the window, then spun himself back around. “I can’t believe something that big hasn’t been picked up by one of my people. And if what you’re saying is true, some heads are going to roll.”

  “Not only is it true, Hygea is in the process of lining up its string of hospitals to initiate the policy as soon as the legislation is signed off by Congress and the President.”

  Hy moved his pencils again, sharpening several of them down to stubs. “You say Savage is doing this? Man, that doesn’t make any sense at all. I can’t think of a single thing in her voting record to indicate she might go along with something like that, let alone come up with it on her own.”

  “Pressure. Something personal; someone has a hook in her.”

  “And how the hell did you get wind of all of these shenanigans?”

  “CORPS brought me into it.”

  “That old folks group? Sorkin’s people?” He shook his head, tapped a finger on the desktop. “Something’s not kosher here, Ted. I mean, I have a pretty good handle on the balance of power in this city and while Savage is an up and coming star, she simply doesn’t have that kind of weight. And even if she did, I can’t see her torpedoing herself like that.” He paused again. “Someone outside the hallowed halls of Congress has to be pulling the strings. The trick is to find out who’s the big kahuna on this one.”

  “Try W. Wade Wilson, the—”

  “Fuck,” Muller shouted. “I know who the hell W. Wade Wilson is, that asshole. Who in Washington doesn’t? Anytime you suspect there’s a camel’s head in the tent, put your money on old W.W.W.”

  “And if he could be exposed?”

  “A lobbyist with his kind of White House connections isn’t very likely to be thrown to the media wolves, although you can bet your ass we’ve tried. And it looks like we might get another chance if your story pans out.” He pointed a finger at Ted. “If there’s anything else you can tell me about all of this, now’s the time to put it on the table.”

  Ted looked at the National News Editor and swallowed hard.

  “There is something, Hy, but you have to promise not to use it.”

  “That depends on what it is. But I’ll tell you this, it’s a rare day when we hold back on anything.”

  “This needs to be one of those days, because there’s a good chance someone might die if you don’t.”

  Muller cocked his head to one side. “Isn’t that a bit melodramatic?”

  “What if I told you a close personal friend of Savage’s has been kidnapped, and if Savage doesn’t follow through on that rider, that person will be killed?”

  “Shit!”

  “It’s a tough one, I know. And there’s no attribution I can provide to make this a page one story. But there must be some way you can run with this. People have to start asking questions, put a stop to what’s happening.”

  “The Senator won’t help us?”

  “It’s not that she won’t, she can’t.”

  “Well, if what you’re telling me checks out, even one little bit, I’d say we have the proverbial tiger by the tail.”

  “And you’ll hold back on the kidnapping?”

  Muller chewed at his upper lip. “I’ll try,” he said. “That’s the best I can promise.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything more.” He stood, held his hand out to Muller, and looked down at the “I owe you one” dollar bill. “We’re even now,” he said. “Keep the buck.”

  Muller laughed. “Naw! You take it. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for some cabby not getting a tip.”

  Chapter 39

  Calli Salvio sat at her desk feeling sorry for herself. It was Monday morning and she’d had a miserable weekend.

  First, she had to work late Friday, then Saturday night turned out to be really bizarre when she had to fight off some guy she’d picked up at a local bar. He’d turned weird on her, wanted to get into kinky stuff she hadn’t signed on for. Without her kickboxing, she’d have been stewed, screwed, and tattooed. Well, at least the first two.

  And Sunday? God, she’d spent nearly the whole day moping around, hating herself for being so stupid. What was she thinking anyway? Getting loaded and going off with a total stranger? He could have killed her.

  For the hundredth time, she wished she was back in Henderson, Nevada.

  Senator Savage had done her best to land her a good job, and Calli had all but nailed the slot as a research assistant with an important subcommittee. But— the big but—at the last minute a senior Senator’s daughter aced her out, leaving her high and dry, with all the other good spots filled..

  Now she was running at top speed, sometimes seven days a week, as W. Wade Wilson’s lackey. Senator Savage had tried to talk her out of taking the job, but the pay was top rate. She was disgusted. If she wasn’t so broke, she’d quit. Or at least that’s what she kept telling herself.

  She opened her purse and pulled out a small compact and peered into the miniature mirror, lightly pressed her fingers on the puffiness around her eyes as though that would make it disappear. Drinking and crying were a bad combination.

  Calli closed the compact, looked around her tiny office space, which was really just an open reception area outside of the big man’s cavernous office. She felt like a drone. Yesterday she was wallowing in self-hatred. Today it was self-pity.

