by Lee Hurwitz
“Mr. Mayor, we offered to perform the statement of work for thirty-six million dollars over five years. And—I’m no mathematician—but if I add these figures up right it’s only twenty-eight million over five years.”
“Your addition is correct, Mr. Spagnola. A twenty-eight million dollar contract. One of the largest, by the way, ever awarded by the City of Washington.”
“But—I—” Spagnola paged frantically through the contract. “Did you split it or…”
“No. You’ve got the whole contract. All twenty-eight million dollar’s worth.”
“Mr. Mayor, we can’t do this contract for twenty-eight million dollars.”
“Joe, Joe, Joe.” Watson sighed, shaking his head. He stood up and meandered to the front of the desk. “Of course you can do this contract for twenty-eight million. Why, your friends at Boeing offered to do it for twenty-eight two. And when I saw their bid, and I saw yours,” he sighed again, “I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, here’s a huge multinational corporation, makes airplanes, war machines. And on the other hand, there’s a small business with a proven commitment to minority subcontractors. Relatively small, anyway. A real contributor to the community. Problem was, the huge multi-national had outbid the small business by about eight million dollars. What to do? What to do?” Watson stared out the window, assuming a meditative pose. “You and I aren’t children, Mr. Spagnola. So I hope I’m not going to shock you with what I’m about say. I wanted your company to get the contract. So I got together with the best minds of my administration, men like John Stone and Sean O’Brien—” wait, shit, O’Brien was gone—was working for RDE. Well, no matter. “—and we looked at your proposal and figured out ways for you to achieve economies. To be more efficient. And so we fixed your proposal. And now you’ve won.”
Spagnola looked sick. “Mr. Mayor,” he said. “I cannot sign this contract.”
Watson was silent for a moment. “All right, Mr. Spagnola,” he said at length. “This is what’s going to happen. You can refuse to sign your contract, of course. And you’ll forfeit your bid bond, but that’s all right. We’ll sign with Boeing; it’ll cost the taxpayers of this hard-pressed city two hundred thousand dollars, but we’ll do it. We can take it. Your problems, I might venture to guess, will be of a more vital nature. You see, once you bid successfully on a municipal contract, and then turn down the work, you earn a reputation, and not a good one. They think you’re a chiseler, a bait-and-switch artist. Or worse, that you don’t know what you’re doing. and then they don’t want to do business with you, Mr. Spagnola.” The mayor paused, and then said in the same unctuous tones, “You don’t have any private clients, do you, you stupid wop motherfucker? All your work is with cities, isn’t it?”
Spagnola felt his face redden. “I think I know the score, Mr. Mayor.” That son-of-a-bitch O’Brien! He was playing both sides! All the time that he’s sitting around, pretending to be fixing the bid with Stone and Watson, here he is, carving off my profits! Mentally, he made a note to have O’Brien cancel his Chicago trip and report to New York on Monday.
“I’m so glad you and I have had this meeting of the minds. You sign here, Mr. Spagnola, and then again on pages forty-two and forty-three.”
“Um—I’d like to show this to my lawyers before I sign it.”
Watson had the strangest impulse to jump out of his seat and bite Spagnola on the shoulder—bite hard, penetrate the Armani suit and get right into the skin, the blood. Instead, he said tonelessly, “Twenty-four hours, Mr. Spagnola. I expect to have this signed and in my hands by seven o’clock tomorrow morning.” He stood to signal that the interview was at an end.
Spagnola stood too, and struggled with an impulse to shake Watson’s hand. God damn, what was happening to me? This guy just fucked me over, and I’m so pathetically grateful for his pleasantries that I want to thank him.
Watson, as though reading the businessman’s mind, suddenly reached over the desk and took Spagnola’s right hand in both of his own. “Joseph,” he said, his voice radiating sincerity, “that Christmas party Friday night, it was the best ever.”
