The Patriots' Club

49

It was five o’clock. Time for the “Follies.” James “Scotch Nat” Jacklin hurried across his office and turned on the television. Each day at 5:00 P.M., the Pentagon broadcast the announcement of contracts to be awarded by the air force, army, and the navy live over a closed-circuit feed. Around the office, the broadcast had been dubbed the Five O’clock Follies. As so many companies in Jefferson’s portfolio depended on government contracts, Jacklin liked to watch when he could. This afternoon, however, viewing was compulsory. No fewer than four of his companies were set to learn the decision on contracts totaling a billion dollars. For two of them, the decision was critical. Winning the bid would ensure a profitable future. Losing it would force them to close their doors and shut down operations. Jefferson would have to write down the value of the investments to zero.

“Cigars, gents?” Jacklin asked, holding out a box of his favorite Cohibas. “These things always bring me good luck. Come on, don’t be shy. You, too, LaWanda.”

Seated with him were several of his closest counselors. Lamar King, former army four-star and deputy chief of staff. Hank Baker, who’d chaired the SEC for ten years. And LaWanda Makepeace, his newest hire and the cement behind the Trendrite deal. The men accepted a cigar. Mrs. Makepeace politely declined.

The Pentagon spokesman stepped behind the dais. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We have quite a few contracts to go over this evening, so I’ll get started right away…”

“Thank goodness,” muttered Jacklin to himself. He sat forward, hands on his desk, cigar clamped firmly in his mouth. He was too caught up to light it.

“We’ll begin with the air force,” said the spokesman, a navy commander. “Lockheed Martin Aeronautics is being awarded a $77,490,000 contract modification for U.S. Air Force economic order quantity funding…”

“We don’t have to worry about this one,” said Jacklin to one and all. “Airplanes are a nasty business. No margins whatsoever.”

Glancing out the window, his eye landed on the dome of the U.S. Capitol building, far across the Potomac. He thought about Senator Hugh Fitzgerald and the $6.5-billion appropriations bill. He thought about the effect the new contracts would have on his companies. Like manna from the heavens.

The appropriations hearings should be well over by now, and Fitzgerald at home in his beautifully decorated Georgetown townhouse, knocking back some of that single-barrel Tennessee bourbon he liked so much. Thirty years in the Capital had polished the former Vermont college professor’s tastes. Along with his bourbon, old Hugh enjoyed handmade suits, a chauffeur-driven car, and a full-time Guatemalan maid, with whom, Jacklin had discovered, he was carrying on a torrid affair. (The pictures were revolting.) Keeping up that lifestyle while providing for his family back in Burlington wasn’t easy on a senator’s salary of $158,100. Jacklin had done some checking into his finances. He had not found any secret contributions from lobbyists, no shadowy honorariums for speeches he never gave, no numbered accounts in Zurich. Fitzgerald was clean. He was, however, up to his eyeballs in debt. Jacklin returned his gaze to the television.

“And now we’ll turn to the navy,” said the Pentagon spokesman.

“This is us,” said Jacklin.

“Hoo-yah,” added General Lamar King.

“A $275,000,000 firm-fixed-price contract for the U.S. Navy’s Missiles and Fire Control Command Systems is being awarded to…”

Jacklin scooted to the edge of his seat. “Dynamic Systems Control,” he whispered, fists balled and held to his chest. “Lord, let us have that one.”

“… Everett Electrical Systems of Redondo Beach, California.”

Jacklin banged his hand on the table. “There’s three more to come,” he said. “Never say die!”

The spokesman went on: “A $443,500,000 indefinite delivery/indefinite quantity contract to provide seven MPN-14K radar approach control systems, installation, flight check…”

“Triton Aerospace…”

“Leading Edge Industries, Radar Division, Van Nuys, California.”

“Horseshit!” shouted Jacklin, out of his seat now, brushing past the model of the battleship Maine, pacing the office. He hit the call button on his desk. “Juan,” he said into the speakerphone. “Get me a double scotch. Lamar, what’ll you have?”

“Bourbon.”

“A sherry,” said Hank Baker.

“Sherry, my ass,” protested Jacklin. “Have a man’s drink!”

“Make it a bourbon, then,” Baker said uncertainly. “Um… Wild Turkey.”

LaWanda Makepeace started to say Coke, but caught the blistering look thrown in her direction by Jacklin. “Give me a Tom Collins, honey. If we’re starting this early, I might as well do it right.”

“Two more,” said Jacklin, waving his cigar at the television. “They can’t shut us out altogether.”

Five minutes later, it was done. The final two contracts had been awarded to companies that did not belong to Jefferson’s portfolio.

There was a knock at the door. Juan, the Filipino mess steward, entered the room. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Just put the drinks down, Juan. We can serve ourselves.”

Juan set his sterling-silver serving tray on the coffee table. With ceremony, he laid a napkin and then placed a crystal highball glass filled with ice and single-malt scotch on it.

“I said we can serve ourselves, you little brown monkey,” shouted Jacklin.

“Yessir,” said Juan, an uncomfortable smile on his face.

“You blind as well as deaf? Light this fuckin’ cigar!”

Juan produced a Zippo lighter. “Very good, sir.”

Jacklin knocked back half his tumbler and rubbed his temples. Losing contracts was getting to be an all-too-familiar experience. He was going to have one helluva job figuring out how to spin this shitty news to his guests tonight. There was only one way to salvage the party. Fitzgerald. He’d have to get Senator Hugh Fitzgerald to say he was recommending passage of the appropriations bill.

Jacklin strode back to his desk. He might need those pictures sooner than he thought.