Presidential Deal (7 page)

He took her hand, which was firm but delicately boned, and replaced the card she had given him in her palm. “I appreciate the thought, though,” he said. “Maybe some of the other folks haven’t been taken. There’s a lot of heroes here.” He swept his arm about the room good-naturedly.

“Maybe you should keep the card,” she said. “In case things don’t work out…”

“Everything’s just the way I want it,” Deal said. His expression felt as bland as wheat. He grinned happily, hoping that wasn’t laying it on too much.

“Well,” she said. “Good luck.”

“Oh, I’ve had plenty already,” Deal said. She smiled back, a bit uncertainly, he thought, and then she was moving across the room away from him, her hips winking in that black dress in a way that made him just the tiniest bit sorry he hadn’t heard her out.

“Did I see what I thought I saw?”

It was Roland Wells approaching, Diet Coke in one hand, can of ginger ale in the other. “Always happens to me,” Wells said. “Every time I go to the bathroom, I miss a good part.” He handed Deal the ginger ale. “You were talking to her? She came over here and talked? And you let her get away?”

Deal thought about it for a moment. He fixed Wells with a forlorn expression. “She’s a man,” he said. Wells stared back at him, then craned his neck for a better look across the room.

“No way,” he said. “No way.”

Deal gave the shrug he’d picked up from too many years around Vernon Driscoll, the gesture that was meant to lend credence to almost anything. Wells might even have bought it, but Deal would never know. For in the next moment, Monroe Fielding was back in the room to tell them it was time.

Chapter 9

“Do you enjoy a good cigar, Mr. President?” It was Jorge Vas, reaching into his suit coat to withdraw a dark leather case.

He and Frank Sheldon sat alone at a table in a pleasantly appointed atrium where they’d retired after lunch—as alone as it was possible to be with the President in a public setting, that is. Secret Service agents were arrayed at the doors and along the hallways beyond; more agents—as well as Vas’s own security detail—in the main dining room; and a cadre of city and state police along with other Secret Service men outside the Little Havana restaurant Vas had insisted upon. There were probably agents hidden under the phony boulders and amongst the ferns and rocks of the grotto-like atrium, but Sheldon wasn’t going to bother looking for them.

Going to Vas on such short notice had required considerable logistical effort, but Sheldon was willing to concede where trivialities were concerned. Besides, he’d enjoyed the food, which was a welcome change from the usual rubber-chicken banquet offerings and health-conscious fare Linda was always pressing on him: a thin-cut palomillo steak pan-fried in a garlicky butter and smothered in chopped onions, black beans and rice, fried plantains, even a Hatuey beer, which Vas took pains to point out had once been brewed in Cuba but now was a product of the Bacardi U.S. operations. They’d had a delicate flan and a robust espresso in the atrium, and now there was also the possibility of a cigar? He tried to imagine Linda’s reaction—a steady diet like this, he wouldn’t have to concern himself with the actions of some lunatic, he’d be assassinated via lunch.

“I’m going to guess that’s
not
from Cuba,” Sheldon said, pointing at the fat unwrapped Churchill that Vas held up for inspection.

Vas glanced past the cigar, grunted something like a laugh. “El Credito,” he said. “The tobacco is Honduran, grown from Cuban seed. And it is fashioned by Cubans, though in a shop only a few hundred yards from where we sit. A fascinating place. Perhaps you would like to see it?”

“I wish I had the time,” Sheldon said.

Vas nodded his understanding and extended the case. Sheldon hesitated, then took one of the cigars. There was a waterfall burbling somewhere. It sounded like distant rain.

“It takes a person a year to learn how to roll a cigar like that,” Vas said.

“And most of a lifetime to learn how to do it well.” He replaced the case, raised the unlit cigar to savor its aroma.

“These, for instance, are made for me by an old woman named Perla Valdez.” Vas reached into his pocket, found a cutter that operated like a miniature guillotine, used it to snip the end of the cigar neatly away.

“Her husband worked in a cigar factory in Havana,” Vas continued. “When he persisted in passing along news accounts smuggled back from Miami for the factory’s
lector
to read, Castro had her husband’s thumbs cut off.” Vas produced a wooden match, flicked it into life with his thumbnail. He paused to stoke the big cigar into life, then held out a match to Sheldon.

“It’s a terrible story,” Sheldon said, shaking his head at the offer of the match.

“Such stories fuel our passion,” Vas said. “There are many of them.”

“And I appreciate your feelings.”

Vas waved the remark away. “Enjoy the cigar at your leisure. If you are pleased, let me know. Perla Valdez would be honored to fashion
los puros
for her
presidente
.”

