by Joseph Flynn
Klugman had his names, dates and numbers right.
“Smart guy,” Wyman said. “He’d make a good Treasury secretary.”
Kira noted, “Alden and Green are sharp, too. So is whoever dressed them. They look good, but not glamorous. People you’d see at Starbucks not movie premieres.”
Mather Wyman nodded. “That didn’t happen by accident.”
“No at all. They’re playing roles. The common man and woman. Who just happen to be Ivy Leaguers, filthy rich and known by nine out of ten Americans. But don’t mind that.”
Cabot’s second topic was sexuality: “Gay from day one? Is sexual orientation present from birth or a matter of choice? In either case, who does it hurt to be other than heterosexual?”
The third topic was population: “How many is too many? As the third most populous country in the world, should the United States consider setting an optimum population ceiling? If so, what should that number be and how would you keep it from being exceeded?”
On the matter of gaiety, there was partisan disagreement, within Cabot’s parameters.
It made for good, lively and revelatory television.
The population question caught both sides off guard, never having been a major part of the country’s general political discussion. Everybody agreed that a billion-person U.S. population would be a bad idea. Nobody wanted the country to face problems like those of India and China. Both sides felt five hundred million people might be the high end for a manageable population, certainly no more than six hundred million.
Keeping the number from going higher would mean examining the country’s immigration policies and its fertility numbers. That meant border security and family planning. It also meant developing the economies of poor countries to improve domestic standards of living, relieving the pressure to emigrate . It further meant providing comprehensive sex education and continuing the empowerment of women to lower the number of births per family.
Topic three got its extra ten minutes. Had its moments of push and shove. Also came the closest to an unexpected sense of common purpose and bipartisanship.
By the time the show ended, Kira already had her smart phone out. She Googled the question she had in mind and told her uncle, “Reynard Dix chooses the conservative panelists.”
Wyman grunted and shook his head. “That guy quit the party. He’ll never —”
Kira’s eyes went so wide they alarmed Wyman. “Are you all right, my dear?”
She bobbed her head and took her uncle’s hand. “I’m fine, the babies are fine. I just had the most wonderful idea. How you can win the presidency. How you can beat Patti Grant and Howard Hurlbert.”
Wyman had heard the hormonal flood of pregnancy could affect a woman’s brain.
He didn’t know that it conferred the gift of political genius.
He wondered if he should call a doctor for Kira.
“Mattie, there is nothing wrong with me,” she said, knowing what he was thinking. “You said Reynard Dix quit the party, the Republican Party. Who else did that?”
Wyman saw where she was going now. “Patti Grant and Howard Hurlbert.”
“So what does that make them?”
“Quitters?” Wyman said.
“They may or may not have good ideas, but you can’t trust them because …”
“They’re quitters.”
“With no way they can ever deny it,” Kira said.
Wyman told his niece, “I could never call the president that name.”
“Of course, you couldn’t. You could, though, criticize her … inconstancy.”
Wyman nodded. That, he could do.
Maybe there was a connection between estrogen and genius.
Further advancing that theory, Kira said, “We’ll let our surrogates call the president and Hurlbert quitters.”
Florida Avenue — Washington, D.C.
When Putnam wasn’t traveling, Sweetie lived upstairs with him. It was by far the grandest place she had ever called home. Too grand, really. Left to her own devices, she would have simplified the place to a point Puritans might consider underfurnished. But she’d already subjected Putnam to far more of her influences than he’d made her endure — if you excluded striking the spark that fired a renewed sex life for Sweetie.
Even there, she’d honed ecstasy to its glowing core.
At times like the present, with Putnam back in Omaha, Sweetie retreated to the one-room basement apartment she’d first rented from him. She felt more at peace there, more humble, more hopeful of receiving the Lord’s mercy. She had the feeling she might soon need it.
Mercy, that was.
She had come right out and said she would shoot anyone who threatened the life of Jim McGill. There was no doubt in her mind she would live up to her word. Of course, if she were to kill someone, Jim would be the one counseling her on the need not to flagellate herself.
He’d be right, of course. Taking a life would be a last resort, probably. Sweetie had never told a soul but back in Winnetka, that time she’d jumped the gun on Jim and busted in on the kid who’d taken his girlfriend hostage and was threatening to kill her, she could have shot the little creep. Instead, she’d let him shoot her.
That might have been what Jesus would have done.
Then again the bible didn’t say a word about Him kicking down doors.
Or being a cop, for that matter.
Now, still a newlywed, Sweetie honestly couldn’t say she was certain she’d take another bullet for Jim. Putnam, yes. It was funny how wedding vows could change things. If she had a chance to get off the first shot, though, she would take it.
So killing someone might not be absolutely the last resort.
Hence the need for mercy.
And you never knew. People started shooting, it might not be a matter of stepping in front of anyone. It might be a question of wrong place, wrong time.
Hence again.
Seeking peace of mind, Sweetie said her rosary in the dark, bead after bead, decade after decade, in the dark, the way she always did. Catholic meditation. Her heartbeat slowed. The sounds of the outside world faded. She floated on a cloud of prayer.
