by Ridge King
“I saw Phil today right after the caucus met. He was normal, didn’t let on a thing ’bout all this. He’s not that bad.”
“Listen,” said Nesbitt, biting his lower lip. “He said he wouldn’t talk to you directly about any of this. Apparently you aren’t the only one he’s trying to get to switch over. He won’t let on to anyone in public, much less you.”
“Hell, man, I’ll call him right now and settle this thing. I’ll tell him just what I think while I’m at it.”
Delamar placed a call to the White House and eventually got Slanetti’s secretary. He put the call on speaker.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Delamar. Mr. Slanetti told me he was expecting your call, but told me to tell you he couldn’t help and referred you to Mr. Nesbitt.”
Delamar put the phone down gingerly and looked at Nesbitt.
“Okay, damn it, you call him. You said he’d talk to you. You call the bastard and tell him I want to talk to him. I know he’s there.”
“I told you what he told me. He won’t talk to me unless I say just what he wants to hear,” said Nesbitt firmly.
“Call him, Will,” said Delamar strongly, pushing the phone over. Nesbitt placed the call. Slanetti came on the line instantly because he was more than normally anxious to see how his first hit reacted to pressure.
“Yes, Mr. Nesbitt?”
“Phil, Albert here has asked me to—”
Nesbitt looked up to Delamar and put the phone down. “He hung up, Al.”
Delamar took off his metal-rimmed glasses and rubbed his chin.
“Al, some of what they got on you won’t hurt so much,” said Nesbitt, “but look at those figures on the timberland you got the government to buy. I never saw higher prices in my whole life—and the way you covered it all up. That’ll kill you back home. That’s a mighty lot of money.” Nesbitt tossed the paper Slanetti had given him in front of Delamar.
“I know the figures,” shouted Delamar. “Let me think.”
* * *
Slanetti was in his office going over his target list. He never had it out of arm’s reach now. He was hoping that his abrupt attitude with Nesbitt would pay off. If it did, he would hang up when any liaison called if he said anything other than what he was instructed to say.
He pored over his list. The magic number of twenty-six states was etched in his mind.
He knew he had Alaska, Arizona, Connecticut, Idaho, Iowa, Kansas, Nebraska, Maine, Michigan, New Hampshire, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Vermont, and Virginia—fourteen states—sealed for him. Corley Searles of Nebraska was weak and would come over. He studied Illinois and the three congressmen from that state he was working on; Indiana with Rebecca Isdel; Montana with Scott; Nevada with Kellerman; New Mexico with Victor Berman; North Dakota with Harry McArdle; Oklahoma with John Fulton; Oregon with Adam Foster; Tennessee with Masingale and Delamar; Utah with Aaron Macklin; Wisconsin with Deaver Moldow; and Wyoming with Matt Hawkins.
He felt compelled to add Hawkins to his list at least temporarily. He had the feeling Hawkins might become more important than previously imagined. In some of the states he considered tied, there were people to work on, like Ernest Rylsky of Arizona, whose vote was needed to retain the delegation. But he was confident of fourteen states; twelve others were crucial to him but hard nuts to crack.
He was concerned with Leland Masingale of Tennessee. He knew the man to be as self-righteous as any man alive and in talking to him earlier that day after the caucus, he was convinced, even though he’d not yet been threatened, that the man would not give in. He decided to use Masingale as his one example. Hopefully, there would be only one; there wasn’t room for another. Masingale’s career would be sacrificed to show the others he meant business. He placed Masingale high on the list of targets to hit. In fact, he followed Larry Kellerman of Nevada, Slanetti’s next hit.
Just then his intercom buzzed. Will Nesbitt was on the line for the second time in half an hour. Slanetti felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead.
“Put him on.”
“Yes, sir: line one.”
“Yes, Mr. Nesbitt?” There was a slight pause. Slanetti knew that Thanksgiving was only a few days away. Time was running out before Christmas and then the third of January. He pressed his lips together, waiting.
