ALL IN: Race for the White House (21 page)

I passed one of the ground crew and thanked him for keeping the hangar warm for us; the word had gotten out that I didn’t like the cold too much. I sprung up the steps and entered the plane.

“How’s Steve doing?”

I sat down on the couch across from Bill.
 

“Steve told me you would have loved the landing at Lukla, the airstrip is only 1500 feet long. It was built with a 12-degree slope to help the small planes that fly in there stop on such a short strip.”
 

“You’d have to come in at near stall speed to land in that distance, Bill.”

“He said it was pretty hairy, alright.” Then, I looked out the window as a limo pulled into the hangar. The driver got out and opened the passenger door to the side facing the plane and then he started toward the trunk.
 

Sandy twisted her body so that both her legs were heading out the door. Her left leg was first with her toe reaching tentatively for the ground. She looked like all legs in the mid-thigh dress she was wearing.
 

Bill had moved over to a window and leaned in to see what had caught my attention, muttering, “Wow would you look at that.”
 

I said, “She’s something else. Looks like a cross between a new fawn searching for its first steps and a beautiful woman.”

Sandy placed her right calf across her left knee and paused before sliding it slowly down the length of her leg so the underside of her right knee was cupped over her left. Her left hand clutched a small handbag across her pale lower thighs while her right hand supplied pressure to the inner door jam. She shifted her weight forward and landed on the ball of her foot, emerging free from the car. She made no hint if she’d seen us ogling like a couple of thirteen-year-olds as she adjusted the plunging neckline of her dress. She shook out her hair a little and started walking towards the plane with the slink of a starlet walking the red carpet. The driver grabbed her small carry on and a jacket that she had left on the seat of the car. He stepped quickly to remind Sandy of the jacket and then handed the carry on to one of the crew. Reflexively, I jumped out of my seat to greet her at the door.
 

“You made it,” I said as she climbed up the stairs. “Sandy, you look amazing,” as she met me at the top of the landing. I gave her a hug and I wondered if she could feel my heart beating. Something about this hug was different, the tips of her hair tickled me and I got chills. She stepped back to face me and questioned, “What do you think? Do you notice anything different?”

I thought quickly, “Your hair is lighter?” She was disappointed in my answer. Give me a day or so, and I could’ve thought of a hundred things to say. Thinking quickly is not my strong suit. For now, all I added was, “Wow!”
 

“That’s part of it, silly,” she said as she brushed past me then walking one foot directly in front of the other until she found a seat on the couch across from where Bill was sitting. Sandy adjusted her dress and, carefully crossing her legs, seated sideways so that she could face me as I followed finding a seat next to her.
 

She looked into my eyes and started sounding upbeat, “I was sitting in the office trying to figure out what I was going to wear tonight and decided to go out shopping. That’s when by chance I saw this calendar. I know you
love
Marilyn and have always thought that I resemble her a bit,
so
…
I made up my mind to do it!
I went to my salon and told them to do me up like the April picture. Sandy reached into her clutch and pulled out the page from a calendar. I told the stylist to cut my hair and color it platinum blonde. When she finished with my hair, she arched my eyebrows and did my makeup.”
 

Looking at her and then the picture, she had nailed it, dress and all.
 

“You’re gorgeous, dazzling, and that maroon dress is exact. Where did…”
 

Sandy put her finger to my lips, “Nice try. This dress is red, Jack, or should I call you
Mister
? I can see blonde?” Sandy was referring to a comment I made after being accused of color blindness by Brett Prauer at the recent debate.
 

Brett was on the attack, “Senator we have a witness who claims you were not able to pass the National Guard Flight Physical, flunking the color test. Yet you still managed to fly. Can you explain that, sir?”
 

