Not Dead Enough (20 page)

Chapter Forty-one

Townsend Enterprises was nested atop forty-four stories of marble, glass, and steel in downtown Portland. Owing to the tint of the stone, I'd recently learned, the building's called the Big Pink by Portlanders. On Sunday evening I used the card Jason Townsend had given me to raise the bar at the entrance to the tower's underground parking lot. I was running late for the meeting he'd invited me to. I followed a narrow concrete lane down a level and didn't like what I saw. The parking area was poorly lit and deserted. I'd left Philip's cannon back at the farm. After all, I didn't have a concealed handgun license, which meant I couldn't legally carry a loaded gun in my car in Portland. I followed the exit signs out of the place, parked on the street, and walked into the well-lit lobby. Two attempts on your life will do that to you.

After signing in, I was escorted to a key-activated express elevator that took me to the forty-third floor like a bullet train. When the car snapped to a halt and the doors parted, I followed the sound of voices past a row of lavish executive suites to a large conference room that looked down on the Willamette River and out across the patchwork of lights illuminating east Portland. A dozen or so people were chatting and milling around. The meeting hadn't begun.

“Well, well, if it isn't the intrepid, fly fishing lawyer. Or is it lawyering fly-fisherman?”

I turned and saw David Hanson standing alone at a small, self-service bar with a glass of wine in his hand. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes red and overly moist, and there were a couple of wine spots on his pink oxford button down.

I joined him and offered my hand. “Hello, David. Actually, either term fits,” I said with a smile I had to force just a little. “How's the campaign team shaping up?”

“Oh, just peachy. Did you come bearing the dam-removal plank, perchance?”

“Uh, yeah, I plan to raise the issue.”

He gave me a crooked smile and swayed slightly. “Good fucking luck with that.” Then he walked away.

Winona came in a few minutes later wearing a tastefully understated skirt and blouse and high, black books. An uncut chunk of turquoise dangled on a silver chain around her neck. It was the only part of her outfit hinting at the other world she inhabited.

She hesitated as if trying to decide to join me at the bar. Then a voice called to her. “Winona. We're over here, dear.” It was Royce Townsend. He waved at her, then scanned his eyes past me like I didn't exist. She smiled tentatively and walked across the room to join him, his son, Jason, and several others. I couldn't help but notice the warm embrace Jason gave her.

I was a little surprised to see the liquor flowing at what was supposed to be a working meeting, and I spotted an open bottle of Beaux Frères Reserve on the bar. I may have been new to the state, but I knew a good Oregon pinot when I saw it. I poured myself a glass and joined a group standing near a wall of windows overlooking the Willamette.

“Mr. Claxton, you decided to come.” It was Sam DeSilva. His shaved head gleamed in the overhead lights, and his dark eyes rested on me with something less than fondness, although, in truth, it may have been the look he gave everyone. He stood between the female artist and the economics professor I'd met at Townsend's dinner party. The artist's eyes were slightly unfocused, but it didn't appear that she'd drunk as much as David Hanson had. Not yet, at least.

“I didn't know my attendance was in question,” I answered with a smile laced with a measure of ambiguity.

“Well, I know you're a busy man with your one-man law practice way out in, where is it, Dayton?”

“Dundee.” I swirled the wine in my glass, took a sip, then held the glass up. “Where this stuff's made.”

Sam's eyes seemed to sink into their sockets. He smiled without mirth. “Oh, that's right. Farm country.”

I swallowed a comeback. The economics professor, sensing the escalating tension, said, “Do you know Bettie James? She has a great restaurant out your way.”

“She's a good friend,” I answered, thankful for the intervention. “The Brasserie's my home away from home.”

Sam slipped away from the group while the professor and I made small talk. A few minutes later, Sam called to me from across the room to join him, Royce, and Jason Townsend. Royce wore a silver sweater below an elegant black blazer. The color of the sweater matched his hair and eyes, although his eyes were paler and not particularly friendly. His son wore chinos and an open neck shirt. His trademark smile was in place, but the muscles in his face were tight.

Sam waited for the handshakes and greetings before saying, “Look, Claxton, we know you're loaded for bear tonight about the dam-removal issue. We've decided to kick that can down the road for the time being. We've got more critical issues to deal with right now.”

I glanced at Jason, whose face had lost some color. I said, “I'd just planned to raise the issue tonight. See what the group thought.”

Sam replied, “I know, I know. But we've got some strong enviros here tonight. If you bring the subject up, it'll consume the evening, I guarantee you. We don't want that to happen.”

I looked back at Jason, who'd dropped his eyes. “You agree with this, Jason?”

“Uh, yeah, I—”

Royce interrupted his son. “We can examine the issue later in the campaign. We just don't think this is the proper time to raise it.”

I watched Jason, waiting for him to finish, but he averted his eyes and said nothing. Finally, I said, “Okay, gentlemen, whatever you say,” and with that spun on my heels and walked away.