“The keystone fits the arch.”
Back in Delamar’s office, Will Nesbitt put the phone down.
“What did he say?” asked Delamar nervously.
“Nothing,” said Nesbitt. “He just hung up without saying anything.”
“I guess the best thing for me to do is go along with this thing right now, but if things change maybe I’ll switch back.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Al. He means it. I don’t know what Norwalk’s got to do with all this, but they really mean business over there.”
“All right, all right. I don’t like it, but I’ll sit tight. What else can I do?” he said looking up at Nesbitt.
“Not much, Al, not much.”
Slanetti was on another line immediately after finishing with Nesbitt.
“Hello, Mario? This is Phil Slanetti at the White House. Could you meet me at the National Portrait Gallery to discuss some important business?”
“What’s up, Phil?” asked Mario D’Orofino from the other end. He had been in Washington since Norwalk’s speech like everyone else. He was there to throw his weight around. Since his weight included the backing of the largest units of organized crime in the country, it usually meant something with more than one member of Congress. Slanetti only had one man in mind, however, for D’Orofino to persuade.
“It’s extremely confidential, Mario, but you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
“Why there?”
“It’s close to both of us. Ask them where the portrait of Rutherford Hayes is and meet me there. See you in a few minutes.”
Slanetti left the White House immediately and grabbed a taxi to the National Portrait Gallery at Eighth and F streets, just a few minutes away. D’Orofino came from his hotel about the same distance from the Gallery as the White House. Slanetti beat him, however, and was waiting in an obscure corner of the Gallery under the imposing portrait of the bearded Rutherford B. Hayes, nineteenth President of the United States, chosen by Slanetti because Congress had brokered his election. Slanetti was nothing if not thorough—he even knew the “B” stood for Birchard.
As D’Orofino walked up to him, Slanetti pulled out a piece of paper and gave it to him before they exchanged a single word.
“On that paper, Mario, you’ll find various figures and notations that record amounts of money that relate to the business affairs of Larry Kellerman. We know that he is secretly part-owner in the Las Vegas hotel named on that paper; that the hotel is totally controlled by your people—the name of the family is also listed. We know that he’s involved in and receives money from valuable real estate other than the hotel; that he gets money from wholesale prostitution—the amounts he has received in the past five years are listed. We have information regarding illegal real estate deals he’s participated in and the amounts of money he’s received from those. You’re to tell him that unless he votes for Sam Houston St. Clair to be President …”
When he returned to the White House, three Secret Service agents were waiting to report to him regarding the movements of some of the congressmen on his target list. The last agent to report was assigned to Neil Scott. The only interesting items were the arrival at Scott’s Arlington apartment of his wife Annie and an evening visitor he received the night Congress reconvened. He noted the license number of the Rolls Royce coupe and the name beside it under whom it was registered. He then went to see President Norwalk, who was working quietly in the private study off the Oval Office.
Chapter 19
White House Lunch
Governor St. Clair followed Appointments Secretary Roebuck down the long corridor leading to the Oval Office. He felt like a bottle of Champagne—under intense pressure that couldn’t
be relieved until his cork popped or he blew off some steam.
As he padded down the corridor on the thick carpet focused oddly enough on Roebuck’s bald spot, his mind was torn between concern for Sofia, who seemed to have come down with some kind of infection, and a mental review of the things he wanted to go over when he sat down with Norwalk.
But before he could sort everything out in his head, Roebuck threw open the door to the Oval Office and stood aside for him to enter. Norwalk came from behind his desk and held his hand out to shake.
“Sam, great to see you.”
“Mr. President,” said St. Clair quietly. He reached out and shook hands with Chief of Staff Eric Stathis. “Eric, good to see you.”
“Governor,” said Stathis.
“Glad you could come for lunch. Have a seat.”
They discussed the situation on both fronts in China and other pressing matters. A staffer came in and slipped a piece of paper to Stathis, who looked at it and got up.
