Access to Power

by Robert Ellis

  Chapter 7

  “I’m worried about you, Frank.”

  Frank noticed the long look on Senator Helen Pryor’s face as she leaned into the table. They were sitting at a booth in the bar at the Mayflower before the president’s fund-raiser.

  “One negative campaign after the next,” she was saying. “People are tired of it, Frank. They hate it. And I hate it, too.”

  Helen had won the first Virginia seat two years ago and would not face reelection for another four years. She was a young sixty. Her eyes were bright and brown, her hair a mix of blond and gray. She was a handsome woman, Frank had always thought, her tanned face distinctively lined by a life of hard work.

  The waiter finally arrived with their drinks.

  “The whisky’s the senator’s,” Frank said. “Thanks.”

  When the waiter left, they clicked glasses. Frank watched Helen savoring the whisky, then sipped his vodka and lowered the glass.

  “What I did to Ozzie Olson got you elected, Helen. We went with what we had at the time. When we learned it was false, we pulled the spot. It got ugly. I admit that. But you don’t need to feel guilty about what happened to Ozzie Olson. You’ve proven yourself ten times over on the Hill. The best candidate won.”

  “I don’t feel guilty about it.”

  He read her face and laughed. “Yes, you do. I can see you do.”

  Her eyes moved to the door and her smile faded. Frank turned and saw Stewart Brown entering, his beady eyes darting between them. Brown was forty-five and heavy, with slicked back hair. His tuxedo looked two sizes too small and he appeared to be sweating. Every time Frank had ever seen him, he appeared to be sweating.

  Brown said hello with an awkward smile as he passed their table. Frank nodded back, keeping his eyes on the overstuffed man until he finally reached the bar.

  “He’s doing Lou Kay’s campaign, isn’t he?” Helen said in a quieter voice.

  Frank nodded. “Stewart Brown is a bottom feeder, Helen. The king of sleaze.”

  “What about Merdock?”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s spending his own money, Frank.”

  “He’s got a lot of it. So what?”

  “By the time most of us can raise real money, we’re pretty well tested. People know who we are and what we think.”

  Frank smiled, feeling the vodka and beginning to relax. “But a candidate who can bankroll his own campaign turns it all upside down. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “He’s just an image.”

  “Pure media. Pure plastic. Maybe you’re right, Helen, but think about it. Once he’s elected, Mel Merdock won’t owe anybody anything.”

  She rolled her eyes without saying anything. He didn’t think that she seemed convinced.

  Chapter 8

  It was bird shit, he realized. Caught in the wipers and smearing the windshield as it mixed with the rain like chalk. Raymond pulled into the lot at Miles, Darrow & Associates and backed into a space at the far end beneath the trees.

  He cut the engine and switched off the lights, eyeing the building carefully as he listened to the end of tape 1, side 2: defining your goals and how to reach them. Once your goals were defined, you had to take that first step. The writer likened it to the kickoff in a football game. Once the ball was in the air, your goal was triggered. Success depended on follow-through, breaking your goal down to a series of short tasks or plays and always having a backup plan if something went wrong.

  For the past five years, Raymond had worked out of Baltimore, where he lived with his wife and two sons. He’d done well, managing to provide his family with a nice home in a safe upper-middle-class neighborhood. Both of his boys were smart and athletic. And both would be going to college soon. The idea of expanding his client base, working his way into Washington, becoming a player of perhaps international scope, appealed to Raymond not for the fame it might bring him, but because of the higher income it would generate. Besides, Washington was an easy commute. And from what he’d been reading in the papers lately, there seemed to be a growing need for men and women with his experience and qualifications.

  Raymond opened his thermos and filled his driving mug with piping hot coffee. As he sipped through the steam, he glanced at the rearview mirror. Sonny Stockwell was sitting in the backseat with his eyes open in a thousand-yard stare. His body was wrapped from the shoulders down in a plastic drop cloth Raymond had picked up in the paint department at Home Depot. Stockwell had actually died on the drive over, less than a half hour ago. Raymond had heard it as his labored breathing suddenly quieted and the car became still. He knew rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet. But the kid’s bowels had relaxed, and despite the plastic, Raymond could smell his shit in the air.

  He cracked open the window and tried to ignore the foul odor as he looked back at the building. He knew that the consulting firm occupied the entire structure. The first floor had been relegated to storage, which struck Raymond as odd until he’d gone upstairs and seen the view of the Capitol from the windows above.

  Raymond had scouted the location two days before using the psychology of distraction. After making a sizable purchase at the florist on the corner, he had posed as a delivery man. He’d walked right in, getting a feel for the layout as the woman with blond hair opened the flowers from her desk thinking that they were a gift from an anonymous lover. The woman had said her name was Linda. And from his research, he knew her to be a partner in the firm. She had been younger than Raymond expected, more beautiful, though a bit too small-boned for his taste. Still, as Linda gazed at the flowers and searched for a card that was not there, Raymond had a chance to examine the space first hand. The two offices on the other side of the main room. The two men working at their desks separated by plate glass walls. Raymond looked at the tall one in the corner office and could tell that he was only pretending to work. He was sneaking peeks at Linda with the flowers. The other one at the far end, the fat one wearing glasses, had a smile on his face and seemed unconcerned.

