The Power Broker

by Stephen Frey

  Like Samuel Hewitt, Jesse was blessed with charisma, but they were different. Hewitt’s power was darker, not menacing but more reserved. Jesse seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, like he had at Forest Hills and Wimbledon after a great shot or bad break. But, unlike a lot of people, it worked for Jesse. He made you smile when he smiled, made you feel down when he frowned. You connected with his enthusiasm and his frustration right away—you weren’t put off by either one, no, you gravitated to both—which was an incredible gift for a politician. At the same time, you still knew Jesse meant business. Jesse was made for television, Hewitt for the boardroom. They’d both chosen the right careers.

  Jesse turned to Osgood and Stephanie. “You’re in the presence of greatness, folks. Christian Gillette has probably made more money for investors than any other man alive.”

  Christian laughed. “I don’t know about that.” He extended his hand to Osgood. “Hi, Clarence, good to see you again.”

  “And I’m Stephanie Childress,” the woman said, leaning in. “Jesse’s PR person.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.” A heavy scent drifted to Christian’s nostrils as he took Stephanie’s hand, and he had to keep from wincing. The perfume smelled good, but there was too much.

  “You’ll be spending a lot of time with Clarence and Stephanie over the next few months,” Jesse said, the million-dollar smile appearing. “At least, I hope you will.” He turned his head to the side and put a hand to one ear. “I’m waiting, Christian. Do I really have to ask?”

  Christian hesitated. “Let’s talk.” He gestured toward the couches in one corner of the Waldorf-Astoria suite. Fortunately they’d been able to keep this meeting quiet. There hadn’t been any cameras in the lobby or on Park Avenue when either of them had arrived. “Over here.”

  “I’m getting nervous, Clarence,” Jesse said loudly, elbowing Osgood as they headed for the couches. “I thought I’d get an answer right away.”

  Osgood chuckled. “Me, too.”

  Stephanie and Christian sat on one couch, Osgood and Jesse on the other. Christian hadn’t asked anyone from his side to join him for the meeting, not even Quentin. He wanted to do this alone.

  When they were settled, Christian grinned and looked around innocently. “So, Jesse, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

  They all laughed. The ice was broken.

  “I heard you were a cool cat,” Jesse said, standing up and taking off his suit jacket. “Guess I heard right.”

  “What else did you hear?” Christian liked these people, mostly because they seemed to like each other.

  Jesse folded the jacket and laid it neatly over the arm of the couch, then sat back down. “I heard I couldn’t possibly pick a better running mate,” he answered. “I heard that no one around works harder, that you finish what you start, and that you’re tough but fair.”

  “You heard a lot.”

  “All good, too.”

  “Most of America doesn’t know me.”

  Jesse glanced at Osgood, then Stephanie. “Oh, I think people know who you are. Remember, a few years ago you were in the papers every day.”

  Christian shook his head. “Jesse, that was—”

  Jesse held his hands up. “It’s all right, I—”

  “We did some digging around Washington,” Osgood broke in. “Spoke to some people over at the CIA, in the Directorate of Operations, specifically. We know you’re a hero. We know what you did.”

  Stephanie smiled at Christian. “It was amazing, really.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you’ve been all over the business mags for a while. Wall Street loves you.”

  “Now, I do know people on the Street,” Christian agreed.

  “You’ve got star power,” Jesse said firmly. “You look great in person and on camera. Lots of people already know you and lots of people knew your father. Including a lot of important folks on both sides of the aisle in Washington. Clayton was a great man.”

  Osgood and Stephanie nodded.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I also heard you were self-made, which, of course, hits home for me.” Jesse stared straight into Christian’s eyes. “I heard your stepmother didn’t treat you very well after your father died in that plane crash.”

