by Josie Brown
No wonder Jenna had sounded so anxious on the phone last night. Besides whatever the Enquirer was paying, apparently she’d hoped to get her cash before the Couric interview aired.
Calder turned icy cold. “Let me get this right, Brinker: In other words, you blew her off?”
“No, not exactly. I mean—”
“Save it, Kiss Ass. For once, you may have done me a favor. At least I saved a few thousand there.” Calder’s cruel chortle sent chills up Ben’s spine. “It’ll be a cold day in hell when that cunt sees another buck from me. Her little gravy train is over. And so is yours, Brinker. It was your incompetence that lost me the election.”
It was all Ben could do not to shout back into the phone, You did this to yourself, shithead. If you’d loosened your wallet, she would have kept quiet forever.
Instead he took a deep breath. “Can I help it that the Enquirer made her a better offer?”
His retort was met with silence. Then Calder hissed: “That’s my point, you fucking moron. You should have come up with a more permanent solution. Like offing the bitch.”
What the hell?
Yeah, okay. Lying to the media, to donors, even to his candidates’ wives was one thing. And these days a payoff (to a dirty cop who could be convinced to “lose” an arrest warrant, or a blackmailer, let alone a loudmouth mistress) was just business as usual. But arranging a hit?
No, even I won’t sink that low, thought Ben.
Ben knew the bartender had overheard Calder’s taunt, too, because the stocky Irishman stopped polishing the counter mid-wipe and scrutinized him through hooded eyes. Ben pretended not to notice, but a moist trickle of shame inched its way down his back.
He turned his head in the hope of deflecting the man’s stare. Then with as much dignity as he could muster, he muttered, “Seriously, Congressman, what do you take me for, some sort of thug?”
Calder cackled so hard that Ben had to hold the iPhone away from his ear. “A ‘thug’? Frankly, that would be a step up for you, Brinker. Hell, a cockroach would be a promotion. For Christ sake, you’re just a fucking political consultant. Or have you forgotten that?”
If the cell hadn’t chirped as the line went dead, Ben would have faked some sort of face-saving kiss-off for the benefit of the bartender and anyone else who was still listening, but why bother? Everyone was watching the television, anyway.
Ben’s eyes gravitated there too when he realized what they were staring at: his photo, which had suddenly appeared on the television screen as Matthews spit out his name:
“—Is it just me, or has there been an epidemic of political scandals lately? Seems like the only thing they have in common is the same political consultant: Ben Brinker. Remember the congressman from Utah who was caught last month soliciting teenage girls over the Internet?”
The screen cut back to the pundits. “Well, yeah, that was Ben’s candidate, too.” Begala’s nod was accompanied with a grimace. “But hey, Chris, we political consultants don’t carry crystal balls. And the ‘Mr. Smith Goes to Washington’ types are few and far between—”
“If I remember correctly, Brinker also handled that governor who recently got indicted in a construction kickback scandal.” Bay shook her head in disgust. “And didn’t he work on the campaign of that senator whose diplomatic aspirations went up in smoke faster than you could say ‘back taxes’? Whitewashing the depraved makes you just as culpable, in my book.”
“Granted, there are some pathetic losers up on the Hill, but there are also some really great statesmen—and stateswomen.” Chris was just warming up. “They just don’t hire creeps like Brinker.”
“Bottom line is that Brinker’s the best at putting lipstick on pigs and running them for office.” Arianna’s icy chuckle pierced right through Ben. “But seriously, how many political consultants can survive in D.C. with those kind of ‘see-no-evil, hear-no-evil’ antics? It may work if you’re a candidate’s wife, but not a campaign strategist who wants to stay on K Street.”
Damn, that’s harsh, hon. Well then hell, don’t count on me blogging anytime on HuffPo...Yeah, okay, so it’s a long shot that, after this Calder crap, you’ll ever ask me again.