“That’s very kind of you…and Ms. Valdez.”

Vas nodded. “And it is kind of you to agree to this meeting on such short notice.”

Sheldon nodded dutifully. “It’s
my
opportunity,” he said. “I want you to know I think we can work together in the next administration. I’m convinced that between the two of us, we can fashion some solutions to some longstanding problems where it comes to Cuba.”

Vas nodded thoughtfully. “I would like to think so myself, Mr. President…”

“Well, then—” Sheldon began, leaning forward across the table, his cigar raised for emphasis.

“…but it is impossible.”

Sheldon stopped short, staring at Vas. “Impossible?” The sound of the waterfall seemed to have increased into a torrent.

Vas puffed on his cigar, stared at Sheldon through the cloud of smoke that billowed between them. “I have heard distressing rumors,” Vas said after a moment.

“That’s usually just what they are, rumors,” Sheldon countered.

Vas shrugged. “Reports that an agreement has been reached for the opening of diplomatic relations between this country and the present government of Cuba.”

Sheldon stared back levelly. “People have talked about that for a long time.”

“Indeed they have,” said Vas. “But there has never before been a president who would lend credence to such a notion.”

“I can assure you that no one in this administration…”

Vas waved his free hand back and forth. “It is not necessary for you to issue a denial, Mr. President. I simply want to explain to you why it is impossible for me—for any Cuban—to support your candidacy.”

“Hear me out,” Sheldon protested.

“I’ve seen with my own eyes,” Vas said. “Documents which make clear your intentions.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been looking at…” Sheldon began.

“You intend to make a deal with the devil,” Vas said, his voice quiet but firm.

Sheldon stared at the man, momentarily at a loss. It was true, certain preliminary documents had been prepared, but they were a long way from anything formal, and nothing his advisors would let out. The best-case scenario suggested announcement of trade agreements with the Cubans a year or so after the elections, and he and Chappelear had agreed they would keep their cards close. Vas had to be bluffing.

“I can assure you that no policy changes with the Cuban government would be entertained without consulting with you first,” Sheldon said. “Anything you may have heard is pure speculation.”

Vas waved his hand. “You would like to win a second term, and you would like to leave behind a legacy,” Vas said. “I understand all that. As I understand that it would be suicidal for you to announce your intentions before the election. But I can promise you that this legacy will not be built upon the backs of the Cubans who want their country returned to them.”

“You misunderstand my intentions,” Sheldon said.

“Then prove me wrong,” Vas said.

“And what would that take?”

Vas waved his hand again. “Certain assurances.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a folded sheet. He spread it flat and laid it on the table before Sheldon, tacking a corner with his finger. Sheldon understood that the document was not being passed along.

Sheldon scanned the short list, then stared at Vas. How many of his predecessors had seen this document, or a version of it? How many had had this conversation, or one similar to it? And where had it gotten them?

What Vas would require of him would tie his hands, undo all of Chappelear’s work, just like Linda had said. And even if he were to concede, how could he be certain Vas could deliver what he claimed he could? John Groshner was convinced Vas held the keys to the kingdom, but Sheldon wasn’t so sure. In any case, make a half-dozen deals like this, what would winning accomplish? He took a deep breath, spoke firmly over the sound of water tumbling over artificial rocks.

“The world has moved on, Mr. Vas. I’m sure you realize that in your heart of hearts. I’m going to win this election, but I was hoping you’d agree to work with me. I’m sure we can find a way to represent your interests and the interests of the people who depend on you for guidance.”

Vas nodded, and a thin smile crossed his lips as he folded up the document and replaced it in his pocket. “It was a pleasant lunch, Mr. President. I am sorry we do not see eye to eye. Perhaps you will come again when you have more time to spend with us.”

Sheldon stood. The phony waterfall seemed to be crashing louder now. He extended his hand. “Please consider what I’ve said.”

Vas rose to take his hand and nodded, but if there was any hint of acknowledgment in the gesture, Frank Sheldon missed it altogether.

Chapter 10

“We are ready.”

Salazar’s voice was flat, unaccented, emotionless, and though it came through a portable phone, and the incoming signals might have been detected by any number of scanning devices, sophisticated and unsophisticated alike, they would have been manifested to any other listener on earth—computer hacker, spy, pervert, all the same—as a mad scramble of indecipherable static. Access to such technology was just one of the privileges of power, one more reminder of the need and the duty to maintain the public trust.

“Then proceed,” he responded. “Just as you were instructed.”

