Power Play (38 page)

The elder Tomlinson laughed. “That’s right, keep repeating it. That’s what we want to hear.”

Looking grim, Leeds was saying, “I have worked very hard for many years to make certain that this state’s gaming industry is free of any criminal activity.”

One of the old men in the library hooted with derision.

“And my opponent’s attempts to smear me are actually thinly veiled attacks on the Native Americans in our state, loyal, hard-working men and women whose major source of income is from the state’s five licensed gaming casinos.”

Raising one finger in the air, Leeds added, “Now, I’m not accusing my opponent of racism. But his reckless attempts to smear me are harming our state’s Native American population!”

“The racism card,” muttered the old man sitting closest to Jake.

Dead silence among the reporters in the ballroom. Leeds glowered down at them from the lectern, then half turned toward the FBI chief once again.

“And now Ms. Quintero will give you the details of the FBI’s investigation.”

Tomlinson Senior clapped his hands together loudly. “The last act of a desperate man,” he announced.

Jake wasn’t so certain.

ELECTION DAY

It was snowing again. As Jake walked from his campus parking spot toward his office a gentle snow sifted down from the gray clouds overhead. It wasn’t particularly cold and there was hardly any wind. Not enough snow to call off school for the day, Jake thought. Not enough for kids to go sledding.

“Jake! Wait up!”

Turning, he saw Amy Wexler hurrying toward him, bundled in a quilted parka, but bareheaded, her thick honey-blond hair bouncing off her shoulders as she jogged along the brick walkway.

“Hello, Amy,” he said guardedly.

“Do you think this snow will keep people away from the polling places?” Amy asked, puffing slightly as she fell into step alongside him.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t look like much. I guess not.”

“Too bad,” she said.

Jake pushed the door to the astronomy building open, asking, “Too bad?”

“Leeds has a lot of voting blocs lined up,” Amy explained. “Those union people, they go through neighborhoods and drive people to the voting booths. Bad weather keeps the vote down. That could be good for us.”

“Won’t it keep our vote down, too?” He started up the concrete steps, with Amy beside him.

“It works better for the underdog,” she said, her voice echoing slightly off the bare walls.

“We’re not the underdog.”

“Yes, we are,” Amy insisted. “As far as delivering organized blocs of voters is concerned, Leeds is way ahead of us.”

He led Amy down the corridor to his office, unlocked the door, and ushered her into the cluttered little room.

“I thought we were ahead,” Jake said, pulling off his fleece-lined car coat.

“It ain’t over till it’s over,” Amy said.

“Yogi Berra,” said Jake. “Great political philosopher.”

Amy unzipped her parka and shrugged out of it as she sat on the chair in front of Jake’s desk. She let the parka droop over the chair’s back. She was wearing a thick knitted off-white pullover and maroon slacks. Jake realized all over again what a beautiful woman she really was.

“Coffee?” he asked, glancing at the pot sitting on the hot plate atop the bookcase behind her.

“I can’t stay long,” Amy said. “I’ve got a million things to do.”

“Don’t forget to vote.”

She beamed her cheerleader’s smile at him. “Already did. Frank and I voted first thing this morning, as soon as the polls opened.”

Jake nodded. Sure you did. You woke up with him, didn’t you?

As if she could read the expression on his face, Amy said, “Jake, we couldn’t have made it this far without you. Frank wants you to know that, win or lose, he’s very grateful for your help and support.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I love him, Jake.”

For a moment he didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. Amy, in love? He’d never thought that she’d fall in love with anyone. He realized that he’d thought of Amy only as a bed partner. Jesus Christ, Jake berated himself, I’m a male chauvinist pig!

“You love him?” he asked dully.

“I do. I truly do. At first I thought it was just a fling, you know, just for fun.…”

Like you thought of me, Jake realized.

“He’s asked me to marry him.”

Feeling totally stupid, Jake muttered, “Congratulations.”

She smiled again, but this time it looked almost sad. Regretful. “I hope I haven’t hurt you, Jake.”

He shook his head, bewildered. “No … I’m okay.”

“He wanted to get married right after the primary, but I told him to wait until after the election. I told Frank that if we got married during the campaign he’d lose half the women’s vote.”

Jake forced a weak smile. “Yeah. Guess so.”