“Nah, something else is going on here!” Matthews was on a roll. “Maybe some lousy karma. ‘Bad Luck Brinker’ is some sort of political cooler who jinxes his candidates’ chances—”
This set off a cacophony of supposition, innuendo and balls-to-the-wall blarney from his guests. Above it all Matthews roared his patented, “Tell me something I don’t know! Be right back–”
All eyes in the bar turned to Ben.
Hit with the realization that his income stream had just dried up—worse yet, that he wouldn’t be able to replace it because he’d never live down this latest humiliation—the Tilt’n Diner’s signature whoopee cake pie crawled back up Ben’s throat, along with his Glenlivet neat.
Swallowing hard, he tossed a ten on the bar and, with what dignity he could muster, walked to the men’s room.
Once inside, he kicked open an empty stall, and promptly threw up.
“I never thought I’d ever hear from you again.” It was Jenna’s idea that they meet far out of town, and suggested Brookside Gardens, in Silver Spring. Ben could see why. Ever since the Couric interview, the media had been hounding her like a pack of wolves. At this frigid time of year, the gardens would be empty.
Of course, the last thing he needed was any further association with Calder, or with Jenna either, for that matter. But no; he had to do this one last thing.
Ben hardly recognized her. Not only was she thinner and more haggard but for once she didn’t have Cole at her side. “Where’s the little guy?”
“With his physical therapist, so I don’t have much time.” Jenna’s eyes darted constantly as she scanned the empty rows of bushes, as if someone might be lurking. He couldn’t blame her for being antsy. Still, knowing her, he had no doubt that she was too ashamed to look him in the eye. “So what do you want, Ben?”
“Here. Take this.” He opened the bag he was carrying and pulled out a book: David Copperfield.
She stared down at it, puzzled. “Is this for Cole?”
“Yeah, you could say that. There’s a hundred dollar bill at the beginning of every other chapter. It’s not much, but still. I know you can use it.”
Tears glazed her soft brown eyes. “But—I thought, after last night...He wants me to have it anyway?”
Ben shrugged. “We both know Dick better than that.”
“Jeez, Ben, he’ll hit the roof when he finds out you did this.” The hand she laid on top of his was the one with which she’d wiped away her tears. The dampness comforted him.
“I don’t give a flying fuck. And neither should you. Besides, the way I had the account set up, there’s nothing he can do about it.” He sighed. “Not that it matters now, but just out of curiosity, how much did you get for the interview anyway? It better have been worth it.”
“A quarter of a million.”
Ben winced. “Damn, Jenna. There was eight times that amount in Cole’s account. Between the two of us we’d have convinced him to raise your allowance.”
“Like you said—we both know Dick better than that.”
“But you know me, too. Jenna. Do you think I could have done that to you? To Cole?”
Her lip trembled, but she held her head steady. “Not in a million years—once upon a time. But I couldn’t risk finding out the hard way you weren’t that guy anymore.” She hugged the book to her chest. “I’m sorry, Ben. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive.” Because he knew she was right. In this town you were judged by the company you kept.
And right now Ben had no friends.
Then he remembered Andrew Mansfield’s offer.
Chapter 3
“If Mansfield offers you a job, you’d be a fool to turn it down.”
Supreme Court Justice Roberta Gordon was knee deep in manure—literally—and loving it. Mulching her organi
c garden with the stuff was her favorite way to pass a blustery winter weekend.
And because Ben would always appreciate everything she’d done for him, he hung in there with her, even though the stench was nearly intolerable.
While a college freshman at Berkeley, he had worked on Roberta’s first campaign for California state attorney general. By her third term in that position, he was advising her re-election bid, along with the campaigns of a half-dozen other politicians in the state. It was during that term that she had been nominated for a seat on the U.S. Supreme Court.
In time Ben’s own successes also brought him to Washington. Many of the candidates he’d worked for had heard about him from Roberta, who sang Ben’s praises to anyone who asked.
His loyalty to her was just as steadfast. In fact, she was the only politician he’d ever truly come to trust.
