Stephen Frey by Trust Fund Page B

“I needed you. You were always there for me when I was growing up. When Jimmy Lee would yell at me for something Teddy or Paul had done, you’d be there. It was a purely selfish act on my part.” Michael Mendoza had been more of an older brother to Bo than Teddy or Paul ever had. He’d been someone Bo could confide in about personal matters during his youth when the others didn’t care. “Tell me why you sent people all the way up to Libby to find me.”
    â€œI already explained. I wanted to see you, and I was worried when I couldn’t get in touch with you.”
    Bo took a slow sip of scotch. The first two shots had produced the desired effect and now there was no need to rush. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I think there’s more to it than that. You’re as close a friend as I have in the world, and I know you too well. There’s another agenda here. Tell me,” Bo prodded. “Come on, Senator.”
    Mendoza brought his hands together in front of his face and bowed his head, as if he were about to pray. Now fifty-five, Mendoza was tall, trim, and honey-skinned, with perfect silver hair, a prominent nose, and a calm, confident demeanor. He was in his twentieth year as a United States senator from Connecticut and he owed everything to Jimmy Lee and Ida Hancock. As one of their many philanthropic projects, they had rescued Mendoza from a juvenile home in Brooklyn when he was twelve, placed him in private school, and funded his upbringing. Now he walked the halls of the Senate as an influential member of several powerful committees. He had attended Harvard and Georgetown along the way—all paid for by the Hancocks—and become an extremely influential man. An unlikely outcome for the child of a woman who had washed up on a Florida beach after a harrowing trip from Cuba in a leaky wooden boat, penniless and unable to speak a word of English already carrying the unborn baby in her womb. Mendoza had spent the summers of his high school and college years at the estate with the Hancocks. Despite their age difference, he and Bo had developed a strong bond. Jimmy Lee had guided Mendoza’s first campaign and his rise to prominence within the Senate. For a time Mendoza’s name had been bandied about as a possible presidential candidate, but that dream had never become reality and now his time had passed.
    â€œMichael.”
    â€œOkay.” Mendoza smiled sheepishly. “You always have been able to read me like an open book.”
    â€œMy father sent you, didn’t he?”
    â€œWe were talking about Paul’s campaign as I was waiting to take off in D.C., and I told him I was headed out to Wyoming for the summit,” Mendoza explained. “He thought it would be a good idea for me to see you.”
    â€œI knew it,” Bo said triumphantly.
    â€œHe’s concerned about you,” Mendoza added quickly.
    â€œIf he’s so damned concerned, why didn’t he come himself and what am I still doing here?”
    Mendoza hesitated. “Paul’s campaign is progressing well and Jimmy Lee—”
    â€œPaul, always Paul,” Bo said disgustedly. He threw back the rest of the scotch. “I’m going home, Michael. I can’t stay out here any longer. It’ll kill me. I’ve got to get back to the East.”
    Mendoza held up his hands. “That’s not a good idea, Bo,” he warned. “You know they don’t want you coming back with the convention getting close.”
    â€œI don’t give a damn what they want.”
    â€œLet Paul sew up the nomination first,” Mendoza urged.
    â€œThen what?” Bo asked bitterly. “You think they’ll let me come back then? Not a chance. They’ll tell me I have to stay out here until the election is over. When that’s over, they’ll think up another reason for me to stay. I’ve been permanently edited out of the family script, my