The Committee

by Terry E. Hill

“Very good, sir. I hope you have a productive meeting,” the valet said, quoting directly from the Beverly Hills Hotel employee handbook.

  With the last exchange, the valet leapt into Sheridan’s car and carefully drove away.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Hardaway,” came the second VIP greeting from a smiling woman behind the hotel desk. “Welcome back to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Your guest has already arrived. Here is your key. You are in Bungalow 8, just as you requested.”

  Bungalow 8 was the most desired at the hotel. It was nestled in a private grove on the grounds with a secluded path and no other bungalows nearby. It had been the favorite of Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Cary Grant, and countless other celebrities who demanded complete privacy when visiting the hotel.

  “Thank you,” Sheridan said unimpressed. “Has the champagne been delivered?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hardaway, it has. We’ve also taken the liberty of sending a complimentary tray of caviar, truffles, escargot, and a few other delicacies the chef thought you might enjoy.”

  “Please thank him for me.”

  “I will, Mr. Hardaway. Enjoy your stay and don’t hesitate to call me if you require anything else.”

  Sheridan left the desk saying as few words as possible. The mauve, pink, and peach lobby was sparsely occupied with faces and voices rarely seen or heard outside of the forty-inch boxes in living rooms across the country. The official smile of Colgate Toothpaste sat near a terra-cotta fireplace waiting for its agent. The latest wannabe sipped mineral water with its publicist, and the next “It” girl walked through as though she were already carrying her Oscar in the Fendi tote slung over her shoulder.

  Most who saw Sheridan walk through the lobby and exit the building knew who he was, but the unwritten rule, even decades before Las Vegas, was “What happens in the Beverly . . . stays in Beverly.”

  Sheridan walked the familiar path leading to Bungalow 8. Palm trees that saw the likes of Denzel Washington, Kevin Costner, Whitney Houston, and every A-, B-, and some C-list celebrities since the day the hotel opened in 1912 swayed in the gentle afternoon breeze. The hotel grounds were dotted with pink bungalows. He passed a groundskeeper in green overalls who avoided eye contact and faded silently into the background as he passed on the path.

  Bungalow 8 was tucked behind a seven-foot boxwood hedge. Sheridan looked over both shoulders to confirm there were no curious eyes watching as he approached the green privacy wall. The three-room cottage was elegant but simply decorated. The cream and mauve color scheme echoed the serenity of the outdoors. There was a small kitchenette to the right of the living area and a bedroom to the left. The gurgle of a fountain could be heard through French doors opened to a private deck and small backyard. A stack of newspapers and gossip magazines was neatly fanned on a glass coffee table, along with the bottle of chilled champagne, two flutes, and a domed silver tray.

  “Hello,” Sheridan called out in the empty room. “Where are you?”

  The bedroom door opened and Tony Christopoulos emerged, wearing only a white towel around his waist. His sculpted torso glistened from remnants of water as he tousled his jet-black hair with another towel.

  “I was in the shower,” Tony said draping the damp towel over his shoulder. “Stopped at the gym on my way here and didn’t have time to shower. Are you hungry? The caviar is delicious.”

  “I had lunch with Camille,” Sheridan said walking to the French doors. “That’s why I’m late.”

  “No worries. Gave me some time to relax. What kind of mood is she in?”

  “Demanding as ever,” Sheridan said dismissively.

  “Did she mention the new developments on the stadium?”

  “No, what’s the latest?” Sheridan asked, turning to face the dripping man.

  “She’s decided on the Playa del Rey property.”

  “Fucking finally,” Sheridan said. “It took her long enough.”

  “You won’t have much time to act,” Tony said. “She told Scott Harrison to start negotiations immediately.”

  “How much is she offering?” Sheridan asked as he twisted the cork on the bottle of champagne.

  “Eighty million.”

  Sheridan froze midtwist of the cork and said, “Is she crazy? The property is worth twice that.”

  “But you know how she is. Instructed Scott to threaten the owner with eminent domain if she doesn’t accept the offer.”

