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“And the electronic brain came back with the aforementionedinterestingthing. A certain individual lives on the block that was strafed in Brooklyn. And his office is on the block it flew by in the city.”
Rhyme and Sachs eyed each other.
He asked, “And who is it?”
“This would seem to be quite the day for your civics lessons, Lincoln …”
55.
IT WAS CRAZY,what he was doing.
Breaching the barbed-wire fence of party affiliation and voting for the president’s infrastructure bill.
Doing good …
As Senator Edward Talese and Peter, his bodyguard, were walking to a media interview, he was speculating what would happen to him when he voiced the vote on the Senate floor.
Goodbye to the good committee assignments.
Dogcatcher …
He had to smile.
Thinking of his affection for Buttercup, all six pounds and three ounces of her.
They walked for another half block and Talese realized he was hungry. “We’ll stop at Ross’s deli.”
“Yessir. Good.”
At times of stress, what was better than a “mile-high” pastrami sandwich, slammed down on the counter in front of you by surly carvers, who only reluctantly would hand over an extra pickle as if you were a bank robber demanding small bills?
Talese loved the place.
They walked in silence for a time, dodging the pedestrians and traffic downtown, similar to their walk in the opposite direction not long ago. Though there was one difference. The radiant sunlight was now gone, obscured by a layer of imposing clouds.
He was looking forward to the interview, which would probably focus on his clean water legislation. And with that a burst of pure happiness within him—he now had Boyd’s support. The bill would surely pass. Other topics would come up, of course, but at this stage of his career, so many years of elected office under his belt, so many days of political battle, he was confident he could answer or evade any question aimed at him by the probing, but easily anticipated, journalists.
“No sign, sir.”
Peter would be referring to the man in the throwaway attire they’d seen earlier. Probably just another citizen on the streets of Manhattan. One of millions. A worker, a professor, a tourist.
But then it occurred to him that if anyone knew of his conversation with the president and was inclined to make sure that he didnotcast the vote for Boyd’s bill, someone with issues with a huge infrastructure spending bill, that individual might just resort to efforts a lot more serious than lobbying.
If he died, the governor would appoint a new senator to finish out his term, and that man or woman would absolutely not support the president’s plan.
Just then he happened to notice someone across the square looking his way. He was big and dark-complected. Not of mixed race, it seemed, but Anglo with olive-tinted skin.
Looking down at his phone, he strode forward along a route that would soon intercept the two men.
His suit jacket was a touch too large, and the senator wondered if the man was armed.
“Peter.”
“I made him too, sir.”
“He alone?”
“Can’t tell. On the street, yes. But somebody else in a building? Don’t know.”
