Power Surge

by Ben Bova

  With a nod, Jake asked, “What do you plan to do?”

  “Do?” O’Donnell looked almost surprised. “There’s nothing for us to do. Franklin’s got to keep his head down and stay out of the battle. If he’s lucky, he’ll get a bill to back building the MHD demonstration plant back in Montana. That’s the only part of your plan that’s going to see the light of day.”

  “But that’s only one part of the comprehensive plan.”

  “Nobody wants your goddamned comprehensive plan!” O’Donnell snapped. “Get that through your thick skull. You think Santino’s going to buck the lobbies that fund his election campaigns? You think the Little Saint’s going to allow himself to be painted as anti farmers? Get real!”

  Jake leaned back in the wooden chair. It creaked in complaint.

  O’Donnell pointed a finger at him. “I know that Franklin thinks the world of you. But this is politics, Jake, and it’s important to Franklin’s survival in the Senate. Stay clear of him. Don’t stick your nose into this business; it’s beyond your capabilities.”

  Jake murmured, “Maybe you’re right.”

  O’Donnell said a cheerless good-bye, after ordering Jake to wait ten minutes before he left the booth. Jake nodded obediently and waited, as told.

  He’s just as paranoid as Brogan was, Jake told himself. Then he remembered that Brogan had been exiled to Ohio because Brogan had tried to help him.

  With a labored sigh, Jake checked his watch, pushed himself up from the wooden chair, and headed downstairs toward the lobby.

  It was pouring rain outside. Jake stood at the top of the Library of Congress’s steps amid a dozen or so other people, all of them waving frantically at passing taxicabs. It was nearly five o’clock before he got back to the WETA office, soaked from running down the library steps in the drenching rain.

  In his mind he heard O’Donnell’s warning: Don’t stick your nose into this business; it’s beyond your capabilities.

  The hell it is, Jake told himself.

  WETA-TV

  Jake worked late to make up for the time he’d lost at the Library of Congress. When he finally got up from his desk and started toward the building’s back door, he remembered that his umbrella was still in his car.

  He stuck his head out the door and saw that the rain had stopped. Clouds were scudding across the fat crescent moon, and the parking lot was dotted with puddles, but at least it was no longer raining.

  There were only half a dozen cars in the station’s parking lot. Only the night-shift technicians were on duty; the regular daytime staff had left long ago.

  Noticing how the parking lot’s lights made rainbow refraction patterns in the oily puddles, Jake reached into his pants pocket for his car keys as he approached his Mustang.

  And felt a terrific blow to the base of his neck. For an instant Jake was flying, weightless, but then he hit the pavement face-first. No pain, but he heard something crunch. My nose! he thought. He started to push himself up, groggily noticing blood dripping onto the rain-wet concrete, when another blow crashed into his ribs. Now the pain was coming, like a tidal wave overwhelming him.

  Somebody turned him over. Two men in hoodies bent over him, their faces obscured in shadow. Silently they frisked him, tore the wallet out of his back pocket, then kicked him again.

  Jake lay on his back as the pair of muggers sprinted away. It started to rain again, just a light drizzle, but it felt good, cooling, on his battered face.

  He managed to get to his feet and stagger back to the station’s rear door. It was locked, of course, and when Jake fished for his keys he fumbled them onto the ground. The rain was coming down more heavily, and Jake didn’t have the strength or the inclination to bend over and search for the damned keys.

  His vision was blurred, but he found the security buzzer and leaned on it until one of the technicians finally came and opened the door.

  “Who the hell—” The kid’s eyes went wide once he looked at Jake’s face. “What happened to you?”

  * * *

  Paramedics. Police. To the hospital for X-rays. No broken bones, although Jake’s nose was blue and swollen and his right eyebrow was split open. Six stitches.

  The cops asked him questions he couldn’t answer, including several about how a pair of muggers could have gotten into the fenced-in parking lot.

