by Josie Brown
“For that matter, Exbury also has a bus to take the children on field trips. It’s hard for working parents to take time off for carpooling,” another parent points out.
“They have to work pretty hard to pay Exbury’s twenty-thousand-dollar annual tuition,” a father mutters in a loud voice.
Nervous laugher crackles through the room, but no one wants to voice the obvious: even posh little Hilldale has become a community of haves and have-nots.
A third mom adds, “Why does St. Jasper’s fifth grade basketball team always win every game? Could its world class gym have something to do with that—you know, the one with the leather captain’s chairs in terraced rows?”
“It helps that the coach once played at Notre Dame,” a father in the fifth row grouses. “He knows how to make those kids take the game seriously. If they lose, it’s ten laps around that beautiful new gym.”
The next thing you know, the whole place is in an uproar. Yes, the parents love what Miss Darling has done—“with so little,” is how they put it. “But Hilldale Elementary is competing with the schools who are stealing away those students who see a more challenging environment …” and “I love what you’ve been able to do here, but there is so much still to be done …”
Miss Darling is under no illusions that she can quiet this crowd with a single raised pinky. Instead, she lets loose with a whistle that could hail a taxi on Fifth Avenue during five o’clock rush hour.
The crowd, mollified, zips their lips.
“Hilldale Elementary is a public school,” she reminds us. “We do what we can with the state funds allocated to us, on a per-student basis. My mission is to hire those who are skilled and enthusiastic about your children. Now, if you wish to contribute to our foundation, and earmark your funds for programs you feel will enhance our curriculum—”
“A brilliant idea!” Lee declares.
All eyes turn to him.
Of course, they recognize him, if not from the society pages, then from his profile in Forbes, or his Vanity Fair cover. And those who hadn’t attended the reception welcoming them back from their world tour honeymoon would have read about his marriage to Babette in either the New York Times’ “Vows” column, or the full-page spread in Town & Country.
“I’d be the first to belly up to the bar. I’ll make a one-hundred-thousand-dollar donation. In fact, make that a five-dollars-to-one matching grant.”
The parents are too stunned to speak. Suddenly, one of them applauds. In no time, everyone is clapping.
Miss Darling murmurs, “That’s quite generous of you, Mr. Chiffray. How would you like it earmarked?”
He opens his arms wide, as if embracing the whole room. “I’ll leave that up to you—and the parents, of course. The bottom line is that we’re all in agreement. Our children deserve a first class—that is, a world class—school. Why pay lip service to our ideals? I say put our money where our mouths are. It’s a matching grant, so let’s think out of the box. Perhaps those who spoke up first would like to chair a committee for this new vision of our community school. You can also mobilize the other parents who couldn’t make it here today to do likewise.”
Once again, the room is energized. Everyone seems to be talking at once.
Miss Darling walks up to Lee and gives him a hug. “Thank you so much, Mr. Chiffray. We have many wealthy families in Hilldale. They see their children—and their children’s schools—as a reflection of their own success. I’ve done my best not to let them down, but the purse strings are always tight.” Miss Darling’s worry shows up as a hairline crack in an otherwise perfect porcelain brow.
“Glad to be of service.” He hands her a business card. “Here’s my private email. Keep me abreast of any major fundraising benchmarks. It will be interesting to see which programs will benefit from it.”
I’m already twenty minutes late for my meeting at Acme, so I shake Miss Darling’s hand and follow Lee out the door.
“That was quite a speech in there,” I say, as I pass him. “The way you won over that crowd, you could run for public office.”
“Ha! I may be impulsive, but I’m not crazy.” He stops, as if a thought just struck him. “Unless someone offers me the presidency. But they’d have to promise that it’s a slam-dunk. I only play to win.”
A fellow Acme agent, Dominic Fleming, knows this first hand. During a Fantasy Island baccarat tournament, someone laced his martini with Digitalis, and he went into anaphylactic shock.
