Steven Gore - Power Blind

“No problem, boss.”

Gage heard Alex Z’s keystrokes in the background.

“Are you sure it’s called Pegasus?” Alex Z asked.

“Socorro showed me a Pegasus Limited insurance policy.”

“Sorry. He didn’t pay anything to a company called Pegasus Limited. Ever.”

“How about search just on the name Pegasus?”

A few clicks later, Alex Z had the answer.

“Nada.”

Boots Marnin was sick of sitting in his Mariner Hotel room in downtown San Francisco. The room service food was lousy. The view toward the cubicled offices in the building across the street was depressing. He’d seen every porn movie on the adult channel a half-dozen times. The highlight of his day was when the Filipina maid came to clean. She was a little chubby, but beggars can’t be choosers, and for forty bucks he didn’t figure he could expect much.

Walking along Market Street turned his stomach. Dykes, wimpy pale-faced computer nerds, paunchy lawyers, and loonies peeing in the doorways or passed out on bus benches.

The only good news was he got paid for doing nothing, now that he didn’t have to try to follow Gage around anymore. He could’ve told his keepers it was useless, but they had to figure it out on their own, like everything else.

He’d never wanted to get back to Houston so much in his life. He salivated at the thought of sitting in one of those woodsy surf-and-turf restaurants along Galveston Bay, drinking beer and eating oysters, then cruising the bars for a little overnight entertainment.

But that was going to have to wait.

Boots checked the bedside clock. In six hours, he’d posse up with his buddy and drive south through the Central Valley to LA. And about time, too. He didn’t believe for a minute the NSA guys down at Evergreen would be able to break into Charlie Palmer’s files. He knew all along it would have to be done another way.

Dinosaur, my ass.

B oots pulled down the ski mask just before the student opened the door to her West Hollywood apartment. Her eyes glazed with sleep. Black hair ruffled and twisted. Hands clasping her robe lapels together over her chest. He clamped his hands over her mouth and against the back of her head before she could scream. He kicked the door closed after his partner raced past him to search the apartment. One bedroom. No roommates.

Boots jammed her down into a kitchen chair as his partner put a gun to her temple. Boots leaned in toward her, her black hair framing a vaguely Hispanic face.

“Don’t scream if you want to be alive when we leave.”

She nodded against the pressure of his grip.

He started to remove his hands, then clamped them tight again.

“You understand?”

She nodded again.

He still didn’t remove his hands.

“I’m just gonna ask you some questions. Silly questions. They have to do with your dear departed dad. And you’re going answer them.”

She nodded again.

“You don’t need to know why. Don’t even think about why. Just answer them.”

Boots loosened his grip. She took in a breath, eyes locked on the man with the gun.

“You can put it away,” Boots told his partner. “We have an understanding.”

Boots sat down while the other man leaned against the refrigerator. Boots dialed his cell phone, put it on speaker, and set it on the table. A male voice answered on the second ring:

“Go ahead.”

“First,” Boots said, “What is your dog’s name?”

“My… my…”

The young woman choked on the words.

“Relax. I told you they were silly questions. Just answer them and we’ll get out of here.”

“You’re not going to hurt-”

“Nobody’s getting hurt, you or your dog, as long as you answer the questions.”

“Buddy. His name is Buddy.”

The sound of typing emerged from the cell phone speaker, then the male voice said, “Not it.”

“What was your previous dog’s name?”

“Pancho.”

More typing. The voice again. “Not it.”

“Where are your mother’s parents from?”

“Guadalajara.”

More typing.

“Nope.”

“Your father’s parents?”

“Pittsburgh.”

More typing.

“That’s not it.”

“And before that…”

A n hour later Boots was still asking questions, running out of ideas. He glanced into the living room. A photo on the bookshelf. The scene was familiar. Emerald Bay.

“Your folks own a cabin at Lake Tahoe?”

“Yes.”

More typing, and then the voice said:

“It’s not Tahoe.”

“What’s the address?”

“I think it’s 10110 Martis Valley Road in Truckee.”

Typing in short bursts.

“Nope. Not on any of them.”

“No, wait. It’s 11010 Martis Valley Road.”

More typing: “We got it. We’re in.”

Boots disconnected the phone and put it in his pocket. His partner walked to the door. Boots stayed seated.

“Let me tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going back to bed and pretend this was just a dream. You’re not going to tell anyone-ever. You say one damn word and we’ll feed your mother and brother to the sharks. Got it?”

The young woman nodded, mouth open.

“The only reason you’re still alive-the only reason-is because it’s less of a risk than killing you.”

Boots smiled when he noticed a micro economics text on the coffee table.

“Let’s just call it a business decision.”

His smile died as he pointed his trigger finger at her forehead.

“Don’t make me wish I’d added up the numbers a different way.”

Of all the TIMCO corporate jets, Senator Landon Meyer most enjoyed the Gulfstream 550. It wasn’t the largest. It wasn’t the newest. He just liked the layout. The couches for taking a nap. The facing leather seats for reading or conversing. The hardwood mahogany tables, a bathroom better appointed than the one in his Senate office, and a galley better stocked than his liquor cabinet at home.

Staring out the window as the plane flew west from Washington, D.C., toward Silicon Valley, Landon didn’t feel at all guilty about the corporate largesse. He reimbursed TIMCO for the expense, or at least what the Federal Election Commission would accept as the expense. More importantly, he didn’t conspire with TIMCO or any other contributor to draft and enact favorable legislation, they simply shared a commonality of worldview that he molded into federal law.

Landon let his gaze travel around the Western-themed cabin interior with photos of the Texas oil fields in the 1920s, horse-drawn wagons, cattle in the distance. Suede fringed throw pillows. Bucking bronco painted dinner plates.

Did he like the TIMCO officers? No, not really. He never liked oilmen and their good-old-boy pretense. But that wasn’t a consideration. That he didn’t entirely trust TIMCO weighed on him, and for good cause, like the refinery explosion during his first senatorial campaign.

As far as unions and environmental activists were concerned, there was no such thing as an accident. There were only conspiracies.

Even now, Landon still felt sadness, even grief, for the victims and their families-and outrage. Not because of their desire for compensation-how else can a capitalist society measure loss-but because of the class action lawyers and the greedy clients they’d recruited from the neighborhoods surrounding the Richmond refinery. He still couldn’t see what the big deal was about residents sheltering in place for a few hours while the smoke cleared. Small sacrifice for the money TIMCO brought into their community. Despite that, they demanded millions of dollars, two thousand dollars a household.

Landon glanced down at the Government Accounting Office analysis of a revision of the federal workers’ compensation law to set limits on payouts. It reminded him that the only useful thing that came out of the tragedy was an example and an argument for tort reform.