Capitol Reflections (20 page)
“Of course, Daddy. I’ll be there on the next plane.”
Roberta placed the cordless phone on the table with a trembling hand.
And then she cried long and hard, spasms of grief gripping her stomach muscles until she had to run for the bathroom.
She returned to the bedroom and looked out the window of her fifth-story condo at a sky covered by an even layer of stippled gray clouds. Her mother, fifty-eight years old, had been a robust, healthy woman. She drank a few cocktails on weekends and snuck a few cigarettes every now and then, but otherwise she was in top form. She ate a diet rich in fish (omega-three fatty acids were excellent for the heart, she always said) and some research actually indicated that occasional drinkers lived longer. There was no excuse for indulging, but Roberta knew that one or two out on the patio wouldn’t cause a sudden heart attack. As for stress, her father had been a successful securities broker, and they were enjoying an early retirement in Connecticut.
Her mother should be alive.
An hour passed before Roberta Chang had the energy to pick up the cordless and punch in the number for the office of Senator Henry Broome.
“Dave?”
“Hey, Roberta. What’s up?”
Roberta paused in order to hold back a fresh wave of tears. She inhaled deeply and steeled herself.
“I won’t be in for the next three days, starting today. There’s been a death in my family. Tell the senator, please.”
“Aw gee, Roberta, that’s terrible. I mean—”
“Good-bye, Dave. Thanks.”
She couldn’t bear to listen to condolences just yet. There would be dozens over the coming weeks. Right now, she needed to cry again.
And do some serious thinking.
25
The penguins and their mates, newly emerged from rented limousines, entered the great hall designed and built by General Montgomery C. Meigs. Completed in 1887, the National Building Museum was a massive structure that had witnessed gatherings and elegant dinners for more than a hundred years, including several presidential inaugural balls. Tonight, the hall was the scene of the annual one-thousand-dollar-a-plate Senate Committee Gala. It was an occasion to fill the party’s coffers, catch up on gossip, flirt, and drink the very finest wine and liquor. Despite the party’s identification with the average working joe, it did not cater its events with beer and peanuts.
Henry Broome entered the hall with his wife, Anne Davidson Broome. Henry was in his element, for this was where policy met champagne and caviar. In attendance were congressmen, aides, lobbyists, lawyers, and most importantly, the party’s corporate and private contributors. This was the heart and soul of the party, from bleeding heart liberals to moderates. Male party members hobnobbed in tuxedos while their women, decked in sequins and diamonds, imbued the museum with as much light as the candles sitting on round dining tables. There was ample room for both dinner and dancing, with the interior space of the cavernous hall surrounded by a balcony laced with open archways. Eight enormous Corinthian columns surrounded a large round fountain at the center of the complex. The museum was large and elegant—no mere convention center to house delegates for a trade show.
Henry moved freely across the floor with his wife. Anne’s grandfather, Brian Davidson, had been an Oklahoma wildcatter who brought home the dust and grime of the prairie each evening, at least on nights when he came home at all. Establishing an oil empire was not a job for the faint of heart or people who punched time clocks at nine and five every day. It was an adventurous enterprise for those who were willing to risk everything in order to jump over social strata and claim a larger-than-average share of the American Dream.
Brian’s son Daniel—Anne’s father—had been able to assume a more traditional role in the boardroom of what became the Great Midwest Petroleum Company, which had been acquired by Exxon-Mobile in the early nineties. Daniel Davidson had been a friend and fraternity brother of Henry Bramwell Broome III while at Princeton. When Henry III realized he could further rehabilitate his family’s fortune by playing matchmaker, he was quick to invite Anne to the island. Anne frequently visited Lanai in the days before her future husband became rich and powerful, the days when Henry IV knelt in the fields working with plants he’d brought back from Princeton and planted, he said, as a lark.
With Anne at his side, Henry worked the room as if campaigning. As the dream couple glided across the pink tiles and pressed the flesh, Henry received accolades for his work on the Hill during the Karn hearings and for his performance on
Washington One-On-One
. Many of the cognoscenti regarded Henry as the uniting eminence in an otherwise fractious political party. Henry was revered for his ability to keep party eccentrics at bay—the “tree-hugging” element, as he called them, who would rather preserve a snail darter than an American job.
Washington One-On-One
. Many of the cognoscenti regarded Henry as the uniting eminence in an otherwise fractious political party. Henry was revered for his ability to keep party eccentrics at bay—the “tree-hugging” element, as he called them, who would rather preserve a snail darter than an American job.
It was Phillip Trainor, the forty-eight-year-old representative from Arizona, who managed to usher Henry into an unoccupied space under the balcony for a few private words. Many saw Trainor as the party’s future, with charisma and a political posture just slightly to the left of center. Some compared him to John Kennedy in terms of general likeability, and the party’s leadership considered him very electable.
Many assumed that both Henry and Trainor would be on a very short list for vice president in 2008 regardless who received the nomination for president. Outwardly, they were congenial, closing ranks to preserve longstanding sacred cows of the party, such as Social Security. Behind closed doors, they would have just as soon grabbed pistols and stepped off twenty paces.
“Well, well, well, Henry,” said Trainor. “I see you’re in top form tonight.”