Dominic survived, but Lee won the baccarat tournament.
We have no proof he was involved, and I would hate to think it were the case.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that things are never as they seem.
For Janie’s sake, I hope he’s one of the good guys.
Chapter 3
Political Parties
Organizations that seek to achieve political power by electing its members to public office are called political parties.
Joining such a party is thought to be free. Wrong. As with everything in life, you pay to play.
In this case, it’s probably your belief in your party that is claimed as payment, since those in the party who are nominated, run and are elected to public office invariably vote the interests of those who really put them in office: not necessarily you or the rest of their party members, but their largest donors.
You’ve heard it before and you’ll hear it again, here: follow the money.
Please don’t call me a party pooper. Instead, consider me your party planner! I’ll start by passing along this perfect recipe for your next cocktail party:
Crescent Chicken Rolls
(From Melinda Stahnke, Conyers, Georgia)
Ingredients
2 cups shredded Chicken
1 small onion, diced
1 cup cheddar cheese
1 can evaporated milk
1 can cream of chicken soup
2 cans crescent rolls (8 pack)
Directions
1: Preheat oven to 400 degrees and grease a casserole dish.
2: Mix chicken, onion and cheese.
3: Place a small handful on crescent roll, roll it up and place in pan.
4: Fill all the rolls and place in pan, not quite touching.
5: Sprinkle any remaining chicken mixture over rolls.
6: Mix cream of chicken soup and evaporated milk, and pour over the rolls.
7: Bake at 400 degrees for time on crescent roll packaging.
“About damn time you got here,” Jack mutters to me. “Thank goodness Ryan’s been on an emergency call for the past half-hour, otherwise he’d have your scalp. What took you so long?”
“First day of school. Parent-Staff meet-and-greet. You know how it is.”
I look around the conference room, where my Acme mission team has gathered. Besides Jack, there’s Abu Nagashahi, who acts as our cut-out and back-up; Arnie Locklear, our tech op; and Emma Honeycutt, who provides the team its ComInt.
There must be some angle of this mission that includes the Quorum because even Dominic Fleming, Acme’s London asset and the new head of Quorum intel, is also here. He and the rest of the team are gathered around a laptop, sitting in the middle of the conference room.
“Everyone looks so engrossed. What have I missed?”
Before Jack can answer, Dominic solemnly beckons me over. “Donna, thank goodness you’ve come! Your fine eye is badly needed on this.”
“Of course, Dominic, any way I can help.” Has there been a terrorist attack? The assassination of a head of state? A deadly virus released on an unassuming public?
I grab Jack’s arm to nudge him forward, too, but he pulls away. Shaking his head, he declares, “Trust me, this is more your area of expertise than mine.”
I’m flattered that he’d admit that. I head over to the laptop to see what has them mesmerized.
Pictured on the screen is a very elegant study. The room’s high, coffered ceilings are adorned in Italianate frescoes. Three o
f the walls are ornately-paneled in an Empire style, whereas the fourth holds a deep-set bookcase. Antique knickknacks—vases, statuettes, photos—are artfully displayed among its books. A set of French doors are open slightly. The thick curtain seems to be moving slightly in the breeze. The desk by the windows is a Louis IV, whereas the sofa flanking the bookcase is neo-Gothic.
Dominic points toward the screen. “Your opinion, please.”
Nothing looks out of the ordinary. There is no body on the floor. No bloodstains, or bullet holes.
“Hmmm. What exactly are we looking at?”
“The sofa fabric,” Dominic says, with all seriousness. “It’s a Pierre Frey velvet. Quite frankly, the texture concerns me.” With a click of the mouse, he magnifies a piece of the furniture. “At first I thought it would do the trick, but now I’m leaning toward this patterned tapestry”—another click shows the same sofa in the same setting, but this time it’s covered in a bird-of-paradise print—“which Abu claims adds needed depth to the room. Emma agrees with him, but Arnie and I are leaning more toward the subtlety of the velvet—”
“Wait—you mean to tell me this is about some old couch you’re recovering?”