The FBI was closed on Sunday, of course, but Mitch Dennis was in his office waiting for a fax to come in from Molasses, North Carolina. Mitch was still amazed by these flimsy smeared things, by the concept that you could transmit the information on a piece of paper as easily as you could transmit your own voice. He had heard of a guy in Pittsburgh who had asked a vendor to fax him a bill just before he left for the evening. When the guy came back the next morning there was a message on his answering machine from somebody who had called about 2:00 a.m., explaining that he must have tried to fax the bill five hundred times but it kept coming back. When the guy opened the door to his fax room, it was littered with five hundred copies of the same bill.
Well, Mitch was pretty sure that Sheriff Collins had a better grasp of the concept. But what he didn’t have was a fax machine. Indeed, there was only one fax machine in all of Molasses, at a Mr. Copy, which had been closed for the weekend, but which the Sheriff had persuaded to open for him briefly on Sunday morning. So there he was, waiting for the Sheriff to fax him a sketch of the mysterious faux FBI Agent, taken from the boozy recollection of the half-dozen panic-stricken bigots who had inhabited Red’s Bar & Grill that afternoon.
In truth, Mitch had originally planned to spend the entire weekend in his office. His home had become unbearably lonely, and the holiday season was worst of all. Had Yvonne Brown not been around, had he not somehow felt responsible for her, he would have gone to the office and spent Saturday and Sunday reading the white-collar crime report. But Yvonne was here, and so he took her to see the White House tree, and to the National Cathedral to hear the Christmas Chorus, and to the Hay-Adams for pre-Christmas dinner. Although he had no interest in her television show, or her life in Miami, he found himself relaxing to the sound of her enthusiasms, her apparently unlimited and wholly unjustified optimism, her easy laughter. By the end of the evening, he had begun to recognize feelings that he had not allowed himself for more than three years—not sexual feelings, exactly, but something soft, like the feeling of his muscles unwinding. He had the presence of mind to recognize that it might be the season, or the passage of time since Helen’s death, or even the two bottles of good red wine that they polished off at dinner, and so he declined her invitation to join her for a nightcap in her room. But still, he looked forward to seeing her again.
The telephone interrupted his reverie. It was either Henderson or Yvonne, he knew, and then instantly dismissed the concept that Assistant Director Henderson would do work on his day off. “Hi,” he said into the mouthpiece.
“Is this Mr. Dennis?” The voice was completely unfamiliar.
“Yes.” Mitch felt a pall of caution fall over his shoulders. “To whom am I speaking, please.”
“My name is Evelyn Boone. I believe you left a card at my apartment.”
“Miss Boone!” Mitch half-rose out of the chair. “Where are you—are you there now?”
“I am, but I have an appointment to look at some office space in forty-five minutes. Could you just tell me what this is about?”
“Miss Boone, are you aware that you have been reported as a missing person for the last two weeks?” Instinctively, Mitch sensed that she was telling the truth and that she was calling from her condo. Nonetheless, he punched in a trace on the line.
“You’re kidding!” She sounded flabbergasted. “Who would report—was this Dworkin…?”
“No. Ms. Boone, I think you’d better postpone your appointment. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. “It was Yvonne, wasn’t it,” Evelyn said at last. “Is she here? Is she in Washington?”
“Just wait at your condo, Ms. Boone. We’ll…”
“Agent Dennis, am I under arrest?”
“Are you—no, of course not.”
“Then I will attend my appointment. If you wan
t to speak with me, I will be at the Occidental at noon. Do not bring Vonnie.”
“Who?”
“Yvonne. Ms. Brown. Do not bring her, or I will not talk with you. I presume you know what I look like.”
“I have a picture, but—”
The line went dead.
Well, things were bad, things were terrible, but all was not lost, as long as he could put his own man, instead of some busybody like Styx, into the Mayor’s office. And there was a good chance of it happening. The Big Guy had promised Trotter that he would talk to President-elect Bush about putting Styx on the DC Circuit. And today was the day they—or, more specifically, the Young Prince—were going to present the DC Statehood bill to a skeptical press.
The problem was that the Young Prince was a nervous, sweaty mess. For that reason, Watson had him in his office for a pep talk, a lobotomy being beyond Watson’s capabilities.
“They won’t believe me.” Corbin was wet, and his bald head was gleaming as though he had swallowed a jalapeno.
