Deep Cover (25 page)

“Praise Matthewson-Ward, from whom all blessings flow,” Forrester said.

“If it pleases you to jeer. Our defense contractors pay more than ninety million in taxes into Arizona school districts and state and county and municipal governments. If you people get hairs up your asses and cut off those contracts and those plants have to close down, whose pockets do you think that tax money will have to come out of?”

“I'm sure you intend to make sure the voters get that message.”

“Then you understand me. We'll have your guts for guitar strings, son.” He said it mildly.

“Possibly,” Forrester conceded. It was his serve and he drew breath and glanced at Trumble. The fat man turned to stare back at him and the hanging wattle shifted under his round chin. Forrester was startled to see the expression behind those buried eyes—they seemed to be pleading—but then the eyes closed up and Trumble didn't say a word.

Forrester addressed himself to Woody Guest. “Ross is welcome
to run against me. But if he does I'll ask whether his campaign contribution from Matthewson-Ward two years ago influenced his votes on the House Military Appropriations Committee, and I might throw in a few TV speeches explaining how I find it hard to imagine Shattuck Industries giving a fifty-thousand-dollar check to Senator Woodrow Guest's last campaign without expecting anything in return. Maybe we'll start calling Ross the Congressman from Matthewson-Ward—has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

Trumble did another strange thing: he threw his head back and uttered his long wheezing laugh. It had a touch of hysteria to it.

Guest was grinning wickedly because this was the kind of fight he enjoyed. Forrester told him, “I can document it down to photocopies of the canceled checks, if you like.”

“And you're willing to let that hit the fan?”

“Did you think I'd come in here alone like a tame sheep with no ammunition of my own?”

“To tell you the truth I'm not sure what I thought, young friend. For a while there I thought maybe you'd gone around the bend.” Guest chuckled and his eyes glittered when he added, “Do you want to sling verbs around or do you want to do a little horse-trading now, son? Because if it's the latter I suggest you sit down and quit looming over us.”

When Forrester settled into the chair he turned it slightly to bring Ross Trumble into the scope of his view. Trumble sat with the attaché case on his lap and his eyes on the toes of his brown-and-white wingtips.

Guest said, “Now let's talk. Or are we dealing with what the kids call nonnegotiable demands?”

Forrester smiled. Woody Guest was an old wheeler-dealer politician with moss growing down his north side and Forrester liked him immensely.

“You told us what you wanted,” Guest continued. “We'll go on the assumption that's your asking price but now let's get down to what you're willing to settle for.”

“Fine. Do you want to swap horses for a while or do you want to get right down to the truth?”

“The truth usually saves time, son.”

“But it doesn't leave much room for dickering and that might take some of the fun out of it.”

Guest twinkled back at him. “If you take the fun out of politics what's the sense of doing it? But let's get down to it. You're not going to get party backing for your fight against the powers that be. So what'll you settle for?”

“Anything I can get,” Forrester said simply. “I'm in this fight to the finish. With or without backing from the machine. Any help I get, that's just gravy.”

“I think we understand each other, then.”

“I'll tell you what I'd
like
to settle for.”

“The moon with parsley.”

Forrester grinned at him. “A little short of that, Senator. I'd like to have a look inside that attaché case on Ross's lap, for openers.”

Trumble stirred; he had not been listening to them but his ears had picked up the last few words. Guest said, “Why? What's in it?”

“I expect he's got Webb Breckenyear's breakdown of the Phaeton Three appropriation figures.”

“Why the hell would a man lug that around with him to a meeting like this?”

“I understand he never lets it out of his sight.”

“That's ridiculous,” Trumble growled. “The subject of this meeting was Phaeton. I brought facts in case the discussion turned that way.”

“Then you're prepared to show them to us?” Forrester asked.

“No. Only to refresh my own memory. Look, Senator, these are private documents and they're the property of the House Military Appropriations Committee. The Committee's got a Democratic majority—how would it look if I opened up this file to a couple of Republican Senators?”