Sadly, she was also the only woman who’d earned his trust. Which was why he’d asked her, on numerous occasions, to just name the day and he’d marry her.
Without fail, she’d blush at the thought, then mutter, “Why Benjamin Brinker, I’m old enough to be your mother! Besides, if I wanted my very own boy toy, I’d certainly choose someone a bit younger—although your upper body definition isn’t bad for someone of your age. That said, you’ve only yourself to blame if you can’t find a woman who’ll put up with you.”
Today though, instead of debating their chances of marital bliss, she kept him focused on a topic he refused to take seriously: why he should take Andy Mansfield up on his offer to run his campaign.
He knew she meant business when she dumped a wheelbarrow of cow dung onto the rosebushes then clapped her hands to indicate that it was his duty to spread it around. “Seriously, Ben, when did you give up believing that candidates should stand for something? Otherwise you’re no better than a K Streeter, or a beltway bandit.”
“Ouch, Roberta! That’s cruel.”
“The truth hurts more than a smack upside the head. Although lately I’ve been tempted to give you the latter.” Her smile faded. “You couldn’t do any better than Andy Mansfield. And let’s face it: he certainly votes with more care than a lot of our clan.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Gingerly he patted the manure around a bush tagged Pink Double Knock Out. If she insisted on these hands-on tête-à-têtes, the very least she could do was provide a facemask. As it was, the only thing that saved him from heaving his Five Guys burger into the dung heap were the thick gloves she’d tossed his way. He smiled slyly. “Why are you so enthralled with this guy, anyway? You can break it to me gently: Should I be jealous?”
“Ha! You just wish someone would sweep me off my feet so you’d be off the hook.” Dusting the dirt from her sleeves, she stood up and surveyed his handiwork. The glint in her eye told him he could now plop down on one of the two sun-bleached Adirondacks and pour himself a hot toddy from the thermos on the side table. “Besides, Mansfield is head over heels in love with that sweet Vandergalen heiress he married, so that will never happen.”
At least with Mansfield I won’t have to worry about bimbo eruptions, thought Ben.
“I’ll bet you didn’t know that he’s the only member of this Congress who has ever argued a case in front of the Supreme Court, and won.” Roberta took a satisfying sip.
“Ha. No wonder you’re so high on the dude.”
“Darn tootin’ I’m high on him. During his summation, he was succinct, reverential, and quite persuasive. He even had our esteemed chief justice eating out of his hand.” She shook her head, marveling. “It was about two years before he was elected senator. The case revolved around a convicted alien’s rights: some guy from Venezuela who’d had the misfortune to get arrested driving a stolen car. Turned out the car had been stolen by his employer, but they were going to deport the Venezuelan anyway. The suit was filed against the U.S. Attorney General’s office.”
“Interesting that the client was Venezuelan. That was right before Padilla toppled Chávez’s handpicked goon, wasn’t it? I would have guessed that a boy scout like Mansfield wouldn’t have taken it on. Considering Talbot needs his own Axis of Evil, Venezuela gives our creepy veep a great place to start. He’s made it his mission to crucify anyone Venezuelan—that is, until his puppet dictator was in place.”
“That’s why you two would make such a great team. I’m just being selfish.” Roberta pulled off her gloves. “Ben, I have something to tell you, in the strictest confidence. I’m leaving the bench. I’m turning in my resignation on New Year’s Eve.”
Ben dropped the manure with a thud. “But you love the court! You were meant to be there, Roberta. The way it stands now, you’re its moral compass.”
Roberta laughed. “That is certainly kind of you to say. But sadly, the doctors give Mother just six months to live. She raised me on her own, Benjamin. We didn’t have a pot to piss in, but she worked day and night so that I could finish college, and then continue on to law school. This is the least I can do for her. All the more reason I should leave now, while Barksdale is still president. Should the vice president take his place…”
She was too upset to finish the sentence.
She didn’t have to. He knew what she meant.
