Congressman Farnsworth was still smiling, but Ripple was not. “Hey, hey, big hitter, you have a sense of humor too. What if I write you a check for twenty five thousand right here and you can start gearing up for your next election?”
Howard sat there and began to tap his fingers on the table. He looked directly into Ansons’ eyes. “You are not as smart as people like to think you are, Anson. When I come to your door with your balls in my hand, you do what I say or I squeeze your balls until they explode. I need two hundred and fifty thousand Anson, final offer.”
Dr. Ripple slouched in his chair and looked back up at Farnsworth. “C'mon Howard. This is ludicrous and illegal. What is this?”
Howard shook his head from side to side and chuckled. “Anson, that's called smart business. You give me the money, and I'll keep your doors open forever. You know as well as I do, that all I have to do is make one speech about how freedom to choose is OK by me, but I will not have it unless properly licensed facilities perform the work. Let me tell ya' something, Anson, this shithole estate of yours will not get licensed. I can see to that.”
Ripple sat straight up again. He wiped the sweat that was forming on his forehead, obviously feeling the pressure and power. He sat and wrote a check to Howard Farnsworth for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
The next day, after the check cleared, Howard Farnsworth made a speech about how 'Freedom To Choose' was exactly that, and how District 20 would always stand by that Constitutional Law. The state would actually help Dr. Ripple obtain appropriate licensing for the good of the people. Farnsworth was happy and Ripple was safe. Farnsworth and Ripple would always shake hands at functions, but never speak, their relationship was clearly different now. Farnsworth was running a small crime organization that had taken advantage of Roy Steel's Auto World and Dr. Ripple.
***********************
By 1982 Howard Farnsworth was moving quickly up the political ladder. His race for the Senate was a dastardly one. There had been some mention by the media about his involvement in organized crime. There were some members of the media who seemed to be trying to take down the giant. Within days, however, other larger newspapers and television stations were disputing these “ridiculous allegations.” The reporters who displayed negative attitudes about Farnsworth were fired, or transferred. After all, Farnsworth owned the media, too. The young reporter from the Alabama Sun, Jason Rama, especially bothered Farnsworth. He refused to let these allegations go by the way side. Each day Howard would read another column from Rama that was filled with allegations and ridicule. He would not let it die and continued to leak rumors to all the wrong people. No one, including Farnsworth, knew why this young reporter held such a nasty grudge.
The editor in chief of the Alabama Sun, Robert Asaro, was secretly on Farnsworth's payroll. Robert would follow Farnsworths’ orders and call Jason in his office every week to repeat the same words, “Jase, I love you. You know I love you. I think you are going to be very successful in this business, buddy, but please give up this crusade to take down the most popular Congressman Alabama has ever seen. The guy is clean. Stop writing this crap.”
Farnsworth was applying pressure, against the wishes of Asaro, to “get rid of the cancer.”
Farnsworth had Robert invite Jason over to his house for a Memorial Day cook out. That morning Jason drove out to Robert's house, which was in the country. Robert's wife was not there. Jason had brought her a small bouquet of flowers to show his appreciation for the invitation.
Robert greeted him at the front door, “Hey buddy, come on in. I sent my wife to the store for more burgers. I got the grill-cleaning job while she's gone. You're the first one here. Grab a beer.”
Jason reached his hand into the ice and pulled a cold beer from the cooler. He sat down on a patio chair while he tried to get the feeling back in his hand. Farnsworth entered the backyard through the rear gate. He just appeared all of a sudden. Farnsworth knew Jason would feel very uncomfortable. Farnsworth walked over to Robert and whispered something in his ear. Robert kept cleaning the grill as Howard Farnsworth walked over to Jason, sat down, and exposed a pistol from inside his jacket.
