“Hard to believe that Henry Flagler built it.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Henry Flagler, whose Florida East Coast Railway had opened first Jacksonville, then Palm Beach, and then Miami before crossing the Keys to finally end up extending all the way to Key West, had built the 55-room mansion as one of his winter homes in Florida in 1902. It was a masterpiece of Beaux Arts architecture.
Flagler died in 1913. In 1914, a Force 4 hurricane devastated Miami, leveling almost everything in its path, gutting Flagler Hall, but leaving its “bones” fully intact.
One of Jack’s ancestors had washed ashore during the hurricane and taken shelter in the huge house and weathered the storm there.
When Flagler’s widow saw the ruined mansion, she sold it to Jack’s ancestor for a song (along with the island itself). All St. Clairs since then had been raised on the island. The island was the foundation of their fortune, as it kept giving back money as each parcel of the island was developed over the generations. The key to the St. Clair fortune was that you couldn’t buy a lot on the island. You had to lease it from the St. Clairs. Flagler Hall had been turned into a clubhouse once the golf course was built, and the current head of the family lived on the upper floors while the lower floors were used as the clubhouse.
The St. Clair Island Club was the most exclusive club in Florida, one of the most exclusive in the whole world. You couldn't apply for membership: you had to be invited. There were only 400 members worldwide.
“You know,” said Verges, “you look just like your dad, only younger.”
“Everybody says that.”
“I remember him—the old cuss—when he was your age. What’re you, thirty-five?”
“Six,” said Jack, running his hand through his thick black hair, now speckled with a little salt slipping into the pepper. He had his dad’s deep jade green eyes, and he knew his hair would turn into the rich silver fox mane his sixty-eight-year-old father now sported.
The rain now fell in earnest and they could see the lightning flashes begin far across the Bay, heading their way. The sound of the thunderclaps followed. The rainstorm was so romantic that Jack thought immediately of Francesca, and what fun it would be to be in bed with her this very minute. But she was in New York.
But Tony Verges’s presence intruded on his idyllic thoughts.
“Who are you favoring for the nomination, Tony?” Jack said, wanting to get Verges’s read on the candidates running for the nomination.
“I’m not favoring either one of them,” said Verges with a laugh, sipping from his silver mojito cup, a bit of mint tickling his nose. “Oh, this is good. That woman Emilia can sure make a mojito.”
“She’s had enough experience,” Jack snorted. “But you must have a preference between Mowbray or Dumaine.”
“I’m keeping my mouth shut. If I back the wrong guy, I might not land a Cabinet position in the next Administration if the other guy wins.”
“So you’ll let them slug it out and back the eventual candidate?”
“Sure, whoever it is. I like both Mowbray and Dumaine. I can work for either one. It’s too early for me to get involved.”
“I see your point. If the Democrats win against my dad, the word is that you don’t want to go back to CIA.”
“That’s right. I want Defense. And I want it bad,” said Verges.
This is what Jack had heard over the grapevine.
“But CIA is a much easier gig than Defense.”
“Well, you’ve read my speeches. I’ve started speaking out about the bloated bureaucracy and the Defense budget. The amount of money we pour into Defense is unconscionable. Over five hundred billion a year on average. And that doesn’t count the tens of billions on top of that for the Iraq and Afghanistan wars,” Verges said, leaning up in his chair for emphasis. “Meanwhile, we close schools and our bridges are falling down. There’s so much we could be doing with that money.”
“You really want to cut into the budget, don’t you?”
“I do, Jack. Sure, I want Medicare and Social Security to get reformed like everybody else, but if you look at what we could save in the Pentagon’s budget if we tried to, it would shock the country.”
“Lot of sacred cows in that budget. Many have tried before you. First, you got the Pentagon bureaucracy that knows you’re only there for a few years. Then you have all those Congressional committee members who will stop you dead in your tracks.”
“I know,” Verges smiled, sipping from his mojito and listening appreciatively as the rain sang its thunderous song on the awning above. “The contractors divide the manufacture of their weapons systems among all the crucial members of the Armed Services Committee so the members are always afraid to vote a system out of development because it costs jobs in their district,” he smiled again. “But I have a few tricks up my sleeve if I’m ever appointed.”
“Why this missionary zeal?” asked Jack.
“I recently read the farewell speeches of both Washington and Eisenhower. Both men—and both were generals, don’t forget—warned against allowing the military establishment to gain too much control over our political affairs.”
Jack could see that Verges was getting worked up.
“Settle down, Tony. You’re not speaking before a Congressional committee here. It’s me, Jack Houston St. Clair.”
Verges smiled, leaned back in his chair.
“Okay. You got me goin’. But Eisenhower added to Washington’s warning, calling the demon the ‘military-industrial complex,’ and he was right, because it’s the industry that has worked its way into a collusion type of relationship with the military, and they just feed on each other to the detriment of the country as a whole. Just between you and me, I think the collusion between the military and industry is treasonous, all clothed in a shroud of patriotism. Green, green, green. All they care about. The fucking money.”
