Two days later, the morning routine repeated itself.
“Up two points,” Samuel smiled as he set aside the statistics.
“Ayaught,” Ed said somberly. “Still down, though. Bill fur the postas come in.”
Samuel picked up the financials.
“And the campaign credit card,” Ed added.
Samuel skipped to the bottom line—a bracketed $14,032. 45. “Well, that’s not so bad.”
“Rent’s due next week.”
Samuel took a deep breath, smiled. “Money’ll come from place. It always does.”
Ed held up a small green paper.
“What’s that?” Samuel asked.
“Receipt fur the check.”
The desperate situation was all too clear. It was laugh or cry time. Samuel’s laugh started as a snort but grew into a belly laugh. Ed held an expressionless face as long as he could. In less than a minute he was laughing so hard he had to sit.
Their frivolity in the face of disaster was interrupted by the buzzing of Samuel’s office cell phone.
“Yes, Jean?” Samuel answered.
“Senator Ramirez wants you to call him,” she said.
“Do you know what it’s about?”
“A photo-op.”
“Now?”
Silence.
“All right,” Samuel said. “Thanks, Jean. I’ll call him.” He hung up, looked through the glass at the excited volunteers busily trying to get him re-elected, and took three deep breaths before dialing.
“Senator Ramirez, how can I help you?” Samuel asked, turning the older senator’s favorite greeting back on him.
“Samuel, how good of you to call,” replied the unmistakable gravely voice of Ted Ramirez. “I know time is precious for both us this close to election day but I wonder if you could do an old man a huge favor?”
Samuel took another deep breath. “Senator, if it’s in my power, it’s yours.”
“That is extremely gracious of you, Samuel. And please, call me Ted.”
Here it comes. Something extraordinarily difficult. “Yes, Ted, how can I help?”
“I hate to admit it but my people tell me we’re falling a little short in Central Florida. They seem to think that a photo-op with a bright young man like yourself, especially one known to support light rail, might be just the ticket to turn the tide.”
Samuel had to admit it was an interesting mixed metaphor. “And where and when would you like to do this photo-op, Ted?”
“I realize it is terribly last minute and I won’t forget your generosity of time.”
God, he’s going to ask me to fly to Florida. There isn’t time. I have my own campaign. He knows that!
“We’re thinking Tuesday the twenty-eighth. Now before you say anything, my people have already checked. We can fly you into Tampa around noon, shake a few hands, a quick meet-and-greet, back on a plane by four, and home in time to get your beauty rest.”
“Ted, this close...” Samuel started to backtrack.
“I know, I know. It’s more than I have a right to ask. But this is my last campaign. In a couple years, I’ll want to step down from the chairmanship. Who better to replace me than you? If, of course, I am re-elected.”
And if I am re-elected.
“Now I’m sure you’ve probably about exhausted your treasure chest,” Ramirez went on. “Not a concern. You will be doing me a favor. We will pick up all the expenses. Can’t fly you first class, naturally. It wouldn’t look good to the voters. But we will treat you first class once you’re on the ground. What do you say, Samuel? Do one for the old man?”
Samuel found his head nodded despite his misgivings. “All right, Ted. Down and back in the same day. But it can’t be later than Tuesday. I have a crucial debate on Thursday.”
“Tuesday it is.”
Samuel could almost feel the warmth of Ramirez’s gratitude through the phone.
“I’ll have my people get in touch with your people and set it all up. I can’t thank you enough Samuel.”
“Happy to do it, Ted.”
Samuel pocketed his cell phone. Ed stared at him with raised eyebrows. Betty waved excitedly from the other side of the glass. He smiled and waved back. She exaggerated stabbing at the phone she was holding. He nodded when he saw the light flashing on his desk phone.
“This is Samuel,” he answered.
“Sam, ya ole son of gun, how are y’all?”
Walter Bensen. God. Not now. “Walter,” Samuel said flatly.
