“But what if the Speaker can’t get me elected in the House before Inauguration Day?”
“It’s in the bag.”
“After what the Speaker did to delay the House election, how can you say that?”
“Let’s say I twisted Pomeroy’s arm a little. He’s knows now I’m deadly serious about getting you into office by January twentieth.”
“That still means I’ll have a Democrat for my vice president when the House elects me president.” He took a roll from the basket and buttered it. “She’ll make trouble.”
“Give her nothing to do. Let her vegetate.”
“Thanks, Sebastian, for all your advice and support.” Brewster picked at the watery meat lasagna on his plate. “But I especially appreciate your visiting my wife in the hospital. It really meant the world to her.”
Meant the world to her? Senex laughed to himself. The ice-cube coldness in her eyes and the hardening furrows of her face shouted the opposite when he had entered the hospital room. She cut short the visit with the excuse of needing sleep although she had just awakened. Brewster the doofus was still in the dark about the affair between him and Brewster’s wife.
Just as well, because his protégé, Brewster, wouldn’t understand what a favor he had done by screwing Brewster’s wife. Everyone knew she was a shrew who made Brewster’s life miserable. The CEO of Promethean Pharma had molded her into a more pleasant and contented woman because of his amorous ministrations. If anything, Brewster owed him for making her a better woman.
When he refused to leave his own wife for her, Brewster’s wife ended the affair without telling her husband. She took her revenge by doing everything she could to undermine her husband’s political allegiance to him. Fortunately, Brewster treasured his allegiance with the CEO of Promethean Pharma more than a wife’s advice.
He knew why Brewster wanted to talk to him over lunch. It meant he had sunk the hook into Brewster and had him where he wanted him. He just had to guide him into the net.
“Cheer up, Brewster.” Senex slurped a spoonful of a not-so-creamy broccoli-and-mushroom soup. “She’ll recover.”
“Not likely, the doc says. Not with her stage-three multiple myeloma.” Brewster’s eyes looked bloodshot. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Buck up, man.” Why had Ohio voters elected this wimpish ex-hedge-fund manager to the governorship? “Look on the bright side. Your wife’s illness only adds to your appeal.”
“Are you going to let her have the treatment?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know.” Brewster wrung a napkin in his hands. “Everyone suspects you’re taking something to look so young and healthy.” He put the napkin down and leaned in. “Word’s getting around. They say it has something to do with secret experiments at Promethean Pharma.”
“Everything’s been exaggerated.”
“Please tell me about the treatment.”
“Alright. I have had an experimental treatment.” He pretended to be cautious about bystanders overhearing them. “Just keep our conversation confidential.”
“What’s the treatment?”
He feigned annoyance but relished Brewster’s desperate curiosity.
“The procedure’s a trade secret to keep it from business competitors. Besides, it’s risky and highly dangerous.”
“Not for you apparently.”
“Her medical condition is different.”
“She’s hospitalized because she almost broke her hip. She has advanced osteoporosis. If she falls again, she could die.”
“I don’t know.” He feigned indecision. “But if you two are willing to take the risk, I—”
“We are, Sebastian, we are.” Brewster stood up and shook his hand across the table. “How can we ever repay you?”
“There is one thing.”
“Name it.”
“File a lawsuit to prevent Clyde Pomeroy, Speaker of the House, from becoming president if this mess goes beyond Inauguration Day.”
“Why would I do that? Clyde is a friend.” Brewster paused. “Anyway, you said my House election was in the bag.”
“I always like to have a Plan B. Just in case the Speaker tries to double-cross us again.”
“I can’t do that.” His eyebrows arched over unblinking eyes. “The Presidential Succession Act expressly puts the Speaker in the line of succession after the vice president.”
“The Constitution trumps an act of Congress.”
“Where does the Constitution say the Speaker can’t assume the presidency?”
“My lawyers told me about Article One in the Constitution. It says you have to be a quote . . . officer . . . unquote to assume the office of the presidency.”
“So?”
“The Speaker is a representative elected to the legislative branch of government. He’s not technically an officer of the United States.”
“Not everyone agrees with that interpretation.”
“It’s unconstitutional, damn it.” He folded his arms and glared at Brewster. “Bryan Murphy of the Justice Department agrees.”
“The Supreme Court has the last word,” Brewster said. “Not Bryan Murphy or the Justice Department.”
“You’re missing the big picture.” Senex pushed away the bowl of unfinished soup. “I will use Plan A, Plan B, or whatever it takes to stop the Speaker from ever becoming president. Got it?”
“I think you’re overreacting. Clyde Pomeroy and I have always gotten along.”
“Listen up, Brewster. The Speaker stabbed you in the back. He’s only pretending to help you get elected. Where’s your spine?”
“Don’t confuse my back or my spine with yours. I never made any deal with him. And I won’t fight your battles.” Breathing deeply, Brewster rubbed the back of his neck. “My wife is top priority now . . . not the presidency.”