Guest said, “Then you won't let Alan have access to them?”

“Under the proper circumstances and at the proper time. Before the bill comes to a vote the facts will be made public—otherwise how could the House vote on it? But it's still in the preparation stage now. Nobody in any line of business
releases tentative estimates before the details are finalized.”

Forrester said dryly, “Knowing Webb Breckenyear, those figures will be made public about forty-five minutes before it comes to a vote.”

Guest was grinning at him. “I keep telling you, son. That's the way the game's played. It's Webb Breckenyear's committee, not yours.”

“Webb Breckenyear's a fossilized reactionary fool and we all know it.”

Guest's trim shoulders lifted and fell. He said in an idle tone, “He won't live forever. In the meantime we can put up with him. He's done a great many fine services for this country in his time. But I might suggest you do look a bit ridiculous carrying that thing around, Ross, if what Alan says is true. It's hot the crown jewels.”

Trumble grunted. But he took the case off his lap and set it down on the carpet beside his chair. “Just don't let me forget it when I leave.”

Guest laughed.

Forrester said, “There's another thing I'll settle for. I accept the fact that I won't get Republican backing in the primary. But I'm going to run. Maybe you'll put up Ross against me and maybe you'll put up somebody else—it doesn't matter. The point is, suppose I win the primary?”

Guest saw what Forrester was getting at and he seemed to appreciate it. He started nodding his head before Forrester finished the rest of the statement: “If I win the primary against the machine's hand-picked candidate I'd like to have your assurances the Republican Party will give me its wholehearted backing in the election campaign this fall.”

“You seem pretty sure of yourself, young friend. Of course that's the essential blindness of any politician—if he didn't think he was going to win, he wouldn't jump into the race in the first place. But you're dismissing our strength pretty lightly, don't you think?”

“Not at all. I just think I can lick you.”

They were both smiling and the smiles were not false.
Guest said, “You're talking about going way out on a limb and then asking the Party to come reel you in.”

“Not at all. I'm saying if I can demonstrate the power to attract a majority of registered Republican votes in the primary I want to know the Party will back me afterward.”

“Probably it will. But you're going to have to deal with Bill Borad's Senate Republican Campaign Committee. It's his largesse that's going to help determine the makeup of the next Congress and maybe Borad won't be too keen on throwing a lot of money into a campaign for a young maverick Senator who doesn't want to stand for what the national party stands for.”

“I'm not talking about money and I'm not talking about the national party, Senator. And you know it. I'm asking if I'm going to have your endorsement and Ross Trumble's endorsement and every other Arizona Republican's endorsement if I turn out to be the Republican candidate for the United States Senate this November. And I'm not just talking about lip-service endorsements, I'm talking about active support and campaigning.”

“Well, of course I can't speak for everybody.” Guest's head swiveled. “What about it, Ross?”

“You don't have to worry about me,” Trumble said. The secretive eyes blinked. “If I'm still around you'll have my support. If you win the primary.”

If I'm still around.
Forrester watched him with closer focus.

Guest said quickly, “Are you all right, Ross?” So the same thought had struck him too: Trumble was talking like a man whose doctor had just told him he had six months to live.

“I'm fine. I gave up smoking last month and it's made me irritable, that's all. Or maybe it's the diet pills. I'm trying to take off fifty pounds before the campaign—voters don't like fat politicians much any more. You've got to consider the television image.” The prim mouth settled into a twisted smile. “What do you suppose would've happened if Charles Steinmetz had had to go through a television interview to get a job at G.E.?”

“You're sure there's nothing wrong?”

“I've never been in better health.”

Guest leaned back in the leather chair and tucked his square jaw in. “All right, Alan. You've got our assurances. My personal word on it, you'll have my support and Ross's if you win the primary. Of course the primary itself is another story. We'll fight like tigers and I suspect we'll beat the shit out of you.” Then the grin flashed again. “Of course a politician's word is worthless; you ought to know that.”

