The Power Broker
Page 9
Forte and Johnson had met in the Black Panthers. They’d survived a brutal FBI attack in 1969 at the home of another Panther in which seven people in the house had been killed, and they always had that bond. They’d stayed in touch ever since, and, when Ebony Enterprises began to take off, Forte had asked Johnson to join the company—but Johnson declined. The second, third, and fourth times Forte had asked, too. Finally, six years later, Johnson agreed to become the executive vice president. Now he handled all details—and never complained.
“Hello, boss.”
Johnson had called Forte “boss” ever since joining Ebony Enterprises. To remind them both of who was in charge. “I thought you’d gone home for the night, Heath.”
“Got one more thing for you to sign,” Johnson explained, putting a document down on the desk and flipping to the signature pages in the back. “It’s the sale agreement for that property in midtown Manhattan.”
“How much did we make on that?” Forte asked, leaning forward and picking up an old ballpoint pen.
“Twenty-two million.” Johnson flipped several pages further back. “And there,” he indicated, pointing to a line at the bottom of the page.
“Sure.”
“What’s the deal with that pen?” Johnson asked in his melodious voice as he picked up the document. “I’ve always wanted to ask you about it. I mean, you always carry it with you. It looks like it’s fifty years old.”
Forte gazed at the pen. Johnson was right: It was almost fifty years old. He’d used it to gouge out the man’s eyes before he’d strangled him. Gouged them out and listened to the man scream—music to Forte’s ears—while he was tied up. Tied up exactly the same way the bastard had tied up his mother that day Forte had found them. “I don’t know where I got it,” Forte answered. From the man’s desk, that’s where he’d gotten it. He’d kept it all these years as a brutal reminder of how far he’d gone that night—and signed every important Ebony Enterprises document with it. There was still a tiny bit of dried blood inside it.
“You want me to order you a nice Cross pen, boss?”
“No. Sit down,” Forte ordered impatiently. “We need to talk.”
Johnson relaxed into the leather chair in front of the desk. “You want to talk about Jesse—”
Forte ran his finger across his lips.
“What’s wrong?” Johnson whispered.
“When did you have the place swept last?”
“This morning before you got here,” Johnson answered, his voice becoming normal again when he understood why Forte was worried. “It’s clean.”
Forte had become obsessed with making certain no one bugged him or listened to his calls. They’d found a listening device a couple of years ago in this office, and ever since he’d made certain that his offices, homes, and limousines were regularly swept. “Good.” He couldn’t have anyone finding out what he was doing. “Yeah, I want to talk about Jesse Wood. When’s that meeting?”
“Next week.”
“Where?”
“In New York at the Waldorf.”
“Is Wood going to ask then?”
Johnson nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Forte eased back in his chair and stretched. He hadn’t gotten his workout in today, and he missed it. He’d thought about putting a small gym into one of the office rooms for days like today—crammed so full of meetings and calls he couldn’t leave—but he liked getting out of the building. If he put in a gym in here, he’d never step outside. “Jesse’s starting to be a pain in the ass.”
Johnson glanced up. “What do you mean, boss?”
“Last weekend when we were talking about statehood for Puerto Rico, I could tell he was having second thoughts about it. I mean, it’s not like he was jumping up and down and screaming that he wouldn’t support it, but I could tell by his body language he was getting uncomfortable. He sure wasn’t embracing it anymore.” Forte looked up from the pen. “He’s been pushing back on Osgood and Stephanie, too.”
“You mean about replacing them?”
“Yep.”
“Well, that’s just not acceptable, boss. You’re running the show. I say you lower the boom on Jesse right away. You’re his angel, and he ought to act like it. He ought to kiss your feet every time he sees you. He’d be nothing without you.”
Eight years ago Forte and Johnson had done a painstaking review of potential black presidential candidates. It was the dream, what they’d talked about so long ago, from the first time they’d met at a Black Panther meeting. Talked about it until four in the morning, until they couldn’t keep their eyes open any longer. And they’d talked about it constantly since. A black man in the White House—even joking about calling it the Black House when they got their man in.
Forte, Johnson, and three other prominent African Americans that Forte was close to had secretly compiled a list of twenty names, calling the effort Project Shadow: twenty black men who could potentially win a presidential election someday and make history. From the list they had discarded any prominent black Republican immediately: an Oklahoma senator, a well-known entertainment executive, an ex–secretary of state. The message was too garbled coming from the right, and ultimately they felt the GOP would never nominate a black man for the party’s top job, to be the most powerful man in the world. Second, they had discarded any black Democrat from the list who was already in politics: a northeastern governor, a senator who was also a minister. Too many enemies, too many preconceived notions, too many biases.
That left three names on the list, one of which had jumped out at the five men behind Project Shadow right away: Jesse Wood. Wood had the recognition factor and the look, and whites loved him. At least on a patriotic level. He’d beaten a Russian in the finals of the U.S. Open at a time when the Cold War was still on, endearing him to everyone.
