The Run (23 page)
Regenstein stood up. “Well, Senator, we’d better be going; I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do.”
Will stood, too, shaking the man’s hand. “Thank you again, Lou, for all your help on this fund-raiser, and I haven’t thanked you properly for Centurion’s incredibly generous gift to the party.”
Everyone laughed.
“Will,” Charlene said, “can I have just a moment of private time with you?”
“Of course,” Will said, looking around the room for rescue. Kitty, Tim, and two Secret Service agents were with them, and Kitty was whispering to an agent.
Will shook Vance Calder’s hand again. “I’ll see you at the party; Kate and I are both looking forward to it.”
“Arrington is looking forward to seeing you again,” Calder said.
Everyone filed out of the room, except the Secret Service agent to whom Kitty had been whispering.
“Could we be alone for a moment, Will?” Charlene asked.
“I’m sorry, Charlene, but the Secret Service insists on being with me at all times.”
The agent nodded vigorously. “It’s policy, ma’am.”
Charlene looked annoyed, but she returned to her seat on the couch. Will sat on the sofa opposite.
“It’s good to see you doing so well out here, Charlene,” Will said. “Starring with Vance Calder—that’s something.”
“Oh, Vance is a dear,” she said. “I’ve been fucking him ever since we started work on our movie. He’s over at my trailer every day at lunchtime.”
Will was speechless. He glanced at the Secret Service agent, whose eyebrows had shot skyward.
“Don’t look so shocked,” Charlene said. “It’s a tradition at Centurion. Vance has always fucked his leading ladies.”
“What did you want to talk to me about, Charlene?” he asked. He hoped it was not about fucking Vance Calder.
“It’s about Larry Moody’s appeal,” Charlene said.
“Yes, I heard about that,” Will replied dryly.
“The people from the J. Edgar Hoover Institute called me and asked if I would ask you to file a brief as part of the appeal.”
Will was startled at the mention of the right-wing group. “What sort of brief?” he asked, baffled.
“Well, as you know, the basis of their appeal is that Larry had legal counsel that was…inadequate.”
“I believe ‘incompetent’ was the word they used.”
Yes, well, they’re hoping that you’ll file a brief confirming that your representation of Larry at his trial was less than your best. I mean, you had the senatorial campaign going, and Senator Carr was ill, and…”
“Are they
insane?
” Will demanded. “Do they really think for a moment that I would state to an appeals court that I am an incompetent attorney?”
“Now, Will, it’s just a matter of form, and it’s to save Larry’s life, that’s all.”
“It’s not a matter of form, Charlene. No self-respecting attorney would ever do such a thing. I’m sorry that your friend faces the electric chair, but he put himself there, first by raping and murdering a young woman, second by insisting on his innocence, instead of allowing me to plead to a lesser charge, in return for a reduction in sentence, and third, by lying to me from day one.”
“I know all that, Will, but I’m very fond of Larry; he helped me at a difficult time in my life, and I’m still grateful to him.”
“That speaks well of you, Charlene, that you would stand by your friend, but I’m afraid I can’t be of any help to you in this matter. You must understand that it’s absolutely impossible for me to do anything for Larry now.”
Charlene sighed deeply. “Well, if that’s your last word.”
“It is, I’m afraid.” Will stood up to encourage her to do so.
Charlene stood and came toward him, her arms out.
Will grabbed her by the shoulders and held her at a distance while he pecked her on the cheek. “It’s good to see you,” he said, steering her toward the door, “and I want to tell you again how grateful I am for your help with the fund-raiser. It was an incredibly generous thing to do.” They had reached the door, and the agent held it open.
“See you at the party,” Charlene said, and before Will could back away, she leaned forward and kissed him on the ear, using her tongue.
“Good night, Charlene,” Will said, trying to keep his voice steady and noting the expression on the face of Kitty Conroy, who was waiting to come in.
As Charlene passed out of the room, Kitty stepped in. “Can I get you a Q-tip?” she asked as the door closed.
“Thanks for keeping an agent here,” Will said.
“What did she want?”
“She wanted me to file a brief in Larry Moody’s appeal, admitting that I gave him incompetent representation.”