“I wanted to tell you myself,” she said, “because … well, you know…”

“Yeah. I know. I understand.”

She shot to her feet and grabbed the parka before it could fall to the floor. “Well, I’ve got to run. There’s a million things I have to get done.”

Jake stood up, but stayed behind his desk. “Thanks for telling me … and everything,” he said. “I hope the two of you are very happy together. I really do.”

“You’re sweet, Jake.” She rushed to the door, blew him a farewell kiss, and left, tugging on the parka.

Jake sank back into his chair, thinking, Well, what did you expect? You knew she was only playing around with you. He looked up at the partially open door. But getting married? I never thought she was that serious about him.

That’s because you’re an idiot, he told himself. A blind, stupid idiot.

And, like an idiot, he picked up the phone and called Glynis.

She picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Jake.”

Caller ID, he realized. “Hi, Glyn. Uh, are you doing anything for lunch?”

“I’m driving up to Lignite. Want to have lunch with Tim and me?” She sounded cheerful, not a care in the world.

“I can’t,” he said. “Got a class this afternoon.”

“Maybe some other time,” said Glynis.

“Yeah, sure.” He hesitated a heartbeat, then asked, “Are you coming to Tomlinson’s party tonight?”

“At the Sheridan? Yes, we’ll be there.”

Jake heard the
we.
“Okay, see you then. Oh, don’t forget to vote!”

“I will, Jake. I promise.”

He hung up the phone, turned his little chair around, and watched the snow falling gently outside his window. I might as well go out and vote, Jake said to himself. I’ve got nothing better to do.

VICTORY

Jake had to fight his way through the jam-packed lobby of the Sheridan Hotel. Senator Leeds’s supporters were pouring into the ballroom, eagerly anticipating the election results.

Brilliant planning, he thought sourly while he squeezed into an elevator filled with laughing, chattering people. Leeds’s party in the ballroom down on the ground floor, Tomlinson’s in the auditorium on the top floor. In the whole damned city they both have to pick this hotel.

Well, he thought, no matter who loses, the Sheridan wins.

The hotel’s rooftop auditorium was even more jammed. As the elevator doors opened, Jake was hit by a solid wall of bodies and deafening noise. Campaign workers, volunteers wearing garish sashes proclaiming
TOMLINSON
, news reporters, camera crews, a German brass band in lederhosen um-pahhing up on the stage, dignitaries from all over the state, call girls in low-cut dresses waving plastic glasses of champagne, everyone talking, laughing, tooting on plastic vuvuzelas; the noise was overpowering, the press of bodies crushing.

Wishing he were back at his apartment or off in the middle of the Sahara, Jake forced his way through the crowd. Big television screens hung from every wall, showing the vote tabulation. This close to midnight and the count was still too close to call a winner. He spotted Glynis and Younger, trying to dance in front of the stage to a waltz being played surprisingly gently by the brass band. They could barely move, the dance floor was so crowded, but neither of them seemed to mind. Dr. Cardwell and Alice were there, too, looking happily contented with each other.

Tomlinson’s father stood off in one corner of the big room, talking animatedly with what looked like a pair of reporters. Jake pushed toward him. At least the crowd was hanging a respectful few feet away from the old man. Maybe he could breathe there.

The elder Tomlinson looked austere and dignified in his tuxedo, even though his bow tie was striped red, white, and blue. He held a cut-crystal glass of whiskey in one hand, while jabbing at the reporters with a forefinger of the other.

“I told him it’s going to be a tight race,” the elder Tomlinson was saying. “I’m not paying for a damned landslide!”

The reporters laughed dutifully. Jake remembered that old Joe Kennedy was supposed to have said something like that about his son’s election in 1960.

The woman reporter prompted, “Interesting that both parties are here in the Sheridan.” Even from five feet away Jake could hardly hear her over the babble of the crowd.

Tomlinson h’mmphed. “When they told me that Leeds had already booked the ballroom downstairs I just picked up the phone and talked to my old friend, Harry Hortenson.”

“He’s the owner of this hotel, isn’t he?” the reporter asked, her voice barely under a shout.

“He is indeed. He gave us this lovely rooftop facility. When the good senator concedes, he’ll have to ride the elevator up here to do it.”

The reporters laughed again. Alexander Tomlinson allowed himself a thin smile.

