Code 13 (43 page)
Authors: Don Brown
“By such distinguished members of Congress?”
“No. That ain't it. It's more than that. What am Iâ” A sudden look of recognition. “Yes. It ain't often that we're in the esteemed presence of such esteemed political royalty! It's like having the king and queen of England in our presence.” A cackling laugh. “Although I must ask, under the circumstances, which one of you plays the queen?”
The congressman snapped like an angry queen bee. “Do I detect a homophobic tone in that question?”
“A homo what-ic?” Sal was having fun toying with Milk and Rodino.
“You know,” the congressman said, “England doesn't have a king.”
Joey reentered the room. “Here are your chairs, Sal.”
“Ah. Set 'em there, Joey. One for the king and one for the queen.”
“What, boss?”
“Just set the chairs there, Joey. Maybe they're both the queen type.”
Rodino and Milk exchanged angry glares with each other.
“Well.” Big Sal spoke again. “I hear you gentlemen may have lost a colleague this morning. Sorry for your professional loss.” Sal chuckled.
“Are you referring to Talmadge?” Milk asked.
Sal laughed harder. “Forgive me. The thought of more than one Washington maggot getting wiped out on a single day got me excited.” More chuckling. “Of course I'm talking about Talmadge.”
Rodino responded. “Talmadge was a right-winger. But you don't want to see that happen to anybody.” Milk cast his eyes to the side.
“Maybe the moral of the story ought to be that it doesn't pay to get on the wrong side of the family when it comes to federal legislation that the family's interested in.”
Milk looked at Big Sal. “What does that mean?” He sounded like an irritated female cat.
Phil spoke. “I think Sal means Talmadge was pushing for this drone project pretty hard. Not a smart move.”
“So what did you do?” Milk snapped. “Just kill him?”
“Hey!” Sal held up his hands in a don't-shoot surrender gesture. Then he pulled out his shiny, long-barreled revolver, holding the barrel straight up into the air.
Milk jumped back, horrified, which made the sight worth the price of admission. “IâIâ”
“Easy. Easy there, Congressman.” Sal made no effort to hide his delight at watching Rodino's lover boy twisting on his seat. “You should know the family don't kill nobody.” Sal formed his mouth in an O shape, as if about to blow smoke rings. But instead he blew a gust of breath on the gun and then wiped the barrel with a rag.
Milk jumped back again with another look of horror on his face.
Big Sal snickered. “I wouldn't hurt nobody with this gun, Congressman,” Sal lied. “We just sometimes arrange for certain types of publicity to help nudge you political types along.”
More confused looks, and Sal laid the gun down on the desk.
“What Sal means,” Phil said, “is that Talmadge was pushing too hard on the other side. We have contacts everywhere. Lobbyists. Congressional staffs. You name it. One of our contacts turned over some fascinating photographs of the good senator, and we determined that it would be best if the senator turned his attention to something other than this drone project. Our friends at the
Washington Post
were happy to oblige.” Phil allowed himself a grin. Silence.
“Okay,” Rodino said. “So I'm confused.”
“So what is it you might be confused about, Senator?” Sal asked.
“Well, the bill hasn't passed. Now its principal proponent, Bobby Talmadge, is dead. And Talmadge was pushing it because it would have brought a ton of jobs to Georgia. Mackey and I are good Democrats”âhe looked over at Milk, who nodded in agreementâ“and we've already been working behind the scenes against it. If you've brought us up here to tell us to oppose this thing, I'm not sure what more we can do, Mr. D'Agostino.”
“Joey?”
“Yes, Mr. D.”
“Bring shots of bourbon for everybody, will ya?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. D.”
Sal looked at Rodino, then at Milk. “What I want, gentlemen, is assurance that this thing is dead on arrival. And I haven't gotten that yet.”
Joey returned with two bottles of Evan Williams bourbon and four whiskey glasses. He poured the glasses full, and Sal took a sip before continuing.
“I know you can't stop some right-winger from introducing this legislation. But I want a legal opinion that this project is illegal, and I want that opinion from the Navy, before this bill ever sees the light of day. And I want it now.” He smiled and looked at the political scum. “Care for a drink?”
Milk spoke again with the shrillness of a squealing hyena that got on Phil's nerves. “Look, Mr. D'Agostino, I understand that you have been a big contributor to Senator Rodino's campaign, and also to various Democratic Party causes. And for all that, you're to be commended. But my question is this.” Milk paused, glanced at Rodino, then back at Sal. “What exactly do you want?”
With a slight smile, Sal seemed to ignore the question. “Give me a second, will ya?”
He extracted a large cigar, lit it, took a drag on it, and blew smoke at the two men.
“You know, I like you, Milk.” Another smoke cloud. “But don't get too excited. Know what I like about you?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, I think the real question here is, what does the senator want?”
“What do you mean?” Rodino asked.
“You want to be president, don't you, Senator? At least that's what I've read in the paper.”
Rodino's face reddened. Veins popped out in his neck. “Even if that were true, what's that got to do with anything?”
When Sal grinned, he set off two deep grooves on his bald forehead. Like his bald head was flashing three evil smiles, one below the nose and two above his eyebrows, giving him the sinister look of the Joker in the Batman comics. Except Sal looked more like a three-hundred-pound Joker. Right now, both Rodino and Milk were on the squirming end of Sal's famous glazed-over, crazy look.
“Well, you know . . .” He puffed again on his big stogie, then chomped it in his mouth and, with his finger, powerfully flicked the barrel of the .357 revolver. The gun spun round and round on the desk, as if in a game of Russian roulette. The liberal lover boys jumped again, drawing another chuckle from Sal.
