Meaning Margaret Faillo, the woman who sat soundlessly beside him, her expression pleasant and professional but her eyes stony cool whenever she turned to him. Which wasn't often,- once when he'd sucked down a mosquito and started coughing during his opening remarks. Turned her olive-pit eyes on him for just a moment, letting him know she wasn't impressed, that she didn't appreciate the situation he had placed her in; stoic as she tried to ignore the swarming bugs, but that Latin temper of hers simmering through.
Sitting there beside her, with the gavel at the middle of the table, he could still feel her disapproval. A smart, tough Cuban who'd worked her way up to Director of Park Acquisitions, and she didn't put up with any bullshit from subordinates. Which Lon-decker knew, and which was why he'd worked so hard putting this project together. Even though his official title was Assistant Director of Park Acquisitions, it was the first project Faillo had let him do all on his own. Almost as if it was some kind of test, because his coworker, Connie Dirosa, had already been allowed to head up two acquisitions and a land recovery project, even though he was Dirosa's senior by more than a year. Now, the word was, Faillo was about to be promoted still higher up the government pyramid; maybe even a cabinet position-female Hispanics were the preferred currency of a minority-hungry bureaucracy, and her job would be open soon, no matter what. Which meant that either he or Connie Dirosa would be the natural choice to fill Faillo's spot.
Trouble was, Faillo favored Dirosa. Londecker knew that. They were both women, both Hispanics, and though it would have been professional suicide even to suggest that a rising star like Margaret Faillo could be influenced by race and gender, Londecker suspected that it was true. Hell, it was standard operating procedure in government-though it was taboo to talk about it. Even so, a month ago, Londecker had sent a confidential memo to the head of the Florida's Office of Equality and Compliance in Hiring, apprising them of his suspicions. Down the road, he figured, it might come in handy to have something on the record if Dirosa got the job. Just in case he wanted to file a complaint.
But Londecker hadn't given up yet. He had sweated blood over this project. It was his one chance to show Faillo just how competent he was, so he had worked nine-, ten-hour days to make sure the acquisition went through without a problem. But, goddamn it, he'd had nothing but problems. First, two of the men he'd hired to do the groundwork had gone out in boats and disappeared. So the project was still way behind schedule as far as the all-important environmental survey. Then, during the title searches, they'd discovered that one of the main landowners, Tucker Gatrell, had sold off a hundred prime acres to some blind land trust, so now the state was having to go through the courts just to find out who the principals were. Which was putting them even further behind schedule-all the while having to negotiate with Gatrell's shrewd, bullheaded attorney. And just when Londecker thought it couldn't get any worse, he had turned on CNN, to see that disgusting old cracker, Gatrell, telling a pretty blond reporter that he had found the Fountain of Youth on his property.
Outrageous! But the fools in the media loved it.
The key to success in government service included one unspoken rule: Avoid publicity. Now he was getting a dozen calls a day from newspapers, television stations-big-time national reporters who were damn disrespectful when he tried to sidestep them.
All Faillo had said to him was, "Are you up to speed with the Mango project?" As if she had no idea of what was going on.
She knew, though. But that goddamn steel maiden was too smart to let him involve her now in a project that was threatening to turn sour. Not this late in the game. For the last week, he'd felt like a leper; Faillo wouldn't have allowed him to discuss the problems with her if he had tried.
But three days ago, Friday, Londecker had finally gotten a break. Connie Dirosa, of all people, had come into his office and dropped a manila envelope on his desk. All she said was, "I was thumbing through some in-load over at Environmental and just happened to come across this." Then she'd stood there watching as he took out a sheath of papers and began to read.
They were water analysis results from a private lab in Tampa that, by law, had to notify the state when they found contaminants in water that grossly exceeded state DER standards. Dirosa had said, "The water samples came from your buddy's property, the old lunatic who's been giving you trouble down in Mango. It was a hell of a stroke of luck, me finding them."
Londecker had felt like kissing her-but was then instantly suspicious. Why did Dirosa want to help him?
"Look," she had explained, "let's put the knives away for a second, Alex. The way I see it, no matter who gets Margaret's job, we're still going to be working together. We're the senior staff of the department, so you help me, I'll help you." She had stuck out her meaty hand. "Deal?"
No, they didn't have a deal, though he took her hand, anyway.
He had said, "As long as I can memo Ms. Faillo, giving you full credit," watching Dirosa's expression for some trace of duplicity. Could just imagine her bragging to Faillo: "Londecker was in a mess till I saved his bacon."
But all Dirosa had said was, "Nope, Alex. It's your project; you take the credit. Leave me out of it entirely. Just promise that you'll do the same for me when I get in a jam."
So he had his ace in the hole! And maybe a new friend, too- Connie Dirosa. Who wasn't a bad-looking woman, except for her weight. He'd caught her staring at him lately, too-he knew that look. And if Connie did get Faillo's job, a little romantic involvement wouldn't hurt his career a bit.
Now, sitting at the table, fanning his hand at the bugs, Londecker jumped slightly when Margaret Faillo nudged him, then slid a note in front of him: "I'm going to take a break in the van. Speed this up!"
Londecker nodded without looking at her. The two stenographers were already trading off, taking turns sitting in the air conditioning, out of the bugs, so he wasn't surprised. Just so long as Faillo was present when the water tests were read into the record, as Londecker prayed they would be. He couldn't do it-this was a public hearing. And to wait until his department finally finished and published its own tests wouldn't have nearly the impact. The television cameras and the reporters were here now. The people who were whining about the state imposing on Tucker Gatrell's rights were here now. The pathetic lunatic fringe who believed Gatrell's claims about the water were sitting out there in the heat, waiting their turn to rail at him. Now was the perfect time for them all to hear the truth about Gatrell and his scam, the ideal time for Margaret Faillo to see how neatly he could cut the legs out from under park opposition.
But Londecker couldn't do any of that himself; had to just sit patiently, hoping that somewhere in that crowd, probably among the group of droaning environmentalists, was the woman or man who had commissioned those tests-someone named Dr. Marion Ford.
Lemar Flowers leaned over a chair piled with a briefcase, papers, and two volumes of Florida Statutes so that he could whisper, "Goddamn it, Tuck, go sit in the house for a while, find some shade! You're sweating like a chain-gang coolie, but your face is as white as a baby's butt. I'll come get you when it's our turn to speak."