T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

“Yes sir.” A slight lilt came to her voice. “Apparently word is out about your arrival.”

The pile was a half-inch thick, the engraving expensive, the titles and the places awesome. “Anything I should pay particular attention to here?”

“The one on top is a reception tonight. To greet the new British ambassador.”

Certainly better than returning to his empty hotel rooms. “Would you call and say I’ll be there?”

“Yes sir. And the White House just called. They ask if you could please stop by today at four.”

“Does this happen every day?”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. Line three, did you say?” He punched the button before she could respond. “Bryant.”

“Wynn Bryant, as I live and breathe. You probably don’t remember me. I’ll bet a boatload of tarpon you don’t have the first tiny idea who you’re talking to.”

“The only Jackson Taylor I know couldn’t have caught a tarpon with a stick of dynamite and radar. If that Jackson Taylor has landed this job, then it’s time I packed up and went home.”

“No you don’t, son. No you don’t. We need you too much up here.” A professional’s voice, polished as a putting green. “Can you spare me ten minutes?”

“You got it.”

“Have your people point you down here, but leave the dogs at home. Time for a little one-on-one.”

Party headquarters held an intensity similar to his own office, the staffers hustling about putting out their own five-alarm fires. Wynn gave his name and was ushered into the chairman’s outer office. He’d scarcely had time to seat himself before a familiar voice said, “Wynn Bryant. I swear, politics makes for some strange bedfellows, don’t she?”

Jackson Taylor approached with hand so outstretched the fingers looked splayed backward. “When I heard Grant was putting you up for the job, my first thought was, whoa, don’t know if I’ve got it in me to go another fifteen rounds against this man.” He swallowed Wynn’s hand in a beefy grip. Up close Taylor smelled of some expensive fragrance and shone with a dedicated golfer’s tan. “Then I recollected the face and the stories and I thought, shoot, Grant’s done caught himself a winner here.”

Taylor turned to include the pair of people emerging from his office, an elegant older gentleman and a young aide. “Last time I saw this man, he was walking off with fifty-eight and three-quarter million of my dollars.”

“You got off light,” Wynn said, unable to hide the remembered burn. “The judge was going to cook you.”

To the elegant man in the doorway, Taylor went on, “Little bitsy company down Orlando way, first thing I ever heard of them was how they were busy suing us in federal court. Old Wynn here claimed we’d been engaging in unfair competition.”

“Which you had.” Bribery and commercial extortion to prevent their clients from using Wynn’s newer products, not to mention encroaching on Wynn’s patents. Wynn’s company had been bought out as part of the settlement.

“Water under the dam, old son.” Jackson Taylor gripped Wynn’s arm, giving him a power massage. “You got rich in the process, am I right or am I right.”

“Didn’t get a nickel that wasn’t ours.”

The older gentleman spoke with the bored nasal twang of old New England money. “Sounds like you two have a number of old battles to discuss, Jackson.”

“No time for that. We got too many wars in the right here and right now. Don’t we, Wynn.”

“We’ll leave you to it, then.” The gentleman started forward, trailed by his aide. “Good to see you again, Jackson. Congressman.”

“Appreciate the check, John. You don’t know how much it means, counting on people like you in our hour of dire need.”

Wynn watched Taylor give the gentleman a two-handed farewell, then allowed himself to be ushered inside. To his left was the most amazing power wall Wynn had ever seen. There must have been a hundred photographs, including five different presidents. “I think some of those people are dead.”

“Don’t let on.” Taylor motioned him into a chair. “You take coffee?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” To his right, a trophy case held every party memorabilia known to man, most of it gilded. On its top, a full-winged eagle came in for a sterling silver landing. “This is some place you’ve got here.”

“Yeah, it’s all Washington.” Jackson Taylor had formerly been CEO of a Fortune Twenty company, one division of which had been the largest competitor of Wynn’s own firm. “How about this now. The two of us sitting here, talking like two old buddies ready to take on the world.”

“Never thought it would happen,” Wynn agreed. “None of it.”

Taylor leaned forward. “We are allies, aren’t we, old son?”

Wynn found more warmth in the gaze of the deer mounted on Jackson’s wall. “Like you said, Jackson, I got rich off the battle.”

“There you go then.” He leaned back, satisfied. “My secretary’s made you a list of critical issues coming up. And some related files. You want me to messenger them over?”

“Sure. Don’t know when I’m going to read them, though.”

“Yeah, this place will bury you in paper if you let it. Have your staffers give them a look-see, hit the high spots for you.” The smile resurfaced. “Talked with the boys. Wanted you to know we’re ready to bankroll your next election.”

“I’m just a caretaker, Jackson. In and out in eighteen months.”

The grin broadened, creasing the tanned skin around his dead eyes. “Give the town a few weeks. This kind of power has an infectious quality. Besides, you’re our kind of man.”

“What kind is that?”

“A fighter and a winner. I’ve heard how you handled yourself through the election, tossed in the deep end and swimming hard. I’ve seen enough to know you’re a natural for politics.”

“Is that what you wanted to meet with me about?”

“Partly. Mostly I wanted a little face-time, find out how we’re going to get on.” The eyes tried for warmth. “I think we’re gonna do just fine, don’t you?”

“Swell.” Wynn started to rise. “Thanks for having me over, Jackson.”

“Don’t mention it.” The chairman rose with him. “Tell me something, Wynn. You got any plans for the Jubilee Amendment?”

“All I know is, Grant wants to see it killed.”

“Not just Grant, old son. Not by a long shot.” He offered his hand. “That mean you’re going to vote it down?”

Wynn accepted the meaty handshake, spoke carefully. “The governor stressed to me how important it was to have this item killed.”

“Stomp down with both feet, bury this snake in the dust.” He guided Wynn toward the door, massaging his hand so hard the bones ground together. “Any plans for housecleaning in your office?”

Wynn broke the grip with a downward shove. “I just got here, Jackson. Give me a break.”

“A word to the wise. Nobody around here’d be sorry to see Carter Styles sent packing. The guy was a buddy of Hutchings from back home, and he’s been a mistake from the start. One businessman to another, Carter is a liability you don’t need. He’s offended too many people, and for no good reason.”

Wednesday

Wednesday morning Jackie sipped tea from a mock Ball jar, the kind with a handle. The clear glass revealed a wildflower yellow too beautiful to hide inside a mug. She had been up long enough for any more coffee to be offensive, but she was no closer to answers. She stepped out her front door and reveled in a wind strong enough to shove her around. Her garage apartment was surrounded by Florida oaks now turned cross and agitated. She took a deep breath and tasted a faint trace of something found only within sea-laden storms. Jackie liked to think it was a remembrance of liberation and times that still lay easy on her soul.