  “That’s my Camille,” Sheridan said accompanied by the loud pop of the cork. “Never can pass up the opportunity to fuck someone.”

  Sheridan poured two glasses of champagne and sat with Tony on the sofa. “Who owns it?” Sheridan asked.

  “Some rich old lady named Gloria Vandercliff. She doesn’t need the money. Just loves baseball and wants to help with the stadium.”

  “To altruistic sellers,” Sheridan said raising his glass in a mock toast. “They’re my favorite. Especially when I can make a few million off them.”

  “You mean, when we can make a few million.” Tony interjected, forgoing the raised glass for a raised eyebrow. “Remember the deal is 70/30. I give you the insider information, and you close the deal.”

  Sheridan flashed a broad smile and moved closer to Tony. He placed a hand on his still moist thigh and slowly moved up his leg and under the towel.

  “I remember, baby,” Sheridan said seductively. “It’s 70/30. A deal is a deal. You can trust me.”

  The white towel slowly formed a tent as Sheridan massaged Tony’s thigh.

  “I’m risking a lot for you, Sheridan,” Tony said, trying to maintain his composure. “If Camille ever finds out about this she’ll destroy me.”

  “I know, baby,” Sheridan whispered while nuzzling Tony’s neck.

  “She could have me arrested.”

  “I know, baby,” Sheridan repeated dotting Tony’s neck and chest with breathy kisses.

  “I could go to jail,” Tony said weakly as the tent continued to rise.

  “She’ll never find out,” Sheridan said, gently stroking Tony’s solid member under the towel. “And you won’t go to jail.”

  “What if—” Tony sputtered weakly.

  “Stop talking,” Sheridan said, pressing his lips to Tony’s open mouth. “I want to fuck you now.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Mayor,” came the disembodied voice from the intercom on Camille’s desk. “Mr. Gideon Truman is here for your one o’clock.”

  Camille pressed the telephone speaker and said, “Give me three minutes, then send him in.”

  It had been a week since she met Gideon at the State of the City address. He called her two days later and requested a meeting to discuss the possibility of an on-air interview. Is it too early to make an appearance on a national stage? she questioned silently after hanging up from his call.

  After Camille calculated the pros and cons of doing the interview, her political instincts told her it was the perfect time. The country needs to know how I turned this city around and that Camille Ernestine Hardaway from South Central Los Angeles is building the largest sports arena in the world.

  Camille used the three minutes to check her hair and makeup in a mirror kept in the bottom drawer of the desk. A slight toss of her hair made every strand fall obediently into place. “Perfect,” she said after applying generous red streaks on each lip. She fastened the top two buttons of her power blazer and fluffed the white ruffled collar. Not too much tits, she thought. The girls would be wasted if it’s true what they say about him.

  The double office doors swung open in exactly three minutes. Her young assistant, Megan, stood in the threshold wearing a tight pencil skirt. “Please go in,” she said to Gideon and stepped aside.

  “Mrs. Mayor,” Gideon said, entering the room as if it were a sound stage. “So nice of you to meet me on such short notice.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Camille responded with feet firmly planted in a power stance. Always make them come to you, was her rule when meeting with men. Sets the tone for the entire exchange. �
��Please have a seat. Would you like anything . . . mineral water, coffee?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

  The next sound was the gentle “click” of Megan closing the office door. Their combined smiles rivaled the light pouring through the windows. They each had their A-games prepared and were ready for anything the other could possibly toss their way.

  “I’ll come straight to the point,” Gideon said as he unbuttoned his blazer and sat on the sofa in the center of the room. “My producer and I are intrigued by you. The first female mayor of Los Angeles, one of the sharpest political minds in the country, the looks of a movie star. You are the American dream. Power, brains, and unlimited potential.”

  “That is very kind of you to say,” Camille said forcing a modest smile.