“Oh, is
that
all?” Kitty hooted. “And I thought she wanted your body.”
“Maybe she did,” Will said defensively. He dug the check out of his pocket. “I guess she thought the price was right.”
Kitty looked at the check. “Jesus Christ, I never thought I’d see such a thing in my whole life.”
“Just get it into the hotel safe, and don’t take any detours to Las Vegas on the way.”
“Don’t you worry,” Kitty said, reaching for the door, “and I’ll ask the Secret Service to post extra guards to keep Charlene out.”
Zeke presented himself for work as requested, and Hiller, who had hired him, walked him down to the floor of the Coliseum, where a large platform was under construction at one end of the space. Hiller called another man over.
“Hank, this is Harry Grant, who’s just coming to work for us. I think you might find him useful. Harry, this is Hank Greenbaum; Hank will be your foreman.”
Zeke shook the man’s hand. Ordinarily, Zeke would have refused to work with a Jew, but there was no point in creating a fuss about race right now.
“Good to meet you,” Hank said. “I hear you have quite a range of skills to offer us.”
“I’ll help wherever I can,” Zeke replied.
“Tell you what, climb up on that ladder there and tell me what you think of the framing plan of our platform.”
Zeke climbed up and surveyed the work for a cou
ple of minutes, making mental notes. He came back down. “Who designed the framing?” he asked.
“A kid in our in-house design office.”
“Not a structural engineer?”
“No, we thought he could handle it.”
Zeke shook his head.
“You see a problem?” Hiller asked.
“How many people at a time are you likely to have standing on it?”
“Maybe as many as two hundred,” Hiller replied.
“And what are you flooring it with?”
“Half-inch plywood, then carpeting,” Hank replied.
Zeke shook his head again.
“You think it’s dangerous?”
“I think that, under a lot of weight, it could be a little rickety.”
“Let’s go take a closer look,” Hank said, “and you can tell me what you’d do to make it better.”
The three men walked under the platform and through the framing.
Zeke looked around. “You see how he’s got this series of boxes designed? I think we could make it a lot more rigid if we put cross-members in each box, and then I’d use three-quarter-inch plywood for the flooring. That ought to keep it rigid, and it would feel a lot more substantial underfoot, too.”
“I agree,” Hank said to Hiller, “but I’ll have to have approval for the extra expenditure. It shouldn’t be too bad; we can exchange the half-inch plywood for the three-quarter and get full credit. I might even be able to get them to throw in delivery.”
“Do it,” Hiller said, “and thank you, Harry; that was well spotted.”
Zeke shrugged.
Zeke did the shoring up himself, and Hank Greenbaum watched him closely. By quitting time all the cross-members were in, and the framing was ready for the plywood flooring.
“Good job,” Hank said. “You’re going to be real useful around here. I like the way you use tools.”
“Thanks,” Zeke replied. “What you want me to do tomorrow?”
“Come on up to my office and take a look at some plans,” Hank said.
Zeke followed Greenbaum up to a small room above the platform and watched as he unrolled some architect’s plans. “This wasn’t done by no kid,” he said, looking at them.
“Nope, this was an expert job,” Hank agreed. “These are the plans for the podium. It’s pretty elaborate, as you can see, wide, with raised paneling. It has room for all the telephone and sound-system wiring and the TelePrompTer equipment, and, directly under the podium, there’ll be a closet where all the junction boxes will be located. That way, if there’s a problem during the convention, we can solve it without sending men out onto the platform.”
Zeke nodded. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to another kind of box at the center of the podium.
“The Secret Service is supplying that. It’s basically a three-sided box made of quarter-inch steel plate. It’s accommodated into the design, so that it won’t show, but anybody standing at the microphone will be protected on three sides from gunfire.”
“It doesn’t have a floor,” Zeke pointed out.
“You think it needs one?”
“Nah, only authorized people would be under the podium, anyway, and I’m sure the Secret Service will check it out for bombs more than once.”
“You ever had any experience working with the Secret Service?” Hank asked.
“No, I’m just going by what I read in the papers about how they work. They’ll be all over us like flies.”
