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Garret tried to tell himself it wasn’t about money. His home was paid for, his wife was as frugal as he was, and their only child, a daughter, had married an SOB of a trial lawyer who made gobs of money. The two of them, and their two children, lived up in L.A. with all the beautiful people. There was one area where Garret really spent money, though. He loved to collect vintage muscle cars and rare motorcycles. Beyond that he was pretty much addicted to golf, and then there was the big forty-two-foot cruiser he kept down at the marina. The boat and golf membership were for entertaining clients. Golf was a must. It was an intricate part of his business. He’d sealed more deals on the golf course than in an office by a landslide. The cars and the motorcycles, those were purely for his own gratification. He supposed they brought him back to his youth and his own father who had worked on the assembly line for General Motors. Back when they made great cars. Garret only collected American vehicles made before 1970. Everything made after that was shit. Although, Detroit had begun to turn out some decent vehicles lately. Ford had a new Mustang Shelby that was supposed to be out of this world, and Chevy was coming out with a new Camaro. If he caught another big fish this week he could buy one in every color.
That was part of the reason Garret had given into hanging around town. It was only Monday, but already the party’s big-money people were arriving for Saturday’s inauguration. He had meetings set up all week. Those running for the U.S. Senate or a state governorship were the only two he’d touch. He was done with congressional races no matter how much money they were willing to pay. He already had his eye on the next presidential campaign. No campaign manager had ever won three presidential elections.
Garret cleared the Treasury Department and was hit with another blast of wind. He turned left, put his head down, and reminded himself to avoid taking on any new clients from northern states. He continued east, passing the White House and picking up Pennsylvania Avenue at 17th Street. From there he angled northwest for two blocks to the building that housed what was left of the campaign offices. At the height of the campaign they’d leased two full floors. After their victory, ninety percent of the space was converted into transition offices for the new administration. The personnel and furniture all pretty much stayed the same. The only real difference was who paid the bills. During the race, the campaign wrote the checks. Now it was the federal government. To the victor go the spoils, or something like that.
The lobby was enclosed in glass. The floor was covered in white marble with a green border around the edges. In the middle was a black elevated desk that looked like it belonged on a sci-fi movie set. There was a black woman sitting behind the desk and beyond her were three elevator banks. Garret pushed his way through the main door and started for the elevator bank on the far right. Still chilled, he didn’t bother to take his hood off. He walked straight past the toy cop and the stupid little sign-in sheet.
“Excuse me, sir,” the security guard called from behind her desk. “I’m going to need you to sign in.”
Garret didn’t break stride. He pulled his office badge out of his left pocket and went straight for the elevator. He took it up to the fifth floor and stepped into an empty reception area. Red, white, and blue campaign signs hung from the wall like vintage artwork. The big banner right behind the reception desk was filled with signatures and a few drawings. It had been Ross’s idea to motivate the troops. They were going to present it to Alexander after he was sworn in on Saturday. Garret supposed it would be hanging in the man’s presidential library someday. Garret looked to his left and then his right. The floor was covered with dark gray carpeting and the walls were covered with light gray wallpaper. The place was bland, but more importantly, empty.
Garret pictured all the young volunteers still sleeping in the their hotel rooms. They were no longer volunteers of course. They were now on the government payroll. With the pressures of the campaign behind them, they were partying even harder than they had during the election, which one would think impossible. It was standard operating procedure on campaigns to provide volunteers with four things: coffee, food, liquor, and a place to sleep. The booze, the fact that the bulk of the volunteers were in their twenties, and the fact that they all pretty much stayed at the same hotel, created an interesting environment. If the general public had any idea how much fornicating happened on these campaigns, they’d be shocked.
To his right were some of the transition offices and to his left, four actual offices and another dozen workstations for the campaign staff. Garret’s office was in the far corner. He hesitated for a moment and then decided it would be better if he made this call from someone else’s desk. He started toward the transition offices. He passed a few rooms, all empty. Looking out across the sea of cubicles he listened for a sign that some loser who didn’t get laid was in early to impress his boss. There was nothing but the hum of the overhead lights.
Garret walked into the next office, left the light off, and shut the door. He retrieved a piece of paper from his pocket. It was from the Willard, with just a phone number with an international dialing prefix on it. No name. Garret picked up the handset and entered the number. This was the real reason he was still in town. It helped to meet some of these fat cats in person, but he could have traveled to see them or they could have visited him in San Diego. The negotiating always went well after a round of golf and a few cocktails on the boat. He would have definitely gone back to warm sunny California if it hadn’t been for this last piece of business.
After a few rings a woman answered, and Garret said, “I need to speak with Joseph.”
“May I ask who is calling?”
“No. Just get him on the phone.”
Garret looked around the office. There were no personal photos. Nothing that could tell him whose office it was. On the wall next to the door was one of those stupid motivational posters. It showed a men’s crew team rowing on a river. In large letters across the top were the words, “Team Work.” Garret shook his head. Any jackass who needed to find motivation, inspiration, or anything else in some mass-produced trite piece of junk wasn’t going to get far in this business.
Joseph Speyer finally came on the line and in a cautious voice said, “Hello?”
“We’ve got a problem,” Garret blurted out.
“Oh…hello, Stu. My assistant told me there was a rude American on the line. Which is fairly redundant, don’t you think? But nonetheless, I should have guessed it was you.”
“Very funny.”
“Why did you not come to my party? Your boss came.”
“He isn’t my boss.”
“Oh Stu…such a big chip on your shoulder. It must be difficult going through life so angry all the time.”
“Yeah,” Garret laughed gruffly. “But probably not as bad as taking it up the ass, like you do.”
“Stu,” Speyer said with mock surprise. “You are a Democrat. You are supposed to support my people.”
“You might want to drop using my name every other line, and I do support your people. Go ahead, get married. What the fuck do I care? It’s just not my bag…what you guys do between the sheets.”
“Maybe you should try it some time.”
“No thanks.” Garret looked out the window and watched a cab pass by on the street below. “Back to the point. We’ve got a major fucking problem!”
There was a sigh and then Speyer s
aid, “How could we possibly have a problem? Everything turned out exactly as you wanted.”
“Your buddy promised that he was going to button things up on his end.”
“And as far as I know he did.”
“You don’t know shit. The FBI is going to hold a press conference in a few hours.”
