by Thomas Ross
“I don’t know.”
“Well, the Candidate put him on the payroll as you suggested so maybe somebody should tell him to leave the blackjack home.”
“Why?” I said. “The campaign’s still got two months to go. Maybe it’ll come in handy.”
“You may be right,” he said. “The Candidate also asked me to find out what you want. I told him I’d ask.”
I took a swallow of my gin and got up. “I don’t want anything,” I said.
“Nothing at all?”
“Not anything that anybody can give me,” I said and used the bamboo pole to pull the swing in. The Senator put down his drink and stood up, remembering to suck in his stomach so that it wouldn’t bulge out over his trunks. He climbed up on to the porch rail, grasped the rope, and pushed off. As I watched the Senator fall, I wondered what the weather would be like in Dubrovnik.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 1977 by Ross Thomas
cover design by Jason Gabbert
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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