Whitewash (27 page)
Washington, D.C.
Jason walked into Old Ebbitt’s Grill and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lights of the restaurant. The senator’s secretary had called earlier and told Jason that Senator Allen would meet him there.
It had been a crazy morning. Jason had a dozen details to take care of for the energy summit’s reception. Somehow he had missed a phone call from an ABC producer who wanted to schedule an interview with the senator for
Good Morning America.
He had been on the phone with the Florida catering company and his secretary hadn’t interrupted.
He shook his head while he waited for the host to guide him to the senator’s table. He still couldn’t believe her. He wasn’t good at firing people, but missing a stint at
GMA
would give him enough reason. He left her with strict instructions on how to get hold of him. As he followed the host he flipped open his cell phone just to double-check that it was on.
So with things as crazy as they were he probably should have asked Senator Allen’s secretary for more information when she called. Yeah, he should have asked, then he wouldn’t have felt his stomach slide down to his well-shined shoes when he got his first glimpse of Senator Allen already seated with Senator Shirley Malone and Lindy.
Maybe because he had firings on his mind his first thought was that both he and Lindy would be fired. Of course, it seemed a bit crazy to do it in public, but Jason remembered his cousin, Renee, using her wedding-rehearsal dinner to announce that her fiancé, Greg, had banged her maid of honor the weekend before.
Senator Allen looked relieved. “Jason, this is Senator Shirley Malone.”
Jason reached across the table to shake her hand and nodded. He remembered and liked the feel of her hand, a real handshake, not too soft and wimpy, but not a ball-breaker, either.
“I’ve heard nothing but good things,” she said as their eyes met, and Jason thought he recognized a knowing smile while she neither acknowledged nor denied they’d met before.
She wore a copper-colored suit that brought out the highlights in her hair, and a scarf of oranges and browns that complemented her eyes. She had friendly, gentle eyes. Eyes, he found himself thinking, that couldn’t lie.
“And I’m sure you know her chief of staff, Lindy Matthews,” Senator Allen said, snapping Jason back to attention and back to paranoia.
Was Senator Allen saying he knew Jason and Lindy knew each other or simply that they should probably know each other? Jason tried to read Lindy. She, of course, looked beautiful. But her limp handshake and refusal to meet Jason’s eyes only drove him to wonder if she had told. Maybe he was the only one getting fired.
The senator ordered a Chivas on the rocks. Another signal that usually put Jason on alert, because Jason always had to monitor the senator’s words whenever he drank. One cocktail at lunch shouldn’t matter. Quickly Jason realized the senator had an agenda. And the cocktail was liquid bravery.
Before the entrées arrived, Senator Allen began throwing down the gauntlet.
“Shirley, I know you’re looking out for Indiana, same way I’m looking out for Florida.” Senator Allen talked while he picked up his flatware piece by piece and moved it a quarter of an inch. Jason had seen him do this at other lunches and it reminded Jason of a chess player lining up his pawns or a general setting up his front line.
“When hurricanes hit Florida two years in a row and we needed some bridges repaired and replaced, it was quite helpful that we could include expert construction companies all the way from Indiana.”
Jason wanted to cringe. This would not have been his choice of opening and now he wondered if the Chivas had not been the senator’s first drink of the day. If Jason remembered correctly, the contracts to those expert construction companies came after Senator Malone agreed to vote in favor of a controversial gun-control bill that Senator Allen had cosponsored. She hadn’t asked to be rewarded, but even so, Jason remembered Senator Allen calling the multimillion-dollar earmark to those Indiana companies as “insurance.”
No, as Jason watched the color rise in Senator Malone’s cheeks, he knew this was not a good start.
“Unfortunately we have lots of experience in Indiana rebuilding after disastrous tornadoes,” she said in a tone that set Jason at ease. The lady could take care of herself.
“Of course you do. And if we play our cards right,” the senator continued as if he had just gotten the thank-you he expected, “there’s more than enough for both our states in this $140-million energy contract.”
“Ethanol has a proven record in delivering,” Senator Malone countered between delicate bites of her salad. “I’m not convinced EchoEnergy can make that claim.”
“Yes, that’s right. Ethanol can deliver.” Senator Allen nodded and smiled. “But only with an awful lot of help from government subsidies.”
Jason glanced at Lindy. From where he sat he could see her hand in her lap, twisting her cloth napkin, but her eyes were on her senator.
Jason was wrong. This had nothing to do with their illicit one-night stand. For one thing, Senator Allen would never be this cocky about a military contract if he knew his chief of staff had boinked Senator Malone’s chief girl. Or maybe that was exactly why he was so cocky.
“It’s not up to me, John,” Senator Malone was saying.
“We’ll cancel each other out if we go up against each other,” Senator Allen said, moving the salt and pepper shakers a quarter inch from their original position. And then his fingers retreated to his now-empty glass of Chivas. “That happens and you know who wins.”