He held the pistol about seven inches from Jason face and shared some thoughts with him,
“I told Robert to fire your ass or send you to Alaska to cover a story about seals fucking, or something. Obviously he thinks too much of you to do that; he keeps sticking up for you. I like Robert too much to kill him for disobeying me, so I'm going to handle this my own way. If you do not hand in your resignation to the Alabama Sun right fucking now, move back to New York, and promise to never mention this again, my finger will slip. I will pull this trigger and we'll be grilling you for lunch. I could make your ass disappear in a New York minute, boy. Are we understood?”
Jason was shaking with fear and anger. “Yes sir, I understand. Rob, I quit, I'll move today.”
Robert eyes never left his grill.
Farnsworth continued his sarcasm and threats. “Boy, don't think you're going to move to New York and start mouthing off up there, because I swear, son, I'll put a bullet in your skull. I've done it before and I'll do it again. I don't mind a little airplane ride before hand.”
Jason left town three hours later. Jason Rama would never be heard from again.
By 1985 Howard Farnsworth was a proudly serving, veteran member of the United States Senate. He had committed no wrong for at least three years now. His newest position was a very high profile one. At first, he was scared to commit any wrongful acts because he was unfamiliar with his new position. After his second year of serving he began to find loopholes allowing him to deviate from the standards if desired, but he did not take advantage of this opportunity. He was making far too much money to risk it all by bothering some small-town businessmen. He no longer collected from Roy Steel and Dr. Anson Ripple.
By November of 1985 Senator Howard Farnsworth's position had taken its toll. His relationship with his wife was suffering because of all the pressure he felt. When he needed companionship during their private time, she was not willing to offer. His marriage was falling apart and he knew it. While attending a Homeless Foundation function, a very attractive thirty-year-old woman caught his eye. Christine Summer was the wife of a fifty-four-year old cattle rancher who was one of the wealthiest men in Alabama. Clint Summer was also an activist in the Democratic Party. He donated time, effort and money to the party and the less fortunate in the world, but his Christine was obviously a “trophy wife.” Once she hit the age of forty, he would divorce her and move onto another thirty-year-old beauty queen. At the Homeless Foundation fundraiser, Clint was off discussing politics with other wealthy entrepreneurs, as he typically did. Howard's wife was back in the corner careening with family, posing for pictures, talking to reporters and discussing the state of affairs in Alabama. Christine caught the Senator ogling her, so she approached him.
Howard firmed up his Senator voice as she made her way to him. He offered his right hand and greeted her, “Good Evening ma'am. Are you enjoying yourself? I don't believe we've met.”
She answered, “No Sir, the pleasure is all mine. I am Christine Summer, it's nice to...”
Howard, or “Sly Howie” as he was often called in college, interrupted her, “Why I didn't know Clint had a daughter.” A huge smile spread across his face.
She returned with pearly whites of her own, explaining, “Clint is my husband, Mr. Senator, not my father.”
Howard gave her a half-devilish grin and replied. “My, my, Clint Summer is the greatest salesman I've ever seen. How did he convince such a beautiful woman to be his bride?”
Howard was overflowing with confidence at this point, not to mention testosterone.
He realized Christine Summer was taking the bait. She giggled as she answered, “Well, sir, I guess I just fell for the old coot. He's a great businessman, a great person, and...”
Howard interrupted again, “It must be tough handling such a busy man.”
/> Christine thought for a second and replied, “He is awfully busy. We never get any time together. He's always running around trying to save the world.”
She was blushing like a teenager.
The good Senator shot back another grin and a solution, “If you are ever bored, come to my office. I'll, personally, give you the grand tour of how everything your husband does helps my leverage and my campaigning.”
Christine gazed at him. The Senator and his latest conquest continued to talk for about forty-five minutes.
Within two weeks, the Senator was sleeping with the wealthy cattle rancher's wife. Their affair lasted two years. In 1987, only days after Howard ended the affair Christine Summer's 1986 BMW drove off the road in the town of Sanders, Alabama. No one understood why Christine would be in Sanders, which was an hour and a half from her home. She had told Clint that she was going shopping that day, but the nearest mall was in the opposite direction.