Sal removed the cigar from his mouth. “As I was about to say, we here at the New York Concrete & Seafood Company are quite peaceful. We are a peaceful company and a peaceful family. But”âhe wagged his index finger in the airâ“I must say that we do believe in the Fourth Amendment right to freedom of the press.”
Milk's eyes seethed. “It's the First Amendment that gives freedom of the press. And just what are you getting at?”
“Well, now. Gentlemen!” Sal said. “It appears that we do have a constitutional scholar in our midst.” He leered at Milk, and his voice trembled with anger. “Let me tell you this, Mr. Constitutional Scholar. This old guy might sometimes get the First Amendment mixed up with the Fourth Amendment, but let me assure you of this.” He picked up the long-barreled revolver. The two politicians flinched. “I always make sure I understand the Second Amendment.”
Silence.
He set the gun down on the desk.
“But we here at NYC&S believe in the First Amendment freedom of the press. And if some well-known public newspaper, say the
New York Times
or the
Washington Post
, wanted to, you know, post certain pictures . . . I mean, who are we to object?” Sal threw up his hands and shrugged.
“What pictures are you talking about?” Milk snapped.
“Oh, I don't know.” Sal was clearly enjoying the moment. “Maybe some you should ask your buddy Senator Rodino about. See what he thinks about it all.”
Milk glared at Rodino. “What's he talking about, Chuckie?”
“They've got pictures of us.”
“Pictures of us?” Milk's face reddened. Veins bulged in his neck.
“Yes. Private pictures. Last summer at Martha's Vineyard.”
“What?”
“I saw the photos yesterday.”
“That's blackmail!” Milk raised his voice.
“Blackmail?” Big Sal grinned. “What makes you think such a thing, Milkey? You haven't even seen the pictures.”
“Nobody was supposed to know about Martha's Vineyard!”
Phil spoke up. “Well, it seems to me, Congressman, that if you didn't want to be spotted on a romantic weekend with your boyfriend here, then you should have picked someplace a little less public than Martha's Vineyard. Like, maybe Alaska or something!”
Milk shot back, “Still, I resent having my privacy violated!”
“Hey, Congressman,” Sal said. “Ain't nobody violated your privacy. Not yet, anyway.”
“Well, it sounds to me like you're threatening to run these embarrassing photos in the
Post
!”
“Let me ask you this, Milkey.”
“It's Milk. Congressman William O. Milk. And my nickname, for only a select few in my inner circle, is Mackey. Not Milkey.”
“All right, Congressman. Let me ask you this. Do you want to see your boyfriend here have a shot at being the vice president of the United States? Maybe even president?”
Milk looked over at Rodino, his eyes wide and his mouth open, as if coming to the realization that his lover from the U.S. Senate might actually have a shot at becoming the next president of the United States.
“Of course I would love to see Chuck become our next president. He has a certain strength and virtue about him that would make him one of the greatest ever to hold the office.” An adoring dreaminess appeared in his eyes as he gazed at his senatorial lover with a look that made Phil want to vomit.
“Well, if these pictures got out, the irony is that they might help you get reelected in Massachusetts. Not that you would need any help getting reelected. The word's already out on you, and that lifestyle has always flown pretty well in Boston.
“But they don't know about you and Senator Lover Boy here, and I've got a feeling that won't fly too well down south, even in the Democrat primaries down there. And those pictures will kill his
chances in a general election. And as far as vice president goes, if Eleanor Claxton gets the Democrat nomination, and she might, there's no way in hell Eleanor puts Chuckie here on the ticket.” Sal leaned back and crossed his arms over his belly. “So it seems to me that keeping those pictures out of the paper would be a good thing for your friend's political chances.”
“He's got a point, Mackey.” Rodino reached over and touched his hand.
“So,” Sal continued, “if you want Senator Lover Boy to have a shot at the presidency, then get on board with what we need. Milk, you're on the Armed Services Committee. I need you to spearhead opposition to this drone bill in the house and kill it.” He looked at Rodino. “And same for you in the senate. I want to know this bill is dead on arrival! Do you hear me?”
“You have my cooperation,” Milk said. He turned and nodded lovingly at Rodino. “But I'm doing this for him. Not you. You're not my constituent.”
“I don't care who you're doing it for. You've got three days, or it's going to be a shark-feeding frenzy and you'll wish you had it as easy as Talmadge had it. Now get out of my office!”
WALTER REED NATIONAL MILITARY MEDICAL CENTER
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
TUESDAY, 12:30 P.M.
He walked into the room and, as he always had done, filled every corner of it with his charismatic presence. Women dropped what they were doing and turned their heads at the sight of his broad shoulders and muscular chest nicely filling out his summer white Navy uniform shirt. That hadn't changed. And neither had his broad, white smile and that jutting, rock-solid chin.
A golden glow surrounded his head, and over each of his black-and-gold shoulder boards appeared a strange golden light, almost like little golden clouds hovering behind him.
Her heart soared at the sight of him walking into the room; joy overcame her. She pushed herself up on her bed.
“Thank God! I thought I'd never see you again.”
“You knew you'd see me again. How could I leave my running buddy behind?”
“Iâ”
“Shhh.” He held his finger up to his lips. “Save your energy. Try not to talk.”
His smile melted her heart, and when he stepped over to her and touched her arm with his hand, her soul started to burst from her chest.
The last time she had been with him, she had felt such ecstatic
exhilaration, eager for a new beginning, only to have her hopes dashed forever in a cold, cruel moment on a heartless hot day.
She had always known it. At least, conceptually she had known. And her faith taught her that there was life after death for those who trusted in the Son of God.
But now . . . now she knew heaven was for real. Seeing him come in, feeling his touch, knowing he would take her with him as they walked out of this place into the afterlife . . . She was about to cross chasms of time and space to a promised land of milk and honey, whose streets were paved with gold, where holy light always shone, with no more tears, no more pain . . .