Jake glanced up at the mammoth TV screen over the old man’s head.
FINAL RESULTS FROM CAPITAL CITY
was printed along the bottom of the screen.

The auditorium suddenly went quiet. The whole crowd seemed to hold its breath. Jake watched the numbers from the tabulation adding up in a blurry whirl. Leeds was ahead … no, Tomlinson came from behind and edged him out!

The crowd roared. Even Tomlinson Senior broke into a pleased grin. Tomlinson’s lead was slim, but he had taken the city’s vote.

“That’s it,” the old man roared. “If the senator can’t hold the capital, he’s finished. My son will kick his butt out in the counties.”

Jake stared at the screen. It’s true, he told himself. We knew that Leeds’s main strength was here in the capital. If he’s lost here, he’s lost the state. Tomlinson’s going to be our new senator!

As if on cue, B. Franklin Tomlinson entered the auditorium, with Amy at his side. He looked dashing in a hand-tailored tux; Amy wore a floor-length ball gown of pale gold. She was glowing.

Everyone applauded. Tomlinson smiled brilliantly, a boyish, almost bashful grin. He held up both hands, then sprinted to the stage and jumped up onto it in a single bound.

Gripping the edges of the lectern that had been set up onstage, Tomlinson said into the microphone, “It ain’t over till it’s over, remember.”

A voice from the crowd roared, “It’s over! Look at the numbers!”

Glancing up at the nearest TV screen, Tomlinson broke into a laugh, then said, “I’ve got to admit, it looks damned good!”

Everyone cheered.

It took nearly another hour before the TV finally announced that B. Franklin Tomlinson had won the election. The margin of victory was narrow, but undeniable. Leeds appeared on screen, looking more resentful than gracious, and made a brief concession speech, ending with:

“But this isn’t the end of our efforts to make our state the best place in America to live and bring up families.”

A few jeers and catcalls from the crowd. Then the victory party swung into high gear.

And Jake wanted to slink off and go home. It’s over, he said to himself. We’ve won. So what?

Tomorrow I go back to my office and return to being an assistant professor of astronomy. Tomorrow I return to reality.

CONSEQUENCES

As he edged toward the exit, Jake felt a hand grip his shoulder. Turning, he saw Bob Rogers grinning at him.

“Where’re you going, Jake?”

“Home, I guess.”

“Not yet. He wants to see you,” said Rogers. He looked slightly wobbly to Jake, as if he’d had too much to drink.

“He?”

“Our new senator. He sent me to find you. Rogers’s Rangers, scouting through the wilderness, seeking … um, seeking…” Rogers shrugged good-naturedly. “Whatever. He wants to talk to you.”

Jake allowed Rogers to lead him through the clamoring, celebrating throng to a metal door set in the wall off to one side of the stage.

It was a janitor’s closet. Brooms and mops hung from clips on the wall. Metal shelves held cleaning solvents and detergents. A deep sink stood against the rear wall. Tomlinson, Amy, Glynis, and Younger were all crowded in, all looking happy, tired, drunk with victory and champagne.

“There you are!” Tomlinson said. He grabbed Jake’s hand and pumped it vigorously.

“Congratulations,” Jake said. Then, glancing at Amy, he added, “Double congratulations.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Jake,” Tomlinson said.

Forcing a smile, Jake nodded toward Younger and Rogers and said, “These guys had something to do with it, too, you know.”

“I know. I know. And I’m going to push for MHD as soon as I get on the Senate floor.”

Rogers said, “Great.” Even Younger looked pleased.

“I’m sorry to have such an informal setting for this conference,” Tomlinson said, with a slight giggle. “It’s the one place around here that my father won’t think of looking for me.”

Jake didn’t know what to make of that.

More seriously, Tomlinson said, “I want you on my staff, Jake. I want you to be science advisor in Washington.”

Jake felt his brows hike toward his scalp. “In Washington? I can’t go to Washington. I’ve got my position here to—”

“I’m sure the university will grant you a leave of absence,” said Tomlinson. “I’m going to need you in Washington.”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on, Jake,” Tomlinson urged. “There’s a lot to be done, and I need you to help me do it. MHD, the environment, NASA’s budget … science is going to be an important part of my job, and I need the best scientific information I can get. That means you, Jake. I need you.”