“My dear, this just isn’t ‘some old couch.’ It’s a priceless antique! More to the point, it is to be the focal point of the library in my new little cottage.”
“All the more reason to go with something vibrant,” Emma declares. “The goal is to make a statement.”
“But that particular pattern is too busy,” Abu counters. “And you can make the same statement with texture.”
“Not to mention the velvet feels more voluptuous,” Arnie interjects.
Emma rolls her eyes. “Oh? How would you know?”
Arnie’s face turns red. “Well … if you must know, I have a full-body snuggy made from this same material.”
Dominic chuckles. “Oh, I doubt that seriously, old boy. This is one-hundred-and-twenty dollars a yard—”
“Enough of this nonsense!” I slam the computer screen shut. “You’re arguing over nothing, because Dominic’s little hovel has no ‘library.’ It’s only twenty-five hundred square feet.”
He looks down at his Patek Philippe watch. “Not as of eight o’clock this morning. The bulldozers are digging out the new west wing, as we speak.”
“You’re adding a whole wing? That’s insane! Dominic, we can’t put you up forever!”
Since his transfer per diem ran out, he’s been bunking in the bonus room over our garage for over a month now. It wouldn’t be so bad if some of Hilldale’s yummy mommies hadn’t pegged him as the town’s DILF du jour. Jack’s suggestion is that we put in a revolving door.
I say that the best solution is to kick the bum out, and good riddance.
“Perfection takes time,” Dominic sniffs. “My God, woman, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Chateau Fleming won’t be either."
“Right now, your ‘Chateau Fleming’ looks like the ruins of Pompeii. When will the renovation be completed?”
He furrows his brow. “Not to worry, my dear. I’ve been cracking the whip on my team of master craftsmen. They are working on it, day and night.”
I envision such a whip, but in my fantasy, it is cracked over Dominic’s backside.
I’m just about to let him know that my next warning will come from a cat-o-nine-tails when Ryan comes bounding into the room. “Glad to see you’re all here, and accounted for, people.” He nods in my direction, just to let me know that my tardiness was duly noted. I take a chair, and burrow down deep.
“We’ve got two new clients: the Democratic National Committee and the Republican National Committee. From now until Election Day, we’ll be working them in tandem.”
Emma raises her hand. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
Ryan shakes his head. “In fact, they approached us together. As you know through recent media coverage, as we enter the last few weeks of the primary season, both the Republican and Democratic primary races are running neck-to-neck horse races, with delegates split between three candidates in each party. While choice is great for the American people, the candidates’ one-ups-manship and political posturing has hit an all-time high. And now one candidate has refused to accept a Secret Service security detail, claiming it’s ‘a waste of taxpayer dollars.' Not to look like sissies or spendthrifts on the nation’s dime, the other candidates have followed suit.”
“So, Acme has been hired to be their private bodyguards?” Jack asks.
Ryan nods. “The NSA has detected a high threat level throughout the primary season, but nowhere higher than right here, in California, where the word ‘assassination’ appears in every cipher. It’s inevitable that several, if not all, of the candidates will be visiting our fair state at least once more prior to the final delegate vote at the conventions, which are just a few weeks away. They’re here not only to press some flesh, but to refill their campaign coffers. Keep in mind, one-eighth of all U.S. citizens live in the state. It’s also one of the three wealthiest in the nation, what with its key industries: high tech, entertainment, and financial management.”
He hits a button that sends a file to our personal iPads. When I click it open, I find dossiers on the now very-familiar candidates in question.
“Not only has Acme assigned a specific team to each candidate, as with other of our metro-based assets, we’re sending in your team whenever one of them is on the West Coast,” Ryan continues. “You’ll be acting as a ‘ghost squad,’—that is, working the crowds in plain clothes. Since we don’t know if it’s an inside job, some of you will be working within the candidate’s entourage, while others will be assessing the surrounding area. At all times, you’re to think like the shooter.”