I thought to myself, there were only two other people in the room the day I was trying so hard to view the numbers in the dots: the doctor, who was trying to help me out, and a young male assistant. There’s always some jackass from the past looking for their fifteen minutes. The guy must have come forward after seeing my face on TV, thinking he had scandalous news. So many people wait for that gotcha moment. In response, I said while noticing an attractive blonde in the audience, “I can see blonde.” The audience cracked up, much to Brett’s disgust. After the laughing settled, I tried to recover by looking over at Anne Griffin’s outfit, listing the colors she was wearing. I didn’t want to appear chauvinistic, so I turned to Dr. Tim and said, “Blue tie, pale green shirt, blue blazer.”
 

“Sandy, I really thought your dress was maroon.”

Shaking her head, “It’s red. You really do have trouble with some of your colors, don’t you? How
did
you pass your color test?”

I looked over at Bill who was sitting across from us, listening.
 

Bill volunteered, “I got a copy of the test and practiced with him. He got good enough at remembering the other colors and patterns that he was able to pass by the skin of his teeth. I guess I’m to blame for him passing his flight physical.”

No, you were a good friend to me, Bill; I did what needed to be done.”
 

“Not too good to be jealous of what I see over there. If a beautiful woman went through all that trouble for me, as unavailable as you are…”
 

“Sandy stopped him, “
Bill
… I thought this look would be fun for Jack. To help keep his mind off any other distractions. He’ll remember me back at the office like this and be able to laugh a lot of that stuff off.”

“I’m jealous of that, too. Women are always throwing themselves at Jack. I’m divorced, alone, and miserable.”

Sandy said, “You’re a nice guy, though. I’ll try to fix you up with one of my girlfriends.”
 

After all the talking between the three of us I hadn’t realized that we had already fueled up, been pushed back and were taxiing to the runway. Pilot Ben came on the intercom, “we are next in line so buckle up, everyone. We are out of here.”
 

We arrived at Syracuse Hancock International around 8:30 p.m. to a frigid wind and waiting car. Tip had arranged for a car and driver that would take us to the estate of Gene Hobbs. The estate was located along the Onondaga Lake. The route to Liverpool took about twenty minutes down 81 to the Parkway and then onto 2nd street, ending up at the northwest section of the lake.
 

Tip made the trip to pick us up to fill me in on a few details concerning the fundraiser as well as to make sure we got there in one piece. He was waiting in the back of the limo when Bill, Sandy, and I hurriedly jumped in to escape the cold. Sandy climbed in first and found a seat across from Tip. Her dress rose up accidentally revealing her uppermost thigh and she quickly shifted to pull it down. She over reacted and crossed her legs tight, one over the other. I saw Tips reaction as his eyes made their way from her toes to her breast.
 

“Look at you,” Tip couldn’t help but comment about Sandy’s transformation. “You look amazing!”

I was second to jump and sitting next to her - heard both the question and the answer.
 

“You like it?” Sandy blushed.
 

“Like it? That’s got to be the understatement of the century; you look frigging hot Sandy. How are you doing, Jack?” Tip turned his head toward me, but his eyes couldn’t seem to follow and stay.
 

I said, “I’m good. Isn’t she something? It feels like we’re traveling with a starlet.”
 

“I know, I’m in love!” Bill said, jumping in last then pulling the door shut behind him.
 

Once we were all settled, Tip knocked the back of his closed fist against the window signaling to the driver that we were ready. The center window between the passenger and front cabin rolled down slightly.
 

Tip said, “Let’s move.”
 

Turning back to me, but still distracted, Tip added, “I ran the guest list and there are a couple of undesirables that you should know about. Actually, you all need to know about.”

“Any word from Bud and Lisa?” Bud was back at the mansion, busy working the donations with Lisa at his side handling the accounting.
 

“Yeah, Bud wanted me to remind you to try not to let any pictures, flash with either of them, if possible.”

“How bad are these guys, Tip? They’re obviously friends of Hobbs; he keeps himself fairly clean I’m sure.”

“Hobbs is no boy scout. Add to that the stink of Tommy Santoro and Emilio Juarez at his place. Juarez, nicknamed the Cuban, is the head of a crime syndicate in Havana with a home base in the Dominican Republic where he’s sort of a local hero. The agency has its eye on him.”

“How did he get into the country?”

