“What’s the next order of business?”
Alita Colon was the first to speak.
“I hate to say it, but anything new on the smear, Jenny?”
Jenny grimly shook her head.
When the meeting wrapped up, she reviewed her schedule for the day and saw the lunch she had scheduled with the offended contributor, J. D. Cade. For a moment she considered passing it off to Vandy Ellison… but then she remembered two things.
The picture she’d seen of the man.
And the fact that Del had told her to handle the matter.
Jenny Crenshaw was waiting in front of the Ivy Cafe on Robertson Drive when J. D. Cade arrived. He pulled up in a gleaming Lexus and smoothly handed his key to the valet at precisely the appointed hour. In subtle contrast to his expensive car, he wore a comfortable old navy blazer, a white oxford cloth shirt open at the neck, khaki slacks, and casual loafers. So he was well off Jenny thought, and the only dress code he needed to observe was his own.
The man knew how to make a first impression.
“Mr. Cade?” Jenny asked.
“Ms. Crenshaw?” J. D. replied.
“That’s me.” She extended her hand to him.
J. D. took it. Her hand felt small, firm, and surprisingly hot in his. Not feverish, but more like her normal temperature was set a notch or two above average, her fire burning more brightly than most. J. D. noted that she wore a wheat-colored linen jacket and skirt, a smoke blue blouse, and shoes with modest heels. A button on her lapel read FDR. No scoop of vanilla, this one.
After a moment they came to the mutual conclusion they’d held each other’s hand long enough. The maitre d’ greeted them. He had Jenny’s name on his reservations list but, more important, he also recognized her as Del Rawley’s campaign manager. He discreetly inquired about the candidate’s well-being and assured her that Senator Rawley had his vote.
Almost as an afterthought, he acknowledged J. D. The maitre d’ asked if they’d care to dine al fresco, but J. D. said he’d prefer to eat inside. They were shown to a quiet corner table and a waiter brought their menus. Several of the other tables were filled with celebrities.
Usually it was the stars who had to ignore unwanted gawking by the public while they were eating, but now a large number of the glitterati were eyeing Jenny and, incidentally, J. D. He didn’t care for the scrutiny. After the events of that morning, he couldn’t shake the feeling, irrational or not, that he should be watching for another gunman. Which was one big reason he’d chosen to eat indoors. Having people look his way only increased his edginess. He took a sip from the glass of water that had been set in front of him.
Jenny noticed her guest’s discomfiture.
“I’m sorry,” she told him.
“Does the attention make you uncomfortable?
Maybe I should have thought of another place.”
J. D. understood he was letting his feelings show, and that was the last thing he could afford. He had to hide who he really was and most definitely what he really wanted. He put his glass down, smiled graciously, and said, “This is fine.”
A moment passed in silence as Jenny regarded him, frankly taking his measure. J. D. raised no objection, doing his best to look the soul of innocence.
Hoping no hint remained in his eyes that he’d been covered in blood not long ago.
“Are you very interested in politics, Mr. Cade?”
“Hardly at all.”
Not the answer Jenny had expected, but one that rang true to her.
“Senator Rawley just caught your eye, then?”
“You could say that.”
J. D. saw a glint of suspicion crease Jenny Crenshaw’s face.
“You’re not interested in making a statement, are you?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, being able to tell your friends that you made a big contribution that helped to elect the first black president. That’s not who you are, is it?”
“No, that’s not me… and I considered my contribution to be relatively modest.”
J. D. thought his response covered all the right bases. It rejected her misgiving and let her know he had real money without being boastful about it.
She’d figure out for herself there were further contributions to be had if she played her cards right.
But Jenny kept on pushing.
“So who are you, Mr. Cade?”
He cupped his chin for a minute, as if searching for the right words. Then he spread his hands in a self-deprecating gesture.
“I’m a middle-aged guy who’s scratched together a nice net worth. Not too long ago, I was married and my son lived at home. Then my wife left me and my son went off to college.
I moped around for a while, but one day I decided I really had to stop letting myself go. I needed a haircut. Just to be daring, I went to a new barber.