I saw Winona at the bar and joined her. I offered my hand, and she hugged me instead. After looking me over, she said, “How are you doing, Cal?”

I felt a flush of the intimacy we'd shared at her grandmother's. “Better, thanks to you. Grooms is still in the ICU, but she snuck a call to me. Looks like she's going to make it.”

Her face brightened. “That's good news. What about the sniper? How could he have gotten away out there?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. He's pretty resourceful.” Her face darkened, so I changed the subject. “I just heard the Townsend campaign's going soft on dam removal.”

“What? What do you mean?”

Before I could answer, Sam's voice boomed out from the front of the room. “Folks, please grab a seat. We're going to get started now.”

“I'll tell you later,” I said as Winona made her way to the front to join Jason and his father.

Sam kicked the meeting off with the usual thanks to the volunteers and reminders of how important the upcoming Senate race was for the future of Oregon and the whole country, for that matter. Then he paused with his hands pressed to his lips as if in prayer and said, “I don't want to start out on a down note, but I have an announcement to make.” He drew a breath and hesitated for a moment. “Folks, David Hanson's moving on.”

There were groans as the collective eyes of the group swung around to David. He was slouched in a chair in the back with a silly grin on his face.

Sam continued, “We knew it would be hard to keep such a talented guy for very long, and well, I guess David got an offer he couldn't refuse. Right, David?”

David raised a nearly full glass of wine. “Couldn't have said it better, Sam.”

Sam waited, but David said nothing more.

“Well, we're going to miss you, fella.” Then he told the group to stick around afterwards to wish David well, before nodding to Royce Townsend and taking a seat in the front row.

“That was the bad news,” Royce said. “Now let me give you the good news. It's probably a truism that politics is not very conducive to romance. But it's the exception that proves the rule, they say. He paused, and I thought for a moment he was going to tear up. Then he looked down at Jason and Winona, who were sitting side by side, and gave them a benevolent smile. “My son, Jason, proposed to Winona last night and she accepted.”

The audience burst into oohs and aahs as the bottom fell out of my stomach.

Royce motioned for the couple to stand up, which they did. “Show them the ring,” he said to Winona.

She held her hand up to display a big diamond cluster that glittered fiercely in the lights. Jason stood at her side, grinning proudly. For an instant she and I made eye contact. I smiled, and it was only slightly forced. It made sense, after all.

When the group quieted down, Jason said, “Thank you all. You're the first to know about this and, uh, we'd appreciate it if you would keep this news under your hats. We're planning a party soon to make the official announcement. You're all invited, of course.”

I don't remember much about the ensuing meeting. Agreement was reached on a proposed platform the candidate would run on, and since I sat in the back and kept my mouth shut, the issue of free-flowing rivers in the Northwest didn't come up. This was just as well, since I was a bit preoccupied thinking about Winona and Jason's surprise announcement. It wasn't about Winona and me. Hell, there was nothing between us but a nascent friendship. And it wasn't what I knew or at least suspected about Jason either. That was none of my business. It was just a gut feeling that they weren't right for each other, that this was some kind of marriage of convenience.

I finally managed to push the thoughts out of my head. Be happy for her. Be happy for both of them. Oregon voters will love such a beautiful couple, and they'll probably take Washington, D.C., by storm.

After the meeting and the well-wishing ended, I was headed straight for the bullet train down when I noticed David Hanson was having difficulty putting his coat on. I walked over to him. “Are you going to make it all right, David?”

He looked at me and squinted. “I'm doing splendidly. But I can't seem to get my arm in this damn sleeve.”

I helped him with his coat, and we walked together toward the elevator. Sam had just seen an elevator full of people off. David stopped in front of Sam and swayed slightly. Sam offered his hand while trying hard to put a smile on an otherwise wary expression. “Good night, David.”

David gave him the same squinty look and kept his hands at his side. There was a long pause. “You know what you are, Sam?”

Sam dropped his hand and his smile simultaneously. He said very softly, “What, David?”

David extended his arm until his index finger just touched Sam's chest. “You are a scheming little piece of shit.” Then he pulled his finger back and shook it from side to side. “No, no. That doesn't quite capture it.” He placed his finger back on Sam's chest. “You are a steaming little piece of shit.”

Sam's eyes went as flat as two worn nickels. He struggled to raise a smile but only managed a quivering ripple at one corner of his mouth. He looked down at David's finger and started to push his hand away.

Like the completion of a circuit in a detonator, the touching of their hands caused David to explode. He screamed with rage, lunged at Sam and raked his fingernails down his face. The move was quick and vicious. I was stunned.

Sam cried out in pain and pushed David away. “You little faggot,” he hissed. Then he stepped forward and punched David hard in the face. There was the dull thud of bone striking bone, cushioned by layers of skin. David's knees buckled, and I caught him.

“Stop them, Cal! Stop them!” Winona screamed as she rushed down the hall, a look of horror on her face.

I propped David up and got between him and Sam, whose face was streaked with vertical crimson lines. I extended my arms in both directions. “Stop it. Both of you.”