“Will the candidate know about us?”
“Certainly. One of you will always be in the candidate’s inner circle. Only the candidate and one key staffer will know your true function.” He clicks the computer screen, and a familiar face appears. “Our first candidate is Senator Franklin Percy. He’s due tomorrow by private jet, landing at Long Beach.”
“A GOP two-termer hailing from Florida, right?” Jack asks.
Ryan nods. “The very same. The party positions him as a hero during the US invasion of Panama, in '89. Retired Marine Corps Major General. He sits on several Senate committees, including Defense and Finance. As you can imagine, he is a strong hawk.”
“What do we know about him, personally?” I ask.
“He’s been married to the same woman for thirty years—Addie Franks Percy. They’re childless.”
“Any known enemies, or possible threats?” Abu asks.
“The other day, an untraceable note was delivered to his house.” A photo of the letter appears on the screen. The message is a single line, typed:
You will soon face the consequence of your most shameful act.
“Can’t be anymore cryptic than that,” I point out. “Does he have any idea what this may refer to?”
“He has faced hecklers on all of his campaign stops. They aren’t too happy that he co-wrote the bill that bailed out the banks and mortgage lenders during the home loan crisis. At the same time, now that the rates are rock bottom, he’s given little support for homeowners who wish to negotiate a reduced rate, rather than being tossed out of their homes.”
“They’ve got a point,” Arnie reasons. “Now that the housing bubble has burst and massive layoffs have taken place in all business sectors, selling your home is almost impossible. To top it off, those who can still purchase homes are finding it hard to qualify. It’s a vicious circle.”
Ryan nods. “Some of those who are most vocal against Senator Percy are retired vets who were once homeowners, but who now live in their cars.” He shifts to Jack. “While he’s on our turf, you’ll be part of his entourage at all times. You’re a few years younger, but your military background aligns with his. He can always introduce you as a former aide, when he was assigned to the Pentagon after active duty.”
&nb
sp; Jack nods. “What’s his itinerary?”
“His first stop is the port of Long Beach, for a photo op with union dock workers. Next he’ll head over to the West Los Angeles VA Hospital, for a tour. Afterward, he’s speaking at a luncheon at the Sunset Tower, with entertainment media executives. Then he’s speaking to UCLA students on the necessity of an aggressive NSA. He’ll see reporters for an hour before heading to a private dinner in his honor, held by a banker’s trade association.”
“His itinerary will certainly keep us on our toes,” Dominic murmurs.
“To say the least.” Ryan grimaces. “The dossiers have your covers for each event. Emma will be in a van marked as a press vehicle, which will serve as mission central.” He dismisses us with a nod toward the door. “Bring your A game. One of the lives you save will be our next president. If we blow it, Acme won’t be the contractor of choice for POTUS or any of the security agencies."
Jack walks me out to my van. “Hey, got time for a quick bite?” I ask.
He starts to nod, but then frowns. “Wish I could, but Dominic still has to debrief me on his trip to London. Apparently our cousins across the pond are also looking into our new neighbor, Mr. Chiffray.”
“Really? Why so?”
“Remember Sugar CEO Number 3—the Quorum member you so aptly nicknamed Jabba the Hutt?”
“The food fetishist? I’ll never forget him! I’ve had an aversion to mint jelly ever since.” I shiver at the thought of greasing myself up with the stuff, in order to crawl out from under his dead carcass.
Trust me, you had to be there.
“In the twenty-four hours before MI5 could get in there and search the place, Lee purchased Baron McBacon’s townhouse on Kensington Palace Gardens then gutted it.”
“Maybe he did it as a pre-wedding present for Babette.”
“Or maybe he’s looking for something he thought the Lord Lard Ass left behind, that may have incriminated him and the rest of Quorum 2.0. In any regard, it’s something to put in Mr. Chiffray’s much-too-thin dossier.”
