The Committee (5 page)

“Then I understand,
mon chéri
Juliette,” he said at the moment of collapse. “For you, I will be governor.”

 

 

It was after 3:00 in the morning. The streets of downtown Los Angeles were empty. A full moon shed unwelcomed light on homeless men huddled in doorways and fishnet stockings worn by prostitutes offering ten-dollar blowjobs to anyone who passed within twenty feet of their corners.

Camille guided the black Escalade into a working-class neighborhood in Watts. The pride of community and homeownership was evident in the well-tended lawns and the two cars in every driveway. The Watts Riots of 1965 left the area with the reputation of being crime ridden and depressed, but clearly, the residents knew otherwise.

She stopped in front of a white house on Grape Street that stood out from the others on the block. Cement lions with paws clawing at the air sat on each side of a white wrought iron gate. Gold-painted acorn finials topped each fence post, and bursts of flowers on trellises were anchored in brightly glazed pots throughout the yard. Electric pink trim outlined the windows, roof, and front door. The Creole roots of the inhabitant were apparent to all who passed the neat little house.

Camille looked to her left, then right, and checked the rearview mirror before exiting the car. It would be impossible for her to explain her presence in this part of town, in front of this peculiar house, at this hour of the night.

The moon followed her as she opened the gate and made her way hurriedly up the whitewashed walkway. The door slowly glided open before she could ring the doorbell.

No one stood in the threshold to welcome Camille. Instead, she heard a voice in the distance call out, “Come in, Camille, I'll be right out.”

Camille was accustomed to such theatrics as doors opening by themselves, the occasional flickering of the lights, or the always perfectly timed “Squawk!” of the blue and gold Macaw named Louie Armstrong in the birdcage hanging in the corner of the dining room. Her favorite was the black candle that would light and extinguish itself at least once during her periodic visits.

Camille entered the house and closed the door quickly behind her. The smell of burning incense assaulted her nose as she hung her coat on the rack in the entry hall. The interior of the house was much like the exterior. Framed pictures of New Orleans's scenic points of interest, Bible verses stitched in needlepoint, and faded black-and-white photographs of long-since-dead ancestors hung on the yellowing floral wallpaper. The chairs and couch were guarded by plastic covers and finely crocheted doilies. The furniture was a mix of 1950s tables and chairs, and antiques that would fetch jaw-dropping appraisals on the
Antiques Roadshow
.

Just as Camille was preparing to sit in her usual seat, Madame Gillette Lemaitre entered the room from the kitchen.

“Honey, I had a taste for collard greens,” she said wiping her hands on an apron cinched around her waist. “Sit down, sit down,” she said summoning the Southern manners she learned at the knees of her mother and grandmother. “Would you like to try them? No pork at all. My doctor said I can only use smoked turkey now. Not quite the same but still does the trick.”

Gillette was a sturdy woman in her sixties. She moved with the steady determination of a person half her age. Her lovely bone structure and virtually wrinkle-free skin and jade-green eyes were gifts from her Louisianan ancestors. Most assumed she was forty-five or, forty-six at the most, but her grandmother's Bible held the secret of her true age within the hallowed confines of its weathered pages.

“It's a little late for greens,” Camille said as she sat on the couch.

“You know how that is. When you get a hunger for something there's no point in putting it off,” Gillette said sitting in the chair directly in front of Camille. “Besides, when you live to be my age, there's no reason in denying yourself whatever gives you pleasure because soon enough, you'll be six feet under.”

Camille heard a loud, “Squawk!” from the dining room as if Louie were saying
“Amen!”
to Gillette's most recent pearl of wisdom.

“What's on your mind, child?” Gillette said looking deeply into Camille's eyes. “I can see something's troubling you.”

Over the years, Camille learned it was useless to hide anything from the woman who sat in front of her. She was like an open book to Gillette and deception could prove to be costly.

“You've read about the new Dober Stadium,” Camille launched in.

“Yes, yes,” Gillette said clapping her hands once. “It's beautiful. I hope you can get me a ticket. I would love to see it before I die. When is it going to be done?”