  “We want to introduce Camille Ernestine Hardaway to the country. Who she is, what motivates her, what she believes in,” Gideon said as if he were pitching the perfect idea for a blockbuster movie to a studio executive. “We think the country will love you, and I want to be the man who formally introduces you to them.”

  “I’m still not clear why. Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of national exposure. It’s good for the city, but I want to be very clear on your intentions. You have a reputation for, if you don’t mind me saying,” she delivered with a wicked smile, “on occasion, sensationalizing stories and exploiting high-profile scandals for ratings. I hate to disappoint you, but you won’t find any skeletons in my closets. Only Channel and Dior.”

  Gideon laughed out loud. “You see! It’s comments like that I want my viewers to hear. You have the highest approval ratings of any mayor in the country. I think people are curious about who you are and would love to see you on my show.”

  “Look, I don’t mean to be coy. I’m sure you can understand I have to be very careful about how I’m presented.”

  “Of course.”

  “That being said,” Camille continued looking him in the eye, “I will do the interview, but I want editorial control.”

  “The broadcast is live so that won’t be possible,” Gideon replied cautiously.

  “Then I want to review the questions in advance.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mayor, but we have a strict policy against that.” Gideon felt his prey slipping away. “I can, however, assure you any question I ask will be fair and direct. Nothing you won’t be able to handle.”

  Camille was silent. Their eyes locked as each used keen intuitive powers to predict how the dance would end. Each quickly calculated they had a deal before the next word was spoken.

  “All right, Mr. Truman,” Camille said, breaking the stilted silence, “I’ll do it.”

  She stood signaling the end of the meeting. “You can make the arrangements with my assistant, Megan,” she said, extending her hand as he stood.

  Gideon released a silent sigh. I know you’re hiding something, he thought as he matched her firm grip with his own, and I’m going to find out exactly what it is.

  The two exchanged parting pleasantries, leaving Camille to run the city and Gideon to begin the dangerous journey that lay ahead.

  Hattie felt a cold shiver as she stood at her kitchen sink peeling a bowl of potatoes. She gripped the black handle paring knife tightly in one hand and a half-peeled potato in the other as the chill traveled up and down her back. She knew it was a sign, but had no clue what it was about.

  “Lord,” she said out loud as a steady stream of cold water from the tap splashed the brown spuds, sending droplets in every direction, “one of your children is in trouble. Whoever it is, protect them, Lord,” she prayed. “Hold them in the safety of your arms. Guide their footsteps and deliver them from evil.”

  Hattie commenced with the peeling of the potatoes, having done all she could do with the limited information available. Ringlets of brown peel twirled under the blade and fell intact into the sink. Her hand trembled slightly, a sign she was concerned about whoever was in need of prayer.

  A hymn slipped involuntarily from her lips.

  “I want Jesus to walk with me.

  I want Jesus to walk with me.

  All along my pilgrim journey,

  I want Jesus to walk with me.”

  The pile of potato skins grew as she continued the preparations for her signature salad. Every morsel coming from within the loving walls of Hattie’s kitchen were coveted treasures: sweet potato pies, macaroni and cheese, the magical mixture of greens from her garden, smothered pork chops with gravy and biscuits kissed by an angel. They were always the most sought after dishes in the buffet lines at church events, family functions, and picnics. This particular salad would grace the table of a repast scheduled for the next day.

  A pot of bubbling water stood at the ready for the naked orbs on a snow-white O’Keefe & Merritt stove. Hattie handled the potatoes as if they each had a story to tell, and she wanted to hear every word. “Love is the ingredient most folks forget,” she often said. “When you love what you’re cooking and who you’re cooking it for, they can taste it in every bite.”

  She placed each potato into the boiling pot and waited with reverence until it sank to the bottom before the next spud was dropped. It took three trips from the sink to the stove before the pot was filled. Hattie wiped her moist hands on a tea towel hanging from the oven’s chrome door handle and made her way back to the sink, each step accompanied by the lines of the hymn.

  “In my sorrow, Lord, walk with me.

  In my sorrows, Lord, walk with me.