  Political science and history were her passions and she’d been excited just to be here—far from Henderson. She’d visited every monument, every memorial, and toured the White House, Smithsonian, and Library of Congress. But it had all become just a backdrop for a bust-your-butt, dead-end job. This wasn’t what she’d hoped for when she hit the books like a fired-up nerd for four years at UNLV.

  And what about her long-time fantasy about being a part of exciting D.C.? The dream that she would be steeped in government, part of the whole, complex political scene? Poof—that was out the window. I
nstead, she was slaving away for this creepy lobbyist who kept everything a big secret. The man had more to hide than Pandora’s Box.

  It was all too, too boring. She wasn’t even a valuable assistant; she was a get-the-coffee, answer-the-phone girl. Not what she’d come to the Capital to do. She could have stayed in Nevada and done that.

  Calli massaged her neck, rotated and stretched her arms.

  Enough wallowing.

  She tried to push her negative thoughts aside. Instead, she focused on her left forefinger. The nail had been bugging her all morning—it was rough and would probably ruin her stockings if she didn’t smooth it. She sighed, opened a drawer, pulled out an emery board, and began filing down the offending nail.

  It was rare she heard anything through Wade Wilson’s solid door. But right now he was screaming into the phone, his Southern accent unexpectedly missing.

  She slipped the nail file back into her drawer and stared at her phone. There were three extensions—two were his private lines, the other one the main line. She’d eavesdropped on some of his calls before, but they were mostly routine conversations with healthcare executives. They hadn’t been worth taking a chance on getting caught.

  Calli looked around her empty space, patted her hair in place, and pressed down on the button of the lighted extension; she held her breath and picked up the phone.

  * * *

  “Damn it, Levi, you said you’d stay on top of this like fleas on a dog. I mean, I want you to tell those two cowboys they need to stay put until you tell them otherwise.”

  “They just want to know how much longer this gig is going to last. The Carson Capital Motel is nothing but a dive. They’re bored.”

  “Bored? You have to have some kind of brains to be bored.”

  “They’re just hired help, Wade. Hired help.”

  “I know. I know.”

  Levi Black made a noise that was someplace between a grunt and a nasty laugh. “You didn’t offer enough green to get smart muscle.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Wilson said. “It’s just that things are a bit twitchy at this end, if you know what I mean. Coming down to the final hours for this bitch.”

  “The whore?”

  “No, not her. I’m talking about this latest fuck-the-kitty thing I got going. Got too much skin exposed.”

  “Okay. I’ll do what I can to calm down that pair. Just keep in mind that they’re not the straightest cues in the rack, and Carson City is not Reno. It is boring,” Black said.

  “I’m not paying them to have a good time. Offer them more money, if you have to. But they’ve got to stick to the plan, Levi. No side trips. Not a single one.”

  “I’ll give them the word again. But I think they’re spooked—the broad’s seen both their faces and I get the feeling they’d like to take her out into the desert and leave her there … permanently.”

  “Damn it, Levi. No harm is to be done. You know that better than anyone. For crissake, man, she’s a nobody. A fucking nobody.” Wilson took a deep breath. “Just make sure she gets enough money to keep her yap closed when this is over.”

  Black started laughing. “That might have worked yesterday, Wade. But one of the dorks lost it and cut up her face.” He snorted into the phone. “She’ll have to wear a bag over her head, ‘cause her johns won’t think she looks too good anymore.”

  “Morons! How did you let that happen?”

  There was a long pause. “You know, Wade, it’s a good thing I don’t do this for money ‘cause you couldn’t pay me enough to put up with all your shit.”

  “Sorry, Levi. Shouldn’t be taking this out on you. I mean, it’s like they say, you get what you pay for. I shouldn’t have been so cheap.”

  “No argument out of me.”

  “Okay. Let me think about it; I’ll get back to you. And try to keep those assholes from pulling off anymore dumb stunts.”

  “I hear ya.”

  * * *

  Calli’s head was pounding with a headache. She waited for her boss to hang up then immediately hit the line for the call back number. But “Unknown caller” was all that came up on the screen. She wrote down the name of the motel and its location and stuffed the paper into her purse.

  What was she going to do? She closed her eyes, held on tight to her desk to keep the room from spinning.

  The outer door to the office opened and Senator Angelle Savage, and a man she didn’t recognize, walked in.

  “Hi, Calli. Good to see you again. By the way, I may have that research job for you that we talk about. Probably at the beginning of the year.” The Senator reached across the desk for Calli’s hand. “Is something wrong? You look a little pale.”

  Calli was lightheaded and weak. “No problem, Senator. And the first of the year would be great. I just hope I haven’t been bugging you too much.”