  “They went to a lot of trouble to nail you,” said one of the police officers, a middle-aged sergeant with a belly bulged by too many tacos and tamales. “Doesn’t make sense for them to climb the fuckin’ fence just in the hopes of finding a victim that time of night.”

  Tami showed up at the hospital, looking terribly frightened. Jake didn’t remember calling her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her face tense with concern.

  Bandaged, sore, hungry, Jake managed to mumble, “You ought to see the other guy.”

  A smile broke out. “At least you still have your sense of humor.”

  * * *

  Tami drove him home, opened a can of chicken noodle soup, and shared it with him. She went to the pharmacy a few blocks away to pick up the pain medications the emergency room physician had prescribed, then stayed the night, making certain that Jake took his pills.

  The next morning Tami phoned her own office and told them she wouldn’t be in until tomorrow. Then Jake called WETA and started to explain what had happened to him. They already knew.

  “Take the rest of the week off, Jake,” said his supervisor, a steely woman who had never shown an ounce of human feeling before.

  The rest of the week, Jake thought. Today’s Friday. No, he realized. It’s Thursday. Tomorrow’s Good Friday: half the staff will take the day off, and Easter Monday, to boot.

  He spent most of the day dozing while Tami phoned banks and credit card companies to tell them of the theft and get new cards for Jake. She used the phone’s speaker so Jake could answer the security questions. Most of the time he heard background music and the occasional, “Your call is important to us…”

  Through it all Jake wondered how and why a pair of muggers would invade the station’s parking lot after most of the employees had gone home. Same question the police sergeant raised, he realized.

  Were they there to attack me? Specifically? Jake shook his head and winced with pain. Why would they come after me? Who would have sent them? No, that’s too paranoid.

  Still, he wondered.

  Santino? O’Donnell? That’s crazy.

  That evening, as he carefully brushed his teeth, Jake took a good look at himself. Bandage over his right eyebrow. Nose looking as swollen and blue as a good-sized eggplant.

  Tami came to the bathroom door. “Are you okay, Jake?”

  He nodded cautiously. “It only hurts when I breathe.”

  She frowned at him. “Don’t play macho man. How do you feel? Honestly.”

  “Pain’s almost gone. The nose only hurts if I touch it.”

  “The doctor said you might have a concussion.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She made a smile for him. “Okay. Come on to bed.”

  They made love carefully, tenderly, with Tami climbing on top of him. Then she piled pillows around his head so he wouldn’t turn over and hurt himself.

  The next morning Jake woke up feeling much better. Tami was already dressed.

  “I ought to get to work,” she said. “Will you be all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be back around six. Okay?”

  He smiled at her. “I’ll take you out to dinner.”

  “Are you sure you want to be seen in public like that?”

  His smile widened. “I’ll tell everybody that you slugged me.”

  But once Tami had left, Jake said to himself, Today is Friday. I’ve got a three-day weekend to think of how we can salvage the energy plan. No, a four-day weekend. I’ll call in sick on Easter Monday.

  Then he thought, If those muggers were sent by somebody to scare me off, they picked on the
wrong guy. I’m going to get the energy plan through, even if it kills me.

  He hoped, though, that things wouldn’t go that far.

  Easter Sunday

  Neither Jake nor Tami was particularly religious, but they attended Easter services at the National Cathedral together. Tami looked splendid in a soft-pink sleeveless dress, topped with a pert little chapeau. Jake pulled his trusty blue suit from the back of his closet. Almost matches the color of my nose, he thought.

  After the ceremony they had a big brunch in Georgetown. The weather was warm and clear, although the forecast warned of afternoon showers. They decided to take a chance and walk back to Tami’s Dupont Circle neighborhood.

  “Are you sure you feel good enough to walk all the way?” Tami asked, eyeing his bandaged brow.

  “Sure. I’ve done enough loafing around.”

  As they walked through the bright early afternoon, Jake explained what he’d learned from O’Donnell.

  “That’s all strictly off the record,” he told her. “Deep background. Not for publication.”