It was why she was pushing so hard for Mansfield.
Roberta stood directly in front of the December sun. It radiated around her like a halo.
How appropriate, he thought. She’s an archangel seeking justice for all mankind.
“Why not help elect a man who follows his own convictions? Maybe he’ll rub off on you a little. Remember, Benjamin, in the final analysis it’s not the party; it’s the candidate and his platform. Consider it your shot at redemption.” She pointed to the manure. “Now, no more lollygagging! It’s time to mulch the hydrangeas.”
——————————
Venezuela’s Padilla Nationalizes USCo Oil
After Failed Takeover
12/31 - CARACAS (Reuters) – Venezuela’s president, Manolo Padilla, announced today that he has nationalized USCo Oil Corporation’s multibillion-dollar investments in the country’s massive Orinoco reserve.
Whereas four other oil companies have agreed to negotiate deals involving current and future participation in projects based in Venezuela, USCo, the United States’ largest oil producer, refused to sign an accord that, in effect, would have transferred operations of the six heavy crude upgrading projects to Padilla’s Ministry of Petroleum.
The Venezuelan president also ruled out paying cash compensation, or buying the debt they took on to develop the projects.
——————————
Chapter 4
It was Vice President Talbot’s idea, and Smith had to admit, it was sheer genius: Whenever the two men had the need to talk, the vice president gave Carl, his usual Secret Service driver, the day off. Then he had his assistant, Eloise, call in Mr. Smith as Carl’s substitute. Having once been in the Service (Presidential Protection Detail, in fact) and the Agency, Smith already had all the necessary security clearances.
There, in the privacy of Talbot’s armored limo, the two discussed anything they wanted. On that crisp, frigid first morning of the New Year, the topic at hand was the undoing of a government.
Specifically, that of Venezuela’s dictator, Manolo Padilla.
Since Padilla’s ousting of USCo Petroleum that morning, Mr. Smith had been anticipating the vice president’s call. That Talbot had waited until that evening had demonstrated unusual restraint on his part.
“Already the old men are on the warpath! Do you know how much of a financial loss this means? And trust me, it’s not just the USCo holdings that are at stake here.” Talbot’s breathing was labored. Whenever he was upset, like now, he paused between words.
What a sniveling pussy, Smith thought, but he kept his mouth shut and let the other man rant. The limo, flanked front, back and on both sides by the usual battalion of black SUVs loaded down with Talbot’s Secret Service detail, was supposed to be on its way to the
White House, where he was to join Mrs. Talbot, who was already with the president and his family, ringing in the New Year. But at Talbot’s behest, Smith went by way of the National Mall. Talbot’s favorite monument was the Lincoln Memorial. It gave Smith a chuckle to think of the vice president attempting to channel Honest Abe.
“That bastard Padilla has started the process of cutting us off from our oil supply! The Chinese are filling the void in purchasing it quite handily. He’s taking all those yuans and buying guns from those Russian whores, as if it’s World War III already! And considering how the rest of South America feels about his oil—and about us–he won’t have any problem carrying out that little fantasy.” Talbot leaned forward and lowered his voice to a hiss. “And if he does, Smith, it’s all your fault. If I remember correctly, when we liberated Venezuela from Maduro, it was you who suggested that we lend him our support, and all that implies.”
Smith blinked, but said nothing. He’d anticipated that accusation since the moment Talbot had squeezed his stocky girth into the backseat of the limo. Someone else was always the fall guy, right? Well, unfortunately for Talbot, Smith wasn’t going to fall on his sword, let alone put a bullet behind his own ear. And Talbot knew better than to sell him out.
If he ever tried, Smith had a few insurance policies to cover that scenario.
“Something’s got to be done about it immediately.” Talbot leaned back with a grunt. “In fact, the timing couldn’t be better, now that the mid-terms are over.”
“We’ll never be able to take him out in some covert op. He knows us too well.”
“You’re disappointing me.” Talbot met Smith’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
