by Joseph Flynn
“Don’t get your hopes too high. I might wind up getting reelected, but at the very least I’m going to turn the national conversation upside down. I’m going to kick over apple carts at every opportunity. Give the whole system a massive jolt of shock therapy.”
McGill nodded. He not only approved, he also appreciated the opening his wife had just given him. He told her of the murders of the K Street lobbyists, the pig pins attached to their bodies and Putnam Shady’s plan to seize control of the government.
The president listened closely to her husband’s words, sorted through the ideas they carried and probed for weaknesses. Given the current political realities, she couldn’t find any flaws in Putnam’s plan. Which meant she had far more work to do than she thought.
The workings of the Congress of the United States would have to be rebooted.
She told her husband, “I know you’ve steered clear of involvement in political matters up until now, Jim, but with this case, with this situation, that has to change.”
“I know. I might be the one to get you kicked out of office.”
“Good thing we have a nest-egg,” the president said.
“Yeah, I have two pensions and Andy left you a little money.”
“We’ll scrape by. But before then I’ll want to see Mr. Putnam Shady.”
“Tell me when and I’ll have Sweetie bring him by.” He kissed Patti. “I have to get over to the hospital. If you get a free moment, let’s see Kenny together.”
“I’ll make the time,” the president said.
She kissed McGill.
He asked, “Have you heard —”
“Of course. The volunteer effort to find a donor for Kenny.”
“Yeah, it just …” McGill had to collect himself.
“Scares the hell out of you and makes you feel great all at the same time.”
McGill nodded. Then he asked, “Did Celsus volunteer?”
“Yes, he did. So did Galia.”
“Oh, man.” He hadn’t thought Galia might be the one.
“Jim,” Patti said, “put my name on the list, too.”
Georgetown
Derek Geiger, the speaker of the House of Representatives, the man second in line of succession to the presidency, returned home and found his suitcases on the doorstep of the townhouse he’d long considered to be his home in Washington, D.C. It hadn’t been that long, actually. Geiger and Harlo had been married for only four years; he had anticipated the union would last between six and ten years, a personal record.
That was before he’d had lunch with Brad Attles an hour earlier.
Geiger’s attorney had asked him, in the moments after he’d paid the check for their meals, if he’d read and approved the recent revisions Attles had made in their strategy to handle the divorce proceedings that would eventually occur between him and Harlo. Attles had somehow come by Harlo’s corporate tax returns — Geiger didn’t want to know how. The lawyer was tracking the annual income figures of Harlo’s furniture design business.
Attles could show a direct correlation between the revenue growth of HG Designs and Harlo’s marriage to the speaker. Further, those revenues increased in direct proportion to the speaker’s growing prominence in his party. Therefore, the lawyer reasoned, any claim for compensation in a divorce between the two parties should be offset by the monetary gain Harlo’s enterprise had enjoyed from her becoming the speaker’s spouse.
In normal circumstances, Geiger would not only have agreed with Attles’ argument, he would have cheered for it. He would have toasted it, had it turned out that Harlo would owe him money, should she want a divorce. As it was, however, he felt a chill and had a question.
“When and how did you send your revisions? Because I never saw them.”
Now, Attles felt a fright, too. “I faxed one sheet to your house late last night.”
The speaker winced. Harlo, dressed like a million-dollar courtesan, had slipped into their bed last night … and he’d been unable to satisfy her. It hadn’t worried him. Maybe once a year, he just wasn’t ready to go. Give him twenty-four hours, he’d be as good as ever. Which was good for a young man and fantastic for a guy his age. He’d rolled over and went back to sleep as deeply as if he’d just acquitted himself heroically.
After he’d wakened, cleaned up and headed to his home office, he’d checked for messages, including faxes. The tray had been empty.
Harlo was already up and gone by then.
A grim Attles intuited what had happened. “Harlo came home early? Please don’t tell me that.”
