*****
Despite what you have read in mystery magazines or books, no one, I repeat no one, can just waltz into a congressman’s office and get to see him, unless said congressman wants to see them. Try it and you will have the cops on top of you in a matter of minutes. Not even mafia bosses have as many layers of protection as the average backbencher representative. From campaign managers, staff and lawyers, to actual congressional staff and lawyers, you don’t get to visit a congressman without checking off all the flunky checkboxes.
The quickest way to cut through all of this is money. You give the congressman so much cash for his time, he will see you. However, if you just waltz in there after giving him thousands of dollars (which he will insist on upfront) and blind side him by asking about his banging a nineteen-year-old college freshman in a local motel, you will immediately be shown the door and have nothing to show for your money but a threat that if you come close to the Congressman again, you’ll be arrested.
That’s why we have Sandy Milton as our lawyer. He is smooth, connected and as crooked as they come. Ernie and I knew that all we wanted from Graves was what he knew about the Kincaid girl. Had he seen her in the last three years, did he know where she went, did he hold any clues as to why she up and left college? We were not trying to embarrass him, expose him or soften him up for the next election. So we called Sandy up and had him propose a fair trade; money for info, and it didn’t even have to come directly from the boss. One of his lawyers or staff members would do. Everything was done on the phone or in person and nothing in writing.
Once it was all said and done, it cost us (or rather it cost Kincaid) a pretty penny in cold hard cash to arrange a meeting between myself and Congressman Marc Graves’s top campaign advisor. Sandy had gone directly to the advisor, told him the situation, what we were looking for and a promise not to bother the Representative Graves ever again, all for an agreed-upon sum of money. After a couple of days, the advisor called back, said the price was five grand, and that he would be the one we talked to. The guy’s name was Kevin Sinclair, and he would meet me at a small steakhouse in Greenville for lunch in two days. I was to bring the money with me.
Cold Pulp Trio Page 5