“Excuse me, Mr. President, Governor, but I’ve got a little something that can’t wait.”
“That’s all right, Eric,” said Norwalk. “We’ll have lunch when you get back.”
Norwalk was happy that Stathis had been called away. He could sense a tension with St. Clair, so as soon as Stathis left the room and the door closed behind him, he leaned forward.
“What is it, Sam? What’s bothering you?”
“When we were on the phone yesterday and you invited me to lunch, you said that Eric would be with us, and you didn’t want me to mention anything about Phil Slanetti.”
“That’s right.”
St. Clair just looked at the President, wondering why he was being forced to go deeper.
He shrugged.
“Well, Mr. President,” he said with a wry smile, “what is it that your aide for congressional liaison is doing that you don’t want your own chief of staff to know about? That’s what’s bothering me, if I can be so blunt.”
“You can be as blunt as you like, Sam. Just not in front of Eric Stathis, I beg you.”
“Mr. President, what can you tell me about his activities? I’ve got through to him a couple of times on the phone to go over how to approach various members of the House, but I get the feeling he’s giving me the brush-off. It’s like he doesn’t want me or any of my people involved in the whole process.”
Norwalk regarded the rugged Floridian. St. Clair was as big as all outdoors and Norwalk knew not the kind of man to be trifled with: qualities that Norwalk was convinced would make him a truly great President.
“Well, Sam,” Norwalk paused, choosing his words carefully, “the thing about Phil is that he’s working a, uh, parallel effort to your own effort.”
“Now what the hell does that mean, Mr. President? Parallel effort?”
“Let’s just say that he’s got some angles that you don’t have. He’s got some leverage that you don’t have.”
“He’s got information, that’s what you mean. Information that can be used—and he is using it—to swing votes my way.”
“That’s the simplest way to put it, Sam, yes.”
“He did say at our first meeting that the less I knew about any of this, the better.”
“He was right, Sam. That’s why Eric Stathis doesn’t know about it, either. You’re completely protected and that’s the way I want to—”
Just then the door opened and Stathis was back.
“I’ll go over the details with you later,” said Norwalk.
“Yes, of course, Mr. President.”
A few minutes later they were seated in the airy dining room just past the small private office next door to the Oval Office where the President could watch TV or be completely alone. The little dining room was impeccably decorated in the Federal style and overlooked the Rose Garden through floor to ceiling windows, now wet with a light smattering of raindrops. White House ushers served sliced beef tenderloin and green beans sautéed in butter and garlic.
“Try some of this Burgundy, Sam. I’m taking full advantage of the White House wine cellar my last few weeks in office.”
“I don’t blame you, Mr. President.”
Stathis didn’t drink any wine. Just a Diet Coke.
“Give me the latest on Sofia. Last update I had she wasn’t feeling well.”
“It’s some kind of complication from a viral infection she had about six months ago. Rafael has been up here for a couple of days and I’m sending her back to Miami when he leaves tonight.”
“She’ll be much better on St. Clair Island than here in dreary Washington,” said Stathis.
“No question.”
“How is your son doing on the Coast Guard cutter down there?”
“Lieutenant St. Clair is on the Fearless, Mr. President,” said Stathis.
“Yes, Fearless, that’s right.”
“Fine, Mr. President, just fine. He loves the service.”
“He never followed you and Jack into the Navy. Why not?”
“Wants to blaze his own trail, Mr. President. No reason he should follow in my footsteps.”
“Or Jack’s, either. He was one kind of SEAL, let me tell you.”
An awkward pause followed.
“Jack still doesn’t talk much about why he left the SEALs, you know?” said St. Clair.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Classified information, he says.”
“Partly true.”
“You know, Mr. President, if you—”
Norwalk reached over and placed a comforting hand on St. Clair’s forearm.
“When you’re President, Sam, the secretary of the Navy will be happy to give you the complete file, just as he gave it to me when I ordered it brought over. But until then, what Jack wants you to know will have to come from Jack, not me.”
