Линвуд Баркли - Elevator Pitch

Chris said, “Nothing gets done in this town without cutting corners.”

“Cutting corners shouldn’t mean rewarding people who donated to your campaign.”

“Did you ever get a job because you knew somebody? A friend who put in a word for you? Do you know anyone who hasn’t, somewhere along the line, gotten a job that way? One hand washing the other?”

“It shouldn’t work that way at City Hall.”

“Suppose, right now, you became mayor. Or... I don’t know, managing editor of the Times . Who would you bring in to help you run things? People you’d worked with in the past, people whose abilities and reputations you knew? People who’d supported you along the way that you wanted to help out in return? Or total strangers, so as not to look like you were practicing favoritism? And then those total strangers turn out to be total fuckups?”

She decided to go in another direction. “What’s the deal between the mayor and Glover? Who hates who more?”

Vallins spoke slowly, as though choosing his words carefully. “The father-son dynamic can be a complicated thing.”

“Diplomatic.”

“Glover... never stops trying to impress his father. It’s not easy.”

“Because Headley’s hard to please, or the boy’s just not up to it?”

“Bit of both.”

Barbara nodded. “Why are the feds involved in the elevator crashes?”

Vallins blinked. “I think I just got whiplash there. We’re done with Glover?”

“Is it Homeland?”

“What are you talking about?”

“At least one set of relatives who lost someone in yesterday’s crash was told not to talk about it or ask questions. By a guy in a dark suit with a dark SUV who sounded like he was right out of central casting. Everything but the Ray-Bans.”

“I’ve got no idea,” Chris said. “So ask Homeland. What do you want to talk about next? It’s like you’ve got this list in your head, you’re checking things off.”

Barbara looked into his brown eyes for several seconds. “What’s your story? Who are you? Where do you come from?”

“Grew up in Queens. Moved into Manhattan in my twenties.”

“What’d your folks do?”

“Dad worked construction, died when a beam landed on him. My mom was a traditional wife until he passed and she went out to work for a couple of years.”

Her face softened. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “I was ten when my dad died.”

“College?

Chris shook his head. “No money for that. Whenever I need to know how to do something, I find someone who already knows and learn from them. Did all kinds of jobs from the age of, like, thirteen. Even before then, I had an aunt who helped me as much as she could with money, but she wasn’t rich or anything. Worked in a butcher shop, computer repair store, did some security work in my twenties. Sometimes I’d be doing them all at once, finishing up one shift at one gig and heading off to the other.” He smiled. “I’m a quick study. Show me how to do something once, I’ll know it forever.”

“So, you never played college football, then. Where’d you learn to tackle?” She smiled.

“Tackling girls just comes natural.”

“How’d you connect with Headley?”

“Worked low-level on a campaign, got discovered. Like a movie star.” He shrugged. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

Chris moved in closer. “Why are you so angry?”

She scowled. “I’m not angry.”

“Please. I’ve been reading you for years,” he said. “You are one pissed-off bitch, and I mean that as a compliment. The best writing comes from outrage, right? You use words like a weapon.”

Barbara shifted her elbow on the icepack. “It’s not anger,” she said defensively. “I just don’t like injustice and hypocrisy.”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “It goes deeper. Something happened to you. Something changed you. What was it?”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” she said.

He studied her for several seconds. “You think who you are doesn’t come through in everything you write? I may not know your shoe size, but I know who you are.”

“And who’s that?”

“Someone looking to settle a score,” he said. “Let’s have a look at that arm.”

He gently took hold of her wrist with one hand, as though she might try to escape, while he lightly touched her elbow with the other. Barbara made no effort to stop him.

“So this bald thing you got goin’ on,” she said, looking at his scalp. “You after the Dwayne Johnson look? You shave it, or did you lose your hair before your first prom?”

“I don’t have money for combs and conditioner,” he said, still holding her arm.

They didn’t say anything for several seconds.

“I don’t sleep with the enemy,” Barbara said.

“Did I ask?”

“No,” Barbara conceded. “Not yet.”

“I’m heading into kind of a busy week and don’t think I could handle anything more than heavy petting.”

She appeared to be considering it, then glanced at her elbow. “And I do my best work with this arm, and until it mends...”

She pushed back her chair and stood. She handed Chris the icepack. “Gotta go.”

“Let me walk you out.”

“I can find my way.”

He followed her as far as the door. She turned, went up slightly on her toes, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for the Oriental veggies.”

“My pleasure.”

“I know you were following me,” she said.

He smiled. “Then you won’t be surprised the next time it happens.”

On her way out, she gave Jack a ten.

They had to walk up twenty-seven floors.

They couldn’t be sure that the other elevators in the York Avenue building had been sabotaged in any way, even though there was no evidence that they’d been fitted with pinhole cameras.

Martin Fleck offered to save the mayor the hike, saying he could take video and email it to him. But Fleck had also set the hook, promising to show something significant to the mayor, and Headley wanted to see it for himself.

“I still hit the StairMaster four times a week,” the mayor said. “So lead the way.”

Brian Cartland, of Homeland, was okay with making the climb, as well, but police chief Annette Washington begged off, but not because she wasn’t up to it. She had a meeting at One Police Plaza.

In the lobby, Arla had found Glover and was going to tell him about the exchange she had just witnessed between the mayor and the boy, but she didn’t have a chance. The sound of a text notification came from inside Glover’s jacket. He looked at the phone to find a message from his father.

On second floor but on the move. Get up here.

“Gotta go,” he said. “You might as well head back to the office. The others should be back by now and you can get started.”

Arla was dismissed.

Glover found the entrance to the stairwell and was just about to exit onto the second floor hallway when the fire door opened and his father, Fleck, and Cartland entered.

“We’re going up,” Headley said.

“How far?” Glover asked.

“You’ll see,” his father said.

Fleck led the way, followed by the mayor, then Cartland, and finally, Glover. Everyone except Glover was careful to pace himself, taking the stairs at a steady rate. Glover, however, in struggling to keep up, occasionally took the steps two at a time, which only tired him out even more, causing him to stop several times to catch his breath.

Once they’d reached the twenty-ninth floor, Cartland said of the yet-to-be seen Glover, “Shall we wait for your son, Mr. Mayor?”

Headley had a hand on his chest, feeling the pounding inside. “That... really was a workout,” he said. “You think you’re in shape, but... No, let’s get started. Glover will get here when he gets here.”