  When my heart is aching,

  Lord, I want Jesus to walk with me.”

  A bunch of scallions fresh from the garden, newly boiled eggs with steam still rising from the shells, yellow mustard, relish, white onions, and celery waited for Hattie on a butcher block next to the sink. She skillfully sliced and diced the ingredients and formed neat piles of each on the board. The chill in her spine had not gone away but continuing the hymn was her way of saying, “I’m listening, Lord.”

  “In my sorrow, Lord, walk with me.

  In my sorrows, Lord, walk with me.

  When my heart is aching,

  Lord, I want Jesus to walk with me.”

  Hattie knew the potatoes were done without even poking them with a knife. Steam from the boiling pot rested on the window above the sink, causing a kaleidoscope of light from the afternoon sun to bathe the room. Hands that had touched the face of God squeezed the now soft potato flesh, creating just the right balance of mashed and potato chunks. She couldn’t ignore the tingling traveling from her spine down to her legs, but learned from years of experience you can’t rush the Lord. When He wants me to know, He will tell me.

  “In my troubles, Lord, walk with me,” her hymn continued.

  “In my troubles, Lord, walk with me.

  When my life becomes a burden,

  Lord, I want Jesus to—”

  And then it happened. The window over the sink became cloudy. Billows poured from the edges and formed a fog through which she couldn’t see.

  There was no time to reach for the tea towel on the stove behind her. Hattie rested her mashed potato-covered hands on the counter and braced herself for what was to come. Slowly, she saw Gideon’s face emerge through the fog. He was oblivious to the white smoke enveloping him. His bright eyes focused intently on something in the distance Hattie couldn’t see. She could sense the danger waiting just beyond her view, but it was clear Gideon couldn’t. He moved steadily through the haze directly toward the source of the threat.

  “Don’t go any closer,” Hattie said softly to the window. “Danger is waiting for you over there.”

  Gideon couldn’t hear her warning. He moved at an even faster pace than before. The fog grew darker with every step he took. Hattie felt he would soon be face-to-face with a force he couldn’t possibly be prepared for.

  “Turn back, boy,” she admonished. “Turn back.”

  Her words simply bounced off the glass, unheard by the determined man in the window.

&nb
sp; “He won’t listen, Lord. Make him—”

  The image of a woman appeared in front of Gideon before she could finish her plea. Hattie couldn’t see her face, but immediately knew everything about her. There’s evil in her heart. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s going to destroy him. Hattie silently read the essence of the woman’s soul as if it were scrolling on a ticker tape at the bottom of the window. There are powerful forces around her and directing her every move. They will destroy anyone who gets in her way.

  The two figures were now so close their noses were almost touching. Suddenly the fog began to clear, and Hattie saw for the first time who the woman was.

  “Oh, Lord, no,” she gasped, lifting her potato-covered hand to her mouth. “Camille Hardaway.”

  Camille turned sharply toward Hattie as if she heard her name uttered from across the divide and looked Hattie directly in the eye. Camille did not speak, but Hattie heard her words clearly, “Keep out of this. This isn’t your battle.”

  Hattie locked eyes with Camille and said firmly, “Jesus put you in my window, so that makes it my battle.”

  The images began to fade just as Hattie spoke the words. The two women’s eyes remained locked the entire time. The billowing fog slowly subsided. Gideon and Camille were gradually replaced by the condensation from the steaming potatoes and the cooling pot of water on the stove.

  The calm of her kitchen returned as quickly as it had given way to the vision in the window. Hattie looked down at the chopping block piled with onions and the bowl of soft potatoes.

  “Lord, give me strength,” she said. “You saved him once, and I know you will do it again.”

  Hattie combined the ingredients to create the perfect blend of flavors as only she, and her deceased mother, knew how. The potato salad was made all while Hattie silently prayed for the man in the window.

  “Protect him, Lord,” she said placing the cellophane-wrapped bowl in the refrigerator. “Protect him like only you can.”