“Of course they’ll believe you, C.C.” Watson reassured him. “DC is more populous than Idaho, Wyoming, Alaska...more than lots of states with two Senators and a voting Representative. And geographically, it’s not that much smaller than Rhode Island.” That was a lie, but it was one people would believe.”It is a fundamental denial of democracy to deny the franchise to six hundred thirty-five hundred thousand people, most of whom happen to be people of color.” He was giving Corbin the most recent version of his talking points. Corbin’s first draft had said, “I cannot believe that our Founding Fathers meant to exclude this large collection of Black people from our governance,” which was not, strictly speaking, correct.
“Yes, justice is on our side.” Corbin seemed to get hold of himself, or at least part of himself. “But they won’t think it’s possible for us to win. They’ll say it’s a publicity stunt, a political stunt.”
Heaven forfend. “We control both Houses,” Watson pointed out. “Here’s a list of Congressmen who have already signed on.”
Corbin read through the list, or tried to. “No Republicans, though. Unless...is Cranston a Republican?”
“No, he’s the Senate Majority Whip,” Watson explained. “Now, Middleton will probably get the first question. He’s full of himself, after his big story.” Indeed, he was. He finally broke the story about Bob Brindle beating his first wife, claiming that he had “documentary evidence.” The documentary evidence, of course, was the police report that Watson had dummied up from 1965. It had been hard to find the right typewriter! Vasquez had arranged for a forger to sign the name of an Officer who had been dead for eighteen years. And best of all, Middleton didn’t notice that the form number was wrong. That error, and what he was sure would be a vigorous denial from Amanda, would end the career of one Harvey Middleton. “It’s important not to give Middleton more than one follow-up question. If he asks a second, cut him off.”
“What if he’s the only one asking questions?”
“Then close the press conference. I’ll tell you what, say this: Say, Mr. Middleton, I think it’s despicable what you said about Bob Brindle yesterday, I think you’re a despicable man, and if you’re the only one with questions, this press conference is over.”
“Really? He beat his wife, didn’t he?”
“C.C., if you’ve ever trusted me, trust me when I say that you won’t go wrong defending Bob Brindle or denouncing Harvey Middleton.”
Corbin looked away. He was still at his press conference, defending DC statehood. “Is it just a political stunt, Wendell?” For a moment, Watson looked at Corbin and saw his father, a heroic man who died two years ago. George Corbin prized accomplishment over gesture; he understood politics, but if it ever came between doing something and looking good, doing something won every time. Watson guessed that the Young Prince had been a disappointment to George, and that at moments like this, C.C. felt it.
Watson decided to take him into his confidence. “I can’t give you all the details, and it won’t come out in exactly this way, but...” he lowered his voice so that Corbin would know for sure that this was not to be shared.”We have some allies on the other side. Look for something from Senator Trotter. Not right away, but eventually. It’s wired,” and then Watson hated himself for using such a dramatic term. But he needed to slow Corbin’s breathing down. “Senator Trotter and I have it wired.”
On Monday morning, Sean O’Brien made the 7:00 a.m. short hop from National to LaGuardia. He was mildly annoyed that RDE had not sent a car to pick him up, but the excitement he felt about his new job and his prospects soon overcame his minor resentments. Already, he had saved over twenty-five hundred toward Robert’s tuition, and he and Judy were looking at adding a built-in swimming pool by next summer.
O’Brien went directly to RDE’s offices in Midtown; by six he’d be checking into the hotel. He was eager to get settled and meet the rest of the New York staff. Never in his life did he think that he would one day work out of offices in Washington and New York.
RDE occupied three stories in a glass-and-steel skyscraper, and you could get there only through the use of a computerized key issued to employees and certain valued customers. O’Brien nodded and flashed his badge at the uniformed security guard, stepped into the elevator, inserted his key into the slot, and pressed the button for the twenty-third floor.
Nothing happened.
O’Brien withdrew the key, then reinserted it and pressed twenty-three again. The elevator button was really a heat-sensitive panel, with an electric light which ringed around it. The panel lit up while O’Brien’s finger was on it but as soon as he removed his finger it went blank again, and the elevator didn’t move.