At the funeral, Howard hugged a very sad and subdued Clint Summer, but only long enough for a few photographers to snap some photos. After the funeral, Clint had the Senator and some other friends over the house. Senator Farnsworth stayed the whole time consoling the cattle king. After everyone had left, Senator Farnsworth and Clint sat down and started talking about his wife's mysterious death. Clint expressed some concern that she may have been having an affair, that he had been seeing the signs for almost two years. She was coming home late and she was easily rattled when she did get home. Senator Farnsworth put his hand on Clint Summer's shoulder, looked him right in the eyes, and offered to help.
“Clint, if you think that she was sleeping with some fella' in the town of Sanders, I'll commit to you that the state of Alabama will do everything in its power to find this bastard. We can keep it quiet, between us, whatever you want.”
Clint wiped more tears away, “Thanks Senator, but maybe it'll be better to just leave things as they are. Honestly, in spite of all my suspicions, I really don't want to know if there was anything like that going on. I couldn't bear to hear it.”
With Clint's closure in place, Senator Farnsworth walked out of his house for the last time.
In 1989 the Democratic Party bestowed its top honor on Senator Farnsworth. The highest-ranking members of the Democratic Party urged him to run in the Democratic Primary. He quickly emerged as the odds on favorite of the three men running. He was a lock, by far the most powerful and confident candidate. Furthermore, he had credentials, experience, and connections that the other two candidates could not touch. His career was about to roar off into uncharted waters, but it did not faze him. Rather than being nervous over such endeavors, he actually enjoyed entering unknown territory. If it were not for this outgoing, adventurous side, he would probably still be living in Alabama and pumping gas down the street from his parents’ farm. He sailed forward and never looked back.
12
Aaron lay on the bed in his hotel room staring at the ceiling for about an hour. He replayed everything he had been through during the last couple of weeks at least a hundred times. Hopefully, he would end up explaining it in court the next few months, instead of being buried in cement by the man who was in his house earlier. He kept telling himself that this had to end soon, or else he would be arrested for stealing JohnnyM80's credit card. He would try and convince the police and a judge that he did it in fear of his life, but worried about being eaten alive in court. Grant Winchester would no longer be willing to take the chance that might sacrifice his career for some man about to serve five to ten because his alibi was too far-fetched to believe. He just hoped Grant would show at the airport. After Grant stood him up the first time, he had serious doubts about meeting him this time.
Aaron had not called his wife, his office, or Miles. His neighbor, Ed Towers, was probably still standing in his garage, wondering what in the hell was going on. Surely, something had to be done. He could hear his children in his head and could smell the coffee that his wife made for him in their kitchen every morning.
He had overheard Anderson telling the person on the phone that Laura Greene was dead. Whoever was in charge had to have planned on him being next. Aaron began to cry, with his throat tightening up as he fought off each tear. Soon he was groaning as if to tell his body and his emotions that they were disappointing him now. When he showed any sign of weakness, he took it as a blow to his ego.
When Aaron was six years old his father told him that everything in this world happened for a reason. Was he some sort of Messiah sent for the Republicans? After all, he was more politically opinionated than anyone he had ever met. “Good God,” he thought, almost laughing at these thoughts. Obviously, he was slowly going crazy.
Aaron shot up from the bed, stared himself in the mirror, smacked himself across the face, and gave his image its own little pep talk. “You are not going to lose. You are not going to die. Defend yourself. Be a man, Aaron. Be a man!”
Aaron went into the bathroom, looked at himself in the mirror again, and thought. He needed some sort of disguise. He knew that the people he was dealing with were too smart to be fooled by his simple disguises. Anything to help throw them from his scent, even if only for a few minutes, was to his advantage at this time. He called the front desk and asked the clerk for directions to the laundry room.
The clerk gave him the directions, some of which he preferred not to hear. “It's in the basement, down the long corridor to the right. The light in the hallway kind of flickers, but don't worry, it won't go out.”