“I guess they will,” Hank said. “They’ve already been around to case the place, and they’ve approved the plans for the platform and the podium. I understand you’ve done a lot of installation of cabinetwork.”
“That’s right, I have.”
“Then I’d like you to take whoever you need and assemble and install the podium. It’s due in tomorrow morning from the cabinetmakers. Then, when you’re done, the painters will come in and finish it.”
“What about the electrical work?” Zeke asked.
“That’s being done by an outside contractor.”
“I think it would be a good idea if, after I’ve got the thing installed, I worked with them on running the wiring and siting the junction boxes. I’ve done a lot of that.”
“It’s okay by me,” Hank replied.
“Can I take these drawings home with me tonight and do some planning? Then I can go right to work on the installation as soon as the cabinetwork arrives tomorrow morning.”
“Sure, go ahead, but for God’s sake don’t lose them. That’s my only copy.”
“Don’t you worry,” Zeke said.
That night after supper, Zeke spread the plans out on Rosa’s dining-room table, set up a lamp, and began his work.
“What you doing, baby?” Rosa asked, coming from the kitchen, where she had been washing dishes.
“I’m planning something very important,” he said,
pointing at the plans. “Do you know that the man who might be the next president of the United States is going to be standing right there, making a speech? You can watch it on television in a few days.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, it’s going to be pretty exciting,” Zeke said.
Freddie Wallace answered the door himself at his Georgetown home. It was late, and his visitor looked both tired and worried. “Come in, my boy,” Freddie said, in his most avuncular manner. “Come in, and have a drink.”
“Thank you, Senator, I could use one,” the man said. He was in his early forties, well dressed, and possessed of the sort of accent that spoke of generations of Ivy League ancestors.
Freddie led the man to his study. “Bourbon?” he asked. “I’ve got some awful good bourbon.”
“Scotch, if you have it,” the man replied.
“I’ve got some awful good scotch, too,” Freddie said. “At least, that’s what I’m told; I never drink the stuff myself.” He poured a double of a single-malt whiskey, dropped in a couple of ice cubes, and offered it to his visitor.
The man accepted the glass gratefully and took a very large gulp of the whiskey.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here at this time of night,” Freddie said, waving the man to a chair before the fireplace and taking one himself.
“Yes,” his guest replied.
“You and I have been helpful to each other in the past, John,” Freddie said, to remind the man of past indiscretions.
The man said nothing.
“I have a feeling you know what I want from you,” Freddie said, and he knew immediately that he had hit the mark.
“I can’t imagine,” the man said stiffly.
“Now, John, you and I both know that, sometimes, a man can be in a position to help his country in ways that are not obvious to the casual onlooker.”
The man gazed forlornly into the fire.
“Just tell me what you want,” he said.
“Tell me about Joe Adams.”
The man winced. “What about him?”
“You see him as often as anybody, except maybe his wife.”
“I suppose.”
“It’s come to my attention that Joe has not been himself of late.”
“He seems fine to me.”
“Really? That doesn’t jibe with my information.”
“What information is that?”
Freddie leaned forward in his chair, as much as his ample gut would allow. “Now, laddie, let’s not play games. I don’t want to make this any more difficult for you than I have to.”
“I’m not playing games,” the man said, “I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your tenure in the White House is coming to an end, John,” Freddie said. “When the new man, who
ever he may be, takes over, you’ll be out in the cold, unless you have some sort of inside track to George Kiel or Eft Efton.”
“I don’t,” the man said.
“Well, if you want to continue to rise in this city, you’re going to need the help of people of influence,” Freddie said, “and, especially, protection from those who would, shall we say, make your life more difficult.”
“How would anybody do that?” the man asked.
“Laddie, we’ve all done things in our lives that we’re not proud of. All of us have committed small sins, while others…” He let the sentence trail off.
“I’m sure you’ve read my FBI file, Senator,” the man said testily. “And if you have, then you know that I’ve led a blameless life.”
I’m sure that’s true,” Freddie said, without admitting to having read the file, which he had. “But blame can always be apportioned. Sometimes things get past even the FBI. Not everything is in their files.”