And the moment she opened her eyes, she crashed to earth.
Looking out the window facing the street, she saw a big guy on the sidewalk out front. He looked up and down the street. Any cop in the world would know what he was doing. Checking to see if he’d be seen committing a crime.
The coast must have been clear because he ran up Putnam’s front steps.
Her front steps now, too.
Sweetie eased out of her rosary chair. She opened the door to the apartment’s only closet. Got her gun out of the floor safe. She heard footsteps above. The guy had broken into her home. She was about to go after the intruder. Would have if she was still single.
Stopped cold when she thought of Putnam as a widower.
She called Jim’s cell number. He answered at the residence. Sweetie spoke quietly.
“Someone just broke into my house. He’s upstairs, I’m in the basement. I need backup.”
“I’ll bring the cavalry with me,” McGill said.
Sweetie said, “I won’t go in by myself, but if he comes out, I’m stopping him.”
“On my way,” McGill told her.
Tom T’s — New Orleans, Louisiana
Billionaire or not, Tom T. Wright, had stayed in the saloon business. Sure, he had a helluva lot nicer place than Dad had left him. Right on Bourbon Street. Everything gleaming wood, glowing brass and dark leather. Comfortable. Nobody was going to rush you out the door. It was a place to have a top shelf drink at a fair price. On weekends, Tom’s music scouts brought in new blues, jazz and Cajun bands from all over the country. If the music really pleased him, he’d go as far as country or pop.
As often as not, the acts he booked drew attention from big name musicians who were playing in town or simply had come to New Orleans for the food and some fun. They’d get up on stage with the new talent a
nd everyone would have a real good time.
Jean Baptiste and his genius at finding oil had made it all possible.
Well, that and his appreciation for Tom T. raising him right.
Tom knew the love between him and J.B. would never fade, but he wasn’t too sure how much longer oil would be king in the energy field. Natural gas was coming on real strong. Electricity was on the rise with new battery technology advancing almost every day. He’d bet it wouldn’t be much more than ten years before half the cars on the road in the U.S. were electric. After that, it’d be the blink of an eye before the rest of them were electric, too.
Of course, as rich as he was, the last drop of oil in the world could be burned tomorrow and he could live a thousand years and not go broke — unless all the banks collapsed and looked like they might take the government with them. Then Washington might call in all the old money and issue IOUs or something.
He didn’t expect anything like that to happen, but between the crooks on Wall Street and the fools in Washington, he didn’t put some mega-catastrophe beyond the realm of possibility. You grew up poor, there was always the haunting fear that poor was what you were meant to be. Where you’d wind up, long enough to make your life miserable before it ended altogether.
Tom never shared his fears with anyone, but they were the reason he continued to believe in giving the little guy and gal a fair shake. Why he kept working at a trade he’d seen could carry him through tough times.
Sitting across a table from Senator Howard Hurlbert after the place had closed to the public, Tom poured Hurlbert a shot of George Dickel with a neat twist of his wrist. He did the same for himself.
“To noble ventures,” Tom said.
Hurlbert nodded. They touched their glasses together and drank.
Tom said, “Bobby Beckley came by the other day, looking for money. I’d heard what he’d done to his wife, his second wife. Probably did the same to the first one. I told him to take his sorry ass out the door before I put some more hurt on it. I cannot abide a man who takes a hand to a woman. It’s a despicable thing to do. My father had every reason in the world to bust my mother’s nose, but he never touched her. I’ve followed his example.”
“It was terrible,” Hurlbert agreed. “I fired him immediately.”
Tom thought the senator must have known what kind of man his chief of staff and campaign manager was. There had to be times when he’d seen Beckley’s bruised knuckles and unmarked face. There was only one way a man showed that combination. He’d battered someone who never had a chance to fight back.
But Tom wasn’t going to make that point. Not right away.
“The way I figure things,” Tom said, “Beckley’s going to find someone else to bankroll him and then he’s going to come back to you. He’ll want to run your campaign through a front man.”
“I’d never allow that,” Hurlbert said.
“Another way things might go is you find yourself another rich man to bankroll you. True South gained quite a few members when the senate rammed Governor Morrissey through to be vice president. It’s not hard to imagine the same thing happening when the president gets her choices put on the Supreme Court. True South might become a real power, and you started it all. Money will be coming your way, Senator.”
Hurlbert smiled and reached for the bottle. “May I?”
Tom nodded. “Be my guest.”
The senator told him, “I expect you’re right about the money, and with enough of it just about anything is possible. I might have a better chance of becoming president than even I would have thought possible.”
“You might,” Tom agreed. “The question is, what kind of president do you want to be?”
Hurlbert leaned forward. “I’m afraid Huey Long won’t be my role model.”
“Don’t you feel anything for the ordinary working man and woman?”
The senator downed his drink and poured another shot without asking permission.
“I’ve never been an ordinary working man. I prefer the company of my own kind.”
Before Hurlbert could drink, Tom took the glass out of his hand.
The senator was not pleased. Looked like he might get up and leave.
