Liars & Thieves

CHAPTER THIRTY

It was after midnight when I got back to the van. As I put my umbrella on the floor to drain, Willie sniffed and said, “Been drinkin’, huh?”

“If you were a better cook you’d make some lucky man a good mother.”

“So what’d she say?”

“She wants to marry me,” I said flippantly.

He snorted in derision. “That’ll be the day,” he said, turning back to the computer. “Royston got a call a while ago I think you should listen to. I got his end of it.”

“Who was he talking to?”

“You tell me.” He handed me the headphones, then went back to punching the keyboard. Rain drummed on the top of the van, making a pleasant sound.

I donned the headphones and got comfortable. A proposal from Dorsey. That’ll be the day! And yet, this was the day. Four hundred million genuine American dollars, half to me, and I told her I’d think about it.

If half of that pile wasn’t enough, Carmellini, just what was your price?

If Willie only knew the truth, my reputation as a corruptible bastard would be in jeopardy. Yet knowing Willie, he’d probably just tell everybody that Carmellini wanted to steal it, not marry it.

My ruminations were interrupted by Dell Royston’s gravelly voice in my ears.

“Hello.”

After mumbles and grunts and some long pauses, Royston said, “You’re going to have to announce your decision soon. Like tomorrow. Heston’s set to make the nominating speech, but he has to have a name to plug in.” Heston would be Senator Frank “Piggy” Heston, the senior senator from one of the smaller states — he got his nickname from his addiction to pork projects for his constituents. By reputation, he had never seen an appropriations bill he didn’t like.

Another long pause followed that comment, then, “I see…”

Finally, “I can hold the train in the station for a few hours, but by tomorrow afternoon it’s got to pull out… Sure. See you tomorrow evening.” Tomorrow evening, I knew, the president planned on making his acceptance speech to the convention, to be broadcast nationwide on all the networks.

Willie raised a finger and pushed a button.

I took off the headset.

“Well?”

“The president hasn’t made up his mind,” I said.

“His own wife! You’d think the bastard could say yes or no.”

Which left me speculating about the relationship between the president and first lady. Theirs was a political marriage, sure. But they had four years to figure this out!

Willie leaned back in his chair and scratched a scab. “Well, you ready to go back to Jersey and snatch a few winks? Or will you be sleeping over somewhere?”

“Maybe the president isn’t sure he could be reelected with Zooey on the ticket. Reelection is the first priority.”

“Bullshit!” Willie pointed to a stack of newspapers on a ledge. “The pundits say he’s a shoo-in. The economy is humming, he’s hell on terrorists, working on the Mideast thing… There’s a landslide shaping up.”

“‘Dewey Defeats Truman!’”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like the bitch.” The bitch he was referring to was Zooey.

“You think likes and dislikes matter in politics?” I mused.

“Oh, I know, these politicos would bend over and spread ’em for the devil if he would deliver the sinner vote. But unless someone catches him in bed with a live boy or a dead woman, this president doesn’t need help. That’s my point.”

“Beats me,” I replied.

“Well, Jersey or what?”

“You go. Take a cab. I’m going to stay here a while.”

“At this time of night?”

“Get one in front of the hotel.” I dug in my wallet and gave him sixty bucks from my dwindling cash supply.

His parting shot was, “Try to stay out of trouble. I know it’s tough for you, but tonight, for my sake, give it your best shot.”

“Yeah.”

He took my umbrella and locked the door behind him.

But what, I wondered, if it came out that the president did a deal with the Russians, way back when? In that event, my guess was that he would need every vote he could beg, borrow, or steal. Say hello to the devil, folks!

I wondered what the Big Dog was thinking tonight as he sat in the White House.

The rain kept pounding on the roof.

An hour later I was having trouble staying awake. I sat watching the comings and goings on the penthouse floor of the Hilton on the monitors and listening desultorily to the conversations in the suites. And this convention was going to run on for two more days. Friday was the last day; the delegates couldn’t stay longer even if God asked them to. The television networks had other programming scheduled for the weekend and next week. The prez had to decide his choice for VP, get him or her nominated, and the delegates would vote on Friday. The cleanup people would work all weekend swabbing out the Javits Center, then next Monday a home products industry convention was opening there. Come hell or high water.