“Sam, I’ll get right ta the point. I know we’ve had some miscommunications. But we’re on the same track. We just need ta smooth things out a bit.”
“That’s great, Walter. Can we talk about it after the election? I’m a little busy at the moment.”
“I know y’all are. That’s why I’m callin’. One a them PACs I support wants ta throw some support your way.”
“It’s a little late in the game, Walter.”
“That’s where your wrong, son. Voters got short memories. The last week counts big.”
“True enough but it doesn’t leave time to put together a spot and get it out there, not on TV, not in the press.”
“Again, you’re behind what’s goin’ on. These people have it all in place. All y’all got ta do is take ten minutes to meet with them face-to-face so’s they know y’all are what ya say ya are. Get me?”
“Walter, I…”
“Looka here, Sam. I got the check. It was the wrong way to go about it. But this here is legitimate, don’t ya see. Supreme Court says so.”
“Look, Walter, that’s very generous and I appreciate all the support I can get, but Ted Ramirez just asked me to fly down to Tampa to support his campaign. I don’t have time to meet with these people before this debate we have scheduled and there won’t be time afterward.”
“Tampa, ya say? Why that’s just jim-dandy. They’re in Central Florida.”
“Walter, I’m on a tight schedule down and back.”
“Well, now let’s think about this. How tight?”
“Senator Ramirez and I are doing a couple hours of meet-and-greet and I’m on a plane back to Vermont before four.”
“I see. Well now.”
Samuel could almost hear the gears turning in Walter’s mind.
“How long’s that flight, Tampa to Vermont?” Walter asked.
“I don’t exactly. About five or six hours. It’s not direct.”
“Well, shoot, there ya go. I’ll have my private jet. Git y’all home under three hours. Plenty of time.”
“Walter, I don’t think…it’s just not…”
“I hear y’all are down ten, maybe twelve points in the polls. Could be just the boost y’all need.”
Samuel looked at the hopeful expression on Ed’s face. Next man to speak loses the argument. Samuel knew it. There was a long pause.
“You swear?” Samuel asked.
“Sam, ten minutes with the committee, ten minutes with me, and y’all be on that plane ‘fore ya can say Jiminy Cricket.”
“All right, Walter. But if anything goes wrong, it’s my job and your rail project down the tubes.”
“Don’t y’all worry about it. Now put Betty back on the phone and I’ll let Darla fill her in with the details. See y’all in couple days, Sam.”
Samuel pushed the hold button on the phone. Betty was staring at him from the other side. He held the receiver up and pointed it at her. Ed grinned at him.
“So yur gonna take Walter’s money afta all,” he said.
“No,” Samuel corrected him, “I’m taking some Political Action Committee’s money. There’s a difference. Supreme Court said so.”
“Which committee?”
Samuel thought momentarily. “He didn’t say.”
“Might be a good thing ta know.”
“Yes, but anyway, they’re not giving us money, just their support.”
“Still.”
“You’re right,” Samuel nodded. “Ask Betty while she’s on
the phone.”
Ed stood and turned toward the inner door. He was stopped by Olin Huff blocking his way.
“Sheriff, I hope this isn’t official,” Samuel joked.
“Sort of,” Huff replied.
Samuel flipped a hand at Ed, reminding him to catch Betty while she was still on with Darla. Ed hesitated, wanting to hear what Huff had to say, but stepped quickly past him.
“Thought this might come in handy,” Huff said, depositing a bag on the desk.
“What is it?” Samuel asked without opening it.
“The judge just ruled. That money George found? Abandoned property.”
“Kind of quick wasn’t it?”
“I’m not a lawyer, Sam. The judge’s word is good enough for me.”
Samuel opened the bag and stared at the stacks of hundred dollar bills. He closed it. “George is donating it?”
“Ayaught.”
“There’s a limit on individual contributions.”
“Twenty-six hundred dollars, I believe. You’ll find a list of names in there,” Huff said, pointing at the bag. “Twenty-two of them. Equals nearly fifty-seven thousand dollars.”