Hoping against hope, Geiger said, “Priscilla came to clean the place this morning. If your fax fell onto the floor, she might have thrown it away … unread.”
Attles said he’d return to his office and figure out if there was anyone he could bill while he was busy praying things had worked out as the speaker had said.
As speaker, Geiger was provided with a car and driver. When he felt the need, or wanted to show off, he could summon a detail of Capitol Hill Police officers to act as his bodyguards. But when he met with Brad Attles he dispensed with all the perks and traveled alone by taxi. He saw his bags waiting for him while he was still inside the cab.
He asked the driver to wait, giving him enough money for the man to comply.
Maybe, please God, Harlo had only meant to scare him.
He hurried up the stairs, hoping his wife had set his suitcases out empty, a threat … but the bags weren’t empty and neither was her threat. Worse, he could now see a new lock had been put on the front door.
He picked up his suitcases and turned to head down the steps.
That was when he saw the camera crew facing him.
Harlo had set a trap for him.
The red light was on; they were shooting his moment of humiliation.
A blonde with a microphone was leading the charge toward him.
Luckily, the cab driver had spotted the media ambush before it had started to move. He had the passenger door open for him. Geiger threw his bags in the rear seat and dove in after them. The driver hit the gas before the speaker had the door closed. The man stopped at the corner of the block to make sure his fare didn’t fall out.
As Geiger closed the door, the driver asked, “The Hay-Adams?”
The speaker nodded. The RNC had its suite there.
It was a short drive, leaving the speaker with but one thought to occupy his mind.
Goddamn woman.
WorldWide News, Washington Bureau
Sir Edbert Bickford’s media empire spanned the globe to an extent that even Queen Victoria’s imperial reach couldn’t match. Being a man who always expected the worst from both his enemies and his minions, he felt compelled to be in constant motion to oversee his holdings, destroy his enemies and flog his workers on to ever greater efforts.
Verbally flog, though he wished he could get away with actual lashes.
The Boeing 777-VIP he’d dispatched to carry his nephew, Hugh, was but one of three that normally served Sir Edbert exclusively. He liked to have two backup jets so he’d never be caught short in case man or nature conspired against him. Having but one spare aircraft left him on edge. Anxiety always depleted his thin reservoir of patience.
Arriving in Washington, he’d been in a foul mood even for him.
Having been stuck in evening rush hour traffic, after being denied the use of a helicopter to carry him above the mob, for reasons the aviation bureaucrats wouldn’t disclose, only deepened his distaste for his fellow man.
All of them.
Even his nephew, who told him moments after his arrival at his Washington bureau that James J. McGill had met with Hugh and had told the lad to sod off. Worse, the bugger had the nerve to use his Secret Service thugs to keep Hugh and his cameraman so far away even a telescopic lens couldn’t shoot him.
Sir Edbert had displaced his bureau chief from his office and sat behind the man’s desk, looking as if thunder clouds would soon gather about his frowning vi
sage and start throwing bolts of lightning.
Hugh sat in a visitor’s chair as impassive as if he’d been chiseled from granite.
The young woman sitting next to him, his American producer, Sir Edbert had been told upon their introduction, seemed equally unfazed by his vile mood.
“I had been informed,” Sir Edbert began, “that this blighter McGill went about his business with but one Secret Service agent and a driver.”
“Things change, Uncle, in ways that are not always to our liking.”
Hugh wasn’t apologizing, simply explaining. The worst thing you could do, he’d learned from the start, was not stand up to the old bastard. He’d tear into you whatever you did, but afterward he’d think more of you if you fought back.
Sir Edbert leaned forward. “The point of power is to make conditions change to suit your whim.”
“I’m afraid I’m not as close to God as you are, Uncle, in terms of my ability to work wonders.”
The American woman tried but couldn’t quite restrain a smile. He turned on her.