“I understand, Mr. President,” said St. Clair, who felt firmly put in his place. Norwalk had handled the situation like a perfect gentleman, as he should have.
“When is Sofia going back to Miami?” Stathis asked.
“This afternoon. As soon as I get back to the Willard, actually. But she’s mad because she’ll have to miss the big ball.”
St. Clair referred to the prestigious National Geographic Society Ball held every November.
“Well, I’ll be there,” said Norwalk, his mind flashing back to his earlier meeting with Phil Slanetti about Congressman Neil Scott and Patricia Vaughan.
“I’ll be there, too,” said St. Clair. “My son Jack is going, taking a hot little Latin girl named Babylon.”
“That’s Ramona Fuentes’s daughter, of course,” said Norwalk. “Who could forget a Fuentes girl? Any of them.”
Everybody laughed.
“It was a shame she had to resign her judgeship to take over the law firm,” said Stathis.
“Yeah,” said Norwalk, “it was a shock when Héctor died.”
“I know,” said St. Clair, suddenly becoming very quiet, lost in his thoughts.
“You know, when Sofia comes back to town, why don’t you join me overnight at Camp David?”
“She’d like that.”
“And Jack and Rafael and Babylon Fuentes, too. We’ll make a party of it.”
Stathis drained his second glass of Diet Coke and wiped his lips with his napkin.
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. President, Governor—I’ll be getting back to my office. We’re getting ready for the Transition, even though we don’t know which candidate we’re transitioning to.”
“We’ll be transitioning to the Republican candidate, Eric, I guarantee it.”
Stathis smiled, got up and looked through the high windows at purple clouds descending toward the White House.
“Looks like a nasty storm brewing,” he said, leaving the room as heavy raindrops slammed against the windowpanes.
When he was gone, St. Clair leaned over.
“You sure you’re doing the right thing by letting Slanetti loose on the House?”
“It’s either Slanetti
or we lose, Sam. Trust me, I’ve looked at the numbers and there’s no other way.”
“I see,” said St. Clair, leaning back.
“I think I’ll go to Camp David late this afternoon for the night, Sam. Why don’t you come along with me after you see Sofia off.”
“Well, I really ought to—”
“I’ll fill you in on a lot of stuff that would normally wait till the Transition.”
“Wouldn’t it be a little presumptuous—?”
“I’m still the President, God damn it. And it’ll show people how confident we are.”
“If you think so—”
“Hell. We’ll grill a couple of steaks, drink too much and talk about old times.”
A quizzical smile came over St. Clair’s face.
“Why not? From what you say, there doesn’t seem to be a whole hell of a lot I can do down here.”
“Spoken like a President,” Norwalk laughed.
Chapter 20
Flight to Miami
Jack had offered Ramona a ride back to Miami when Babe told him she was returning the same day they were. Governor St. Clair had an account with NetJets and had his staff arrange for a Bombardier Challenger 600 to come to Washington to fly Sofia and the rest of their party back to Miami.
Sam, Sofia, Jack and Rafael met the Fuentes party in the VIP Lounge at Joint Base Andrews.
“Awfully nice of you to give us a lift,” said Ramona.
“It’s a pleasure,” said Sofia. “We can gossip all the way back.”
Ramona gave the brothers each a big hug, but when she hugged Rafael, she winked. He winked back. They had their little secret.
Sam gave Sofia a kiss and a hug before they went out to board the plane.
“Now if you feel up to it, Sofia, you get your butt back up here tomorrow or the next day and we’ll go to the Society ball together.”
“I will, Sam, I will,” she smiled.
Jack lingered behind as Rafael led the ladies out to the plane, finishing up a call to Gargrave who would bring the St. Clair Bell Jet 206L LongRanger out to meet the Bombardier when it landed at Opa Locka Airport. They’d be on the helipad on St. Clair Island fifteen minutes after they left the plane and Sofia could go right to bed.