He lowered his voice and leaned forward to add, “Those fucking Arabs win, that’s who.”
Jason shifted in his chair, staring at the remnants of his own salad. He should feel relieved this lunch had nothing to do with him. That’s when the waiter chose to bring their entrées and everyone sat back. Intermission, Jason thought, avoiding Lindy’s eyes and especially Senator Malone’s. He heard Senator Allen praise the young waiter, but Jason kept his eyes on the sirloin tips and roasted potatoes on the plate in front of him. It looked delicious, but Jason had absolutely no appetite.
Washington, D.C.
Jason walked into Old Ebbitt’s Grill and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lights of the restaurant. The senator’s secretary had called earlier and told Jason that Senator Allen would meet him there.
It had been a crazy morning. Jason had a dozen details to take care of for the energy summit’s reception. Somehow he had missed a phone call from an ABC producer who wanted to schedule an interview with the senator for
Good Morning America.
He had been on the phone with the Florida catering company and his secretary hadn’t interrupted.
He shook his head while he waited for the host to guide him to the senator’s table. He still couldn’t believe her. He wasn’t good at firing people, but missing a stint at
GMA
would give him enough reason. He left her with strict instructions on how to get hold of him. As he followed the host he flipped open his cell phone just to double-check that it was on.
So with things as crazy as they were he probably should have asked Senator Allen’s secretary for more information when she called. Yeah, he should have asked, then he wouldn’t have felt his stomach slide down to his well-shined shoes when he got his first glimpse of Senator Allen already seated with Senator Shirley Malone and Lindy.
Maybe because he had firings on his mind his first thought was that both he and Lindy would be fired. Of course, it seemed a bit crazy to do it in public, but Jason remembered his cousin, Renee, using her wedding-rehearsal dinner to announce that her fiancé, Greg, had banged her maid of honor the weekend before.
Senator Allen looked relieved. “Jason, this is Senator Shirley Malone.”
Jason reached across the table to shake her hand and nodded. He remembered and liked the feel of her hand, a real handshake, not too soft and wimpy, but not a ball-breaker, either.
“I’ve heard nothing but good things,” she said as their eyes met, and Jason thought he recognized a knowing smile while she neither acknowledged nor denied they’d met before.
She wore a copper-colored suit that brought out the highlights in her hair, and a scarf of oranges and browns that complemented her eyes. She had friendly, gentle eyes. Eyes, he found himself thinking, that couldn’t lie.
“And I’m sure you know her chief of staff, Lindy Matthews,” Senator Allen said, snapping Jason back to attention and back to paranoia.
Was Senator Allen saying he knew Jason and Lindy knew each other or simply that they should probably know each other? Jason tried to read Lindy. She, of course, looked beautiful. But her limp handshake and refusal to meet Jason’s eyes only drove him to wonder if she had told. Maybe he was the only one getting fired.
The senator ordered a Chivas on the rocks. Another signal that usually put Jason on alert, because Jason always had to monitor the senator’s words whenever he drank. One cocktail at lunch shouldn’t matter. Quickly Jason realized the senator had an agenda. And the cocktail was liquid bravery.
Before the entrées arrived, Senator Allen began throwing down the gauntlet.
“Shirley, I know you’re looking out for Indiana, same way I’m looking out for Florida.” Senator Allen talked while he picked up his flatware piece by piece and moved it a quarter of an inch. Jason had seen him do this at other lunches and it reminded Jason of a chess player lining up his pawns or a general setting up his front line.
“When hurricanes hit Florida two years in a row and we needed some bridges repaired and replaced, it was quite helpful that we could include expert construction companies all the way from Indiana.”
Jason wanted to cringe. This would not have been his choice of opening and now he wondered if the Chivas had not been the senator’s first drink of the day. If Jason remembered correctly, the contracts to those expert construction companies came after Senator Malone agreed to vote in favor of a controversial gun-control bill that Senator Allen had cosponsored. She hadn’t asked to be rewarded, but even so, Jason remembered Senator Allen calling the multimillion-dollar earmark to those Indiana companies as “insurance.”
No, as Jason watched the color rise in Senator Malone’s cheeks, he knew this was not a good start.
“Unfortunately we have lots of experience in Indiana rebuilding after disastrous tornadoes,” she said in a tone that set Jason at ease. The lady could take care of herself.
“Of course you do. And if we play our cards right,” the senator continued as if he had just gotten the thank-you he expected, “there’s more than enough for both our states in this $140-million energy contract.”
“Ethanol has a proven record in delivering,” Senator Malone countered between delicate bites of her salad. “I’m not convinced EchoEnergy can make that claim.”
“Yes, that’s right. Ethanol can deliver.” Senator Allen nodded and smiled. “But only with an awful lot of help from government subsidies.”
Jason glanced at Lindy. From where he sat he could see her hand in her lap, twisting her cloth napkin, but her eyes were on her senator.