  Christian started to ask Jesse how he’d heard that, but it would have been a stupid question. There were lots of ways Jesse could have found out, and he wasn’t going to get a straight answer. Jesse wasn’t going to give away his sources any more than Christian would give away his. “No, she didn’t.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying so,” Stephanie spoke up, “but, honey, you’ll help us do very well with the female half of the population simply by standing in front of the camera. You’ll get votes just by flashing those beautiful gray eyes. Like Bill Clinton did by talking with those beautiful hands of his.”

  Jesse nodded. “Yup. We know that, we’ve tested you already.”

  Christian grinned stiffly. “Let’s give women in this country a little more credit than that.”

  Osgood chuckled. “Already talking like a man who’s been in the game for years.”

  “It’s in the genes,” Jesse said to Osgood. “He’s a natural. Now, you hired Ray Lancaster to be the head coach and GM of your new NFL franchise, the Dice, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you brought in a guy named Quentin Stiles to be a managing partner at Everest Capital?”

  Christian knew exactly where Jesse was headed, and it didn’t feel good. He’d hired Quentin and Lancaster because he sincerely believed they were the best people for the jobs, not because of their skin color. But this was politics, he realized. “Yes.”

  “Both of them are black, right?”

  “Yes, but it’s not like I—”

  “It’s perfect,” Jesse interrupted, looking over at Osgood. “Just perfect, Clarence.” He leaned forward. “I’m not going to beat around the bush anymore, Christian. I want you to be my vice president. I want you with me in November.”

  Christian took a deep breath and eased back onto the couch, aware that all three of them were watching him closely. Finally, the official invitation. Christian Gillette, vice president of the United States of America. His father would have been so proud, even if it was the wrong ticket. “Don’t you want to ask one of the other candidates if you win? Isn’t that usually how it works?”

  Jesse shook his head hard. “They’re all tired names; they’ve all said the same crap for years and it hasn’t worked. No one’s buying it or them. That’s why I’m going to win the nomination. I’m fresh, with new ideas, and that’s why I want you. You’re just like me.”

  Jesse seemed right about the American public being tired of his opponents. Christian had called Samuel Hewitt yesterday in Dallas to make certain he’d gotten the Laurel Energy book. After promising to get back to him on that quickly, Hewitt had wanted to talk more about Christian being Jesse’s running mate. Hewitt had made the same point as Jesse just had: The other Democrats didn’t bring anything new to the table, and Christian had far more star power than any of them.

  “If you were nominated at the convention, when would you announce me as your running mate?” Christian asked.

  “We haven’t decided exactly,” Osgood replied for Jesse.

  “Might even be at the convention,” Jesse said. “You said it yourself—you aren’t really a household name, so I might want you to get as much camera time as possible right away. If you’re standing up there with me on the stage, it might be good.”

  “But,” Stephanie broke in, “as Clarence said, we haven’t firmed that up yet.”

  “I understand.”

  They were all silent for a few moments.

  “So?” Jesse asked, motioning to Christian, “are you in? I mean, I know we have to sit down and have a long discussion about my platform before you could give me a final answer and, candidly, for me to make a final decision on you. I’d want you to completely understand where I inte
nd to go over the next eight years, and I’d need to be comfortable that you were with me on everything. A lot of people will be surprised to see you alongside me, given that your father was a Republican and all.”

  “I know,” Christian agreed. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that.”

  “I don’t have a problem with it,” Jesse said quickly. “That doesn’t bother me at all, as long as I know you’d be with me a hundred percent.”

  “I don’t accept any offer unless I’m with it a hundred percent.”

  “No, I guess you don’t.” Jesse glanced at Osgood, then back at Christian. “Well, can you at least give me an initial answer now?”

  “I have to talk to a few people.”

  Jesse rolled his eyes and groaned. “How long is that going to take?”

  “Not long.”

  “Okay, fine.” Jesse stood up and grabbed his jacket off the couch. “Well, let us know.” He started for the door, then stopped and turned around. “I’m sure I don’t need to ask you, but there aren’t any skeletons in your closet, are there? Anything that could throw the train off the tracks once we really get momentum?”