“Strong words, Tony. Well, maybe you’ll be able to act on your views. We have to wait and see who wins.”
“Are you going to campaign for your dad?”
Jack chewed on a mint leaf as the rainstorm finally delivered all it had promised as it swept across the Bay, dropping torrents of rain down on the sturdy awning above them.
“The air’s really nice when it rains like this,” said Jack. “I haven’t talked to him about the campaign. After the convention, I’ll offer to do what I can behind the scenes, but as a loyal Democrat, I’m really conflicted, you know?”
“I can imagine,” said Verges. “Your dad’s a Republican President and you’re a Democrat.”
“And I really like Dumaine. Mowbray I like too, but not as much as Dumaine.”
“Well, they’re both strong candidates. Question is: can they beat your dad?”
“I don’t know,” said Jack. “I don’t want to get involved any more than I have to.”
“I can understand that. Someday he’ll leave Washington forever and move back in there,” Verges nodded toward Flagler Hall.
“Right. And I have to live with him every day. So, it’s delicate.”
“How’s your brother doing?”
“He’s fine.”
He was talking about Rafael St. Clair, captain of USCGC Tequesta, a cutter in the medium Endurance class based in Miami. Rafael was Jack’s half-brother, born to Sam’s Cuban second wife Sofia. (Jack’s mother, Louise Perkins, from an old Boston Brahmin family, had died years before.) Being a Cuban, Rafael was naturally a paranoid die-hard Republican, so he and Jack didn’t see eye-to-eye on just about anything, from food and drink to politics.
The rainstorm let up as quickly as it had started, and the smell coming off the freshly doused grass on the golf course was exhilarating.
Gargrave made his way out to Verges’s golf cart and wiped down the seats, soaked with the rain.
Verges got up and took a deep breath.
“Want to enjoy it before it all turns to mid-summer steam,” said Verges, shaking hands with Jack. “Tomorrow, same time?”
“We’ve both got a lot of socializing to do with the convention in town.”
“I know—my dance card’s as busy as yours.”
“Let’s put together a foursome tomorrow morning.”
“Look forward to it.”
“Take this,” Jack said, tossing Verges a towel.
“Thanks.”
Verges walked out to his golf cart and helped Gargrave finish wiping it down. Verges gave his towel to Gargrave and hauled his portly frame into the vehicle. With a wave, he moved out along the pathway toward his house, No. 5 St. Clair Island.
At least his dad didn’t mind having Democrats as members of the Club. His philosophy was simple, as Jack remembered.
“Keeps the conversation from being so one-sided at the bar, you know?” had been his rationale. Jack was happy that he could say genuinely that his dad wasn’t a bigot and he wasn’t narrow-minded. All in all, a good dad… even if he was a Republican.
Jack drained the last of his mojito and went back through the French doors to get his cell phone to call Carlos Rodriguez. He was sure Carlos would want to meet to bring him up-to-date on the Dumaine-Harcourt affair, as he’d been doing regularly (and discreetly, only in person, never on the phone).
Jack wondered when (and if he should) give this information to his dad. And when would be the right time?
Maybe whatever Carlos had to tell him would help him make up his mind.
* * *
CHAPTER 14
Both Mowbray and Dumaine believed it was a great idea to hold the Democratic convention in President St. Clair’s hometown of Miami Beach. While incumbent Presidents are always said to have an unfair advantage when running for reelection, this gesture showed how determined the Democrats were to take the battle to the President’s home turf.
And it was unusual that both candidates and their staffs stayed in the same hotel, the Loews, directly on the beach, and only a couple of minutes from the Miami Beach Convnetion Center where the delegates were doing their work.
Senior staffers had gathered in the Dumaine suite to watch the Convention proceedings. The mood leading up to the final day was dark, dark, dark.
“Looks pretty grim,” said one pollster to a guy in the finance committee.
“Mowbray’s got that extra edge.”
“If we lose it, it’ll be because of Illinois.”
“They’re saying Michigan’s looking good.”
“And Florida’s hanging tough.”
“I wonder how they’re taking it?” said the pollster, looking over his shoulder through a doorway into a bedroom where Phil Thuris and Bill Dumaine huddled in conversation.
“Who the hell knows?”
* * *
Reporter Leon Pomfret was trapped on the floor of the Democratic Convention, delegates swarming around him like a tidal surge of humanity.
“Can you hear me, Brian?” he yelled into his mike, holding his earpiece in place so that he could listen to any instructions from his producers.
“Yes, go ahead, Leon,” said Brian Williams, NBC’s anchor in the booth.
“Here on the convention floor, as we’re halfway through the first ballot, it looks as though Governor Mowbray is picking up strength in the West where Senator Dumaine is weakest.”
“That was expected,” Brian replied from the relative serenity of the booth high above the floor. “But I see you’re in the midst of the Illinois delegation. What’s the latest with them?”
* * *
From his hotel suite, Dumaine watched the exchange, Bianca and Phil sitting on the couch with him.
