Steven Gore - Power Blind

Landon directed Whithers to a seat in front of his desk, but kept pacing as he read the thirty-name roster: current deputies in the Justice Department, others who’d gone back to their national law firms, members of the White House staff, attorneys for the Republican National Committee, a general counsel to an oil company, two staffers from conservative think tanks.

“This is good,” Landon said, coming to a stop behind his desk, “but I think we need a broader focus. Having smooth answers to hard questions won’t be enough.”

Whithers pointed at the list. “It seems pretty comprehensive to me.”

Landon dropped into his chair, then drummed his pen on the edge of his desk.

“Let me ask you something,” Landon said. “What are the first polls going to say when the president announces the names?”

Whithers shrugged.

“I’ll tell you. The president gets the benefit of the doubt. Fifty-five percent in favor. Thirty against. And fifteen undecided”-Landon smiled-“because they don’t have a clue what the Supreme Court really does.”

“Sounds about right.”

“But after the Democrats scare the hell out of the public and the media beats up the nominees a little?”

“It’ll probably flop the other way.” It was Whithers’s turn to smile. “With fewer undecided because more people will realize how these nine little dictators control their lives.”

Landon glanced at a photo on his bookshelf showing him standing before a group of reporters, digital recorders and microphones extended toward him.

“Liberals make fun of FOX News,” Landon said, “but there isn’t one of their regular viewers who can’t name at least five members of the Court and six members of the Cabinet and who don’t know what an oil depletion allowance is-and none of them will be among the undecided.”

He looked back at Whithers.

“There’s no question the Democrats will want to filibuster the nominations,” Landon said. “Starsky and Hutch will have to use the hearings to reach out to the public through the television screen like they were George Clooney and Brad Pitt, and flip the numbers back by the time they reach the full Senate. Make a filibuster seem like treason.”

“But these guys are judges,” Whithers said, “not actors.”

Landon smiled again. “They will be when I’m done with them.”

L andon picked up his telephone as the door closed behind Whithers.

“Brandon?… We need to go Hollywood with Starsky and Hutch

… I don’t know how much altogether… Let’s start with fifty thousand for acting coaches and a million for media to go after the opposition and see how far that gets us.”

"He’s here,” the late morning caller whispered. “He’s here.”

“Who’s he?” Gage asked, leaning forward in his desk chair.

“Mr. Comb-Over. At the table by the front window.”

“Hold on.”

Gage pressed the conference call button on his landline, then punched in a cell phone number.

“Viz, start driving to the thirty-two hundred block of Geary Street.”

“Toby?” Gage asked.

“Still here.”

“I’ve got a guy named Viz on the line. Was Comb-Over walking or driving?”

“Driving,” Toby said. “At least there’s a brown Corona that looks like his parked across the street.”

“What’s he wearing?”

“Dark green sweater, baggy gray pants. A San Francisco Giants cap

… I mean the cap is on the table.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s waiting for me to bring over his coffee.”

“Viz, how far away are you?”

“Fifteen, twenty blocks… Asshole.” Gage heard tires skidding. “Not you, boss, some guy cut me off.”

Viz’s gunning motor filled the silence.

“I got around him.”

“Toby,” Gage said, “keep Comb-Over there.”

“I’ll make a show of brewing up a new pot.”

“Viz. First get the license plate of the Corona, then set up to follow him.”

“Shit,” Toby said. “I gotta go. He just got up and is heading my way.”

G age spotted Viz’s blue-green Yukon at Geary near Thirty-third Avenue as he pulled up to the corner of Thirty-second. Viz was parked facing west, four cars ahead of the Corona, at a meter in front of a Russian bakery. Gage slipped into a space next to a Chinese produce market.

“What’s cooking?” Gage asked Viz over his cell.

“Nothing. He’s just drinking his coffee. Lots of it.” Viz laughed. “Like it’ll grow hair on his head.”

“You get the plate?”

“I called it in to Alex Z. It’s registered to a John, normal spelling, Porzolkiewski… Por-zol-kiew-ski. Normal spelling.”

“You win the spelling bee for today. Where’s he live?”

“The car’s registered to a P.O. box downtown. But Alex Z did some database searches and found a street address, a house on Seventeenth Ave about a mile south of Golden Gate Park.”

Gage saw Viz lean toward his window and peer into the side-view mirror.

“Boss. Two guys in a blue Ford Explorer came charging up and pulled in behind you, three cars back. Neither got out.”

“What do they look like?”

“Too much reflection on their windshield, but the guy drives hard like a cop. What do you want to do?”

“Sit tight until I find out whether they’re tailing me or are here on something else.”

“What should I do about Comb-Over?”

“If they’re following me, let him go. I don’t want them making a connection between him and us.”

Gage put a couple of quarters into the meter, then strolled along the storefronts past Viz’s truck. He took a right onto Thirty-third, walking by pastel stucco bungalows and two-story apartment buildings. When he neared the end of the block, he climbed the steps onto the recessed landing of a duplex, then called Viz.

“The passenger walked up to Thirty-third and peeked around,” Viz said. “He crossed the street to get a view down the block, probably trying to see where you stopped, then went into that kosher market.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Late thirties, blond hair, six feet, plus or minus, Levi’s, oversized plaid workshirt.”

“Cop or ex-cop?”

“My guess he’s ex. He’s wearing the 1990s undercover uniform.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“Pretending to take an interest in the after-Rosh Hashanah sale items in the window as he keeps an eye on the street.” Viz chuckled. “I never would have guessed. He seems like a mayonnaise and white bread kind of guy.”

“I’ve been up here long enough,” Gage said, then walked back down the steps. “I’m heading your way. Hit me when he comes out of the market.”

Gage’s cell phone rang as he walked on Geary back toward his car.

“He’s thirty yards behind you,” Viz said, prompting Gage to duck into a liquor store to let the man pass. After buying a soda to make the stop seem authentic, rather than countersurveillance, he continued walking to his car.

“I’ll drive back toward the financial district,” Gage said, pulling into the street, “but I’ll loop around and lead them by you first.”

The Explorer remained five car lengths behind him as he passed by Viz and circled the block.

“I’m almost back to Geary,” Gage told Viz. “Get ready. We’ll be coming by you in about thirty seconds.”

Viz turned his ignition, then asked, “Why are they following you?”

“My guess? It’s either Charlie or an antitrust case I’m working on.”

Gage paused in the intersection to let traffic pass, then turned onto Geary, driving east slow enough for the Explorer to catch up. He glanced over at Viz’s Yukon. Viz was staring down toward his floorboard where he had anchored a six-inch monitor fed by a camera hidden in his oversized side mirror. He controlled it by a joystick attached to his steering column.