  Christian’s mind flashed to CST, to Vivian Davis and the SEC, and to the guy he and Quentin had caught in the woods. They’d gotten the guy’s camera, then questioned him, threatening to take him to the cops. But he hadn’t told them anything, and they’d been forced to let him go. What else could they do? The cops weren’t going to do anything to him. More to the point, Christian didn’t want them asking the guy what he was doing in the woods.

  What had bothered Christian about that whole incident most was that it proved to him there was another motive to the bribe. Somebody wanted him on film handing money to the Mob. Given that, what made everything even stranger was that yesterday the Dice Casino had passed a second surprise plumbing inspection. Just like that, from failing miserably to passing with flying colors in less than a week. The electrical inspector had called this morning to say he was coming back out, too, and that they might be able to settle everything without ripping all the wiring out of those three floors. The project manager in Las Vegas had told Christian that both inspectors couldn’t have been friendlier. It was night and day. It seemed, now that he’d paid the bribe, he was going to get his casino.

  “We’ll ask you to go through a very intense background scrub if you tell us you’re interested in running with Jesse,” Osgood explained. “I’m sure you’d expect that, but it would make things a lot easier if you told us now that there was something bad we should know about.”

  “Look, I know everybody makes enemies in business,” Jesse added. “That doesn’t bother me at all. You know what we’re asking.”

  “There’s nothing like that,” Christian said firmly, jaw set. “And I will get back to you quickly.”

  Jesse motioned for Osgood and Stephanie to leave. “Give me a minute alone with him,” he muttered to them as they passed. When they were gone, he moved to where Christian stood. “I want you with me, Christian. We can do great things together. And,” he said, his tone growing stronger, “remember this. This is the first step toward fulfilling your father’s dream of being president. Eight years from now, God willing, you’ll finish what he started.”

  FRANKLIN LAIRD walked out of a high-end jewelry store in northern Virginia and headed across the parking lot toward his car. He’d just ordered his wife a gorgeous diamond ring—four carats—to commemorate the fiftieth wedding anniversary they’d celebrate next month. She was out in California visiting their daughter, so he had a few days to play. He was going to watch some of his favorite movies, then rendezvous with his personal assistant. His wife didn’t suspect anything. Life was beautiful.

  Laird didn’t see the dark blue sedan whip out of a parking space behind him, didn’t realize what was happening until he heard the engine roar and turned—directly into the vehicle racing straight at him.

  The impact hurled Laird a hundred feet. He was dead even before his body tumbled to a stop against a curb at the far end of the parking lot.

  The police would later term the killing a random hit-and-run, and right away determine that the case would be almost impossible to solve. No one had seen the incident, no one had seen anyone acting suspiciously, and whoever was driving was long gone.

  WHEN THEY’D all climbed into the limousine waiting outside the Waldorf and the door was shut, Osgood looked over at Jesse. “You okay?”

  Jesse rubbed his chin hard. “I don’t need Gillette, Clarence. This country’s ready for me, with or without that guy. It kills me that I’ve got to do what Elijah Forte tells me to do. I’m not going to be some kind of puppet,” he said angrily. “I’m not.”

  “Easy, Jesse,” Osgood urged, “easy.”

  “Maybe he’ll say no,” Stephanie suggested. “He sure didn’t jump all over the opportunity back there when you asked.”

  “No chance,” Jesse said. “Gillette’ll accept. He’s just being careful, that’s all. He’s doing it right, thinking it through. But he’ll say yes. I saw it in his eyes.”

  Osgood looked out the window glumly. “Then we have to hope his background check turns up something.”

  “Maybe not, Clarence,” Jesse said after a few moments. “Maybe there’s another way.”

  “What do you mean?” Osgood’s voice was low.

  “Maybe I’m underestimating my own popularity, my own power. Maybe I don’t have to listen to Elijah Forte anymore. Maybe I don’t need his money and his backing. Maybe I can pick my own man at this point.”