“You scratched my eye, you son of a bitch,” Sam said in a high, tinny voice. He was panting and holding his hand over his right eye.

David giggled. “What a shame. I tried for both of them.” The skin under David's left eye was beginning to swell around a short, horizontal gash oozing blood.

“Well, the deal's off, asshole,” Sam shot back. “You can forget about it.”

“I was never going to take your filthy—”

“That's enough, David. Shut your mouth and go.” It was Royce Townsend, who'd come up behind Winona. He spoke like a man used to absolute obedience, his jaw set in a rigid line, his eyes drawn down to colorless slits. He turned to Sam. “Come with me. Let's have a look at your eye.”

David giggled again and lurched toward the elevator. Winona said, “Cal, please take him home. He's too drunk to drive.” When the elevator doors opened, she got in and rode down with us. In the lobby, I guided David to a bench, sat him down and said, “Stay.”

Winona waited for me next to the elevator, a look of shock and bewilderment on her face. “What's going on, Cal?”

“David's been shown the door. I guess he decided not to leave quietly.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “Why don't you ask your fiancé?”

Her eyes grew large and filled with tears. “Why do you say that?”

I didn't know what else to say, so I gathered David up and left her standing at the elevator.

Chapter Forty-two

For a small man, Sam DeSilva packed a wallop. Under the dome light of my car, I could see that David Hanson's left eye would soon be swollen shut and his cheek rendered a fine, if mottled, shade of purple. However, the gash Sam's fist had opened up didn't look that serious.

“The bleeding's stopped, and I don't think you'll need stitches,” I told him.

“Oh, damn. I was hoping for a scar. Adds character to a face, don't you think? Like Pacino in Scarface.”

I laughed despite myself. “Your face's going to have plenty of character, at least for a week or two.”

The fight seemed to have sobered David up somewhat, and he agreed to leave his car at The Big Pink and come with me without much of a fuss. He lived in Sellwood, so I took the Ross Island Bridge to the east side. When I turned onto Milwaukie, he said, “Coffee. I need coffee. There's a little bar up on the left. I'll buy you a cup.”

I was fine with stopping, because I had some questions I wanted to ask him. The place was bustling with a jovial group of neighborhood types who hardly looked up as we made our way to a table in the back after ordering black coffee and a small pizza at the bar. When we sat down, David started to relive the fight with Sam. I let him go, figuring he needed to get it out of his system. He'd eaten most of the pizza and was on his second cup of coffee when I said, “What the hell happened to get you so upset?”

He looked at me and chuckled. “Well, let's just say leaving wasn't my idea.”

“What did Sam mean when he said, ‘The deals off'?”

David shook his head. “I wasn't going to take their stupid deal anyway. They think they can just buy people. Take this money, keep your mouth shut, and we'll say nice things about you. I don't need their money or their fucking recommendations.”

“How long have you and Jason been lovers?”

David stopped his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

I met his eyes and let the question stand by saying nothing.

“How—”

“I notice things, David. So, you're out and Winona's in to bolster Jason's hetero image, right?”

He shrugged. “Sure. That's the way things are done. You can win an election in Portland if you're gay, but a statewide election for a national office? That's another question entirely.”

“Who called the shot?”

“Royce. Who else? Sam's just an errand boy. Royce loaned him to the campaign to keep an eye on things. He put me there for legal perspective. But I'm sure Sam's glad to see me go, as well.”

“What about Jason? Doesn't he have any say in this?”

David's eyes filled, and he blinked away a tear. “Jason made his decision. He talks a good game about being his own man. But at the end of the day, he wants to please his daddy. And his daddy wants him to be a happily married senator on a short leash. They can all go to hell.”

We sat in silence for a while. David dabbed at his eyes with his napkin. I waited for him to calm down before shifting the subject. “I understand Royce was a big game hunter in his day. Ever hear anything about that?”

Hanson made a face. “I don't know anything, except that Jason told me they used to have a lot of disgusting animal heads in their house. You'd have to ask Sam.”

“Sam arranged Royce's hunting trips?”

“Sam arranged everything for Royce. Still does. He's been with him for years.”

“Tell me about Sam.”

“What's to tell? His first love's politics, or should I say power—Machiavelli's his role model. He wants to go to Washington worse than Jason does. He's the quintessential sycophant, too. Takes care of all of Royce's dirt. And there's plenty of that. Or at least there was. The old man's lost a step or two.”

“What kind of dirt?”

David laughed. “You name it—payoffs, bribes, you know, the basic cost of doing large scale construction work.” I nodded, and he went on. “The old bastard cut a wide swath in his day.” Then something seemed to register in David's eyes. He wrinkled his brow, and I knew the spell was broken. He said, “This is starting to feel like an interrogation. What's your deal, Claxton?”

I took a sip of coffee while I did a quick gut check. I decided not to risk tipping my hand any further. I opened my hands, palms up, and smiled. “I'm just a curious guy, that's all.”

“Sure you are.”