  “No, no! I just wanted you to know that I haven’t forgotten you. She turned to the man with her. “Ted Yost, Calli Salvio. “This young woman is from Nevada, too. One of my constituents. I even think she voted for me.”

  Calli smiled. “You know I did!”

  “We have an appointment with W. W. Could you let him know we’re here, please?”

  Calli smiled and picked up the phone. When she hung up, she said. “Go right in, Senator. Nice to meet you Mr. Yost.”

  Angelle gave Ted a let’s-get-it-over-with look and they entered the office. As the door closed, Calli saw Wade Wilson stand up and offer to shake hands.

  * * *

  “Let’s cut to the chase, W.W.,” Angelle said. “Where have you got Joanne Paige stashed?”

  “You folks from Nevada have such a colorful way of expressin’ yourselves,” Wilson said. “And who are you, sir?”

  “I’m Ted Yost. A citizen and friend of the Senator.”

  “Enough!” Angelle said. “Get Joanne on the phone for me. Now!”

  “What makes you think I even know what you’re talking about? That name? Never heard it.”

  “Have you forgotten about our lunch at the Five and Dime so soon?”

  Wilson turned to Ted. “Now you see why women can be so difficult. I haven’t got a hint of an idea of what this little lady’s talking about.”

  “Listen, you supercilious son-of-a-bitch,” Angelle said. “We know damn well you have Joanne, know you’re holding her to keep me on the straight and narrow. But as long as you have the woman—no rider.”

  “Angelle, my dear, you’re just ramblin’ on and on. I don’t have a whisper of what you’re talkin’ about. If I even had an inklin’, I’d say we’re at an impasse.” Wilson’s voice turned to steel. “And if I were playin’ that game, then you would know: No rider, no Joanne. That is her name, isn’t it, Senator?”

  He abruptly stood, looked first at Ted, then at Angelle. “And I think you’ll find that I don’t blink first.”

  * * *

  Calli stood with her ear pressed against the door but couldn’t really hear everything. They needed to talk louder. Still it all fit together with Wilson’s earlier telephone call.

  What was she going to do? She couldn’t go home to Nevada with her tail between her legs—she needed this job for now.

  She was behind her desk when the Senator and Ted Yost walked out of the W. W.’s office, slamming the door behind them.

  “Calli, you’ll definitely be out of here the first of the year, even if I have to create a job for you myself. Trust me!”

  “Senator,” Calli whispered, “here’s something I think you should see.” She nodded toward Wilson’s door.

  Calli handed the Senator a folded piece of paper. She’d written down everything she’d heard on the phone earlier.

  “Help her!”

  Chapter 40

  Della Paoli was levitating—lifting higher and higher.

  Warm, strange energies infused her body.

  Splotches of deep purple and cadmium yellow floated all around, bursting into towering irises, sunny daffodils.

  Her eyelids fluttered open an
d the colors disappeared, replaced with a room that circled in an underwater smear of dizziness. She shut her eyes against the swirl. When she dared look again, everything was still.

  A smothering silence closed in around her—there was no sound other than the oxygen rattling through her chest, along with her labored breathing. Her heart began a wild thumping that echoed in her ears.

  She still could not move her body.

  She looked at the corner of the room, remembered someone had been in the shadows watching her. She’d seen a person.

  Or had she?

  How could she know what was real or what wasn’t?

  Tears ran down her cheeks.

  Will I ever see my apartment, my flowers again?

  She studied the IV next to the bed. It was the one constant in her life; it was there when she closed her eyes, it was there when she opened them. She watched the fluid drip slowly, feed into her arm, enter her veins, swim its way to her heart.

  * * *

  Bob Holt lay in bed, drenched in sweat. He glanced at his clock—a little before five. Going back to sleep was not an option.

  His mind jumped ahead to the question Rudge would force him to present to the committee today: Should Medicare patients receive only “care-for-comfort” if their prognosis lacked total recovery?

  And this time Rudge would really need him, need his vote.

  He headed for the kitchen, fighting the gnawing need to add a stiff shot of Chivas to his coffee. His hands shook violently when he poured his first cup—he added nothing to it. Nothing to his second or third cups.

  The initial warm comfort of the coffee soon flipped into caffeine jitters. He forced himself to eat a light breakfast of sourdough toast and V-8 juice, but before he could rinse the dishes, he was racing to the bathroom, where he lost it all.

  Exhausted, he staggered back to the bedroom, flopped across the bed, and stared at the double closet he’d shared with his wife. All these months and he still couldn’t bring himself to touch or give anything of hers away. And buried among her sweaters on the top shelf was a .38 police special.