  “Forte wants Gillette,” Stephanie said firmly. “He’s made that very clear. He thinks Gillette will play well with blacks and Hispanics, do well with the left, and hook Wall Street. He thinks Gillette will give you that boost with whites you need to win.”

  “Yeah yeah, I’ve heard that a hundred times,” Jesse said with a roll of his eyes and a groan. “But he’s wrong. I think we can do it without Whitey.”

  “Well…there’s that thing,” Stephanie reminded Jesse. “That thing Forte keeps hinting about.”

  Forte had never talked about what he claimed he had in front of Stephanie and Osgood, but Jesse had told them about the threats. He trusted them both as though they were family. “Elijah’s bluffing. I don’t think he has anything on me. But, if by some remote chance he does, he’d have just as much to lose as I would if he used it. His whole plan, what he and the other Shadows have been wanting for so long, a black man in the White House. All that would go up in smoke.”

  “Yeah, but your whole career would go up in smoke,” Osgood pointed out. “Including your chance to make history, to be the first black president.”

  Jesse didn’t like that Osgood thought there might even be a possibility that Forte had something.

  “Assume he has something,” Osgood said. “What could it be?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve thought about it over and over, and I don’t know. I’ve told you that so many times.” Jesse looked at Stephanie. “You have any idea?”

  She shook her head quickly.

  “Do you really want to find out if he’s got something?” Osgood asked nervously. “Things are going pretty well right now. Do you really want to push it? Do you really want to find out if he’s bluffing?”

  Jesse thought about the question for a few moments. “I just might, Clarence, I just might.”

  TODD HARRISON answered the phone on the first ring. “Hello.”

  “Harrison?”

  The voice at the other end of the line was barely audible. “Who is this?”

  “Don Roth.”

  Harrison’s shoulders sagged. “Jesus, I’ve been waiting for your call. It’s been a while. I figured you forgot about me.”

  “I couldn’t call until now.”

  “Why?”

  “I just couldn’t.”

  Roth sounded low, not his usual strong self.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, you still want to look around out here?”
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  “Absolutely,” Harrison said.

  “You still got that picture?”

  “Picture?”

  “Of the old man,” Roth explained. “The picture you took of the old man who told you the story that night in the bar.”

  “Yes,” Harrison replied hesitantly. “I got it.”

  “What about that property form? That thing you found in the old courthouse up the coast. Got that, too?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “All right, well, meet me in town the day after tomorrow. Same time, same place. You can follow me out here. Bring that stuff with you. I want to see it.”

  “Okay,” Harrison agreed, “but I’m going to have a friend along with me.” There was dead air for a few moments.

  “Sure, sure,” Roth finally said. “That’s fine.”

  “See you then.”

  “Right.”

  A cold wave coursed through Harrison’s body as he put the phone down. For a long time, he’d been hoping he could get out to Champagne Island to look around. Now that he finally had the chance, he wasn’t sure it was such a good idea.

  STEWART MASSEY clambered down the muddy bank to the lake, checking for rattlesnakes as he negotiated the slope. There were lots of them out here—he’d run into them before—but as long as you were careful, they weren’t a problem.

  Massey glanced up at the clear blue sky as he reached the water’s edge and took a deep breath. He loved it out here—a remote section of a friend’s ranch fifty miles outside Oklahoma City. It offered some of the best largemouth bass fishing around, and he’d fished a lot of places. There wasn’t much he liked doing more than fishing. He often wished Hewitt liked to fish. They were such good friends, it would have been fun to do together, but Hewitt was a hunter. Hewitt liked blasting the hell out of deer with his grandson, and Massey didn’t like hunting. Too messy.

  Massey buckled the straps of the hip waders around his belt and moved into the water until he was knee deep, then brought the rod back and hurled the rattle-trap far out into the lake.