  The smell of the kid’s shit was getting to him. He glanced at the lighted window on the second floor, took a last sip of coffee and placed the mug in the cup holder. Reaching beneath the seat, he fished out the two guns he would need for the night and made sure that the Beretta was primed and ready. Then he switched off the tape, returned the cassette to its vinyl case and got out of the car.

  He took a deep breath of fresh air, glancing at the dead burglar in the backseat before closing the door.

  “Wait here,” he told the kid.

  A smile crossed his lips. His plan was ridiculously easy.

  As he reached the front door, he checked his latex gloves for breaks and had a look at the lock. It was a Gibson Security deadbolt. He was familiar with the model and pulled out his tools from a small case he kept in his breast pocket. Within half a minute, he heard the telltale click, swung the door open and entered the building smooth as a shadow.

  The lobby and stairs were lighted. Raymond closed the door and turned the deadbolt, returning his picks to their case and pulling out the Beretta. Then he switched off the lights and started upstairs, his agile body rising silently through the darkness. He had counted the steps while delivering those flowers. Twenty-three, and not one of them creaked if you kept your footing to the far right side.

  The door at the top of the stairs stood open and he could hear the sound of someone talking inside. Raymond had counted on him being alone. Keeping to the darkness, he scanned the office with mild concern. The entrance gave way to a large common room with desks and worktables. The offices of the partners lined both sides of the space, separated by glass partitions. Although the computers were left on and provided a dim glow, the only light burning on the entire floor came from the office on the right at the very end.

  Tightening his grip on the gun, Raymond stepped inside the room and began inching his way past the worktables until his view cleared. The man was sitting with his back to the door. And he was alone,
talking to someone on the phone with his feet propped on the desk. Smoking and drinking coffee, he looked like a slob from the word go. He was saying something about the changes they made and he sounded upset. The changes they made were good, he said. Their message was right, but they still needed more money to get the new TV ad on the air.

  Raymond moved closer, adjusting his position so that he would have a clean shot through the doorway without hitting all that glass. The guy looked like a real talker. Raymond would have to wait until the fat man hung up the phone.

  Finding a place behind a worktable, he sat on the floor and glanced at a computer monitor. There was a screensaver he had never seen before. King Kong growling. He liked it, but turned away. His ankles itched. As he scratched through his socks, his mind started rolling again in anticipation of the drive back to the Iwo Jima Motel and a long hot shower. Tape 2, side 1 in the series was one of his favorites: my boss appreciates me, I am fun to be with, I deserve what I’ve earned and now it’s time for a raise.

  Chapter 9

  The president and first lady stood in the center of the ballroom, greeting everyone around them as cameras flashed and photographers worked the festive scene.

  They made a good-looking couple, Frank thought. In their late fifties but still energetic and youthful. The first lady wore a silvery blue evening dress that complimented her athletic figure. She was a blonde with hazel eyes and a witty sense of humor. And the president stood by her side in his tuxedo like he was glad to be there. He had played ball in college and there was a ruggedness about him that remained. Frank remembered the effect he had on people when he shook their hands at rallies during the campaign. It was always the same, the moment anyone looked at his face for the first time. Their knees would buckle slightly as if their bodies were melting. Then they’d smile and he’d laugh back, trying to make them feel at ease. The man looked like a president, even then. Like his victory, his place in time, was meant to be.

  Frank and Senator Pryor were joined by Senators Barkley and Thomas, two of the boys, as they cut through the crowd heading to their seats at table 1 directly below the podium.

  Senator Barkley laughed suspiciously. “We were looking for you two.”

  Frank caught the glint in the senator’s eye and smiled. Then the crowd parted and he saw her. Linda had finished her edit, changed clothes and reached the table before them. But there was a man with her and they were holding hands.

  “Isn’t that Jason Hardly?” Helen asked.

  Frank nodded, taking the jolt, his eyes on their hands and body language. It was Hardly, someone he never would have expected.

  Jason Hardly was one of the most powerful lobbyists on the Hill. He moved almost as much money here and there and back again as the Federal Reserve. He was shorter than Frank by five or six inches, older than Frank by fifteen years. His hair matched the color of his eyes, remaining brown except for a hint of gray at the temples. But he was still in good shape, and had that kind of over-groomed look only money can buy.

  As Frank approached the table with Helen, Linda and Hardly turned toward them. They were anxious and had the look of being caught at something still not defined. Hardly instinctively grabbed Frank’s hand and gave it a hard squeeze.

  “You look good, Frank. Real good considering it’s an election year.”

  “You too, Jason.”

  Frank turned to Linda, trying to hide his emotions. Her black dress hung from her shoulders by spaghetti straps. Her eyes were wide and had a rich burn to them. There was a frailty about her, a kind of beauty that stung.

  It stung because it was out of reach, Frank realized. It was over.