Senex slapped his hand on the table. “I demand you file that lawsuit against the Speaker . . . or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else your wife will never get my treatment.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Seated on a burgundy sofa in the Backroom Bar of the Meridian Club, Sebastian Senex waited alone with his thoughts. He had miscalculated. Clyde Pomeroy, Speaker of the House of Representatives, was not the pushover he counted on.
Brewster’s lawsuit to prevent Pomeroy from becoming president had sparked a counterattack. The Speaker had held a press conference several days earlier to announce his withdrawal of support for Brock Brewster as president and the launching of a congressional probe into the extortionate prices Promethean Pharma demanded for lifesaving drugs.
At the instigation of the Speaker, a drug advocacy group was on its way to throw a picket line around the Meridian Club. With little time remaining until Inauguration Day, Senex vowed the backstabber would never become president.
He telephoned the front desk.
“Have the police arrived?”
“Yes, sir. They’ve formed a protective line outside the entrance.”
The founder of Promethean Pharma poured a single-malt scotch into a snifter of Baccarat crystal for a pick-me-up. He tapped his right heel on the floor and picked up a copy of the Wall Street Journal lying atop a coffee table with a built-in aquarium. An angelfish nipped and chased a guppy. He glanced at the headline, read a quarter way down the lead column, and then dropped the newspaper back onto the coffee table.
He closed his eyes in the dim lighting. The unsettling news of the last few days must have unleashed his unpredictable flashes of fatigue. For someone so biologically young, he shouldn’t be feeling so strung out. It had to be the stress of the election causing his fatigue. In his mouth he swished the smoky-tasting scotch with the after bite of burnt cork. A wave of relaxation washed through him. Maybe, if he drank more scotch, he’d also slow his weig
ht loss.
Voices startled his eyes open. The bartender pointed him out to a bearded aide from Brewster’s campaign headquarters. The aide came over to hand him the judicial opinion of the United States district court. At an expedited hearing, the court had dismissed Brewster’s claim that the House Speaker was ineligible to become president. In a note accompanying the opinion, Brock Brewster had the gall to blame him for a drop in the presidential polls because of the dismissed lawsuit filed in Brewster’s name. Again, the legal system had failed Promethean Pharma’s CEO and the country. It no longer mattered. He had other plans.
The nation was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The stock market had plummeted. Every country with computer capability was trying to influence the American election. The divisions in the United States had grown so bitter and entrenched that Congress was incapable of coming together even to pass ordinary legislation to keep government functioning . . . let alone pick the next president and vice president of the United States.
China fueled rumors of a looming COVID-28 outbreak by going from denial to no comment. That would have been bad enough, but the fear of COVID-28 had taken hold in the nation’s capital. Several congressional staffers had come down with the virus. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention claimed it had things under control. Informed by its bitter experience with COVID-19, the CDC endorsed involuntary quarantining of infected persons and criminal penalties for noncompliance. Through a high-tech tracing system, it tested those in contact with the infected persons. Additional tests through the DC metropolitan area found no further trace of the infection.
He poured himself another scotch and considered the national confusion. Congress had panicked when it heard the news of COVID-28 in the District of Columbia. It took a recess until it was safe to meet in person. Even with CDC reassurance, the House delayed proceedings until they considered a bill to allow virtual meetings and if so, whether that should apply to the congressional elections of a president and vice president. On and on the anxious and indecisive prattling resounded in the halls of Congress. Until the cowards acted, he would not get his man into the White House.
One bright spot appeared. The armed forces of the United States. Military precautions around the country had become more evident as the Pentagon prepared to forestall any foreign power from exploiting the American political deadlock. By lopsided margins, opinion polls showed that of all the country’s institutions, Americans trusted the military the most and Congress the least. If the political situation deteriorated further, the military could be counted on to bring about the law and order the country needed.
Although he could work with the military, it was too by the book for his taste. He preferred a system where he could buy and sell politicians. That wouldn’t work so well with the military. They didn’t make a career of running for office. But lately even politicians were getting out of hand. They had developed a tendency not to stay bought in a time of crisis. They would eventually follow the mob and turn on him so as to deflect blame for the country’s fate. He might have no choice but to play ball with military men to halt creeping anarchy.
All this ruminating was giving him a headache . . . or was it something else? He had skimmed over the medical internet sites only to become more confused. He was playing doctor. He needed answers from the only real doctor who knew. He pecked a text to Dr. Angelo Mora: Confirming meeting at Kinzie Steel. Symptoms persist. Treatment side effects??? Will this delay termination of transfusion protocol??? He tapped Send.
The ping on his smartphone startled Sebastian Senex awake from the twilight nap he had fallen into with images of vampires taking over Promethean Pharma and sucking him dry. A reply text from Dr. Angelo Mora: Confirming meeting at Kinzie Steel. Not to worry. Generic symptoms unlikely side effects. Manageable even if.
You’re the one who should worry, Dr. Mora, thought Senex. He deleted the text.