  She smiled at him. “You’re starting to sound like a politician, Jake. Let me in on the secret, but forbid me from using it on the news.”

  “I just want you to know what’s happening. But if it leaks out, my butt will be in a sling, for sure.”

  “Like it’s not now? What more can they do to you?”

  “Get me fired from WETA.”

  “They can’t do that! They wouldn’t!”

  Jake smiled grimly. “They can and they would. What did they do to you? We’re talking about the big boys here. The power elite.”

  Tami went silent for half a block. Then, “Well, anyway, what you’ve told me will help me understand what’s going on in the Senate.”

  “But you can’t tell anybody about it,” Jake repeated. “Especially the part about Senator McGrath’s cancer.”

  “Is it cancer?”

  “Has to be.”

  “So what happens now?” Tami asked.

  “Santino’s got to get a majority of the party caucus to vote for him when the Congress reconvenes after its summer recess.”

  “But McGrath will still be Majority Leader in September, won’t he?”

  “From what O’Donnell told me, McGrath is going to announce his retirement just before the summer recess.”

  She giggled softly. “That ought to make for an interesting summer.”

  “It’s not a laughing matter,” Jake said. “There’s going to be an earthquake once McGrath announces his retirement.”

  “Santino against Perlmutter. The clash of the titans.”

  With a sardonic grin, Jake said, “You’re right: that’ll give the news media plenty of action over the summer.”

  Plaintively, Tami said, “I wish I was still in the news business.”

  “Maybe you can be.”

  “I don’t see how. Santino’s made me persona non grata with every news office in town.”

  “Maybe so, but you could become what they call ‘a reliable source.’”

  “You mean you’d feed me inside information?”

  “If I can wheedle it out of Frank … or Kevin.”

  “A reliable source. That could be fun.”

  “Could be dangerous, too.”

  But Tami grinned at him and said, “I could become the new Deep Throat.”

  Jake resisted the impulse to remind her that it was a porno move that inspired that phrase.

  * * *

  Amy had called to invite Jake to Easter dinner more than a week earlier. “Just a small affair, family only,” she had told him over the phone.

  “And it won’t cause any trouble if I’m seen in the same city block with Frank?”

  He could sense Amy smiling. “This is a family dinner, Jake. Frank’s father is coming.”

  Jake felt flattered that the Tomlinsons considered him family. But he realized that the main reason he was being invited was so that the senator could question him about what progress—if any—Jake had made on shaking the energy plan loose from Santino’s smothering grip.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Amy adding, “So is Connie Zeeman; she’s flying in from California.”

  Uh oh! Miss Hit-and-Run is coming back to town, Jake thought. Almost by reflex he asked, “Is it okay if I bring a date?”

  Amy hesitated, then said slowly, “Why yes, of course. That’ll be fine, Jake.”

  “Thanks.” As he hung up, he was wondering how much he should tell Tami about his brief affair with Connie. She’ll understand, he told himself. After all, that all happened before I met Tami. She’ll understand.

  Tami did indeed understand. Once Jake explained the situation to her, she laughed mischievously. “You want me to be your bodyguard!”

  Jake nodded ruefully at her. “Yes,” he admitted. “That’s about it.”

  * * *

  Easter Sunday evening Jake drove Tami to the Tomlinson residence.

  “Impressive,” she said as he parked the Mustang behind the same azalea bushes as before. No other cars were on the driveway.

  “The Tomlinsons are old money,” he said as he helped Tami out of the car. “Elegant without being opulent.”

  It was supposed to be a quiet little dinner party, but as soon as the butler ushered Jake and Tami into the library, everyone gaped at Jake’s battered face.

  “What on earth happened to you?” Tomlinson senior demanded.

  “I got mugged. On the WETA parking lot.”

  “Mugged?” Senator Tomlinson asked, looking startled. “Any broken bones?”

  “No. I’m okay. Just bruised.” Pointing to his brow, he added, “And a gash. Six stitches.”

