by Ridge King
“He’s a nice guy, Jack.”
“I know. We’ve become pretty good friends.”
“Then why can’t you vote for his dad?”
Matt let out with a heavy sigh.
“We’ve had this talk before, more than once,” he said, exasperated. “It’s my vote and I don’t agree with his dad’s policies on China and Russia.”
“OK, already, Mr. Grump.”
Patricia leaned over and kissed him, reveling in the scratchiness of his morning beard and the complete and glorious “maleness” of her new lover. Feeling Matt in her arms, she wondered what had ever possessed her to fall into an affair with the pallid and by comparison lifeless Neil Scott. Loneliness, she guessed. Having a gay husband in Jonathan Vaughan might have had something to do with it as well.
“It’ll work out fine. I’ll be with Bedelia and you’ll be with Jack. It’s only natural for him to want to get close to you to help his dad get your vote.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re not going to give it to him, though, are you?”
“No.”
“You feel that strong for Thurston?”
“Yes.”
“And the Chinese?”
“It’s not so much the Chinese,” said Matt as he took a tentative sip of the scalding coffee. “It’s just Thurston’s approach toward the Chinese and the way I think he’d handle the Russians.”
“How’s the ceasefire holding up? I haven’t read the paper or even seen the news in days.”
“General Yin has pushed forward his position in the Xinjiang Desert and this is causing General Tulevgin to move units down from the Mongolian front.”
“But no shots?”
“No shots—yet.”
“I voted for St. Clair.”
“I know you did. But you told me you just voted for him because he had business with Jonathan’s dad.”
“That’s true. I met the St. Clairs through Jonathan. I had a crush on Jack when I first met him. What woman wouldn’t? And his younger brother, Rafael, wow! What a hot man.”
“Right, the one in the Coast Guard.”
“Yeah—he’s a dreamboat, too, but in a different way. Jack’s all-American, rugged and solid. Rafael’s got that smoldering dark Latin lover look.”
“Come hither and take off all your clothes.”
“That’s the look he has, yes,” she laughed, tossing her tangled hair over her shoulder.
Matt lifted the breakfast tray from his lap and placed it beside him, rolling over on top of Patricia. He kissed her passionately, looking into her eyes and smiling.
“Let me tell you what you can do with the St. Clairs, my little sweetheart.”
“What?”
“As long as I’m around, you can forget all about them.”
She could feel Matt getting aroused.
“St. Clair who? I said éclairs? I’d love éclairs for dessert.”
* * *
Over in Tampa, Secret Service Agent Carlos Rodriguez had just helped ex-First Lady Lydia Pearson get settled in the back seat of her limo when he felt his phone vibrate.
“Thank you, Carlos,” said Mrs. Pearson. “You’re such a doll.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Pearson.”
He closed the door and went to the back-up Suburban where he waited by the front passenger seat door for the detail chief to give the all-clear to move out. They were taking Mrs. Pearson to Busch Gardens where she was to receive a philanthropic reward later that morning. He grabbed his cellphone and looked at it. Jack had returned his call. He had a couple of minutes before they moved out, so he called him back.
“Jack, my man!”
“Carlos. How’s everything?”
“Cool, Jack. I got a few days off over Christmas, so I’ll be heading over to Miami.”
“Then I’ll count on spending some time with you.”
“OK, great. Listen, Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“I thought I’d tell my mom I was coming in the day before Christmas instead of three days before. That way I could hang out with you guys up on St. Clair Island.”
Jack laughed.
“Now I know why they call it the ‘Secret’ Service. Sure thing. You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like.”
Jack was sitting in the Game Room of his house when he hung up. His housekeeper Emilia Acevedo waddled in from the kitchen with a café con leche, her huge frame draped with a burgundy muumuu that did a pretty good job of covering up most of what Gargrave jokingly called “her substantialness.”
“Here’s is your café, Señor Jack.”
“Thanks, Emilia. Where’s Gargrave?”
“Right here, sir,” said Gargrave, coming in from the hall with a cup of his own coffee.
Jack waited until Emilia returned to the kitchen.
“That was Carlos. Wants to stay with us a couple of days before Christmas. Has some time off and wants to be up here rather than with his family.”
“Understandable. We know how jealous his mother is about his company.”
Jack laughed.
“That’s right. She wants Carlos there in Little Havana where she can stuff him full of rice and beans and plantains.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack sat at a small table overlooking his patio, pool and three boats moored just outside. He nodded toward a seat on the other side. Gargrave sat down.
“So we’ll have to hold off on the money.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How much have we got stowed away in the bunker?”
“Maybe three-quarters of it.”
“Handling bulk cash is as very labor-intensive business.”
“Especially when your island is surrounded by Secret Service agents.”
“Yes. That’ll get worse when dad comes down.”
“They double or triple the detail when he’s in residence. I’d have held off bringing in more money till after he went back to Washington anyway.”
“Everything cool with Camilo?”
“Yes, sir. He and his crew were very pleased with the generous bonus you gave them.”