Well, maybe the elevator was out, O’Brien thought, but just then a large overdressed sweaty man got in and pushed twenty-eight. The elevator rose rapidly and in an instant the door opened at the twenty-eighth floor. After the sweaty man got out O’Brien tried his key again. Nothing.
This is a hell of a way to start my New York experience, O’Brien thought, and pushed the button for the ground floor. Once out, he dragged his suitcase to the security desk and asked them to call RDE.
The security guard turned his back on O’Brien as he made the call, eventually handing O’Brien the phone.
“Hi. This is my first day and I can’t get my key to work. Maybe I’m doing it wrong—” which was inconceivable; a six-year-old could operate the key “—could you send someone down here to bring me up?”
“Sean, this is Clint Morrison.” O’Brien startled; Morrison was RDE’s director of administrative affairs, the number three guy in the corporation. “We need to talk. In person.”
“Glad to,” O’Brien said, feeling a faint cold finger start to trail up his spine. “I’d come up but my key doesn’t…”
“It’d be better if I came down there.”
O’Brien looked around. The sparse, utilitarian lobby was barely five hundred square feet, and there were no chairs except for the one on which the security guard was now sitting. “Sure,” O’Brien repeated, not knowing what else to say.
Thirty seconds later Morrison strode off the elevator. He was one of those crew-cut, high-energy guys who seemed constitutionally unable to stand still. Even when he talked to you he bounced on the balls of his feet. He looked about twenty-five, O’Brien thought, though he was probably considerably older. He’s kept in shape. O’Brien suddenly felt the softness in his own belly. He had a thousand excuses for spending evenings in the bar or snoozing in front of the television—pressures of the job, need to cement business relationships—but standing in front of this disciplined, successful man he realized they counted for nothing.
“Sean,” Morrison said, grabbing O’Brien’s hand. “Thanks for coming to New York. There’s been a problem with the DC contract.”
Problem? “How could there be a problem?” O’Brien blurted. “John Stone told me that it was signed last Friday.”
Morrison hooked his left han
d around O’Brien’s shoulder, drawing him in. “The contract was for only twenty-eight million,” he said softly.
“Those assholes!” O’Brien said. “I can’t imagine what—did they split it?”
“No, we still have all the work.” Morrison grinned mirthlessly. “We just have to do it with eight million less.”
“Jesus! We’re committed to subcontracting over fifteen! Do you want me to confront Stone, find out…”
“Sean, Joe thinks he already knows. He thinks you told them it was okay.”
“I told them! Jesus Christ! Why does he think I told them?”
Morrison pulled him in closer still—Christ, he’s strong—and whispered, “He thinks you told them to reduce the contract because Mayor Watson told him you gave the okay.”
“That fucking crook! And he believed him? Jesus, he believed Wendell Watson…”
“Obviously, Sean, under the circumstances your continued association with RDE becomes unfeasible…”
“You guys fucking believe Wendell Watson? The biggest asshole crook ever to…” In his rage, O’Brien grabbed Morrison’s lapel—for about a tenth of a second, after which Morrison knocked O’Brien’s hand away, grabbed it, and twisted it painfully behind O’Brien’s back. That’s why they sent him down here, O’Brien thought wonderingly. Because they knew he could kick the shit out of me if it came to that.
“There’ll be no severance,” Morrison was saying. His teeth were slightly clenched, but there was no other evidence of his exertion. “We’re willing to pay for the cost of your ticket to and from New York but not for any hotel stay.”
O’Brien spun away from Morrison, who let him go without a struggle. “I need to speak to Spagnola,” O’Brien panted.
“Mr. Spagnola asked that I speak with you instead,” Morrison said, and a faint ghost of a grin appeared on his face. “Frankly, he doesn’t trust himself to speak with you.”
But this couldn’t be right! O’Brien had quit his job with the City to join RDE. Everything—his pension, his health benefits—was gone! How—why would Wendell Watson fuck him over like that? What did he ever do to Watson? He knew that Watson could be vicious to his enemies, but O’Brien had never done anything but help the Mayor. He bought tickets to every fundraiser; his kids licked envelopes; he himself helped to write campaign literature. Hell, he probably donated ten thousand dollars to Wendell Watson over the years! Why would Watson do this to him?