  “Did they get anything?” asked Amy, staring at his bandaged eyebrow and swollen nose.

  “My wallet. That’s it.”

  “They didn’t want your car?” Connie Zeeman asked.

  “My old Mustang? No way. The police said it was kind of strange, though, muggers lurking in the station’s parking lot at that time of night.”

  The elder Tomlinson sniffed, “They weren’t criminal masterminds, apparently.”

  Jake introduced Tami to Connie, who flashed a hearty smile at the diminutive Japanese American woman and said warmly, “You’ve got a peach, Tami. Don’t let him get away from you.”

  For the first time since Jake had known her, Tami blushed.

  Tomlinson senior was his usual stern paterfamilias, offering definitive opinions on every subject that came up during the cocktail hour conversation preceding dinner. As the elder Tomlinson held forth on the “totally uproven” predictions of global warming, Jake managed to pull Tomlinson slightly to one side of the group.

  “We need to talk.”

  Senator Tomlinson nodded, without taking his eyes off his imperious father or diminishing his smile by a millimeter.

  “I think I’ve figured out how you can get into Santino’s good graces,” Jake said.

  Looking surprised, Tomlinson turned to Jake. “That would take a miracle.”

  “I just might have one for you,” said Jake, hoping he was right.

  Easter Monday

  If this wasn’t so ridiculous it would be tiresome, Jake told himself as he craned his neck to look through his living room window. Set up near his ceiling, the basement window showed a splendid view of the hubcaps of the cars parked along the curb outside. The view hadn’t changed in the five times Jake had peeked out there.

  Frank’s late, Jake said to himself. He should’ve been here fifteen minutes ago. Maybe he decided not to come, after all. Maybe O’Donnell’s talked him out of it. But he would’ve called; somebody from the office would’ve phoned me.

  Jake had phoned the station to tell his supervisor that he needed another day of recuperation. She wasn’t in.

  “Hardly anybody’s here,” said the phone receptionist, sounding cynical. “Easter Monday. Funny how many good Christians we have when they can get a day off out of it.”

  At last he heard a
car squeaking to a stop outside and, standing on tiptoes, saw an unmarked black sedan past the row of parked cars, stopped in the middle of the street.

  O’Donnell got out first, followed by Senator Tomlinson. Jake almost laughed at the sight of them: O’Donnell skinny and flinty, his eyes narrowed and suspicious; Frank tall and elegant, smiling as though he expected passersby to ask for his autograph.

  Then a third person came slowly out of the cab: Alexander Tomlinson, the senator’s father, tall and lean, stern and imperious.

  Jake stepped through his apartment’s entrance door and climbed the four steps to the ground level, then hurried along the bricked path to the front of the house. I told Frank to come around the side. Don’t want them going up on the porch and knocking on the front door, disturbing the landlord.

  “Frank,” he called as he strode past the porch. “Hello.”

  Tomlinson’s smile broadened as he said, “Hi, Jake.”

  O’Donnell nodded curtly while Tomlinson senior fixed Jake with his usual austere gaze.

  Jake led them back to the entrance to his basement apartment.

  Once they were all in his living room, Senator Tomlinson said, “So this is where you live.”

  “It’s not that far from your house,” Jake said. “Almost walking distance.”

  O’Donnell said nothing. The elder Tomlinson looked around, glanced at the low ceiling, then muttered, “Reminds me of Hitler’s bunker.”

  Jake bit back an angry reply as he gestured to the futon sofa, which he had covered with a colorful shawl Tami had loaned him. Tomlinson père et fils sat on the futon, while O’Donnell took the reclinable armchair beside it.

  As they sat themselves down, Jake asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

  The senator shook his head. “We don’t have all that much time. I’ve got to be in the Senate for a vote on the immigration bill by four o’clock.”

  O’Donnell asked, “Do you have any beer?”

  Jake nodded while the elder Tomlinson gave his son’s staff chief a haughty look, then asked for ice water.

  “So what’s this all about, Jake?” the senator asked.