The Meridian Club manager entered the room aflutter. “The protestors are coming, Mr. Senex. Would you like to leave out the alley entrance?”
“No agitators will drive me from my home.” He set down his snifter. “I want to talk to the police.”
On the first floor he pulled back a brocaded drape and peeked outside. A mass of demonstrators with placards depicting an equation of dollar signs and coffins shouted at the police line holding firm before the front door. Another placard showed him as a cartoon spider atop the suburban headquarters of Promethean Pharma with dead bodies dangling from the web of dollar bills he had spun.
The police herded the crowd away from the entrance and spread the demonstrators along the sidewalk across the street from the club. The protestors made room for a procession of women coming down the street holding decorated vases. The women took up a position in a line on the sidewalk in front of the protestors.
These women couldn’t intimidate him. He went out to confront them.
“That’s him,” a woman said. “That’s Sebastian Senex . . . the murderer.”
A police lieutenant pulled him back. “Stay here. I’ll handle it.”
The lieutenant swaggered across the street and talked to the women’s spokesperson. She handed him her vase. He looked in. He took off his cap and made a slight bow toward the spokesperson. He walked back to the front of the Meridian Club with hat in hand. He smoothed his hair and fitted his gold-checkered lieutenant’s cap back on.
The front line of women edged across the street toward the Meridian Club.
“Why are they coming over here?” Senex asked the lieutenant. “What’s in those urns?”
“The way I see it, they got every right.”
“They could be carrying explosives.”
“No explosives. Only the ashes of their loved ones.” The police lieutenant fiddled with his riot baton. “They say you killed them with your high drug prices.”
Sebastian Senex pushed through the gold-colored revolving doors back into the Meridian Club so hard that the doors kept spinning after his entrance. He could hear the muffled shouts of the picketers burning in his ears as he stormed toward the bank of elevators to return to his penthouse refuge. He brushed past the manager asking if club management could help.
The elevator doors opened. A resident with untucked shirt and a dab of shaving foam on his chin exited, saying, “Have you heard what just happened?”
“Vandals are trying to break into this place.”
“Not that.”
“I don’t have time for guessing games.” He moved into the elevator and pressed the button for his penthouse floor.
“The Speaker of the House of Representatives died in an explosion.”
Senex put his hand on the elevator door to stop it from closing.
“You don’t say?”
“Yes, yes . . . he died in an explosion on his way to Capitol Hill from his new office in the Rayburn building. He was riding the underground subway train. The train failed to stop at the end of the line and crashed, setting off a bomb attached to the car.”
“My, my.” He shook his head. “What’s this world coming to?”
Inside his penthouse he texted: Congratulations Signor M.P. Mission accomplished.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dr. Angelo Mora clumped on his cane toward Daisy Senex as she entered the Lincoln Park Conservatory across from her apartment on Lakeshore Drive. After Vincent Palomba’s death, he’d learned that she tried to find solace at the conservatory.
Detective Jim Murphy had cornered him into a meeting later that day to probe about the murder-for-hire contract on the life of Leone. Mora had to find out where he stood with Daisy’s father to determine his game plan when he met Murphy.
“Miss Senex, please stop.” He touched her shoulder from behind. “I need to talk.”
She turned and backed up. “Go away. You turned my father against me.”
“I never lied.” He leaned on his cane. “I
never told him you revealed his secrets to Vincent.”
“He blamed me just the same until he found out”—she pointed her finger—“you did it.”
“Believe me.” He held up his hand. “I deeply regret the pain I caused you.”
She scurried away to the Fern Room, empty of other visitors. He lumbered after her until she stopped, allowing him to catch up. “If it hadn’t been for me,” he said, catching his breath, “you never would have met Vincent.”
She moved slowly, without speaking, through a profusion of ferns spilling out from both sides into the narrow pathway as if to grab the intruders. He caught up with her.
“Remember.” In the heat of the hothouse, pinheads of perspiration spread across his forehead. “I introduced you to him.”
She sat on a white bench nestled in an alcove along the pathway.
“What do you want?”
“I feel uneasy around your father.” He removed his hat. “Would you mind if I sit down?”
He sat down, taking her silence for consent.
“He acts irritated when I’m around, even though he tries to conceal it.” Mora rested his cane against the bench. “Has he really forgiven me, as he says, for my indiscreet contact with Vincent?”
“He hasn’t fired you, has he?” She folded her hands in her lap. “He’ll get over it.”
“Your father needs me . . . for now.” He wrung his hands. “I only wish I could be as certain as you.”
“Now you tell me something. Who killed Vince?”
“Are you sure he holds no grudge?”
“My father just needs a little time, like I told you.” Her face turned hard and she blushed red. “Vince is dead. My love is dead.” She sobbed into her handkerchief. When finished, she raised her face to Mora. “Did you kill Vince?”
“Me?” He dropped his cane. “Me?” He paused. “Like I am the animal who tore his heart out?”
American Conspiracy Page 14
