to run for.”
Hampshire said, “Scratch him. That country’s too complicated. It’ll be another Panama or Nicaragua. Is Lopez still hiding?”
“Manhunt for him’s the biggest ever in the country. I recommend we drop him.”
“On the contrary,” Hampshire said. “Back the guerrillas, back the far right, back the death squads, back the government forces, back the rival narcotics gangs. Keep the war going…and Lopez’ll keep operating cocaine on the move while they blow each other up.”
Hampshire headed for the door.
“Oh—I had a drink with Randolph Railey last night before he went back to Philadelphia,” he said. The reaction to the name was palpable. The other four men were all ears. “In a few days, Railey’s buyouts will be announced as going bankrupt. National Trust took a beating. His two investments in banks are having heart attacks. He’s been spending his own personal funds to keep up his payrolls. His back’s against the wall and I’ve got a clutch on his balls. He’s busted. So I made a deal with him last night.
“Beginning this week, a bagman will deliver ten million to Railey every week on the nose for two years. Total of a billion. For that we’ll own him, down to the last stitch in his Fruit of the Looms. Everything he’s got. Just let Orlando try to stop us then.”
The third of the lieutenants, the youngest, was the only one who said anything.
“But sir, he’s under investigation. The Senate Committee will strip Railey bare-ass in public.”
“Not when it’s packed with our own men,” Hampshire said.
“It won’t work, sir. God knows I want it to work, but it won’t work. It can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You know who’s the whip of the committee investigating Railey’s corporate structure?”
“Dan Witherspoon.”
“Exactly! And Witherspoon’s even more untouchable than Orlando. He’ll peel off layer after layer of those corporate shells until he reaches us. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve known Witherspoon for ten years.”
“You know who’s known him twenty? Randolph Railey. And unless
you
had your cock in his mouth last night, I think Railey knows him just a little bit better than you. Gentlemen,” Hampshire said, “we are adjourned.”
17
“Like to…like to talk to you.”
Paul held out the cellophane-wrapped rose.
Michelle stared. It was the taxi driver. The one who’d been delivering the flowers. The one who’d saved her baby’s life. She stepped aside and let him in.
He entered somewhat nervously, she thought. She shut the door, carefully pulled off the cellophane, and still holding the rose, she opened the small blue envelope stapled to the cellophane, took out the blue card and read the poem.
Like the sponge of a bulrush,
tipped with a dying flower
,
Ivory Face brought life to cattail brown,
Ivory Face didn’t let it down.
“It’s beautiful…don’t understand it, but it’s…” She saw no reaction in his face and quickly added, “Lots of poems I like I don’t understand.” Still no reaction. “Can’t you tell me anything about the person who wrote it?”
“…I did.”
“You?”
He nodded.
The silence that followed didn’t seem to make him uneasy at all, even when it dragged on. Michelle wasn’t exactly sure how she felt, but uneasy was definitely part of it. Was he telling the truth? If he did write the poems…if he was her anonymous admirer… But who
was
he? How did he even know her, to start coming by in the first place? “Did you know my husband? Frankie?”
He shook his head.
He couldn’t be the one who wrote it. This man? He couldn’t be.
“What’s a bulrush?” Michelle tested him.
“Sponge.”
“Sponge?”
He nodded.
“What type of sponge?”
“Swamp.”
She looked back down at the card.
“Ivory Face?”
“You.”
She turned away, set the card down. Felt rather than saw him still standing there beside her. “Would you like some coffee?” she said quietly.
When she didn’t
Hampshire said, “Scratch him. That country’s too complicated. It’ll be another Panama or Nicaragua. Is Lopez still hiding?”
“Manhunt for him’s the biggest ever in the country. I recommend we drop him.”
“On the contrary,” Hampshire said. “Back the guerrillas, back the far right, back the death squads, back the government forces, back the rival narcotics gangs. Keep the war going…and Lopez’ll keep operating cocaine on the move while they blow each other up.”
Hampshire headed for the door.
“Oh—I had a drink with Randolph Railey last night before he went back to Philadelphia,” he said. The reaction to the name was palpable. The other four men were all ears. “In a few days, Railey’s buyouts will be announced as going bankrupt. National Trust took a beating. His two investments in banks are having heart attacks. He’s been spending his own personal funds to keep up his payrolls. His back’s against the wall and I’ve got a clutch on his balls. He’s busted. So I made a deal with him last night.
“Beginning this week, a bagman will deliver ten million to Railey every week on the nose for two years. Total of a billion. For that we’ll own him, down to the last stitch in his Fruit of the Looms. Everything he’s got. Just let Orlando try to stop us then.”
The third of the lieutenants, the youngest, was the only one who said anything.
“But sir, he’s under investigation. The Senate Committee will strip Railey bare-ass in public.”
“Not when it’s packed with our own men,” Hampshire said.
“It won’t work, sir. God knows I want it to work, but it won’t work. It can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You know who’s the whip of the committee investigating Railey’s corporate structure?”
“Dan Witherspoon.”
“Exactly! And Witherspoon’s even more untouchable than Orlando. He’ll peel off layer after layer of those corporate shells until he reaches us. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve known Witherspoon for ten years.”
“You know who’s known him twenty? Randolph Railey. And unless
you
had your cock in his mouth last night, I think Railey knows him just a little bit better than you. Gentlemen,” Hampshire said, “we are adjourned.”
17
“Like to…like to talk to you.”
Paul held out the cellophane-wrapped rose.
Michelle stared. It was the taxi driver. The one who’d been delivering the flowers. The one who’d saved her baby’s life. She stepped aside and let him in.
He entered somewhat nervously, she thought. She shut the door, carefully pulled off the cellophane, and still holding the rose, she opened the small blue envelope stapled to the cellophane, took out the blue card and read the poem.
Like the sponge of a bulrush,
tipped with a dying flower
,
Ivory Face brought life to cattail brown,
Ivory Face didn’t let it down.
“It’s beautiful…don’t understand it, but it’s…” She saw no reaction in his face and quickly added, “Lots of poems I like I don’t understand.” Still no reaction. “Can’t you tell me anything about the person who wrote it?”
“…I did.”
“You?”
He nodded.
The silence that followed didn’t seem to make him uneasy at all, even when it dragged on. Michelle wasn’t exactly sure how she felt, but uneasy was definitely part of it. Was he telling the truth? If he did write the poems…if he was her anonymous admirer… But who
was
he? How did he even know her, to start coming by in the first place? “Did you know my husband? Frankie?”
He shook his head.
He couldn’t be the one who wrote it. This man? He couldn’t be.
“What’s a bulrush?” Michelle tested him.
“Sponge.”
“Sponge?”
He nodded.
“What type of sponge?”
“Swamp.”
She looked back down at the card.
“Ivory Face?”
“You.”
She turned away, set the card down. Felt rather than saw him still standing there beside her. “Would you like some coffee?” she said quietly.
When she didn’t
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