Aaron asked him if he was serious.
The kid just sat there in silence for a second and then answered, “Yes sir, you'll be fine, we don't have any boogie men here.”
Aaron wanted to run down to the front desk and rip this nineteen-year-old wise guy's head off. This kid had no idea what the occupant of room three twenty seven had been through and the last thing he needed was a laundry room that sounded like a setting straight out of a horror movie. Laughing again at his lack of luck, Aaron forced a smile and headed to the laundry room.
It was dark outside and the activity in the streets was starting to die. He could not walk five feet anymore without looking over his shoulder. Anyone watching him from afar would think he was a paranoid drug addict at the very least. On the left side of the hallway, walking towards him, came a maid.
“ 'Scuse me ma'am. Do y'all have any room service here?” asked Aaron.
She continued to stare at the floor. Aaron could tell she had a long day also. Her apron was untied, her hair frayed from where it used to be tied up. She was almost limping down the hallway. Aaron wanted to leave her alone at first because he felt sorry for her, but he was absolutely starving.
“Yes sir, we sure do. Would you like me to take an order for you?” she responded.
Aaron just wanted to smile, but he had to answer. “Ma'am, I need the biggest cheeseburger you have here -- bacon, pickles, cheese, mayo, everything -- with a large order of fries. I'm in room three twenty seven. Please?”
Finally, she looked at him and forced a grin. “Give me about thirty minutes sir. OK?”
Aaron started on his way saying, “Sounds great. Thanks!”
He stepped into the elevator and pressed the dreaded 'B' button. He had no clothes to wash, nothing in his pockets but eleven one-dollar bills and some change. He was going to prepare his disguise. Sure enough the elevator opened into a dark hallway with flickering lights. He took the path described to him by the desk clerk and headed towards the back corner. It was quiet; he could hear water leaking somewhere in the distance. There was no sign of life anywhere. He found himself walking very fast, almost jogging as his heart rate increased. This was his life now: a life of frightening trips just to go to the laundry room.
As he found the laundry room door, the lights flickered furiously, but just like the little wise guy at the front desk said, they did not go out. If Aaron were ten years older he would have had a heart attack in the basement of the hotel. He pushed the doors open, scanned the
walls, and found exactly what he had come for. Every public laundry facility has a little vending machine on the wall that sells, detergent and bleach. It was the bleach he was interested in, little packets of bleach that cost two dollars each. He thought that it was highway robbery, but really did not care at this point. Thankfully, the machine accepted dollar bills, because he only had six quarters and he had no intention of walking back upstairs for change only to come back down here again. His hands were shaking as he slid the dollar bills into the slot. Out came the bleach, and, to make things even easier, it was the liquid kind. It was in a handsome foil package that was going to make the process much more efficient.
The metal butt of the gun found the back of Aaron's neck with tremendous force. He dropped to his knees instantly, temporarily losing consciousness. It is amazing how the brain reacts in the half of a second it took for some stranger's gun to connect with the back of his neck to the half of a second his nervous system realized what happened.
Just before he collapsed, Aaron actually had enough time to realize that he was about to die. Aaron had not seen the stranger approach. He must have been hiding in the laundry room, which led him to believe that this man had been following him and tapping his phone lines all along. How else could this person have known he was going to the laundry room? Realizing how logical his thoughts were, Aaron recognized that he was not unconscious. He could feel blood streaming down and around his shoulders and his chest. He tore open the handsome package of bleach and swung around. The bleach could not have been aimed better. More than half the liquid found the eyes, nose, and mouth of his assailant. The man crumpled to the ground, letting out a howl. Aaron kicked the stranger's arm until he dropped the gun. Aaron quickly leaned over, picked it up, pointed it at the stranger, and began his inquisition.
“Listen here mother fucker, I will not kill you, but I will put bullets in your nuts, your knee caps, and anywhere else that comes to mind if you don't answer some questions. You got me?”
The Whisper Box Page 12