The crowd in Royston’s suite emptied out. A bunch of drunks were finishing a bottle of Scotch in one of the adjoining suites, and in the other some aide was getting laid by one of the true believers from Iowa, some woman who had something to do with the school system. No one in Dorsey’s suite on twelve.

Ah, me.

Just where was I going to be next week? Lodged in a jail someplace with a platoon of FBI agents shouting questions at me, or puking my guts out on a banana boat, sailing south under a false name? Wish I knew more about extradition treaties.

Of course, I could be making wedding plans with Dorsey, renting a tux and visiting lawyers’ offices and making big plans to spend a huge heaping pile of cabbage. On which the taxes had already been paid, thank you very much. Assuming the FBI didn’t latch on to me in the meantime.

What kind of yacht should I buy? What ocean should I put it in? Should I pop for gold faucets in the head? How big should the bed in the master suite be?

Say what you will about poor, rich Dorsey, the woman was flat-out dynamite in bed. Sure, she had been spreading it around — so had I — but with marriage and all, I could negotiate some sort of exclusivity deal.

Choices. Eenie, meenie, minie, moe, catch a tiger by the toe…

I checked Dorsey’s pad one more time and managed to hear a woman say, “Thank you, gentlemen. Please wait for me downstairs.”

The sound of a closing door. Water running in the bathroom. The faint sigh of a chair taking weight.

Who was that? Wasn’t Dorsey. I was sure that wasn’t her voice. Had she checked out?

I punched the button to record this.

As I looked up from the control panel, I got a glimpse on the monitor of Dell Royston coming out of his suite. Still wearing that suit and tie, of course. He walked to the elevator and pressed the down button. The camera beside the elevator gave me a good look at the thinning hair on the back of his head.

The elevator door opened and he entered.

Hmm…

Five minutes later someone rapped on the door of Dorsey’s suite.

“Oh, Dell. Come in, come in.”

Was this his wife? A secretary? The California car dealer’s AC/DC wife? Or a working girl who sucked toes for fun and profit? I guess I’m naive: Prior to this week I had no idea how much screwing went on at these conventions.

The door closed, and I heard the sound of the privacy latches being thrown. I doubted that Isabel from San Juan was bustling about at that hour, but a man in Royston’s position couldn’t be too careful.

A short silence followed, then the sound of the bed taking weight. Oh, boy.

After a bit I began to hear moans and so on. There was serious fucking going on, or I miss my guess.

It was over pretty quick. Four minutes by my watch. One thing about Dell Royston, it didn’t take him long to breed.

“Oh, baby, that was so good,” Royston said, panting.

“I needed that, darling. It’s been too long.”

“I talked to him a few hours ago. He still hasn’t made up his mind.”

“The bastard! He’s stringing this out to make me sweat.”

My eyebrows shot up into my hairline. Holy cow! The “gentlemen” who accompanied her to the door must have been Secret Service. Royston was fucking Zooey Sonnenberg, the first lady!

“Whoever he picks is going to be the next president of the United States,” Zooey declared. “With the vote of the party faithful and a huge chunk of the female vote from the other party, she’ll be unstoppable four years from now.”

“Maybe he isn’t thrilled about being first husband in four years.”

“Pffft.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to spend the next four years in bed with the heir apparent.”

“Dell, he doesn’t—”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t know what he thinks. The troll sits in the Oval Office all day talking to his cronies, making deals, parading before the press, trotting off for photo ops and speeches in front of every civic group that will have him from Maine to San Diego — I am about at the end of my rope. He has my life — my future — in his hands and he plays with it. Sometimes I wish he would just drop dead.”

“Let’s hope you’re the vice president if he does.”