“Well,” Leon rattled on, “they like Dumaine’s youth, but they like Mowbray’s experience—”
“We’ve got both,” Phil said.
“Youth and experience,” Bianca threw in, offering up a smile to Dumaine, who smiled back.
God, he’s good, thought Bianca. I never would have suspected the son of a bitch.
Just then, Sally Johnson leaned over her shoulder to whisper.
“It’s Dr. Chambers on the line for you.”
That couldn’t be good news. Chambers was her mother’s doctor, and her mom had been suffering from respiratory problems. Acute respiratory problems.
“Don’t tell Bill or any of the others,” she whispered back to Sally. “They don’t need any more bad news in here tonight.”
Sally offered a weak and sympathetic smile.
Bianca got up and made her way quietly into the other room where she took a cell phone from Sally and went into a corner to talk to Dr. Chambers alone.
* * *
“—and it seems like most people here have made Mowbray the odds-on favorite to defeat President St. Clair. Age equals experience is what they seem to be saying. And they seem to be saying they don’t think Dumaine can go the distance against a strong incumbent like President St. Clair in the event he does win the nomination.”
“Well, they have a point, Leon,” said Brian. “While the Democrats have been gaining in the polls all summer, the harsh reality is that the President still ranks higher in a one-on-one match-up against either Dumaine or Mowbray.”
Gabrielle Mercade, NBC’s chief political reporter sitting next to Brian, interrupted.
“The question, Brian and Leon, quickly becomes this: what would a Mowbray-Dumaine ticket look like against President St. Clair in November?”
“Well, let’s examine that, Gabby,” said Brian. “Do you think it’s possible Mowbray would ever give the nod to Dumaine to become his running mate if he wins the nomination tonight? Leon?”
“That’s a question we’re hearing a lot down here on the floor,” said Leon.
“It’s almost a natural combination, Mowbray and Dumaine,” said Brian. “But the talk on the floor does not synch with the talk in the two camps.”
“That’s what we’re hearing from Gabby,,” said Brian, “that the bad blood is very thick between the two camps.”
Mercade agreed.
“You have to take into account the fact that Dumaine’s run a very vigorous campaign against Mowbray, that there is quite a bit of bad blood in both camps, and we’re not sure Mowbray is the kind of guy who can bury the hatchet.”
“If it’s not in somebody’s back,” laughed Brian.
* * *
CHAPTER 15
Back in the Dumaine suite, Bianca put on a good face. She came running into the sitting room from the kitchen.
“I don’t know about everybody else, but I’m eternally optimistic. I’ve got half a dozen bottles of Champagne on ice because I know we’re gonna win.”
Her husband and the staffers in the room with them all gave her a look that said they didn’t share her ebullience. Then they all turned back to Brian Williams on NBC.
The last one to turn away was Tim, who gave her a smile she could only characterize as nice and pleasant, as if they’d had a chance meeting on a street.
Him, too, she thought. Such a handsome, masculine stud. Who would’ve guessed he was queer?
Dr. Chambers had said her mother was not doing as well as he’d expected, and while he knew how busy she was with the campaign, he thought it might be a good idea for her to come to Florida to consult with him. She decided not to mention any of this to Bill or the others. She’d tell Bill tomorrow and then make a quick trip to check on her mother.
“Gabby, do you think there’s any chance of Dumaine conceding?” Williams asked Mercade on TV.
“I don’t see it happening, Brian. Not until the first ballot’s over anyway. If it’s deadlocked, somebody from Pennsylvania will have to sit down and talk to somebody from Massachusetts.”
“And who would that be?” Brian asked.
Tim opened up his cell phone and started talking in the lowest voice possible, turning toward the back of the room. He turned off his ringer. He didn’t want the phone to ring. That would give away the fact that there wasn’t anybody on the other end of the line.
* * *
CHAPTER 16
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br /> Tension was high in both camps as the somewhat dowdy secretary, in a squeaky voice, called out from the podium:
“South Carolina!”
A fat delegate with three chins rose from the South Carolina section of the convention floor and ponderously looked around him with a self-satisfied grin, squeezing this moment for everything it was worth. He had told his partner at the Midas Muffler Shop in Darlington to DVR his not quite two minutes of fame.
“Madam Secretary—I, Leroy Rutledge of the fantastic City of Darlington, famed for its world-renowned NASCAR race that bears the name of this glorious city, and the racing track known as the ‘Track Too Tough to Tame,’ and representing the great Palmetto State of South Carolina, cast twenty-seven votes for Governor Mowbray of Pennsylvania, the next President of the United States—and twelve votes for Senator Dumaine!”
The delegates throughout the convention hall rose as one in acclamation as Mowbray went over the top to clinch the nomination on the first ballot.
Back in the NBC broadcast booth, Brian was a little glum.
“That settles that. It would have been more interesting to go to a second ballot, but you can’t have everything. Now we have to wait for Governor Mowbray to come down to the hall to accept the nomination, which ought to happen in the next half hour or so.”
The Running Mate (A Jack Houston St. Clair Thriller) Page 6