  He knew it as he watched Hardly help her sit down. There was something between them beyond holding hands. A certain kind of ease that only comes with familiarity. Frank didn’t think that they had been together in public. Tracy’s radar screen was too big and he would have heard about it. But they had spent time together somewhere, a lot of time, that much was clear.

  He glanced over at Helen and caught her staring at him with a pained expression on her face. She had seen everything he had. Before he could settle, someone took his elbow from behind and he turned. It was the president, bright and charismatic, shaking his hand and delighted to see him like they were brothers returning home for a holiday.

  “How are you, Frank?” the president asked. “I’ve been meaning to call you all week. We need to talk about—” The president paused in mid-sentence and looked around at the table. Everyone had stopped talking and was listening. Then he turned back and flashed a dazzling smile. “This looks like a pretty rough crowd, Frank. Maybe you should switch seats with the first lady.”

  Everybody laughed.

  The president pulled Frank closer. “We need to talk,” he said in a lower voice. “It’s important. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  Frank nodded, watching the president return to his wife. Hardly began telling a joke that he’d heard at The Palm over lunch. As Frank sat down, he could feel Linda’s eyes on him from across the table but tried to ignore it. Fight it. He tasted the wine and caught Stewart Brown staring at him from a table in the back by the kitchen. Frank turned away, nodding at Senator Richards, a fragile man of seventy-five seated at table 2 beside a young, sexy woman in a revealing dress.

  Waiters began serving dinner. A camera flashed.

  Frank looked up and saw a photographer stepping away from Senator Richards. The elder statesman was frozen in his chair and remained speechless. When he turned to Frank for help, Frank looked at Linda seated beside Jason Hardly and was only too glad to oblige. He got up from the table, mouthing silently to the senator that he would take care of the situation for him. There was no reason to be alarmed.

  He followed the photographer to the back of the room, saw him take another shot and then pulled him aside. The photographer was a kid, maybe twenty-five, wearing a tattered shirt that could have used some starch and a hot steam iron. Frank smiled, playing it casually. It seemed obvious that the kid was excited to be in a room with the president and first lady and didn’t understand what he had just done.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Bobby Raben, Mr. Miles. I got a shot of you with the president.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  The kid nodded. “Freelance.”

  “May I see your camera?”

  “Sure.”

  Bobby smiled and handed over the camera. Frank admired it and looked through the lens. He found Linda and Hardly, then the sexy-looking woman at table 2.

  “You see the young woman sitting with Senator Richards?”

  He watched Bobby gaze through the crowd until he found her sitting next to the old man. Her breasts were the size of over-fertilized melons. Big and round, they worked like magnets.

  The kid laughed. “I just took their picture,” he said.

  “You know who she is, Bobby?”

  The kid shook his head, then gasped a little as Frank lowered the camera, snapped open the back and ripped out the film.

  “She’s what they call a Washington niece, Bobby. When someone goes out with their niece, they don’t generally need any pictures. Memories are good enough.”

  “That’s one hell of a niece.”

  Frank shot him a look. The kid had a big grin on his face and understood.

  “She is, isn’t she,” Frank said as he handed back the camera. “You call my office in the morning and ask for Tracy. I’ll make this up to you. I’ve got plenty of work you can do.”

  Chapter 10

  Woody hung up the phone and looked at the scripts spread across his desk as he drank the last of his coffee and wished for something stronger.

  He’d just finished a conference call with his client in Indiana, the campaign manager, and their pollster. The scripts had been neatly typed before the call started an hour and a half ago. Now they were covered with ink. Words had been crossed out, lines moved, new openings and closi
ngs written and rewritten. Woody shook his head as he looked at the changes, knowing that they were made more out of desperation than anything else.

  The campaign was backsliding. It was drying up just when their opponent had launched a massive negative campaign against them that stood out. Tomorrow Woody would record the voice track to their response, cut the spots and ship the dubs to the stations. Copies would be sent to his client so that he could show his wife and friends. But the campaign couldn’t raise enough money to play them on the air more than once or twice a day. No matter how good the finished spots might turn out, no one watching television would ever notice them. Their response to the attacks would never be played enough to be seen. And everyone involved in the campaign knew it.

  Panic had set in. Reality. Another loss.

  Woody checked his watch. It was after ten. He picked up the phone and dialed, hit an answering machine and hung up without leaving a message. He reached for his cigarettes. The pack was empty and he tossed it into the trash. Then he remembered the emergency pack Frank kept in his top desk drawer.

  He got up and stretched, glancing at the rain outside his window as he stepped into the war room. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light and he made it into Frank’s office without bumping into anything.

  He slid Frank’s drawer open, reaching for the pack. As he struck his lighter, he thought about Frank and Linda and wondered if they’d ever get back together. He hoped they would. Then he lifted the flame to the end of the cigarette, feeling a sense of relief when the nicotine hit his lungs.

  “Why are you sticking your nose into other people’s business?” a voice asked.

  Woody nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus Christ!”

  He saw someone standing in the gloom just outside Frank’s office. The figure was inching closer, his spooky face taking on detail as he stepped into the muted light from the monitor glow. Woody backed away, shaking when he spotted the gun.