His shop had different magazines. I picked up one with a big story on your candidate. I read it and thought…” J. D. knew he’d be taking a chance here but decided to risk it.
“I thought this Rawley guy might actually not be a sonofabitch.”
Jenny drew back perceptibly.
J. D. gave her his brightest smile.
“Nothing personal, Ms. Crenshaw,” he continued blithely, “but that was my prevailing view of politicians. Anyway, in the following weeks I read about Senator Rawley some more and at the same time I also came to the decision that after being a small-town boy all my life, maybe it was time I went to live in the big city. So I thought: I’ll move to L.A.” and maybe I’ll actually vote in this election.”
When she leaned forward, he saw that she not only had decided he hadn’t insulted her candidate, but was beginning to take a personal interest in him.
“You normally don’t vote?”
“What, for some sonofabitch?” J. D. asked wryly.
For a second Jenny’s face remained blank, but then she laughed… and J. D. knew that, at least for the moment, he’d won her over.
“Then I heard the senator speak on TV, liked what he had to say, and I
decided if I was going to dive into the political process, why not go off the high board? So I resolved to make a contribution to the Rawley campaign. I dropped off a check. And here we are.”
“Why did your wife leave you?” she asked, and he couldn’t tell if her interest was professional, personal, or both.
“For another man,” J. D. said honestly. But he saw that for some reason Jenny was having trouble with that, true or not. It might be flattering, he supposed, that she’d doubt his wife would leave him for someone else, but he didn’t want her prying too deeply in any one area of his life. So he turned the tables and asked, “Have you ever been married?”
“My husband was a navy pilot. He died in an accident.”
“I’m sorry.” But her answer was perfect: Painful partings were not to be discussed.
Not at a first meeting, anyway.
Instead Jenny went down another path.
“Were you ever in the military, Mr. Cade?”
“Yes.”
She assessed his age.
“Vietnam?”
“Yes.”
“Is that one of the reasons you like Del?”
“No. There are plenty of guys who served I have no use for.”
J. D.‘s answer surprised Jenny once more. But as before, it struck her as true. She tried to peer into him again.
“You’re a hard man to read, Mr.
Cade.”
“Is all this part of your job, Ms. Crenshaw?”
“It’s part of my nature. I was wondering…” J. D. prepared himself to do a soft-shoe around yet another personal question, but this time Jenny Crenshaw surprised him.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to Marva Weisman’s fundraiser for Senator Rawley tonight?”
J. D. was silent while he tried to sort out just what she was asking him.
Jenny saw his confusion and smiled.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Cade. I’m not hitting you up for another contribution. Not at the moment, anyway. I’m asking if you’d like to be my escort.”
“Oh. Well, that’s another matter entirely.”
“Is that a yes?”
There was no way J. D. could pass up an opportunity that good.
He nodded.
“That’s a yes.”
“Good. And before I forget…” She reached into her purse and brought out an envelope.
“I have something here for you. A note of apology from Special Agent Dante DeVito
J. D. asked deadpan, “Did you have to torture him?”
She shook her head.
“Politics, Mr. Cade, is the art of getting people to see where their selfinterest lies.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t have to twist his arm.”
Jenny grinned.
“That’s how you get people to see where their selfinterest lies.”
“So politics is the art of arm-twisting?” J. D. asked.
“Exactly.”
“Come along, Mr. Cade,” Jenny Crenshaw said.
“It’s time you met the next president.”
J. D. smiled as he walked to the limo that had just pulled up in front of the Refuge that evening, but he felt an icy uneasiness grow within him—perhaps because he’d never been chauffeured to a meeting with a man he’d tried to kill. After he slid into the rear of the limo next to Jenny, the driver closed the door behind him. With the privacy screen up, the two of them were ensconced in a cocoon of automotive luxury. A moment later the gleaming black Cadillac glided away.
“Nervous?” Jenny asked.
J. D. looked at her and asked in a carefully neutral voice, “About?”
“Sorry. I forgot about your prevailing opinion of politicians. I thought meeting Del—” “Actually, I am a little nervous about that.” Before there could be any elaboration on that subject, J. D. added, “But I thought you were asking if I was nervous about going out with you.”
