T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

Thursday

The head of the Senate Appropriations Committee was not large, yet he rolled from side to side as though his limited physical bulk were weighted with political muscle. Trailing behind was his chief of staff, which in itself was an indication of the importance the senator gave this meeting. He dropped into his chair and motioned his visitors toward the seats opposite him. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

“Appreciate the time, John.” The lawyer at Valerie’s side was a desiccated veteran of Washington power brokering. Polk Hindlestiff had sat on three presidential cabinets, lawyered two heads of state through courtroom crises, and advised more high-level campaigns than even he could recall. “I mean that.”

“The request coming from your office is the only reason we’re here at all.” Staring at Valerie as he said it. Letting her know just how far down the totem pole she sat.

To punctuate the ticking clock, his secretary poked her head through the door and said, “You are expected at Treasury in a half hour, Senator.”

“Don’t I just know it.” Ire coated his features like a layer of putty. “All right. Let’s hear what’s so all-fired important I’ve had to rearrange my afternoon.”

Hindlestiff settled back, his job done for the moment. Having him make this and four other appointments had cost Valerie sixty-five thousand dollars. But it was the only way to meet privately with the heads of both parties and the top committee chairmen, all in one day. Not to mention the fact that merely by hiring such a heavy hitter, Valerie Lawry was declaring this a major league issue.

“Thank you very much for seeing us, Senator. The matter I bring before you today is one of vital importance.”

“It always is.”

“Hear her out, John,” the lawyer murmured.

“Last night the House forwarded the omnibus appropriations bill to the Conference Committee.”

“It’s about time.”

“Yes, sir. But the problem is, they also inserted a last-minute rider that will add immensely to the corporate tax burden and undermine our national sovereignty.”

“Remarkable feat to manage, shooting those two birds with one stone.” But the senator was listening now. He was a conservative of the old school and nothing pushed his buttons harder than taxation and threats to America’s regal status. As Valerie well knew.

She outlined the basics of the Hutchings Amendment, then concluded, “What makes this amendment so alarming is that parallel measures are being put forward by other governments. We need to act swiftly if we are going to keep these maniacs from giving control of our financial institutions to other nations. This is a killer issue, Senator. If this gets out of committee it is going to cost your party seats in the next election.”

It was the first conference Valerie had ever chaired within her company’s boardroom. Just standing and surveying the people awaiting her green light was a rush that left her almost panting. “I assume everyone knows each other.”

There were a few wary nods across the table. The two assembled crews were more accustomed to battling than cooperating. Conservatives to her left, liberals to her right. Four administrations were represented, five presidential races fought with these people in key positions. Her own crew clustered at the table’s far end, agog at the power and history on display. “As you know, one of the problems we face is that support for the amendment comes from both sides of the aisle. Unfortunately, several players have also threatened to turn renegade if their parties take a contrary stand. So on this particular occasion we are expecting you ladies and gentlemen to bury the hatchet and work together.”

The first two chairs, one to either side, were occupied by people known in Valerie’s circle as policy wonks. Retired lawmakers, now prestigious talking heads. To them she said, “You will use every connection you have to address this issue in public. Explain in the soberest possible terms how this proposal robs America of its heritage.”

“A threatening precedent,” the liberal intoned.

“Precedent, schmecedent,” the conservative barked. “They’re aiming to nuke our banking industry.”

“Enough,” Valerie said. The next two opposing chairs were taken by outside campaign experts. These were her gutter fighters, authorities on designing negative campaigns. “You gentlemen don’t have much time. We need to see this amendment become a threat to Middle America.”

“Down and dirty,” the liberal agreed. “Show how this will kill people in Colorado Springs.”

The conservative bristled. The Colorado flatlands were among his most prized territories. “We can have something ready for release by tomorrow. Maybe a photo of an ox goring people through the streets of Boston.”

“Just so long as it’s in time for the six o’clock news.” Valerie nodded to the next pair, think-tank personalities with national followings from both sides of the arena. “We need editorials and air time explaining why this will be bad for the American economy, how it’s going to cost jobs. We need to make this something more than just an arcane argument about Wall Street. This has got to be turned into something that hits farmers. Makes things harder for small businesses. Threatens workers’ abilities to obtain full benefits.”

“I got you.” The conservative was male and white and pompous. “Five percent of the population understands what the currency market is about, one percent cares. But everybody understands tax increases. Everybody understands interest rate hikes.”

The liberal was black and female and a porcupine who found offense in a sneeze. “Thank you oh so much for such a clear explanation of the painfully obvious.”

“All of you have just one task here,” Valerie continued. “Make it impossible for them to slip this one by. Go out there and frighten people to death.”

Thursday

Kay Trilling opened the Hutchings’ apartment door that night with the news, “It’s started. AIM’s chief hired gun has spent the afternoon declaring our amendment a free-fire zone. I shudder to think what kind of chits they called in to arrange meetings with the heads of both parties, the appropriations chiefs of both houses, and the senior party whips, all in one afternoon.”

Wynn followed her inside, nodded to Carter, and returned what he assumed was a wave from Graham parked by the fireplace. Then Esther called to him from the adjoining room. When he walked over, she handed him the phone and said, “Talk some sense to her, please.”

Wynn took a good look at Esther, but saw nothing save weary tension. No anger, no bitter resentment of his presence. He lifted the phone and said, “Who is this?”

“Who do you think?” Jackie was armed for serious battle. “Look, I know this isn’t much to somebody living in a Merritt Island mansion. But this place is all I have. Do you hear what I’m saying? I’m not letting a worm like Hayek push me out of my own house!”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Wynn,” Esther complained.

“You don’t?”

“No. And I don’t have a mansion.”

“This is not what you need to be telling her,” Esther complained.

“If you feel like you’ve got to stay, then do it. Just be careful, okay?”

“This is getting to you too, isn’t it.”

“In a very big way.”

Esther huffed, “You’re as bad as Graham.”

“I take that,” Wynn said, “as the greatest compliment I’ve heard in a very long while.”

Jackie said, “Are you all right?”

“As long as I’m moving. When I slow down I sort of worry about choking on the dust. You?”