Jack knew Camilo’s people could be counted on to be discreet. The Keys for generations were known as a hub of illicit activity. If you wanted to get something into the U.S. without anyone knowing about it, the Keys made a good place to do it. Jack had used Camilo and his people for years with never a single problem with leaks or security. They were the best.
“They’ll have a very merry Christmas then, all of them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I got you a little something for Christmas, Gargrave.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You want it now?”
“If you like, sir.”
“Bring your coffee. Hell, it’s almost Christmas anyway.”
Jack got up and Gargrave followed him down the hall, past the kitchen, past his study, past his bedroom and into a separate wing on the far side of the house where Jack kept his Gun Room. You could take a man out of the SEALs, but you couldn’t take away his fascination with guns.
Jack went to a corner and pulled up a box wrapped in smiling Santa faces.
“For you, Gargrave.”
Gargrave put down his coffee and ripped open the present. Once he saw the package, he smiled broadly.
“For the man who has everything,” said Jack. “I knew what you needed was a new RPG launcher.”
Jack watched as Gargrave opened the rocket propelled grenade launcher.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I even got you two dozen more RPG-7s. You used the last ones when we were in the Everglades shooting that day.”
“That’s when the old launcher malfunctioned.”
“Toss it. You got a new one.”
“You’re very kind, sir.”
* * *
Jonathon Vaughan went into the bathroom in his suite in the Waldorf Towers and admired the lithe body and firm muscles of his boyfriend Rolando as he stepped out of a steaming sh
ower.
“You know, I’m really happy that you got to meet Patricia,” he said as he ran the hot water getting ready to shave.
“I am, too,” said Rolando, toweling off.
“She’s really quite sweet. She put up with me until I came out.”
Rolando laughed and leaned over to kiss him.
“And now I have to put up with you full time.”
“Anything going on at the U.N. this week?”
“Not really. Things are quiet because the ambassador went back to El Salvador last week to spend the holidays. Why?”
“I was talking to my mother yesterday, and she told me she was going down to stay at Flagler Hall with Patricia in a few days. Jack Houston St. Clair invited them.”
“You thinking of going?”
“I’ve been dealing with some troubles at one of our Nevada mines and I thought it might be good to discuss it in a casual setting. He’s been too busy with the fucking election to even think about anything else. And I might have a buyer. Maybe just unload the whole thing.”
Rolando had finished drying himself and now stood naked before him.
“You’re taking me with you, right?”
Jonathan looked at Rolando.
“Clear it with your first officer and we’ll head down as soon as you’re free.”
“We’ll stay at Flagler Hall?”
“Oh, sure. It’s better than the best hotel in town. I’ll get some quality time with Sam and resolve our issues.”
Rolando came up behind Jonathan and nuzzled his neck.
“And we can spend a little quality time, too.”
Jonathan touched his shaving brush to Rolando’s nose, covering it with shaving soap.
“Well, that, too,” he smiled.
* * *
As Slanetti left the Cabinet Room to walk back to his office, he went over in his head all that had happened with the Keystone File the last few days.
He’d had Norwalk meet with Rebecca Isdel of Indiana one final time, and during the meeting that he sat in on, he became convinced she’d hold the state for the Republicans. Norwalk sealed her up with a promise to have the new Administration push the leadership in Congress to place her on more important committees. And St. Clair would have to pledge to join international efforts to save the blue fin tuna in the Atlantic. Slanetti didn’t see much connection between the blue fin tuna in the Atlantic and the state of Indiana, but there it was.
Kornilevski succeeded in getting Corley Searles, a three term Republican form Omaha, to come over. Although Searles was one of two Republicans from the delegation, he was against St. Clair, which made the state line up for the opposition, until Kornilevski told him that the Administration knew about the large sum of money he took from an aircraft firm to push the Defense Department to accept parts that were not up to minimum standards. The Defense Department, however, didn’t know about payments to Searles and Keystone contained the magic information. That, along with a lengthy list of corrupt campaign financing details, brought Searles over, giving them twenty-two states. Perryman was the only one who could get through the shield Mayor Healy kept around most of his congressmen, especially the freshmen. They were all ensconced in the Marriott Hotel. Perryman performed much better than either he or Norwalk could have hoped.
Samuel Carberry gave in immediately when Perryman told him that the government would take him to Federal prison when information was released that he’d evaded income taxes over the past five years on $1,950,000. Carberry was so frightened that he didn’t even argue the technicality that he hadn’t evaded income taxes at all. It was actually his brother hiding the money for Carberry. The relationship was close enough to hit home to Carberry, however, and he caved in without a fight.
Calvin Brown also gave in when Perryman got him alone, after a good deal of fancy footwork. Healy would never leave Perryman alone with Brown, but there was a tradition for the speaker to share a few private moments with all freshmen members. Healy could see no objection to that kind of interview, especially since Perryman was a Democrat and Healy didn’t know he was working for Norwalk and Slanetti behind the scenes.
But Brown came away from the interview having secretly changed his vote when Perryman told him about the power and light connections he had back in Cook County, connections for which he received $624,000 to vote for higher rates when he was sitting on the Illinois Power Commission. This gave the Republicans twenty-three states.