“That’s the thing, Jack; these guys fly around in private jets owned by corporations linked to Hobbs. Juarez takes a short trip to the Dominican or Haiti or even the Bahamas where Gene picks him up and flies him here. He’s a badass, the agency was considering taking him out to shake things up, but a hold came down from the top so they’re keeping tabs on him for now.”

“What about Santoro?”

“He’s the real bargain, mixed in with the New York mob and Juarez. The agency has him as the number two man in the North East Drug trade.”

“Has he ever done time?”

“Twenty years ago, he did three years for extortion, but was let out early and has never been back. His nickname is the undertaker because his business partners tend to die off.”

“Why would Hobbs bother?”

“It’s always the money. My guess is that Juarez is the grower, the Italian is the distributor and that Hobbs owns the land or something; he obviously provides transportation. The agency won’t touch Hobbs;
he’s got the hands-off platinum card from the president. Even the IRS can’t audit this guy.
He’s definitely one of the elite.
 

We pulled up to high solid black iron gates and a guardhouse that would lead us onto the estate.

Tip explained, “We checked this place out. I looked at the original as-built schematics and had our guys at the agency do some satellite surveillance. This place is tighter than Fort Knox; the entire property is surrounded by a 20 ft. stonewall. Inside that is a forty-foot wide moat filled with razor blade tipped barbed wire beneath the surface. I heard the crew has to skim out dead birds and small animals that venture in. The road heading to the house has a section that can drop 8 feet, making it suddenly impassable with a vehicle. The entire property can be lit up to daylight conditions with floodlights. Surveillance has shown as many as 30 security staff roaming the perimeter.”

“I hope you brought plenty of gum with you,” I said.
 

Just then our driver opened up the window and announced, “The Senator Canon party is here.”

The guard went back inside the guardhouse and emerged along with another man with a dog who proceeded to lead the animal around the vehicle. When he was finished, the first guy walked up to the driver’s window and I heard, “Thank you. Please travel straight ahead to the main building; someone will be waiting with a red wand light to direct you.”

The gates slowly opened and revealed a quarter mile road, lighted by old-fashioned gas carriage lamps. At the end, sitting on a slight rise, was a majestic building lit in golden spotlight.
 

Driving towards the residence I said, “There is nothing small about this place.”

Sandy turned her face towards me, “Thanks for inviting me. Something tells me
this
is going to be a memorable experience.”
 

Bill added, “I’ll stay close.” His job was to know the details so I could work the room and be charming without worrying about forgetting stuff.” Bill was a great help, he was a storehouse of information, jumping in when I needed him to answer questions. He took care of the details, allowing me to mingle. Sometimes I would leave him to finish with one group, excusing myself to move on to another. We made a good team. Tip had all the names and background information and Sandy was playing her
unofficial
self-appointed role as eye candy. This was definitely her night for that.

“I’ll be right next to you all night, Jack,” was her only comment as we pulled up to the mansion. The four of us exited the limousine and walked toward the massive porch that looked to span a hundred feet along the entire front of the house.
 

The building was well over three stories tall with too many very large colonial windows to count, each lit brightly from the inside. We walked from the car and stepped onto the landing. I could see inside a spacious open hall with a brilliantly polished wood floor. Two doormen opened giant etched glass doors and we entered. The receiving area of the house was about seventy foot deep of a double staircase that split in circular fashion, taking guests to second and third-floor landings. Groups of massive white columns held up the floors, and the walls were faced with thick, white colonial moldings. Through the center of the staircase, there was a very large open area with what looked to be a lot of activity.
 

I could make out a pool, surrounded by a large brick patio and what looked like grass. Surveying my surroundings, I realized I was only seeing the tip of the iceberg. The building was extremely large with a Plexiglas dome covering a central courtyard area half as long as a football field. The house was constructed surrounding it on all four sides. Each of the ballroom-sized rooms on the ground level opened up to what can only be described as an indoor park, shielded from an upstate New York January with temperature and wind chill coming off the lake that made it more like twenty above in the real outdoors.