“That's the problem. It might not be approved by the Planning Commission,” she said mournfully. “The chair, John Spalding, is opposed to it and has vowed to stop it from being built anywhere in the city.”

“I saw pictures in the paper, and it's something else. Looks like a flying saucer landed right in the middle of a field. What kind of fool wouldn't want a stadium that beautiful in Los Angeles?”

“The kind of fool who would do anything to make me look bad. I'll be known as the mayor who failed if he's able to stop this project; I would never live it down.”

“And if it's built?”

“If I get it built, then the sky's the limit. I can—”

Gillette raised her hand to stop Camille. “Never mind. Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves. We can only deal with one stadium at a time. Now, what is it you want from me?”

“You know what I want,” Camille answered as if irritated by the question. “The same thing you did to the others. I want him stopped. I want him out of the way.”

Gillette leaned back in the cushioned chair. The plastic covering burped and squeaked as she settled in. “You're sure that's the only way? Have you talked to him? Turn on the Hardaway charm,” she said with a mimicking smile.

“I've tried reasoning with him, but he's irrational. He only wants to see me fail.”

Gillette was silent for a few moments. Her eyes closed tight and lips pursed in deep contemplation. Camille stared at her intently and silently prayed she would come to the same conclusion.

Then she finally spoke. “This is the third time, Camille,” Gillette said wearily with her eyes trained on the mayor. “You know this takes a lot out of me.”

“I know it does, but I've tried everything, and this is the only option I have left. I'm desperate.”

The smell of bubbling collard greens, garlic, and onions competed with the burning incense. Camille did not take her eyes off Gillette.

“What do you want done?” Gillette finally asked.

“I don't care. Just stop him,” Camille said barely containing her desperation. “Heart attack, brain tumor, sex scandal. I don't care. Just stop him. And it's got to happen soon. We're starting negotiations with the property owner tomorrow.”

“Don't worry, baby. I know just the thing,” Gillette said reverting to her most grandmotherly tone.

“I don't want to know the details,” Camille blurted. “I can't be involved.”

Gillette laughed gently and said, “That's the beauty of the spirit world, baby. No one you can see is involved except the victim.”

“Good.”

“I'll start on it right away,” the old woman said scooting forward in the chair. “Here's what I need. A picture of the Mr. Spalding. Something, anything, with his original signature on it. Do you have anything personal that ever belonged to him?”

Camille thought for a minute. “He gave me a baseball signed by Willie Mays that was part of his sports memorabilia collection.”

Gillette laughed loudly. “Perfect! A symbol of the very thing he's trying to destroy.”

The old woman stood. Her years were now more apparent as she struggled to her feet and walked to the mantle over the fireplace. She stood near the candle and said, “Bring everything here tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Camille replied humbly. “Anything else?”

“There is one more thing,” Gillette said walking toward the kitchen. “Are you sure you don't want to try my greens? Smells like they're almost done.”

Sheridan Hardaway drove the silver Mercedes up Sunset Boulevard past Grauman's Chinese Theatre, mammoth billboards of busty blonds, and a string of trendy restaurants. He maneuvered the car through a labyrinth of tour buses, taxicabs, and jaywalking tourists. The glitter and grit of Hollywood soon gave way to a serene palm-lined stretch of Beverly Hills.

Sheridan turned onto a nondescript side street tucked between a thicket of trees and blooming lavender jacaranda. A lush green canopy covered the narrow road. He could see the signature pink building just ahead. The Beverly Hills Hotel, despite its notoriety, still served as the discrete meeting spot for movie mogul power meetings, celebrity getaways, and clandestine assignations. It was the official no-tell motel for the rich and infamous.

Sheridan stopped the car in the arch of the circular driveway. A red-vested valet who looked like the next Hollywood heartthrob trotted to the car and opened the door. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said with a dazzling capped smile. “Welcome to the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

Sheridan did not reply.

“Do you have luggage to check, sir?” the well-trained man continued. “I would be happy to take them in for you.”

“No bags. Just here for a meeting,” Sheridan said, already feeling he had revealed too much.

“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.