by Joseph Flynn
Even when the three new arrivals who debarked from the yacht looked like they did their best work with their fists and other blunt instruments. Thugs though they may have appeared, Harry, Kurt and Wally were soft spoken with the port security official. They presented their passports, had them stamped and said they should be in Grand Cayman no more than three days.
The legal niceties observed, the newcomers to the island found a taxi and told the driver to take them once around the island.
The driver smiled and said, “Grand Cayman not all that big, but it got no circle road at all. Okay with you we go out and back?”
Three nods said that was acceptable.
Then Harry, who was the most verbal of the three, said, “Pull over a minute.”
“Change your mind?” the driver asked.
“Just pull over, all right?”
The driver kept a knife with a nice sharp blade tucked into a sheath under his seat. Strictly for protection, not robbery. But with these three, they got crazy, he’d have to do a lot of cutting.
Deciding he could pull the keys, duck out of the taxi and outrun these guys if he had to, the driver pulled to the curb. “Okay,” he said, “what now?”
“You like to make money?” Harry asked.
“Oh, yeah,” the driver said, his concern easing. As long as they didn’t want any funny business with him personally. “How much money you talkin’?”
“A thousand dollars.”
“U.S.?”
“Yeah.”
“What you want?”
“To find an old friend. His name’s Jackie Richmond.”
“Don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Here’s a picture of him.” Harry passed it forward.
The photo had been taken surreptitiously by a colleague in Mango Mary’s, so the Bus Milbaugh imitators would know who to shoot. That hadn’t worked out, but maybe the likeness would still come in handy.
“Never seen this fellow,” the driver said.
“Not yet, but we hear he’s around.” Harry passed a hundred dollar bill to the driver. “Have copies of the picture made. Give them out to all the people you know who work for tourists.”
“Somebody else find your friend, I still get somethin’?”
Harry nodded. “Five hundred.”
The driver could live with that.
“Done,” he said. “You want to go for that drive now?”
“Yeah. Go slow. We want to take in the scenery.”
Harry was the kind of guy who always wanted to know who his business partners were. He looked at the driver’s hack license posted on the dashboard. Saw the name Edward Pennyman.
Number One Observatory Circle — Washington, D.C.
Kira Fahey Yates stepped into Vice President Mather Wyman’s home office and told him, “Mattie, Senator Crockett is here. Shall I show him in and excuse myself?”
The senator had come to visit the vice president at his own request. He’d called and asked if he might have a few minutes of Wyman’s time. He had an idea he’d like to run past the vice president.
Wyman had agreed to have Crockett visit, but his suspicions had been raised.
Would the senator ask to be Wyman’s vice president?
Wyman said, “Why don’t you join us, Kira?”
Having a witness to what transpired might be helpful.
“Sit quietly off to one side, speak only if spoken to?” she asked.
“Your manners are flawless, my dear. If you have something to contribute, please do.”
Kira smiled and Wyman thought, as he often did, what a lucky young man Welborn Yates was. More so than ever. It seemed to him that his niece had a special glow to her these days.
“Thank you, Mattie. I’ll go get the senator.”
Kira returned a minute later with Senator Crockett. The two men shook hands and took their seats on opposite sides of Wyman’s desk. Kira settled into a chair to her uncle’s right.
Wyman told the senator, “Mrs. Yates has joined my campaign and is a trusted advisor.”
Crockett didn’t miss a beat. “A pleasure to have your company, Mrs. Yates.”
Smoothly done, Wyman thought. The man might be an asset as a running mate.
That, however, wasn’t what Senator Crockett had in mind. “If you’ll forgive my presumptuousness, Mr. Vice President, I’d like to say if you’re considering me as a possible running mate, I’ll thank you to take my name off the list.”
The pronouncement both surprised and amused Wyman.
“Well, all right,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind if I’m the GOP nominee.”
Crockett grinned and waved off any doubt Wyman might have.
“Oh, no, sir. The nomination is yours. I’m quite the head counter. You have a strong majority in both houses of Congress, the national committee and the state committees. You are our one chance to beat the president, and we will work very hard for you.”
“Now, if we can only get the voters to agree ” Wyman said, only half kidding.
“Mr. Vice President, you’re a man of integrity. Your record in office is spotless. The way you filled in for President Grant as acting president only added to your stature.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to be vice president?” Wyman asked. “I might enjoy listening to you tell me how wonderful I am.”
Crockett and Kira both laughed.
“I could bring you cold drinks and snacks, too,” Crockett said, “but I think I have a better idea.”
“You’re going to solve some problem for me, one I might not even have noticed yet.”
Crockett said, “Maybe you have, but I’ll bring it up anyway. Thinking about things, studying your record as governor of Ohio and a member of the Ohio legislature, it seems to me there’s very little daylight between Patricia Darden Grant’s positions on big issues — the economy, when to use the military, social matters — and your position on those issues. You’ve certainly supported the president the way any good vice president would, but it’s been easier for you because your views are so close to those of the president.”