Jason was wrong. This had nothing to do with their illicit one-night stand. For one thing, Senator Allen would never be this cocky about a military contract if he knew his chief of staff had boinked Senator Malone’s chief girl. Or maybe that was exactly why he was so cocky.
“It’s not up to me, John,” Senator Malone was saying.
“We’ll cancel each other out if we go up against each other,” Senator Allen said, moving the salt and pepper shakers a quarter inch from their original position. And then his fingers retreated to his now-empty glass of Chivas. “That happens and you know who wins.”
He lowered his voice and leaned forward to add, “Those fucking Arabs win, that’s who.”
Jason shifted in his chair, staring at the remnants of his own salad. He should feel relieved this lunch had nothing to do with him. That’s when the waiter chose to bring their entrées and everyone sat back. Intermission, Jason thought, avoiding Lindy’s eyes and especially Senator Malone’s. He heard Senator Allen praise the young waiter, but Jason kept his eyes on the sirloin tips and roasted potatoes on the plate in front of him. It looked delicious, but Jason had absolutely no appetite.
Tallahassee, Florida
“That’s impossible,” Leon barked into the cell phone, pulling it away from his ear and smacking the piece of crap phone against the wall as if that might help him get a different answer. He had to stop lifting these flashy, razor-thin, worthless pieces of technocrap.
He pressed the phone against his ear just in time to hear the voice on the other end say, “…today. Take care of it.”
Leon slammed the phone shut. He wanted to put his fist through a wall. Instead, he looked around the restaurant, trying to find his waitress to wave her down. This was fucking incredible. He pulled out a miniature pack of tissues and his stubby, clumsy fingers tugged one out so he could wipe the sweat from his upper lip. He took out a second and dragged it all the way from his forehead, over his widow’s peak to the back of his head.
Jesus H. Christ! How the hell could she have made it out? He knew he’d given her car a good shove. He’d seen it take flight over the ditch. And he’d seen the fireball. No way she survived that. Maybe he should have stuck around, but the angle that the car took off, no way she was getting out.
Son of a bitch. What a fucking streak of bad luck he was having. It all started with that incident that put Casino Rudy in the psych hospital instead of six feet under. Leon was hoping to cash in on this job before that recent little mishap got out. Truth is, he about pissed his pants yesterday when he realized that’s where the Galloway lady was going, even though he knew damn well it had nothing to do with Casino Rudy. Fucking coincidence that she’d be going to Chattahoochee. But she was there to see some other old guy. Being in that place for crazies gave Leon the major creeps.
That’s also why he was in a hurry to knock her off. He was fucking tired of trying to figure out some accident. Mistakes happen when you’re in a hurry. Then to find out her old man was in the same kook-house as Casino Rudy. What the hell was he supposed to do? But nothing right gets done when you’re in a hurry. That’s exactly what happened with the hit on Casino Rudy in the first place. Leon would rather believe that than remind himself of that batty fortune-teller who claimed to have put a curse on him.
Who the hell believed in curses? Leon certainly didn’t. Or at least he never used to.
About a month ago, he was trailing a schmuck from New Jersey, an accountant stupid enough to think he could embezzle over two hundred thousand from his employer and not get caught. Leon had followed him to Coney Island. What a prime spot to knock the guy off. Just when Leon decided he’d pop the son of a bitch during the fireworks, the schmuck meets up with a woman and her little girl. Even Leon had standards. He wouldn’t off some guy with a little kid tagging along.
Instead of wasting the night, Leon bought a beer at the freak bar, thought he’d check out one of the freak shows, but there was nothing to compare with when he was a kid. Nothing even close to JoJo, the dog-faced boy. Only tattooed freaks and sword swallowers. Hell, he’d seen enough knives inserted into body parts more interesting than mouths.
He was about to leave when a fortune-telling gypsy with black eyes and a decent cleavage waved him over, her index finger giving him that come-hither twitch like she was reeling him in. With an approach like that how was he supposed to know it pissed off fortune-tellers when you propositioned them? Maybe they should have a sign or something posted. Didn’t stop her from taking his twenty, and then spitting in the palm of his hand and declaring “upon his head” some “curse of a dead ancestor.”
Leon laughed about it that night, but now it was starting to spook him.
He paid his tab and left the restaurant without even getting a piece of key lime pie like he wanted. He noticed the three-level parking garage across the street. He’d need another ride if he was sticking around. He couldn’t just dump the black sedan at the airport and leave like he intended. Originally he’d planned to wait for the two o’clock electronic transfer to be made into his account, then he’d book a flight home. In ten years he’d never had so much trouble. Maybe he’d stay away from fucking Florida for a while. Curse or no curse, nobody should push their luck. He should have known he couldn’t do three hits in the same area without something going wrong. Not that he expected all of them to be as easy as shoving a guy into a tank of chicken guts.