“He’s healthy as a hog.” She sighed. “No, my chance is selection as his running mate. Give me four years to line up support and be seen by the public and I could beat Jesus Christ in the next election.”

“Maybe he’s worried you’ll steal the limelight now, during this election and during the next four years. The man has a titanic ego. He’s spent his whole life fighting to be in the center of the stage.”

“Perhaps.” She paused, then launched into an assessment of the strengths and weaknesses of the other female politicians who had been prominently mentioned as possible candidates. As Zooey saw it, she was the logical choice.

“Sometimes logic doesn’t carry the day,” Dell said gently.

Amen! I added.

“So what should I do?” Zooey asked poignantly.

“There’s nothing you can do except wait. It will happen or it won’t.”

“By God, I hate that son of a bitch!”

“Hang tough! You’re almost there.”

“Almost but not quite.”

I heard the bed creak. “Let’s get dressed. I have to go up to my suite and get some sleep. Thanks for coming. I needed you badly.”

“Why didn’t we meet in your suite? He wouldn’t find out, and he wouldn’t care if he did.”

“It’s bugged.”

Goddamn, I muttered. How in hell did he learn that?

“Oh.” That was her only comment. Not “Who?” or “Why?” Just “Oh.”

They dressed in record time, kissed some more — I think — and whispered good-byes at the door. Royston left first. Three minutes later I watched on the monitor as he popped out of the elevator on the penthouse level and marched briskly to his room.

After some serious bathroom noises, Zooey left Dorsey’s room ten minutes after that, pulled the door closed until it latched and rattled it to be sure.

I stopped recording and sat staring at nothing.

Well, well, well.

After a few minutes of thought I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Jake Grafton.

When he finished his conversation with Tommy Carmellini, Jake Grafton got out of bed. He held on to his cell phone. “Who was that?” Callie asked.

“Carmellini.”

“Are you getting up?”

“For a while. Go back to sleep.”

Grafton checked on his houseguest, made sure he was in bed asleep, then descended the stairs, trying to avoid the creaky one.

He looked out every window, then opened the door to the porch and settled on the couch, pulling an afghan over him. Royston and Sonnenberg. That was one piece of the puzzle, certainly, but he still didn’t have enough.

It was maddening that Goncharov could not remember. Lord knows, Callie had tried. The silver lining in all this mess was that her command of Russian was increasing dramatically.

The admiral leaned back and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t get his mind off the problem. It was almost an hour before he drifted off.

There weren’t many people in the lobby of the Hilton at a quarter to four in the morning. The serious people were in bed — theirs or someone else’s — and the drunks were sleeping it off, trying to get sober for the big doings of the coming day. I was still togged out in my sports coat and tie and trousers, though the crease was starting to go in the trousers and the shoes desperately needed polishing.

I walked to the elevator, rode up to twelve. The master key still opened Dorsey’s door, so they didn’t change the code daily.

Once inside, with the door closed behind me, I stood looking over the scene of the action. The bed was a wreck. The bathroom was not too bad, but Isabel was going to think Dorsey had a male visitor during the night. Of course, Zooey didn’t care a whit what the maids thought. Probably never even gave it two seconds of thought.

The hotel provided a few sheets of embossed stationery for the guests who wanted to impress the folks at home. There were also a couple of envelopes. I helped myself to one.

Then I went through the sheets very carefully, looking for hair. Picked up a strand or two here and there… nothing out of the ordinary.

Dorsey had a brush in the bathroom. A few strands of hair were wedged between the bristles, and I carefully added them to the envelope. Got down on my hands and knees and examined the floor. Found a few more short strands for my collection.

I didn’t linger at my task. Having Dorsey march in just now would be a major embarassment… and probably get me arrested, unless I read this situation all wrong. At this stage of the game, I doubted that I would ever live to leave any jail cell the police put me in.

After a glance through the security peephole in the door, I was out of there.

Along the empty hallway without seeing anyone, then waited for the elevator. Rode it down, did the gut check as the door opened, saw the coast was clear, and marched across the lobby and out.

At least the rain had stopped.