Authors: William Bernhardt
54
L
oving stared at the gun Pretty Boy held at point-blank range. Had he made it so far, suffered so much, only to come to this? He had put up with Renny’s torture, had seared his own flesh to get free, only to be drilled by this ignoramus?
“Now, wait, Pretty—er, Wilhelm. I don’t think you wanna do this.”
“Really? Because I am pretty sure that I do. Paying this debt will give me enormous pleasure.”
“Well, yeah, you, sure. But I’m not so sure
I’m
gonna enjoy it.”
“I am rather certain you will not.” He readjusted his aim, pointing the gun at a somewhat lower part of Loving’s anatomy. “I will make the first six or seven shots nonlethal, yet highly painful. I will cripple you. I will eliminate your manhood. I will let you bleed. Then at long last, I will kill you.”
“Gosh, Wilhelm, I can see you still bear a grudge, but this seems like a bad way to work it out. Perhaps we could just arm wrestle?”
“I do not think so.” Pretty Boy extended his gun arm.
Loving swallowed hard. So this was it, this was really, truly it. There was nothing he could do, no place he could run. His bag of tricks was empty. Nothing left but getting drilled by this Eurotrash moron.
Pretty Boy’s trigger finger tightened. “Sweet dreams, Mr. Loving.”
“Sweet dreams to you, sucker,” said a voice in the darkness. And a second later, Pretty Boy tumbled downward in a heap on the floor.
Loving’s eyes fairly bulged. “What in the—”
Trudy stepped into the light. Holding a baseball bat. “How do you like my swing, slugger?”
Loving was so astonished—and relieved—he could barely speak. “I think you’re so incredible I could—”
Trudy’s eyelashes fluttered. “Yes?”
Loving pulled Trudy close and delivered a kiss right on the lips.
“My, my,” Trudy said when it was over. “Has my big handsome gotten over his teeny-weeny difficulty?”
“Not likely. But a debt is a debt.” He grinned. “Thanks for showin’ up and savin’ my bacon.”
“I just wish I’d gotten here sooner, sugar. You’re a mess.”
“Don’t worry. I clean up pretty good. What are you doin’ here?”
“Did you really think I was going to leave my boyfriend all by himself?”
“Trudy—”
“After we split, I kept a low profile but hung around the club to see what, or who, emerged. When Renny returned to his private lounge without you, but with traces of blood on his hands, I knew something was up. I saw him whisper something to this lug down on the carpet, who got a great big grin on his face I didn’t like at all. So I followed him.”
“And the baseball bat?”
“I keep it in my car. A girl has to protect herself.”
Loving wiped blood from his brow. “Remind me not to tangle with you.”
More eyelash batting. “You’re welcome to tangle with me anytime, lover boy.”
“Later. Any idea where Renny is?”
“Uh-huh. He just took his bedtime downer and headed for his upstairs apartment. There are guards.”
“There always are. Lead the way, Trudy.”
“Sure you’re up to it?”
“No choice, really.”
She smiled at him, then puckered up. “Another kiss? For luck?”
Loving returned the smile. “Sorry. Not on the first date.”
Renny had just snuggled into the satin sheets of his huge bed, prepared to sleep the sleep of the content, a good day’s work complete. He liked to keep his sleeping quarters private. There were plenty of places downstairs for indulging in the pleasures of the women who drifted in and out of the club. This was his sanctuary, his fortress of solitude, a place where he could be alone with his thoughts. No women were allowed, nor anyone else for that matter. The boys on the landing made sure he wasn’t disturbed.
At least, that was how it was supposed to work.
His eyes had barely closed when he felt a hand wrap around his throat.
Renny tried to sit up, but the strong hand pinned him to his pillow.
“Don’t bother strugglin’,” Loving whispered. “You couldn’t outmuscle me even if you weren’t doped to the gills. And you are.”
Renny tried to speak, but the hand crushing his windpipe made it difficult. “What—where—”
“Your guards? Lying in a heap on the plush shag carpet, which by the way may be hot stuff in Europe, but here in the United States is totally passé. Very 1970.” He tightened his grip. “Don’t bother callin’ for them. They’re likely to be immobile for some time. Apparently they don’t play baseball back in whatever country you recruited them from.”
Renny’s legs and arms thrashed back and forth. Loving barely twitched.
“Here’s the deal,” Loving said. “I know you understand how quickly a person with a collapsed trachea can die, since you were briefing me on exactly that subject earlier. So I’ll give you one chance to tell me what I want to know. One chance. You will tell me why Victoria went to the Roush press conference. You will tell me about this political favor Victoria did earlier in the year. You will tell me about the Boston museum job. You will tell me everything else I want to know—anything that might be of interest to me. And in exchange, I will let you live to see the authorities clean up this den of sex and stolen art. You will serve a long prison sentence. But you will be alive. If you tell me what I want to hear. Are we clear on this?”
Loving continued choking Renny for a few more seconds, just to make sure he got his point across. When he finally released the man, he sat upright, coughing and sputtering, massaging his sore neck. His eyes watered with pain. He coughed up blood. He hyperventilated. Then he fell back against the bed, utterly exhausted.