“That being the case,” Wyman said, “why bother making a change?”
Crockett said, “It’s something people might think. It’s something the pundits will definitely write. That being the case, you need something to distinguish your candidacy. Having another mature white man as your number two wouldn’t do that.”
“Are you suggesting I pick a woman as my running mate?” Wyman asked.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kira beam at the idea.
“Not just any woman, Mr. Vice President. I think you should pick Governor Rosalinda Fuentes of New Mexico.”
Wyman sat back in his chair, rested his chin on his right hand.
“A Hispanic woman.” He nodded, but then he said, “You don’t think that would look too calculating?”
“Of course, it will. Until everybody looks at her record. She’s in her second term as her state’s chief executive; she served three terms in the legislature. Her political philosophy is incrementalist. Make the changes that are necessary, don’t fix the things that aren’t broken.”
Kira spoke up. “She’s also a striking woman.”
With a twinkle in his eye, Crockett said, “I must have overlooked that.”
Wyman chuckled. “Senator, you’ve checked out Governor Fuentes like a baseball scout.”
“Once I decided I wasn’t the best person for the job, I started looking around a little. Governor Fuentes is a first round draft choice. Could be a very big help with a demographic group that hasn’t exactly been going our party’s way.”
Wyman agreed. The GOP had to stop alienating Hispanics.
That situation was made easier for him, knowing most of the party’s base would be voting True South in the coming election. What was foremost in Wyman’s mind, though, was another matter.
“Having disqualified yourself, Senator Crockett,” he said, “do you still intend to help me?”
“M
r. Vice President, I believe you’re the best person for the job. I’ll do everything I can to make that happen.”
Mather Wyman had been in politics far too long not to know that even sincere flattery usually had an ulterior motive.
“Might there be something I could do for you in exchange, should I become president?”
Crockett smiled, one old pro acknowledging another.
“Well, the situation on the Supreme Court is particularly interesting, isn’t it? The hard right will demand replacements for Calendri and Hawkins who are at least as conservative as they were, and preferably more so, as the late chief justice was backsliding a little there at the end. The Democrats would never stand for that. They have to look at those two openings on the court as divine providence. President Grant might want to name two jurists who are more moderate than her new party might prefer or she just might choose to wait until later to decide.”
Wyman said, “To see which way the political wind is blowing? If it looks like she and the Democrats will be big winners, she can nominate exactly whom she wants after the election.”
Crockett nodded. “In the meantime, the court has a working liberal majority. So there’s no pain for her there. But if she waits too long and things don’t turn out the way she hopes …”
“Then the next president, possibly me, will get to nominate two new justices.”
Wyman gestured to Crockett as an example of whom he might choose.
The senator shrugged and grinned.
“You ask me,” he said, “a clear-headed centrist or two is just what the court needs.”
Kira was thrilled at being a backstage witness to how history might be made. She was dying to tell … no, she couldn’t tell Welborn. He was working for the president. She didn’t see how some couples managed it, having long-term politically mixed marriages.
It would be all she could do to make it work for a year.
Uncle Mather and Senator Crockett stepped across the room to fix drinks for themselves; Kira declined the offer to partake. Her stomach had been feeling delicate lately, and as soon as the two men had their backs to her she adjusted her brassiere.
For some reason, her breasts had become quite sensitive.
Darn if they didn’t seem to be getting bigger, too.
Pennyman’s Café — Grand Cayman
All the tables had been cleared and just a handful of patrons remained, only minutes from having Willa shoo them off to their hotels or boats. They got a reprieve when Eddie Pennyman pulled his taxi to the curb out front. He beckoned to his cousin to join him as he stepped inside the front door.
His gesture hadn’t been as rude as Willa had thought Welborn’s snapping fingers were, but there was a sense of urgency to it. Willa hated leaving any job undone, but she let the idlers keep their seats. Her decision made, she put a good face on it by smiling at them as she went inside.
Eddie had stepped behind the bar and tapped himself a Bass Ale.
“Make yourself at home, Cousin,” Willa told him.
Eddie looked around. “I checked to see if Uncle Lawford was still here.”
“Daddy went home an hour ago. It’s date night for him and Mum.”
Eddie winced. “I don’t want to know all that.”
Willa laughed. “What you get, grabbing a free beer.”
“What you get is this,” Eddie said.
He gave Willa a copy of the photo of Jackie Richmond he’d made.
“I been passin’ these out all night,” he said.
Willa looked up from the photocopy. “This is the bloke my friend Welborn’s looking for.”
Eddie said, “I know, but that’s not what I told the three maulers I drove all over the island. They offered me a thousand dollars U.S. for putting them on to this poor chump.”
“Maulers?” Willa asked.
“Big as houses. Got off a yacht bigger’n your terrace. Must go close to a million, if not more. So they’ve got money, too.”
Willa said, “Tough boys don’t have money; the people who hire them do.”
“They’re villains however much jangle’s in their pockets,” Eddie said. “Wouldn’t want to be this bloke. They called him Jackie Richmond.”