Illinois was further sealed up when Perryman made a Keystone call to Slanetti announcing that Bernard Asterwood had also given in. Perryman told Asterwood, a five-term man from Joliet in Will County, that the White House knew about his mistress, Freda Cameron. Asterwood, a sober man on the whole, was deeply in love with his wife, Beth, but Freda had lured him into a liaison several years ago and he was stuck with her. She’d once threatened to expose him. He gave in without a fight for all his bluster. Perryman was a little surprised. But surely one of the three would hold fast, and probably all three, so Perryman and Slanetti were not worried.
The next target was not an easy nut to crack. He was Ernest Rylsky of Arizona. Ellsworth approached him originally. Slanetti didn’t have much on the man. He knew there was more information, that Rylsky in his nine terms in the House had done plenty. But the man was a shrewd politician and lawyer and covered his tracks with extreme care and efficiency. All Slanetti could give Ellsworth to work with was a minor matter for a nine term Congressman: he’d accepted a large unsecured loan from a bank on whose shady practices he’d held hearings in his committee, where he was ranking Republican. Nothing was ever reported out of committee to the appropriate Federal agency for action and the bank got off free and clear. On another occasion in the same committee, Slanetti had Rylsky for bribery and perjury. A prominent bank in New York was under investigation by the Justice Department for criminal actions, including bribing a Federal judge. The bank also bribed Rylsky to the tune of $1,425,000, to use his influence, which he did, and Justice dropped the inquiry very quietly.
Still, the man was pro-China and didn’t regard St. Clair with much warmth. Slanetti had Norwalk himself meet with Rylsky the second time. Norwalk reiterated the information they had on him, promised him St. Clair’s cooperation in anything Rylsky wanted moved through Congress.
Rylsky had been hesitant, but considering the bank information, considering that he liked to be a good Republican, and considering that he did have several things in mind for his district which he previously doubted any Administration would support, he gave in after Norwalk used all the charm and persuasion for which he was so famous. This gave the Republicans twenty-four states.
The last target (besides Hawkins) was the formidable Republican from Oklahoma, John Fulton, practically “Mr. Republican.” But he simply loathed Jeffrey Norwalk as a person and as a President, had been excluded from all White House patronage and proven many times he could do exactly as he wished without the White House. He was very powerful and had many friends on both sides of the aisle and in both houses of Congress. He seemed immune to Norwalk’s power.
Fulton was distinguished in appearance and looked much like a judge with neatly groomed gray hair parted down the middle, tight hard lips that were moralistic and determined in their set. He looked like Herbert Hoover—on steroids.
His vote was essential to get Oklahoma in the Republican column. He controlled the state delegation, which was Republican three to two. If he voted for Thurston so would the other three Republicans. There was no getting around him the way Mayor Healy could be gotten around.
Slanetti conducted the interview with Fulton. He’d gone to pains to keep on the man’s good side during his several years in the White House as congressional liaison. Fulton liked him, well—so-so.
Everything was against Slanetti. Fulton hated Norwalk, detested Robert Degraff, St. Clair’s running mate from his own state of Oklahoma, had been totally ignored by the leadership at the Republican National Convention, which was controlled by St. Clai
r’s people, and so he had no friendship for St. Clair, either.
The only thing—but it was a big thing—against Fulton were his past and present dealings with the oil industry. His own fortune was in oil and he guarded the industry’s interests like a mother eagle. And the eagle had fed her child well. Fulton’s intimate connections with the oil industry made Bush-Cheney look like amateurs.
“John,” Slanetti told him when they met in the congressman’s office, “you’ve always been blunt with me and I’ll be blunt with you. I don’t like having to do what I’m here to do, but I will because I’ve given my loyalty to the President, even though I recognize the differences you’ve had with him over the years.”
“Go on,” said Fulton, rightfully suspicious.
“The White House is utterly and irrevocably determined to carry the Oklahoma delegation for St. Clair in the House. You control that delegation. You must give your support to St. Clair.”
Fulton laughed out loud.
“You must be touched with fever, Phil. You know exactly how I stand on this question and so does the President, the motherfucker!”
“We have an enormous catalogue of your illegal dealings with the industry,” Slanetti continued seriously, almost like a child forced to do something to an elder against his will, an impression he hoped Fulton would pick up. “It involves literally millions of dollars you have gleaned from various producers and refiners for your support in their areas of concern in Congress and before your committee. The Administration is determined to completely ruin you unless you will change your vote. It’s really that simple, John.”
Slanetti shrugged.
Fulton was serious.
“Be specific,” Fulton demanded softly, raising an eyebrow.
Slanetti went through the list. Fulton’s was the only case that required more than one page for the contact interview. There was that much involved. Slanetti occasionally glanced up to see how the old man was taking it. There was no expression on the man’s dignified face until Slanetti got to the Swiss bank accounts, the link in Fulton’s chain, which led to the Isle of Wight. Slanetti saved this for the end.