“You are certain?” Salazar’s voice came again.

He thought briefly of what was about to happen. “A disturbance,” he said. “A managed disturbance.”

“Precisely,” Salazar replied.

“Nothing serious, but the point will be made.”

“Absolute discreditation,” Salazar intoned, reciting now. “Public theater. An event that will demonstrate just how volatile the communist forces truly are, how politically unstable. At the very moment that the chief executive of the United States agrees merely to meet with the leader of the Free Cuba movement, see what these men, blinded by their passions, will do…”

“That’s enough,” he said, realizing that Salazar was feeding his own rhetoric back to him now.

“Do not worry,” Salazar said, his voice reassuring now. “One day you will write of all this, of how simply the world was changed, once and for all.”

He felt a momentary breathlessness and then, on its heels, that instant of clarity when madness and logic join and metamorphose into something greater, beyond the sum of the parts. Once past that moment, he was calm and certain and unassailable, he always would be.

“Then do it,” he ordered. And switched off the phone.

Chapter 11

Vernon Driscoll was at the kitchen window of the apartment he rented from Deal, a pair of binoculars raised to his eyes, muttering softly to himself in the moments before the bulletin came over the television. “Come on, you bastard,” he was saying. “Uncle Vern’s got a surprise for you, baby.”

He edged the focus down with one finger, brought the intruder into sharper focus. This one had come over the back fence just where he’d expected, a place where a thick spray of Florida holly from the untamed yard next door hung over into Deal’s property. It shielded that part of the yard from the street, providing the perfect cover to enter and exit without being seen, and after the last time, Driscoll had found smudge marks and scratchings at the top of the stockade fencing there.

He’d thought about driving a few punji stakes into the ground just beneath that spot, but after a bit, he’d set that idea aside. What if Isabel were to come visiting, after all? Or what if it slipped his mind he’d even done it, he found himself out there helping Deal with the grass trimming, all of a sudden he discovers he’s impaled himself?

No, he’d done the right thing. Always better to prevent the crime from happening in the first place. He nodded, though he glanced down at the rifle on the counter nearby and thought that if all else failed, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

He turned back to the binoculars, discovered he’d lost his mark. He dropped the binoculars again, scanned the backyard quickly, caught a flash of movement behind one of the oak trees there. He raised the glasses again and nodded in satisfaction. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Up to your old tricks, but it’s not going to work this time.”

He caught another flicker of movement then, and suddenly the sonofabitch was visible in full profile, swinging around the oak, ready to make his move. After that, things happened quickly.

The squirrel that he’d been watching had climbed at least six feet up by now. It dipped into a four-legged crouch, bringing itself chest to trunk against the tree, as if it were doing some kind of vertical push-up, then sprang away backward into space. It had to be a good ten feet from the trunk of the oak to the place where the bird feeder hung down, Driscoll thought, but the creature soared across the space easily, as if it had little furry wings. It hit the side of the Plexiglas feeder, slid down, and, even though the whole apparatus was swinging wildly by this time, caught the feeding ledge neatly in its claws.

“Little prick,” Driscoll muttered. He’d seen the whole process once before, just after he had hung the feeder from a cord he’d strung from his second-floor balcony railing all the way across to the utility pole at the corner of the property, all that so there’d be no convenient tree limb for the thing to shinny out on. He’d been sure he’d foiled the squirrel that time, but the fact that he’d had to move the feeder half a dozen times prior should have been a tip-off.

By now, of course, it had become a matter of professional pride. How could he bill himself as a security consultant if he couldn’t keep a goddamned squirrel from ripping off a five-pound supply of birdseed moments after he’d replenished it, and never mind if nobody knew about the problem but himself and the other tenants of the fourplex, currently Deal and his erstwhile housekeeper, Mrs. Suarez.

Of course, Deal, who made no end of fun at his expense in the matter, could always make some crack in front of the wrong person, and Mrs. Suarez was a gossip of the first order. She could start the Cuban tom-toms beating down here in Little Havana, inside of twenty-four hours word would have spread to Hialeah, where Driscoll had his most lucrative account with the string of Zaragosa Drive-ins. Hector Zaragosa might still be telling everybody about how his new security man had nailed the
pendejo chingado
who’d been robbing his stores by dragging him bodily through the drive-up window, shotgun and all, where he’d proceeded to beat the living rice and beans out of him in full view of the staff and front-area patrons, but Zaragosa was in fact the only account Driscoll had, and he didn’t need to be taking any chances. Lose the job and he could find himself puttering around some valet parking lot in a golf cart with the rest of the broken-down rent-a-cops. No thanks. No thank you very much.