Willa shook her head. She didn’t know the name.
She told her cousin, “Wouldn’t be good business to sell someone to gangsters for a thousand dollars when we can turn him into the cops for five thousand, with maybe ninety-five thousand more to come.”
Eddie nodded and finished his beer.
“What I’ve been thinking exactly,” he said. “But we haven’t seen any money yet from your friend.”
“He paid his taxi fare, didn’t he? Left a good tip?”
“Well, yeah. I meant otherwise. So what you want to do?”
Willa joined Eddie behind the bar, picked up the phone.
“Call Welborn,” she said.
GWU Hospital — Washington, D.C.
On Friday morning, November 18, 2011 McGill knelt in a pew of the hospital’s chapel. Abbie was on his right, Caitie was on his left. To Abbie’s right were Carolyn and Lars. The prayers being said were all silent and identical in nature.
Please, Lord, let the news be good.
One hundred days had passed since Kenny McGill had received his bone marrow transplant and that was his period of greatest risk. So far his progress had been little short of a miracle to his family, friends and Kenny himself. There was no guarantee, however that something might not go wrong in another six months or a year, but clearing the first big hurdle was a crucial psychological goal.
The day had started sunny and brisk. All concerned had wanted to take that as a good omen. None of them had dared to say so. They’d all simply filed into the hospital and sent Kenny off to his medical team with hugs and kisses.
They’d done the same for Patti. She’d be having her most extensive physical exam since the transplant procedure. Normally, this would have taken place at Walter Reed. Showing solidarity with Kenny, the president had asked her doctors to travel to GWU Hospital.
McGill had always hated kneeling when he was a child, being educated in parochial schools, going to Mass every Sunday and holy day of obligation with his classmates. His conception of God, even in the human form of Jesus, was someone a lot bigger than him.
How were you supposed to get a good look at God when you were on your knees? Lowering yourself only distorted your point of view. Anybody could look grand if you were busy groveling. He thought you should be on your feet when you were directing your thoughts to God. If the priest was sermonizing, giving you his take on things, then you could sit down.
He’d shared his opinions with every nun who’d ever taught him.
Their answer was always the same, “James, kneeling is a sign of humbling yourself before God.”
To which he’d always replied, “Sister, God is God. How can we be anything but humble before him?”
Having no theologically satisfying response, the nuns would tell him that kneeling would show respect for what they were teaching him. Respect for the sisters was demanded at home by both Mom and Dad. His parents weren’t the Almighty, but when it came to determining his quality of life they came close.
Hitting his teens and puberty in the eighth grade, McGill had one last burst of rebellion. He told a few of his classmates that if kneeling showed humility, the way to really show how humble you were would be to step out of the pew and prostrate yourself in front of everybody in church — and he was going to do that next Sunday.
Knowledge of a plan that daring could not be kept among one’s peers. McGill was called into the principal’s office on Friday afternoon. Sister Claudius wasn’t amused by what she’d heard, but she was sweetness and light compared to the way Mom and Dad glared at him. McGill had thought he was growing up at the time, was only maybe five inches shorter than Dad, but looking at the three adults in the room he suddenly felt very small.
He was told bluntly that what he had in mind was not humility,
it was mockery, and it would not be tolerated. If he wished to remain at St. Andrew’s School, he would behave properly while attending Mass, and he would go to confession and ask for forgiveness for the affront to the Church he’d had in mind. He could do those things or he could transfer to a public school, immediately.
McGill was only six weeks from graduating with all the kids he’d known since kindergarten. The last thing he wanted to do was leave them now. He looked to his parents to intercede for him, but he saw they agreed with Sister C completely.
McGill said, “Okay. I’m sorry. I won’t do it.”
He was told Father Dunphy was waiting for him in the confessional right now.
McGill nodded and walked the short distance to the church, his resentment growing. They’d ganged up on him, Sister C and his parents. He hadn’t planned to do anything that was really bad. He was just trying to make a point.
It occurred to him as he entered the confessional that Father Dunphy had to be in on the conspiracy against him, but the priest could never reveal a word that McGill said to him as part of his confession. If McGill didn’t say anything about what he had planned to do at Mass, who would ever know?
God would know, he thought. If you believed in God, you had to accept he’d know.
With a sigh, McGill began, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been six days since my last confession.” His class went to confession every Saturday during the school year.
He started out with his lesser offenses, using profanity pretty much every day, anytime he wasn’t at home or school, having impure thoughts about three different girls and … thinking about behaving like a jerk.
“Would you mind clarifying that last point, James?” Father Dunphy said.
There, see. Father D knew whose confession he was hearing.
He was in on the plan.
“James?”
McGill had no choice but to own up. You lied in confession, where could you go for forgiveness? He told Father D what he’d had in mind.
He was surprised when he heard the priest laugh.
“Something funny, Father?” McGill asked.
“You were right, James. Prostration is a sign of humility. It goes back to ancient times.”