“You think my nephew is funny, Ms. Booker? My nephew mocking his employer and yours. I noticed he’s recently augmented your salary.” Sir Edbert Bickford always learned quickly about any unusual increase in employee compensation. He had people whose sole responsibility was to keep staff costs in line. “I could make your salary disappear altogether, and blackball you from the business.”
Ellie Booker glanced at Hugh Collier.
He sat quiet, curious to see how she’d respond.
Ellie told Sir Edbert, “I’m sure you could do that, sir, but all I’d have to do is change my name, dye my hair blonde and get a boob job. You’d hire me back to read the news for you at twice my new salary.”
Hugh rocked with laughter.
If he weren’t a man’s man, he’d have asked Ellie to marry him.
Sir Edbert saw the affection between the two of them. It made him wish young Hugh weren’t a nance. Couldn’t he see that woman was ever so much more … no, of course he couldn’t. Who a man fancied wasn’t a matter of choice. Only fools like the boy’s father thought rubbish like that was true.
Still, these two were valuable resources to him.
He wouldn’t squander them.
A sour smile formed on his face.
“Very well. I’ll torture a peasant or two on my way out of town. In the meantime, tell me something that will give me a sadistic little tingle,” he said.
Hugh gestured to Ellie, letting her have the stage.
“The speaker of the House was thrown out of his house by his young wife.”
Sir Edbert’s smile turned gleeful.
“How do you know?”
“We have video. We were tipped off.”
“By the wife?”
“By an anonymous male voice.”
“No doubt someone in the wife’s employ,” Sir Edbert said. “Did the speaker comment?”
Hugh said, “He dived into the back of a taxi that took off with the door still open. We have video of that, too. But, Uncle, this chap is one of the people you champion.”
Glee departed from Sir Edbert’s expression to make way for simple wickedness.
“Of course, he is. But capturing an important man in an embarrassing moment is the brightest coin you can have in your pocket. The poor fellow will never want you to take it out and spend it.”
A fancy way to dress up a blackmail threat, Ellie thought.
“You’re off to a good start,” Sir Edbert said. “What’s next?”
“Uncle, don’t you think there’s a good story in Mr. McGill’s use of armed government agents to keep the news media out of his way?”
“I do not,” he snapped at Hugh. “Think, boy. If word got about that brute force was a legitimate strategy to keep the press at bay everyone with a full purse would employ it. Then where would we be? And this fellow McGill, from all I’ve read, is a popular chap. He might be just the one to start the trend. What I want is to bring him down. That would be a start on diminishing the president. You’re sure he’s not like you?”
Hugh smiled. “He's quite a bit like me, a proper tough bastard. But he’s not gay.”
Sir Edbert turned to Ellie Booker to get a woman’s confirmation.
“He’s not gay, but he is human.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’ve been looking into his family.”
“One of them is gay?”
Hugh sighed, drawing a dirty look but no comment.
Ellie said, “One of them is sick. McGill’s son, Kenneth. He was admitted to George Washington University Hospital.”
Certain news organizations, WorldWide News among them, had people who kept watch on hospitals that celebrities used. If someone newsworthy tried to slink in unnoticed, well, they really should know better than to think they had a right to any privacy at all.
“A sick child,” Sir Edbert said, “that might bring the bastard more sympathy.”
Hugh said, “Unless the child brought the condition on himself.”
Sir Edbert brightened. “Drugs? We can only hope. Yes, keep an eye on that situation. Do you have anything else?”
Ellie said, “With McGill’s increased level of Secret Service protection, we have to accept that we’re not going to get close to him. But Mr. McGill has a business partner, a former colleague in both the Chicago and Winnetka, Illinois police departments. She has no such protection. She might be the way in.”
Both Sir Edbert and Hugh smiled in genuine appreciation.
“A female business partner, that’s very good,” Sir Edbert said.
“What’s her name?” Hugh asked.
Ellie said, “Her name is Margaret “Sweetie” Sweeney. She’s blonde and stunning.”