“Form?” asked Henry. “It’s just your basic, portable Henry Broome. I’m the same everywhere. The voters expect consistency, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Most definitely. But speaking of consistency, I don’t see your lovely aide, Ms. Chang, this evening. Have you lost your taste for Chinese food?”
“I do believe my honor has been slighted, Phillip. What an unkind remark.”
“I’m just your basic, portable, and politically correct Phillip Trainor. Always there for the people … and always honest. A family man, of course.”
“I do believe someone has tattooed ‘2008’ across your ass, Phillip. Are you trying to make a point here?”
“Of course not, Henry. You do great work for the Democratic Party. It’s just that people talk, and it doesn’t take much gossip to do a lot of damage. I’d hate to see your career blighted for any reason. You’d also be a liability to the party if your personal proclivities came to light.”
Never taking his eye off Trainor, Henry brought a fluted champagne glass to his lips and smiled. “Your thoughtfulness, Phillip, is truly appreciated. Frankly, I worry about the party’s future as well. The Republicans still have enormous political capital with the ongoing terrorist threats around the world. It would be a shame, just a crying shame, to see something happen to anyone in our party who can advance its core ideologies.”
“Happen?”
“Phil, there are quite a few misfortunes that can affect a career in this town.”
“I do believe I’ve been threatened, Henry, though I’m not sure what the nature of your threat is. A warning shot across the bow perhaps?”
“I don’t fire warning shots, Phillip. They’re a waste of ammunition. Have a wonderful time tonight.”
Henry clapped Phillip Trainor on the shoulder and rejoined his wife near the fountain.
In the course of the evening, Henry shook a hundred hands, kissed a hundred cheeks, and shared a hundred embraces. If his right hand occasionally slipped a bit too far down a woman’s waist—into the small of her back, or even lower—it was only because Henry was so busy and people were in constant motion, smiling and greeting each other with the warmest of words.
Gregory Randall smiled cordially. In the months ahead, he would attend the RNC Gala as well as this gathering for the Democrats. Like many corporate CEOs, he liked to hedge his bets by contributing to both parties. Access was everything, and Randall’s political agenda was what he liked to call “fluid.”
His personal style was just as amorphous, for Randall didn’t walk across the ballroom as much as glide effortlessly through a throng of well-wishers. He could engage in a thirty-second conversation, slowing his stride slightly while the aura of his presence literally pulled his listener across the floor.
His escort? There were several, but each one drifted onto his arm as if on cue, staying with him for a brief fifteen minutes before another replaced her. They were all Asian beauties with dark silky hair and deep, mysterious eyes. Their gowns tastefully revealed contoured bodies sculpted and toned at Randall’s private gym.
As could be expected, the company of a man who considered Trump and Gates to be annoyances was much in demand. Some patrons of the party simply wanted the honor of being seen with the great Gregory Randall. Others foolishly hoped they might actually entice him into granting a favor, from forming a business partnership to hiring a new son-in-law fresh out of college. Most of these social suckerfish were unaware that at the highest levels of Randall’s companies applications were not accepted. Rather, Randall used his own team of headhunters to find the right man or woman for a particular job. These professionals kept a careful eye on people prominent in their fields or academically outstanding in graduate schools throughout the country, though the methods employed to find and screen candidates were usually surreptitious, not to mention illegal.
Randall happened upon Henry next to the fountain. The juxtaposition of the two larger-than-life men caused some stir, with people casually drifting to within a few yards of where they stood in the hopes of overhearing a snippet of conversation. It was as if two heads of state, both equally influential, were coming face-to-face for the first time at a summit meeting.
“And where is that charming aide of yours?” asked Randall.
“I’m afraid she couldn’t make it,” Henry replied. “A death in the family.”
“What a pity. I was hoping she would meet me for a drink later in a more private setting.”
“Roberta has always enjoyed the pleasure of your company, Gregory. I’m sure there will be other occasions. What’s mine is yours.”
“In more ways than one,” Randall said with an enigmatic smile, every word and gesture choreographed for the admiring crowd.
Edward Karn had been a loyal party member since the first time he pulled a voting lever. Nothing over the years had ever tempted him to change party affiliation, and given his predilection for government control and regulation in the area of food and drugs, he felt Republicans could not be counted on to rein in large pharmaceutical companies or food manufacturers. He was, therefore, a regular contributor to the party and attended the DNC Gala yearly. While Henry received congratulations for demolishing the very liberal Dr. Karn, the oncologist received his fair share of condolences from party members further to the left who thought it was high time for the FDA to start making serious noise about genetically modified foods and a host of other issues that affected the nation’s food and drug supply. These condolences came, of course, from those who either didn’t hold public office or weren’t up for reelection in the near future.
It was after midnight. Dessert had been served and sobriety had long ago fallen by the wayside. Eddie Karn sat at a table by himself, surveying the thinning crowd. It was his way to study public activity from a discreet, if somewhat lonely, vantage point, just as he had done at Cottage all those years ago. He was getting ready to depart for home, an empty yet comfortable condo, when he spied two figures emerging from a private room adjoining the main hall. Senator Henry Broome and Gregory Randall.
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