“All right,” he said, his voice feeble and cracked, “where shall I begin?”
55
“J
udge Haskins!”
Several stray members of the White House press corps caught sight of him as he crossed from the West Wing to the driveway where his ride was waiting. He was nattily attired in a navy blue suit, both buttons buttoned, and a dynamic red tie. His hair was freshly cut and appeared to be sprayed into place. When the bright lights of the minicams switched on, a faint trace of base makeup was discernible at the ridge of his jaw.
He paused, as if thinking about whether he really wanted to deal with the press, then let out a small sigh and turned to face them.
“Have you been talking with the President?”
Haskins dipped his head slightly. “I have had that pleasure, yes.”
“Then it’s confirmed. After the Senate rejects Thaddeus Roush, President Blake is going to nominate you.”
He held up his hands. “I don’t want to presume to know the mind of the Senate.”
“You must be aware that Roush lacks the votes to be confirmed,” the brunette representing CBS said. “After he’s out of the running, the President will want to put someone up fast. While he still can.”
“If Judge Roush’s nomination fails, it is my understanding that the President wishes to move forward with all deliberate speed.”
The AP stringer tried to cut past the polite gobbledygook. “He’s going to nominate you, isn’t he?”
Haskins gave them a gosh, shucks shrug worthy of Ronald Reagan.
“I have three unnamed sources who say you’re going to be the pick,” the CBS woman added, egging him on. “The President would be crazy not to choose you. How could the Senate reject a national hero?”
Haskins held up his hands. “Look, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I bear no animosity whatsoever toward Judge Roush. He is a fine man, a fine jurist, and he would undoubtedly be a fine member of the Supreme Court. I have no desire to take that away from him.”
“But if the Senate does reject him?” the AP stringer asked.
“As it will,” the CBS representative added.
Haskins tilted his head to one side. “In that unfortunate instance, I would of course consider accepting any nomination, were I so honored as to be selected.”
“And the President has in fact already selected you, hasn’t he? It’s a done deal.”
“Again, I don’t want to presume to know the minds of others. Especially not the leader of the free world.”
A new reporter pushed to the front, a short, wiry man whose age was demonstrated not so much by his balding head as the fact that he was actually using a pad and paper. “Judge Haskins, this is a matter of great national importance. You’ve met with the President for three consecutive days. We know he’s had his people running background checks on you. We know his staff has pored over every opinion you’ve written in your time on the Tenth Circuit. And today, you’ve been closeted with him for more than two hours, which is the functional equivalent of spending a week with anyone else on earth. The people have a right to know—are you going to be the next nominee for the Supreme Court?”
Haskins sighed, as if overwhelmed by the force of the questioning. “It is my understanding that…in the event that Judge Roush’s nomination should fail…the President has indicated that I have his support.”
A dozen cell phones flipped open. The press corps’ fingers raced to be the first to phone the story home.
“In fact,” Haskins continued, “the President has asked me to be present in the gallery of the Senate when the vote on the Roush nomination is taken so that, if the nomination is rejected, he can immediately present his replacement.”
The reporters chatted all at once into their cells, making it pointless for Haskins to continue. He turned toward the limo that had pulled up behind him while he was speaking.
“Congratulations,” the limo driver said, as he opened the rear door.
“Let’s not be premature. Even if Judge Roush is rejected, there’s no guarantee they won’t reject me, too.”
“Reject the man who saved a baby from a burning building? I don’t think so.” He stood erect and saluted. “I think I have the very great privilege of chauffeuring the next member of the Supreme Court of the United States.”
“Well,” Haskins said, smiling shyly, with a tiny twinkle in his eye, “I just hope you’re right.”
56
“Y
ou’re sure about this?” Ben barked into the phone.
“Positive, Skipper.”
“And you can prove it?”
Loving hedged. “Well, I’m workin’ on that. But this creep had no reason to lie.”
“Loving, you were threatening to kill him!”
“Aw, all I did was squeeze his scrotum a little. That pansy-ass leaked like a sieve.”
Ben took a deep breath. “You’d better be right.”
“I am. Anythin’ else I can do?”
“No. When you’re finished with the police, get to the hospital.”
“Ah, I don’t need—”
“I want you checked out, tough guy. There could still be internal bleeding. I don’t want my personal information highway to kick off. After the docs clear you, get back to the office as soon as possible.” Ben wiped his brow, unsure whether to be elated or horrified. “I’ve got a lot of thinking to do. And a lot of work to complete before morning.”
Ben wasn’t surprised that he couldn’t get an appointment to see Senator Keyes, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him, either. He called Senator Hammond and got him to make an appointment—even Keyes couldn’t turn down the Senate Minority Leader on the eve of the confirmation debate. Once Ben knew Keyes was in his office, he marched past the poor receptionist, who appeared to be even older than Senator Keyes and accustomed to senators behaving with proper decorum—not crashing through the gates during someone else’s appointment. When Keyes looked up from his desk and saw Ben, he appeared more bemused than annoyed, although a little of both. He told the receptionist to retake her position, before some new barbarian crashed the gates, and offered Ben a chair.