Uncle and nephew spoke as one: “Sweetie.”
They laughed deeply.
Ellie didn’t mention that Margaret Sweeney had the reputation in the American media of being so tough she didn’t need any bodyguards and that she didn’t suffer fools lightly. Of course, that might have been a useful public relations ploy to avoid unwanted attention.
They’d have to see.
Washington, D.C., Northwest
Despite Brad Attles’ imposing size, there were people in the nation’s capital who might think to confront him physically. Especially at night. Walking home alone because he was too distracted to drive. Needing to be alone with his thoughts.
Holding a gun made even twerps think they were giants. The thing about guns, though, you had to be able to actually hit someone in a place that mattered if you wanted to put him down for good, not just piss him off.
Attles always remembered the story he’d read about the first death the Japanese military had suffered at the hands of an American after the attack on Pearl Harbor. One of the emperor’s pilots crash-landed on the Hawaiian island of Niihau. He confronted a local and shot the man three times, in the chest, hip and groin. The Hawaiian responded by grabbing the pilot and smashing his skull against a stone wall, killing him.
The lesson of that encounter was recorded in Island lore: Never shoot a Hawaiian three times — it makes him mad!
Attles had been shot once himself, on the inside of his left thigh. If he’d been hanging the other way that night, he’d never have known the pleasure of loving a woman. It took only the one shot to raise Attles’ hackles. He knocked the pistol from his assailant’s grip with one hand and broke his neck with the other. Just grabbed and squeezed. The dumb bastard’s spine cracked like an old, dry stick and the life went right out of him.
All because the stupid white boy had accused Brad Attles of looking at his ugly little girlfriend with the wrong thoughts in mind. Attles wouldn’t have … well never mind that, it hadn’t been the girl’s fault. It was the white boy’s mistake.
Same error in judgment that Japanese pilot had made.
The Hawaiian who killed that pilot got medals.
Attles would have gotten the electric chair.
A bla
ck man killed a white man in Louisiana that was the way it went.
So he went to stay with his aunt in Florida. He lived the straight and narrow, did his best in school, kept right on to become a lawyer. He met Derek Geiger when the two of them were buying Jaguars from the same dealership one afternoon. They became friends and Brad saved him from getting skinned by his first ex-wife. After that, his place in the world was set. Set nice and high once Geiger went off to Congress and became speaker.
Now, Brad Attles was sure he was about to be brought low. Derek Geiger had called with the news: Harlo had found the fax he’d sent to the speaker. Had locked the man out of the townhouse she owned. Had left his bags out on the stoop. Had called a news crew to shoot video of the man’s humiliation.
Harlo had even gone so far as to cut all of Derek Geiger’s clothes into pieces before she packed his bags. Left him nothing to wear but what he had on. Wanted to let him know just how mad she was at him. Give him a taste of what was coming, too.
Despite all the cause the speaker had to be angry, he still wanted Brad Attles to be his divorce lawyer in the upcoming battle with Harlo. But Geiger warned Attles that he had better come up with a good excuse for how he knew the details of Harlo’s business income. If anybody could prove Attles had bribed someone at the IRS into providing the information or he’d had some techie hack a federal database, he’d be in deep shit.
That, of course, was exactly what Attles had done.
Paid off an IRS techie to get what he wanted.
Shit, if Harlo’s lawyer was any good, he’d already alerted the feds about Attles’ illegal possession of Harlo’s tax data. The little computer dweeb Attles had paid ten K, and who suddenly reminded him a great deal of that broken-necked white boy back home, would fall all over himself to make a deal, get himself a reduced sentence.
The feds would come for him next, and they’d ask him one simple question: Had Speaker Derek Geiger been involved in this criminal act?
Geiger hadn’t been involved … but it was tempting for Attles to think how his life would be a lot easier if he lied and said, sure enough, it was all the speaker’s idea.