“Do you mean that George gave the money away?”
“Ain’t no law against it.”
“But how did he…George’s still in jail isn’t he?”
Huff rubbed the back of his neck, looked a little sheepish. “I’ve known George most of my life. He drew up the list of people. I just verified that they were agreeable to donatin’ to your campaign.”
Samuel drew out the list of names. He sat back, his mouth open, no words coming out, staring at the list.
“Not sure why he did it,” Huff said. “It’s not like George is a wealthy man. Still…”
“What?”
“It’s just that he’s only had two visitors in all this time. You and your dad.”
Samuel pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket. He blew his nose, wiped his eyes. He tried to pass the action off to some sort of allergy. “Something in the air this time of year,” he said.
Huff played along. Neither man was the type to admit to public sentimentality. “Leaves or something,” he said.
Ed stepped back into the room. “Too late,” he said. “She’d already hung up.”
“Never mind. I’ll call Howard,” Samuel said. “Here, you better take charge of this.” He handed the bag to Ed. “It’s the fifty-seven thousand George found.”
“Before you ask,” Huff said, snatching the list of names from Samuel and handing it to Ed. “I gotta back, Sam.”
“Thank you,” Samuel said. “I’ll be over later to see George. How late?”
“I’ll tell them visitin’ hours don’t apply to you,” Huff answered.
“You mind walkin’ me ta the bank?” Ed asked, stuffing the list inside and closing the bag.
“Probably a good idear,” Huff agreed. “It ain’t good ta put temptation in front of honest people. Lots of honest folks walk these streets.” He smiled for the first time that day.
After they had left, Samuel called Howard.
“How much do we actually know about Walter Bensen, other than he’s in the top one-quarter percent and well connected politically?” Samuel asked. “Find out specifically which PACs he contributes to.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Ed’s driving you?” Jane asked.
Samuel’s mouth was half-stuffed with toast. “We’ve got things to talk about on the way.” He mixed the partially chewed toast with a gulp of coffee.
“I packed this,” she said, handing him the small suitcase.
“For what? I’m down and back in the same day.”
“Clean shirt, toilet kit, polo shirt, swim trunks, and sandals.”
Samuel looked confused. “I’m not going on vacation,” he protested.
“Betty said there’d been a change in plans. You’re meeting Walter on the beach.”
“On the beach?” He wants to talk somewhere that no one can electronically eavesdrop? The noise of the surf will mask our conversation? He took the suitcase. “Which beach?”
The sound of Ed’s pickup pulling into the driveway was followed by two short beeps of the horn.
“Palm something. Betty said it’s not far from your meeting with Senator Ramirez.”
“Palm something?”
Two more short horn beeps.
“It’s in your notes.”
Samuel patted his jacket pocket, feeling the paper inside. He kissed Jane quickly on the lips, barely touching. “Don’t wait dinner. It may run late.”
Samuel had one hand closing the kitchen door behind him when Jane called out, “Have fun on the private jet.” Her sarcasm was unmistakable.
“Drive,” he said to Ed as he slammed the pickup door shut.
“Mornin’ ta you, too,” Ed replied. He shifted into reverse and backed onto the dirt road. Before the truck shifted into high gear, he said, “There’s the stuff Howard dug up on Walter.”
Samuel took a folder from the dashboard. The printed paper was blurred, difficult to read. “Who uses Faxes any more?”
“We had an old one stored at the bank,” Ed responded defensively. “Didn’t cost nuthin’. Works don’t it?”
“Barely.” As the pickup bounced down the graveled road, Samuel skimmed the list of enterprises connected to Walter Bensen. Big in transportation throughout every major city in Texas. Diversified stock investments. A major share in light rail development. That figured. A partner in Sterns Transportation, Orlando, Florida. That’s new. Thought he was just a stock holder.
The pickup turned onto the paved road. The ride instantly became much smoother.
“You ever think about buying a car?” Samuel asked.
“What fur? So’s I could git stuck in the Winta?”