“Not yours. This isn't a campaign promise, Senator, it's your word to me as a friend.”

“Yes. And I'll honor it if the circumstances arise. Frankly I don't think they will. If I were a bookie I wouldn't even bother laying off bets on you.”

“Then you'd stand to lose your shirt,” Forrester said amiably.

Guest shook his head with weary avuncular goodwill. “Ever watch a dog come yapping out into the street and go chasing after a fast-moving car? Do something for me, son—stop and think about what would happen if the dog ever managed to catch the car.”

When Forrester walked down to his car he found Ross Trumble beside him.

“I've got to talk to you. Not here—not now. Can I call you?”

“Of course. Any time.”

“I'm not sure exactly when we can meet. As soon as I—anyhow I'll call you. Thanks, it's—important.”

Forrester couldn't remember having seen the man so nervous. “What's wrong, Ross?”

Trumble's head jerked back and forth in negation—almost a spasm. “Later. I'll call you later.”

“I still want a look inside that attaché case.”

“Maybe that too.”

Trumble turned abruptly and waddled to his car. Forrester watched him drive away down the hill.

When he jackknifed himself into the low bucket seat and looked back at the house Woody Guest was in the doorway's shadow, his white hair like a beacon. Guest waved lazily and Forrester answered in kind before he drove down the curving
asphalt drive in the thin haze of dust left hanging in Ross Trumble's wake.

The interior of the old Mercedes had been designed to approximate a millionaire's conception of the cockpit of a pursuit airplane. They had discontinued the model a decade ago and not replaced it with a newer design. Parts were getting hard to come by, but Forrester was determined to keep it until it became a vintage antique. It carried him blithely along Interstate 10 with hardly a ripple at seventy-five miles an hour. He had picked up a sandwich and a can of lemon-lime soda in Casa Grande and he ate in the car, sprinkling his shirt with crumbs and grinning because he hadn't done this in years.

It was a hundred and twenty miles to Tucson and on the road he reviewed the conference and felt satisfied if not elated. He had the insight to realize that on this particular day he wouldn't have been crushed even by a flat turndown by Woody Guest and Trumble. Shards of hard sunlight reflected off the long hood of the Mercedes and he squinted along the highway through his sunglasses; he nudged the heavy car up to an effortless eighty-five and checked the mirror for patrol cars. He was in a hurry because Ronnie was at the other end of the road.

Last night he had watched her sleeping face and felt a slight edge of guilt, as if he were eavesdropping. Her eyes had opened with a mischievous smile; the night was full with her pleasure and she had snuggled close like a warm furry inquisitive pet and refused to let him out of bed until he was almost late for the drive to Phoenix—no time to stop by the hotel, he had shaved with her Lady Electric razor and brushed his teeth and kissed her deeply and gone on the road breakfastless.

Six hours ago. Now he pulled off the freeway and got sucked into the flow of traffic across the bridge into the old Spanish center of Tucson, parked and walked toward the courthouse. The flag whipped in the desert wind and an empty beer can clattered across the terrazzo; it was probably eighty degrees officially, more on this sun-blasted concrete.
He took the courtyard steps two at a time and went into his office smiling. Ronnie wasn't there.

Les Suffield was asprawl on the couch reading the morning paper. He had a look at Forrester's face and said, “Let me guess. You just won the Irish Sweepstakes.”

“Not quite. Where's Ronnie?”

“What the hell kind of greeting is that for your long-lost executive assistant that you haven't even seen in a whole week? Where's Ronnie? What about
me
?” Suffield sat up grinning. “Jaime was right, then. You been bit.”

“All right, since you obviously want me to ask. What are you doing down here?”

“Uncle of mine took sick. He's in St. Mary's, nothing serious—gall bladder. Gave me an excuse to fly out. I thought I'd better talk to you.”

“That sounds ominous,” Forrester said. He went behind his desk and pulled the chair out and sat down.