Meantime, the squirrel—who was so sleek and fleshy that Driscoll had no doubt it was the same one who’d been deviling him since the day he’d brought home the bird feeder, a present for Deal’s young daughter actually, and wasn’t that a sad state of affairs, her and her mother gone away instead of being here a part of things—this rat with a furry tail had steadied itself on the feeding ledge of the feeder, which had stopped its wild rocking and settled into a rhythmic sway in the breeze coming in off the bay. The thing took a last look around, probably to be sure there was no fat ex-cop in bermudas and flip-flops creeping up on him with a machete or a flame-thrower, then bent to the business at hand, which meant scooping every last kernel out onto the ground in about fifteen seconds so that it could hop down and pick out the big black sunflower seeds that it favored.

Only this time, something was different. The squirrel made its usual pawing movements at the trough, then stopped, glancing about the yard again.

“Hah!” Driscoll barked, a smile coming over his face.

The squirrel began pawing again, but again no seeds flew. “Hah-hah-hah!” Driscoll’s bark had turned to near-maniacal laughter.

Thirty-nine ninety-five, it had cost him, down the street at Ace Hardware, or Ferreteria, as it was known in this neighborhood. A bird feeder that looked just like every other bird feeder in the world except this one had a spring-loaded feeding ledge fitted below the trough. The last time Driscoll had gone in for another fifty-pound sack of birdseed, the clerk had taken him aside and explained to him—primarily in sign language, since Driscoll’s store of Spanish was limited to
cerveza
, which meant beer, and
una otra
, which was a vaguely redundant way of asking for more—that the delicate mechanism of this new feeder would support the weight of a bird (they had hollow bones, Driscoll had learned, since discovering this new and wholly unexpected passion, a sure sign of aging and the onset of Alzheimer’s, he was certain), but not the comparatively Jupiter-like mass of a squirrel. Let some creature of bulk climb—or leap—upon the ledge, and it would sink down an inch or so, bringing along a clear Plexiglas cover to slam on top of the birdseed trough itself.

Driscoll particularly liked the notion of the Plexiglas, that the squirrel would be able to
see
the birdseed it couldn’t get, claw as he might, maybe even suffer a nervous breakdown as a result, and even though this smacked of sadism, he thought it was a pretty mild case, given the fact that he’d spent twenty-five years as a cop and, for instance, wasn’t sure that capital punishment helped a goddamned thing.

Which was why he would never have used the air rifle he’d unearthed from the trunk that held a bunch of his boyhood items he’d brought down from Lakeland a couple of weeks ago. Just a couple of weeks now since his father had finally passed away in the nursing home and the attorney had called to tell him the house would go on the market at long last.

Driscoll shook his head. Ninety-five years of age, the old man made him promise not to sell the house even though he’d been in the home a dozen years, he was going to get better and move back home any day, if not this week, then the next, boy. That’s what he’d told the nurse who found him rolled out of his bed and onto the floor, in fact: “Tell Vernon I’m going home;” couple of minutes later he’d died.

Driscoll found that his view through the binoculars had blurred for some reason, though he could tell that the squirrel was in the midst of an absolute shit fit now, clawing and scratching, and the bird feeder dancing on its line like something alive. He put down the binoculars and blinked himself back into focus and unscrewed the cap end of the BB gun and tilted the barrel forward into the sink so that the shot could roll out and down the drain. Too late he realized he’d used the wrong side of the sink, but he supposed a disposal could probably eat up a little bit of copper shot in time.

He recapped the empty rifle and set it aside, then picked up the old bird feeder that he’d unhooked an hour before, and tucked it under his arm, and picked up the new sack of feed. The screen door slammed behind him on his way out to the yard, and he noted that the sound sent the squirrel diving to the ground. The creature was across the band of intervening St. Augustine grass, up and over the fence—exact same place it’d come in, Driscoll noticed—in moments.

Driscoll walked to the spot where the feeder hung, worked the hook off the chain, then out of the eyelet on its phony shingled top. He bent down, set the new feeder aside, rehooked the old one, stood and clipped it back on the chain. He scooped seed out of the bag until the old feeder was full again, then picked up the seed sack and his thirty-nine ninety-five squirrel-proof miracle and walked back to the house.

He thought he could hear the scratching of tiny claws on the fence top behind him, but he was okay with that. Little bastard can fly, then a person just ought to let him, Driscoll thought.

He went back to the kitchen then and glanced at his television and, frozen, took a second look, remembering what real problems were made of.