Samuel chuckled to himself. There was no point in trying to argue with a man who had already made up his mind. He wondered what Walter had made up his mind about.
The photo op went off like clockwork. The mayor and all the local politicians of the right party were on hand. The Amtrak station made a perfect backdrop. Politicians were running out of time. Speeches were kept short. Senator Ramirez held Samuel for one last photo before the dignitaries and the small crowd of well-wishers dispersed.
“Sam, thank you again for comin’ down,” Senator Ramirez said, pumping Samuel’s hand and drawing him closer. In a voice not quite a whisper, he asked, “Are you meeting with a PAC?”
Samuel, surprised, tried to draw back but Ramirez held him tight, smiling broadly all the while. “How did you know?” Samuel asked.
“Well, I saw Alan Short in the crowd. Alan heads the Florida chapter of ‘America’s Moral Committee.’ I know he’s not here to meet with me. That just leaves you, old son.”
They had been holding hands a long time. Cameras started clicking again. Ramirez let go, shifting his hand to Samuel’s shoulder, and turning him to face the clicking. “Smile, son,” he instructed. More clicking. “Walk with me.”
Samuel did as he was told.
Ramirez slipped into the back seat of the waiting car. Samuel put his hand on the door to close it. Ramirez took hold of it, motioned to him.
“You meeting with Walter Bensen, too?” he asked.
How the hell does Ramirez know all this? “For a few minutes,” Samuel confirmed.
Ramirez put on his best southern accent. “Y’all be careful there.”
“I always am,” Samuel answered not quite confidently.
“Offer you money, did he?” Ramirez asked.
“I sent it back.” Samuel took a more defensive attitude.
“Just a word to the wise, old son. Walter ain’t a man to give up till he’s got what he wants.” Ramirez started to close the door, stopped, took a breath.
“Sam, I hate to sound inhospitable, especially on the heels of you doing me this favor, but would you take some advice from an old man?” His voice was hardly more than a whisper.
“Of course.”
<
br /> “Sam, we Floridians pretty much know how to run our own affairs. We don’t really need Washington or outsiders to come here and make decisions for us. I deeply appreciate your support, truly I do. I’d just ask you to keep in mind that Walter Bensen is a Texan.” That said, Ramirez smiled and closed the door.
Samuel watched the car drive off. And I’m an outsider from Washington, he thought. I get that. But you want high-speed rail and Walter wants it. What’s the problem? He continued to ponder the matter in the car taking him to his meeting with Alan Short.
The hotel was impressive, very modern, steel and smoked glass rising like a stalagmite from the sidewalk. It stood like a quiet sentinel watching over the rush of downtown Tampa traffic.
The interior was just as impressive. Samuel took a moment to take it all in. Twin two-story escalators angled from the lobby within view of the front desk to the floor thirty or forty feet above. Past the front desk was a dimly lit, intimate area with soft low bench seats and a half-dozen tables. Beyond that, he could see the entrance to a bar.
This was a lifestyle Samuel could get used to.
“Senator Winters?” At the other end of the proffered hand was a short, middle-aged man in a blue suit. “Alan Short. Thanks for coming. Shall we?” He gestured toward a corner table.
“Walter thought we should meet,” Short said.
“Yes,” Samuel answered.
“I watched you today, at the ceremony.”
“So I was told.”
“We liked what we saw.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re having what could be a deciding debate on Thursday.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“Will it be televised?”
“Possibly. The local PBS station if it can be arranged.”
“Excellent. What we’ll do is record the entire debate, extract suitable sound bites, and package the message. We’ll hit the airwaves Saturday. That’ll give your local pundits something to talk about Sunday. Then we’ll saturate programming Sunday and Monday before the election. Burlington and Boston are the only major stations, right?”
“Plattsburgh.”
“New York? Oh, I see. Across the lake. Hmm. It may be a bit late but we’ll try.”
“How are you going to saturate programming, if I may ask?”
Mid-Life Friends and Illusions Page 16