The downside to backing Wood was that at that point he’d never been in politics, so he’d needed a lot of coaching. And though he was a partner at a big Manhattan law firm and had won a lot of tournaments during his tennis days, he wasn’t as wealthy as they’d hoped. He’d need help putting together a war chest to give him a realistic shot at winning. In the eighties, tennis tournaments didn’t offer million-dollar purses; and, while he’d been successful in his law practice, he had five children. There were bills to pay, college tuitions to fund, appearances to keep up, and not much left over for a serious political career. Forte had stroked some significant checks to get Jesse Wood where he was today. Jesse owed him big in a lot of ways.
Heath Johnson had approached Wood under the guise of taking on Ebony Enterprises as a client, but the meeting in Wood’s Manhattan law office had lasted just fifteen minutes when Wood realized there was another agenda to Johnson’s visit. Wood had declined Johnson’s invitation to sit down with all five Shadows, even scolded him for misrepresenting his intentions, for wasting his time. Then he politely but firmly showed Johnson the door.
Two days later Johnson had gotten a sheepish call. Wood had thought about it more and had interest after all. A week later Wood met with the Shadows.
The meeting took place in Memphis, Tennessee, because it was central for all of them and it was historic, the site of Martin Luther King’s assassination. At it, the Shadows made it clear to Wood that he was never to let on to anyone that the meeting had occurred or who his backers were. They all had business careers and had consciously stayed away from politics because it could have hindered their ability to make money. More important, any hint of their association with him would hurt his chances to win, probably destroy them. They’d all been associated with militant black groups earlier in their lives. If a black man was going to have any chance of taking the White House in the next thirty years—while whites remained the majority—he was going to have to get some of them to vote for him. But even whites on the far left remembered groups like the Black Panthers, and those memories still scared them. Any inkling that Wood was associated with that kind of thinking would torpedo his campaign.
“Have you mentioned the video clip to Jesse?” Forte asked.
“No. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t know about it.”
“Good. That way it’ll have more of an effect on him when he sees it.”
Johnson chuckled. “Like a sledgehammer hitting him in the stomach, boss. That’s what the effect will be.”
“Jesse brought it on himself,” Forte snapped. “I didn’t put this much time and money into him to have him think he can do this without us at the last minute. He’s like a kid. All of the sudden he can taste it, and he doesn’t want anyone telling him what to do or how to think and act. Doesn’t want to have to come through on his promises to me because he knows some of these things will be tough. Unpopular with a lot of folks.”
“Too bad,” Johnson growled, shaking his head. “It’s not about him. It’s about something much bigger, an agenda we’ve been focused on for decades. It’s about breaking new ground for our people. You’ve made it possible for him to be one of the most important individuals in the history of this planet, and he owes you. I say you show him the clip as soon as possible.”
Forte gazed out the window as the sun dipped below the horizon. A good idea, and probably something he’d do in the next couple of weeks.
“How about the number-two slot?” Johnson asked. “Any pushback from Wood there, boss?”
“Same thing,” Forte answered. “He didn’t say anything, but I don’t think he likes being told who to run with. I think he wants to make that decision on his own.”
“He would have chosen a black from the South, probably Malcolm Thomas,” said Johnson, referring to the Florida congressman. “Wood doesn’t get it on this one. Thomas wouldn’t help us with the bigger picture.”
“Exactly.”
“The only problem I have with this VP thing,” Johnson continued, “is that eight years from now we’ll be right back where we started. With a white president.”
Forte had already thought that one through. “Don’t worry about that.”
Johnson looked over, recognizing Forte’s ominous tone. “What do you mean, boss? Is there something I don’t know?”
“It’s better that you don’t,” Forte answered quietly, understanding that his response had hurt Johnson’s feelings. He rarely held anything back from Johnson. “At least, not yet.” He looked up. “You haven’t seen the clip, have you?”
Johnson shook his head. “No, but I’d like to.”
Forte nodded. “Yeah, you should. It’s amazing.”
JESSE WOOD sat in his office, humming, charged up about the way things were going, more and more convinced he had a legitimate shot to be the next president of the United States. Two more primaries and he’d lock up the Democratic nomination, then it would be on to the big show. On to November and everything he’d dreamed of.
He glanced up. Osgood and Stephanie were hard at work at a table in a corner of the office, comparing notes. Such loyal soldiers. They’d all grown up in politics together, and it had been a fantastic ride.
