I wondered why. I’d spent a lot of time with her during our torrid affair a couple years ago, and she had never once mentioned a single political issue. I didn’t know her party affiliation or if she was even registered to vote. If I had been forced to guess, I would have labeled her a nonpolitical independent who voted her conscience. She certainly didn’t need to vote her wallet.
The idea that she supported Zooey because she had met her was ludicrous. With her money Dorsey got invited everywhere in Washington. She had met everybody worth meeting at one time or another. Rubbing shoulders with the smart and powerful hadn’t changed her much, from what I could see.
I was listening to Dell Royston and wondering how much of anything we were going to get out of all this political wind when my cell phone rang. I checked the number before I answered it. Sarah Houston.
“Yo.”
“I heard you spent a hot night with Dorsey O’Shea.”
Ol’ Willie. Can he keep his mouth shut or what? “We need to know what she knows,” I said.
“So you were pumping her. Jerk!” The connection broke.
What was she hot about? It’s not like she and I had something going.
Willie Varner arrived around noon. He greeted me with a giggle and “Hoo boy, what a night you had!”
“Being a gentleman on a mission, of course you listened all evening to Royston’s suite.”
“When Dorsey wasn’t moanin’ and tellin’ you what a stud you are, yeah, I channel surfed to Royston’s station. Big political stuff goin’ on there, lots of drinkin’, no women.”
“Great. And you called Sarah to give her the hot news about where I was spending the night.”
“Actually she called me. Said you had turned off your phone. Wanted to know where you were. She’s got the hots for you, too, you lucky devil. How in the world do you manage to walk down the street carryin’ your cojones?”
“Gimme a break, goddamnit!”
“Royston and his bootlickers came poppin’ into those suites about ten minutes after you left. You cut it mighty fine.”
“Yeah, that’s the way I do things.”
“At least ol’ Dorsey says what you got is mighty fine.”
“Hey, it was in the line of duty, man! As your friend, I ask you to say no more about it.”
“Tough shit, Carmellini. I’m goin’ to talk about it ever’ chance I get for the next fifty years. She says you’re a real stud, big guy, and I think you oughta go with that endorsement. Take it to the bank. She’s a prime piece of ass and you did a good job fuckin’ it. Be proud. Be happy.”
I let him have the last word. It was the only way to shut him up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On Wednesday amid much pomp and circumstance the convention nominated the president to run as their party’s candidate in the election that fall. Actually they nominated three men, the president and two favorite sons, then dragged the speeches out for most of the afternoon and didn’t get around to the voting until prime time, when the proceedings were televised. Surprise, the president received most of the votes to be the standard-bearer, then someone moved that the convention make the nomination unanimous, which was done by yeas and nays.
Throughout the afternoon Royston hung out in his suite and received a steady stream of visitors — governors, senators, congresspersons, cabinet secretaries, big party donors, and people who wanted to be governors, senators, congresspersons, and foreign ambassadors. It was quite a parade and boring as hell to listen to. And difficult. The rooms where Royston was not receiving visitors were full of people; to select individual conversations from that hubbub, you had to use the computer and zero in on a voice print. Willie did it a few times with my coaching, but it hardly seemed worth the effort. All the talk was about a woman VP candidate. The fact that the president’s selection would be female was a foregone conclusion with that crowd, most of whom assumed that the soccer moms and working mothers of America would flock to the banner of the party with a woman on the ticket; the only question was which woman. Zooey Sonnenberg seemed to have the most supporters.
The president called Royston once, and he called the big guy twice to report on the visitors and what they said about the chances of the party carrying their states. I could only hear Royston’s side of the conversation, and it wasn’t anything earth-shattering. I became convinced these two knew the local politics of every county and hamlet in America.
Royston made no big promises, and neither did the president. Apparently they didn’t think this was the time or place for promises — they didn’t need them. Not yet, anyway.
There was some opposition to Zooey for the vice-presidential spot on the ticket, an undercurrent, but how significant it was I didn’t know. To the best of my knowledge neither did Royston, because I didn’t hear anyone give him actual polls of state delegations.
I was listening to this pablum while contemplating my navel when the telephone rang. Thinking it was probably Sarah or Jake Grafton, I clicked it on.
“Tommy, this is Dorsey.”
I almost dropped the telephone. “Just a second while I turn off the television.”
I frantically turned the volume knobs as far down as they would go. Silence filled the van, and Willie stared at me while I took several deep breaths.
“Hey, Dorsey, how you doing?”
“Fine. Where are you, Tommy?”
“Working. By the way, how did you get this telephone number?”
“Oh, I turned on your phone and got it while you were asleep Monday night. You don’t mind, do you? I realized that I didn’t know how to get in touch with you, and that seemed like an easy way.”
Sleeping around can get you in trouble — I learned that in high school. “Enjoying New York?” I asked brightly.
“Oh, yes. I was wondering if you would like to go to dinner?”
“This evening?” I kicked the brain into gear. Did she just want a repeat of Monday night? Was she going to try to wheedle information from me? Or was something else on her mind?
“I’m pretty busy right now, Dorsey. If this is social I probably should work.”
“It’s important to us.”
“Us?”
“You and me.”
Willie couldn’t hear what Dorsey was saying, but he heard enough of my side to get the drift. He winked and leered lasciviously. I shut my eyes so I could concentrate.
“Could we discuss it over a hamburger?”
“That’s not the venue I would choose, but if you only have a little time…”
“If it’s important, let’s wait until after the convention. I’ll have several days free then.”
“It can’t wait.”
“Okay. Ten o’clock in the hotel café. They do salads, too, I suspect.” Dorsey O’Shea might munch a burger on her way to hell, but not otherwise.
“Ten o’clock,” she said. “I’ll see you there.”
“’Bye.”
“Good-bye, Tommy,” and she hung up.
As I folded up the phone, Willie chortled. “She can’t get enough.”
“You think?”
“What else could it be?”
Indeed. If only I knew how Dorsey was mixed up in this, maybe I could guess. What I did know for certain was that she wouldn’t tell me. No way.
“Was she in her suite when she called?”
“No. I checked while you were talking. No audio from the bugs there.”
I opened the phone and checked the number of the last call received, then wrote it down. I called Sarah and asked her to find out where the phone was. Almost an hour passed before she called back. The delay she blamed on a lack of a high-speed Internet connection. As if I cared.
“So where is it?”
“It’s a cell phone belonging to one Dorsey O’Shea.”
“Thanks.” Well, no help there.