Jenny looked puzzled for a moment and then she blushed like a schoolgirl.
To spare her any further embarrassment, J. D. changed the subject, running his hand along the leather seat between them and asking mildly, “Is this how you spend campaign contributions?”
Jenny’s color had paled from scarlet to pink and she responded, “This ;s a campaign contribution. The owner of the limo service will be at our little gathering tonight wearing his FDR button. Would you like one?”
Jenny took a campaign button from her handbag and offered it to J. D. “Why don’t you put it on for me? Unless I make you nervous.”
“Not at all,” Jenny averred, rising to the implicit challenge.
She deftly pinned the button to his lapel. For a moment their faces were very close and they looked into each other’s eyes. Then Jenny sat back.
“I have to warn you,” she said, “our hostess does intend to sing this evening. I’ve been told your taste in music lies elsewhere, but many of the people present tonight will count it as quite a coup that they were at one of Marva’s rare private performances.”
J. D. replied, “Nudge me if I fall asleep.”
Jenny laughed.
“Aren’t you at all star struck Mr. Cade?”
He shrugged.
“The people who work behind the scenes are usually more interesting.”
“Like me?”
“Absolutely,” he responded with a straight face.
“I can’t tell if you’re joking, Mr. Cade. I can’t seem to get a handle on you.”
In a matter of minutes, the limo pulled up at the gates of a Bel-Air estate.
Two men dressed in dark suits stepped out of a guardhouse to inspect the occupants of the vehicle. Two others stood at oblique angles to the car, Uzis openly displayed.
Jenny lowered her window and a Secret Service agent looked in and recognized her.
“Good evening, Ms. Crenshaw.”
“Hello, Jack.”
The agent turned his attention to J. D. “This gentleman is your date?”
Jenny nodded.
“Mr. Jefferson Davis Cade.”
The agent consulted a guest list and found J. D.‘s name.
“Good evening, Mr. Cade.”
“Good evening.”
The agents stepped back, the gates opened, and the limo moved on. Jenny raised the window.
“No glib remarks for the Secret Service?” she asked J. D. “I suspect your friend Jack is heavily armed.”
“And if he is?”
“Makes all the difference in the world,” J. D. answered.
“You never smart off to a man with a gun.”
Jenny and J. D. entered Marva Weisman’s mansion. The household help who opened the door for them was backed up by a security man. Unlike the
agents on the gate, J. D. took this guy to be a private hire. The difference, as he saw it, was that the feds looked perfectly willing to shoot you; this guy looked like he wanted to. J. D. intercepted a young woman bearing up under a tray of champagne flutes and helped himself to two. He handed one to Jenny.
“The last time I was on a first date,” he told her, “it was in a VW square back and we went to a burger place on Steams Wharf.”
“Your ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“Was that your favorite first date?”
“No, that was with someone else entirely.”
J. D. could imagine the caustic laughs he and Mary Ellen McCarthy might share at a gathering such as this—but given his reason for being in the diva’s home, he was glad his old girlfriend was far, far away.
Jenny whistled softly.
“Wow. If you could have seen the range of emotions that crossed your face just now… That woman must have really meant something to you.”
“She did. Still does.”
“Any chance for you now?”
“No. She found the right guy for her.”
Jenny squeezed J. D.‘s hand.
“I have to go make sure our hostess hasn’t devoured my candidate, but I’ll be back before everyone is seated for the festivities.” She kissed J. D. lightly on his cheek.
“I’ll bet there are times when your old sweetheart is alone, or wishes she was, and still thinks about you.”
J. D. watched Jenny go. He’d been lucky. He’d let his guard slip, even more so than he had at lunch, but it had turned out to be a good thing. Jenny had seen real vulnerability and it had moved her. But he couldn’t count on being that lucky again. He was playing a role tonight as much as any Hollywood phony on the premises and he had to stay in character.
He had to remember that Jenny Crenshaw was one perceptive woman, too.
J. D.‘s resolve not to let his public mask slip was immediately put to the test as he walked into the room where the majority of the guests were awaiting their summons to hear the candidate speak and the diva sing. There among a sea of famous faces were two very ordinary ones that held far more meaning for him.