Jesse focused on Stephanie, remembering the first time he’d seen her. It had been during his second-round match at that tournament in Vermont so many years ago. It hadn’t been hard to notice her. She’d been one of the most beautiful women in the world at that point—California’s representative in the Miss America pageant two years before—and there weren’t more than twenty people watching the match. He’d almost lost to a nobody because he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
After the match, he’d gone right up to her and asked her out, not even bothering to go to his chair to put his racquet down, and they’d spent a wonderful week together, culminating with his last win on tour. He could never figure out why he hadn’t married her. It was just something he couldn’t put his finger on, some small piece of the puzzle that was missing and always would be. He knew there was still a trace of bitterness inside her about that, and it showed every once in a while. She had never gotten married, and he often wondered if that was because she still carried a torch, still held out hope that they might finally get together someday.
Jesse’s computer pinged, indicating the arrival of a new e-mail, and he brought it up, instantly wishing he hadn’t. It was another missile from Elijah Forte, reminding him that he needed to start interviewing people to replace Osgood and Stephanie. According to Forte, neither of them were national players, neither of them had the right stuff for the Oval Office. Fine for a senator’s staff, but not for a president’s. It irritated him to no end that Forte thought he had the right to run every detail.
He glanced over at Osgood and Stephanie again. Maybe it was time to find out if Elijah Forte wanted to play hardball. Maybe it was time for a good old game of chicken.
8
CAL SEGAL turned off the desolate country lane onto his gravel driveway. The driveway led up a steep mountain to the Adirondack hideaway his family had owned for more than a hundred years. A cabin deep in the woods beside a crystal-clear lake Segal had so many fond memories of: fishing with his father, camping with his brother, his first kiss to a girl he’d lost touch with ages ago.
Segal could have taken the helicopter and avoided the seven-hour car ride from the city—he knew how to fly it and there was a field a short distance away from the cabin through the woods where he could have landed—but he’d wanted to drive. Spring was finally breaking winter’s hold on New England, and it had been a joy to see the leaves and the flowers in full bloom as he made his way through the mountains. The air smelled so good, heavy with all the floral scents beneath a cloudless sky.
Several deer bounded across the driveway in front of him, startled by the SUV, and he slammed on the brakes, barely avoiding a buck who broke from the underbrush right in front of him. He laughed nervously. That would have been a bad way to start his three days alone up here.
Segal was CEO of a mining company his family had owned for five generations, and things had turned stressful in the last few months. A couple of frivolous lawsuits and a pending strike had worn him down. He couldn’t wait to pull out a fishing rod from the closet by the back door, paddle the canoe to one of his favorite coves, and see if he could hook a couple of bass before dark. His was the only cabin on the entire lake, so it wasn’t as if there’d be other fishermen around. It would be so peaceful out there.
A half mile later Segal eased the SUV to a stop in front of the cabin, hopped out, grabbed one of his bags from the backseat, and headed toward the door. He’d get the rest of his luggage later. There was still an hour of daylight left and he wanted to wet a line. Evening was the best time to fish up here.
Segal stepped inside the cabin and saw a man he didn’t recognize sitting in the living room’s easy chair. The man had the chair reclined all the way back, and he was drinking a beer and smoking a cigar, like he owned the place.
For a moment, the fact that the man was there didn’t really register in Segal’s brain. It was such a strange sight, so completely unexpected. Then it sank in with full force and Segal turned to run. But, as he did, he came face-to-face with another man. The only thing separating them was the long dark barrel of a pistol.
“Get in the house,” the guy ordered gruffly.
“What do you want?” Segal asked, slowly backing into the cabin. But he knew what they wanted. They figured since he owned a National Football League team, he had to be rich. They were going to kidnap him and demand millions from his family. “You won’t get anything from my wife,” he said, his voice shaking. “She has standing orders never to negotiate with kidnappers.”
“We aren’t here to kidnap you, Mr. Segal,” said the man, rising from the chair. “Nothing like that. We’re just here to kill you.”
Segal swallowed hard. “Please, God, I
don’t want to—”
The man held up his hands, laughing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. People just don’t get my humor sometimes, Charlie,” he said to the man leveling the gun at Segal.
Charlie grunted.
“Then what do you want?” Segal demanded, lowering his hands, trying to take control of the situation.
“Oh, no, don’t give me attitude because I said I was kidding,” the man warned, his voice rising. “If you give me any shit, I will kill you. I’ll kill your daughter, too. That pretty little brunette who’s about to graduate from Cornell and loves her daddy so much.” He gestured around. “And I’ll burn this place to the ground.” His eyes flashed back to Segal’s. “Clear?”
Segal had learned over the years to read people’s eyes, and this man’s eyes meant business. “Yes.”
“Sit down.” The man pointed at the couch. “Here’s the situation, Mr. Segal. Ray Lancaster called the general manager of your team. Lancaster’s coach and GM of the new NFL franchise in Las Vegas. The Dice.” The man elongated the end of the word, hissing it. “I like the sound of that, you know? The Dice.” He hissed it again. “Did you know Lancaster had called your man?”
“I did.”
“So then you know why he called, right?”
“He was looking for a trade, I think.”