Thirty minutes later, Ben was still begging.
“C’mon, Senator. Work with me.”
“And why would I want to do that?” Keyes said, his Texas drawl in full force. “Working against you has been so pleasurable.”
“Was it that pleasurable when you got out-voted in committee?” Ben knew it was imprudent to cross swords with the leader of the Judiciary Committee, but desperate men took desperate actions. “We smoked your butt.”
“You got lucky.”
“We smoked your butt.”
“And you wouldn’t have even gotten lucky if it hadn’t been for those turncoats Matera and Potter. Woman must be going through menopause or something. She’s got one foot in the grave so she decided to cultivate a conscience. You can’t take credit for that.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
Keyes peered at him through bushy eyebrows. “Perhaps I have underestimated you, Senator Kincaid.”
“No ‘perhaps’ about it.”
“But what you’re asking now is out of the question. Help you? Good God, boy—I’m getting telegrams from home telling me I should organize a filibuster. Even though the man has no chance of rustling up the necessary votes for confirmation. They just want to be sure.”
“A filibuster would mean the Senate doesn’t get to exercise its constitutional right to approve and confirm.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“There hasn’t been a filibuster against a Supreme Court nominee since Abe Fortas went up for Chief Justice back in the sixties.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t happen now.”
“Surely you don’t want that. How can we go on pretending you’re honoring the Constitution if you won’t even let it come up for a vote?”
Keyes shrugged. “Did you think you were working in a candy factory, son?”
“No, I thought I was working in a democracy. Are you going to filibuster?”
He shrugged diffidently. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Please don’t. Let this case be decided on its merits.”
“Kincaid, it isn’t a courtroom.”
“Yes, I believe you’ve mentioned that once or twice. What I’m saying is—instead of screwing around with all this political BS, why don’t we see if we can actually uncover the truth?”
“You’re so naïve.”
“C’mon, at the end of the day, don’t we both want the same thing? The truth?”
“Speak for yourself. All I want is to get the damn leader of the free world off my back.”
“You’re too smart and too—forgive me—too old to be nothing but a political pawn.”
“You’re right.” He smiled. “I’m going to be a political pawn and the next Vice President of the United States.”
“So anything goes? As long as you get what you want?”
“Well, perhaps not anything. But a great deal.”
Ben looked at him squarely. “I never thought I’d say this, but—you’re better than this.”
“Better than the vice presidency?”
“Better than letting an innocent man be hung out to dry.”
Keyes turned his head to one side and drummed his fingers. Ben knew from the hearing that this was not so much a sign of irritation as a sign that he was doing some deep thinking. “How can you be so sure about his innocence?”
“I’ve shown you what I’ve got.”
“It’s not enough.”
“I’ll make it work. You’ll see.”
“You’ll make it work, huh?”
“If you give me a chance. If you kill the filibuster. And if you recognize me during the debate.”
Keyes’s eyes went skyward. “Recognize the junior senator from Oklahoma? A known supporter of Roush? His counsel at the hearing? My party would hang me out to dry.”
“I don’t believe anyone can hang you out to dry.”
“Well.” Keyes sniffed, shrugged his shoulders. “That is as it may be, but…”
“Will you do it?”
“And what would I get in return?”
Ben pursed his lips. He should have anticipated this response, this being Washington. But he wasn’t sure what to say. “What do you want?”
“How about you use your influence with Senator Hammond to get that pansy-ass Wilderness Bill killed?”
“I can’t do that. My fiancée has been working for months on that bill. It’s very important to her.”
“Like the vice presidency isn’t important to me?”
“The Arctic National Wildlife Refuge is our last untouched wilderness area. We can’t let it be devastated by drilling, no matter how badly Americans want to drive their cars.”
“Nothing you’re saying is persuading me to give up the vice presidency.”
“You don’t have to.” Ben leaned forward. “I think I can swing it so you can do the right thing and still be the President’s top choice.”
Keyes arched a bushy eyebrow. “Is that so? And that’s because you’re so tight with the Commander in Chief?”
“No. But I still think I can make it work. Please. Give me a chance.”
Keyes stared at him for a long time, not making a sound other than the drumming of his fingers. A minute passed, then another. After a while, the silence seemed deafening. Ben imagined he could hear the carpet rustling in the air-conditioned breeze.
“All right then. I’ll make sure there’s no filibuster.” He made a harrumphing sound. “Didn’t care much for the idea, anyway. Little too partisan, even for me.”
“And you’ll make sure I have a chance to speak during the deliberations?”
“You’ll have the same chance to be recognized as every other senator.”
“I need a promise.”
“And what if it all goes bad? Where will I be then? What happens if you put on your dog and pony show and it doesn’t work?”
“It will work,” Ben said, a soft but firm voice. “It has to work.”
“There are no guarantees in politics, son.”
Ben nodded. “This isn’t about politics. This is about justice.”