Linwood Barclay - Far From True

“Houses don’t bring in a daily revenue stream,” Mancini said. “You build a house, you sell it, you make your profit, and you move on. But a metal recycling plant, that’s money coming in twenty-four/seven, years into the future. Jobs, too.”

“Jobs, sure. But like you said, there’s money to be made. Once I’m in, I can use my connections. I know people — I can grease palms — I can get this thing approved. I’m not promising there won’t be a few bumps along the way, but it’ll happen.”

The drinks arrived.

“That’s terrific, sweetheart,” Finley said to Kimmy.

“You ready to order lunch?” she asked.

“Steak frites, rare,” Finley said. “Frank?”

“I haven’t even looked at the menu.”

“Just get the steak.”

“I don’t know if I feel like steak.”

“What are you, a homo?” Finley grinned, glanced at Kimmy. “Just joking. I’m totally okay with homos.”

“Fine, the steak,” Mancini said. “Well-done.”

Kimmy slipped away.

“I wonder if she’s seeing anybody,” Finley said.

“You ever think you may have overestimated your attractiveness?” the builder asked.

“Women are drawn to power.”

Mancini laughed. “You used to be the mayor of Promise Falls, not the goddamn secretary of defense.”

“Still, people know me. They know who I am.”

“They know what you are,” Mancini said. “That’s what worries me about whether you can actually get yourself elected again.”

“I feel pretty good about it,” he said. “All I have to do is convince everyone I’m the town’s savior.”

“What, like Jesus?”

“But with Florsheims instead of sandals,” Finley said. He leaned in closer. “This town owes me, Frank. This town owes me another chance. I got fucked over here. These people let me down, and I’m going to give them a chance to make it up to me. I was the victim of a smear campaign, plain and simple.”

“Did the left-wing media force that hooker to blow you?”

Finley did a backhand flip, waving away Mancini’s concern. “People act like they care about that stuff — they love to read about it — but in their hearts they really don’t give a shit. They know I’m one of them. I’m just a regular guy. I get their concerns. I’m not some elitist asshole talking down to them.”

“You’re rich, Randy. You got a thriving water-bottling business. You’re one of the one percent.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t come across that way, and that’s what matters. It’s all about perception.”

Finley told Mancini about how he’d brought someone on to help manage his image, plan a campaign. The guy, Finley said, wasn’t exactly James Carville, but for Promise Falls, he wasn’t bad. Former newspaper guy, worked for the Standard before they pulled the plug on it. Which led to a ten-minute discussion of how it was a lot easier to do what you wanted to do when there was no local paper breathing down your neck.

“No headlines about kickbacks,” Mancini said.

Finley frowned. “That’s a very cynical point of view, Frank. What I am is a facilitator. I make things happen. You want to set up a business that will not only profit you, but serve your community. I can help facilitate that. It’s not unreasonable that I should expect some compensation for my efforts. Be they material or political. It’s the system working the way it was designed to work.”

Kimmy returned with their two orders of steak frites.

Mancini said, “Could I get another scotch, and a glass of water?”

“Tap, or bottled?”

Before he could answer, Finley said, “I wouldn’t go with tap. Never, ever tap. Unless you’re brushing your teeth. Sweetheart, you’ve got Finley Springs, right?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I think we have San Pellegrino in sparkling, and probably Evian in flat.”

Finley cocked his head. “Are you sure about that?”

“Uh, I think so.”

“Maybe you better go check.” Finley’s voice had turned subtly menacing.

Kimmy withdrew.

“You’re making a scene,” Mancini said. “So what if they don’t carry your water? There’s lots of brands of bottled water.”

“I’m thinking, once I get in, this place definitely is getting a visit from the health inspector. Fire, too.”

“This is what I mean,” Mancini said. “You can’t let yourself get tripped up by the small shit.”

“Look, she’s talking to the manager,” Finley said.

Seconds later, a balding, portly man in a black suit approached the table. “Mr. Finley, how nice to see you today.”

“Carmine. How are you?”

“Excellent. You’ll have to excuse Kimmy. She’s new, and she was unaware that she was looking after one of our most special customers. She’s getting some Finley Springs Water for your friend here as we speak.”

“Oh, Carmine, I don’t care, one way or the other. I’m not about to tell you how to run your restaurant.”

Carmine smiled. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to see me directly.”

Once he was gone, Finley said, “What do you want to bet someone’s running to 7-Eleven right now?”

“What’s this going to cost me?” Mancini said.

“We’ve already sorted out my compensation on this, Frank.”

“I’m talking incidentals. The greasing of palms.”

Finley shrugged. “Hard to say. Some people come cheaper than others. Some, if you’ve got the goods on them, it doesn’t cost you a dime. Start-up costs are always unpredictable.”

Mancini cut a piece off the end of his steak and put it into his mouth. “Did you ever do anything as a politician, back when you were mayor, that you did strictly for the people, because you thought it was the right thing to do?”

“The welfare of my constituents was and is always my first consideration, Frank, my guiding principle, as it were.”

“I like how you did that without even smiling.”

“It’s a gift,” Finley said.

At the next table, which was separated from Finley and Mancini by a crosshatched wood divider, David Harwood had ordered only a house salad. Steak was beyond his budget.

He knew the spot Randall Finley always asked for at the Clover, and had phoned ahead in a bid for a nearby table. The one they initially showed him to was across the aisle, in full view of where Finley and Mancini would be sitting. So David asked for the table on the other side of the divider.

He didn’t hear everything the two men said, but he heard enough. He wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t even sure he was horrified. You signed on to work with someone like Finley, well, what did you expect?

The question was whether he could stomach it.

Carmine placed the leather folder with the check inside at his elbow.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

David flipped it open, glanced at the total, felt his heart skip a beat. If this was what a salad cost, what would the steak frites have run him?

He wanted to invite Sam Worthington to dinner, but maybe not at a place as expensive as this.

If she’d even answer his call.

Before stumbling upon the secret room, I’d been about ready to give up thinking I could help Lucy Brighton find out who’d been in her father’s house. Up to then, I had no idea why anyone would have broken in, or what they might have been looking for.

Now I had a pretty good idea what someone wanted.

Someone knew about that hidden room, knew what was in it. Namely, those discs, which, I was guessing, were homemade porno. It struck me that someone who’d go to all that trouble to get them was probably on them. And if so, knew Adam and Miriam Chalmers.

Knew them pretty well.