Mortal Faults

48

Stenzel’s desk phone rang in the emptiness of campaign headquarters. No one was here on a Saturday night. Even the lowliest volunteers had some kind of life. Only Stenzel had shown up, not because he had work to do-although there was always work to do-but because he couldn’t relax until he knew that the operation at the Brayton Hotel had gone smoothly.

He picked up the phone on the first ring, hoping it was Jack calling to say everything was taken care of.

It wasn’t Jack. It was a newspaper reporter from the L.A. Times, a pain in the ass like all of them, but someone whose calls Stenzel had no choice but to take.

“I’m kind of tied up right now, Charlie,” Stenzel said, in no mood for the usual pleasantries, off-the-record remarks, deep background quotes, and other bullshit. “Whatever this is, maybe it can wait till tomorrow.”

“I’ll make it quick. Just want to know if you have any comment about the situation.”

“What situation?”

“At the Brayton.”

Stenzel had occasionally encountered the expression his heart skipped a beat. He had never taken it literally until this moment.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he said.

“I’m referring to the fact that your boss was reportedly seen in the lobby of the Brayton Hotel in downtown L.A. earlier tonight, in a heated discussion with a woman, or maybe two women-the reports are unclear-and some people say this woman or women kidnapped him at gunpoint, and now I’m hearing that arrests have been made. And the FBI is all over it. That situation.”

“This is the first I’m hearing about it. You sure you’re not putting me on?”

“No joke, Kip.”

“It can’t have been Jack. Why would Jack-I mean, Congressman Reynolds-why would the congressman be at the Brayton Hotel, anyway?”

“You tell me.”

“The whole thing sounds like some crazy mix-up. You’re not running with this, are you?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“You’ll look pretty foolish when you have to retract the story.”

“Maybe you can put me in touch with the congressman, and he can straighten things out.”

“The congressman isn’t here at the moment.”

“Where is he?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You may want to track him down.”

“I’m sure he has no involvement in any of the events you’ve described. And I’m sure you won’t be printing rumor and innuendo in a reputable paper like the Times.”

“Is that your only comment?”

“I don’t have any comment. This entire conversation is off the record.”

He ended the call, stifling the reporter’s protests. He noticed he had stood up at some point during the conversation, and he sat down slowly, knowing there was a chair somewhere behind him.

There was no way to be sure of exactly what had happened at the Brayton Hotel tonight. But it was reasonably clear that Reynolds’ plans had been compromised. The woman in the lobby must been Abby Sinclair, or if there were two women, then maybe one of them was Abby and the other was Andrea Lowry. That much was evident. Now arrests had been made, and the FBI was involved.

The FBI, for God’s sake.

“Shit,” Stenzel said, intoning the word softly as a sober assessment of his circumstances.

People often talked about virtues. Stenzel was perfectly willing to listen to such talk and to write speeches incorporating such talk and to include questions about virtue in public opinion surveys he commissioned. He did not, however, actually believe in any virtues-with a single exception. There was one virtue he both preached and practiced, and it was the virtue of flexibility.

It was time to show some flexibility now.

He felt a little bit sorry for what he was about to do. But he had learned from Jack Reynolds and learned well, and one lesson of Jack’s, reiterated many times, was the famous witticism attributed to Harry Truman. If you want a friend in Washington, buy a dog.

Stenzel dialed 411 and asked for the number of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Los Angeles. He needed to initiate a dialogue-ASAP.