Tome held up a hand to forestall his departure.
“You should know, Senator, that before I invest my money in anyone, I have them checked out right down to the baby shoes their mamas bronzed for them. I did the same with you before we met up in Washington. My people delivered a big old file to me. I haven’t read it yet because I figured I didn’t need to know all your misdeeds if I wasn’t interested in backing you. But then I saw you’re a malleable fella. You’ll go where the money leads you.”
Hurlbert was stuck on an earlier point. “You had me investigated?”
“Thoroughly, like I just mentioned. So here’s the deal. You’re going to take my money and nobody else’s. You will follow the gospel of Brother Huey Long. You’ll do what I tell you or I will read that big ol’ file of your sins and improprieties, and instead of spending a pile of money on getting you elected, I’ll use it to destroy you.”
Tom returned the glass to Hurlbert. Filled his glass, too, and raised it.
“What do you say, Senator? Shall we drink to our new understanding?”
Hurlbert saw no sign Tom T. Wright was bluffing.
He touched Tom’s glass with his.
“Noble ventures,” Senator Hurlbert said.
A half-hour after Senator Howard Hurlbert had departed the bar on Bourbon Street, Tom placed a call to Supreme Court nominee Senator Daniel Crockett in Washington, D.C.
Tom told him, “Hurlbert’s our boy. We own him top to bottom.”
Crockett responded, “Once the damn fool started his new party, the only thing to do was hijack it.”
“You ought to be the one running for president.”
Crockett laughed. “I thought about it. Then I asked myself, why would I want to be limited to four years or eight? I just got nominated to a lifetime appointment.”
“Where you’ll have only one of nine votes.”
“Listen, Tom. Craig MacLaren is going to be the chief, but you just wait and see who’s going to be writing most of the majority opinions.”
“You saying you’ll have a lot of influence?”
“I’m saying I’ll leave my mark. One that’s going to last a long time.”
“How’re you going to feel if Hurlbert winds up winning?”
Crockett said, “He won’t, but he could make things interesting.”
Florida Avenue — Washington, D.C.
From behind a tree, across the street from her townhouse, Sweetie saw Jim McGill walk down the street, using his cane. No cavalry. No Elspeth Kendry or Deke Ky. Not even Leo Levy driving Jim in the armored Chevy. He looked for all the world like a guy with a bum leg out doing his nightly rehab walk.
Sweetie didn’t buy it for a minute.
That wasn’t the point. People who didn’t know better might buy it. Take a chance of doing him in while the opportunity presented itself. If someone made a move on him, she’d bet all sorts of people with guns would storm out of the darkness. Zero in on any threat and —
They might think she was one of the bad guys, if somebody got anxious.
Sweetie momentarily stepped out from behind the tree. A now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t move. McGill saw her, gave a nod and tucked his chin to his collar and whispered something.
He walked right past her front door and kept going. Turned the corner and disappeared.
Sweetie watched her front door. Hoped that someone would come out and follow McGill. Or just leave with a pillow case filled with stolen goods. Either of those things would give her something to work with, but minutes ticked by and nothing happened.
Not until two Metro police cars pulled up in front of her house and put their spotlights on the front doors and windows. Several unmarked sedans, including McGill’s Chevy, pulled up behind the patrol units. A SWAT truck was the last vehicle to arrive
before more Metro cars sealed both ends of the block.
The SWAT team ran up the front steps behind their shields, knocked the front door off its hinges and ran inside. Lights went on inside, downstairs and then on the second floor. A moment later, the team filed out, their lieutenant calling out, “All clear.”
Sweetie tucked her Beretta back into its holster and stepped out into the open with her hands raised. Always better to look foolish, she thought, than get shot by someone who was still keyed up. McGill saw her and smiled.
“Told you I’d bring the cavalry,” he said.
Elspeth and Deke were there now. So was Special Agent Latz, recovered from when he’d been shot last year. It was good to see him again. Deputy Director Byron DeWitt was there for the FBI. There was even a tech guy from the CIA who didn’t give his name.
Sweetie told McGill, “I think you forgot the National Park Service.”
“I did, but we’ve got the NSA listening in on everybody’s phone calls, looking for any mention of your name or mine.”
At first, Sweetie thought she was being kidded, but then she thought probably not.
DeWitt showed her several variations on an image of Olin Anderson. Some clean shaven, some bearded. Some with hair, some with a bare pate. All Sweetie needed to see was the scar.
“That’s him,” she said.
The CIA guy said, “I’ll check to see if he planted any microphones or cameras inside. We’ll leave them in place, piggyback their frequency and see where the transmissions lead.”
“How about putting my door back on straight?” Sweetie asked.
“Not my job, but I’ll make a call.”
“Thanks.”
“How’d you get across the street, Margaret?” Deke asked.
“Went straight out the basement door. Walked down to the corner just like Jim did, like I didn’t know anything was wrong. Went around the block and came back sneaky.”
Elspeth said, “Unless the guy was looking right at you when you came out of the building, acting innocent and ignorant was your best choice.”
“Yeah,” Sweetie said.
