spouting off like a defense expert, he had, to put it generously, been a big flop as Secretary of Defense. Mr. Nash turned out to be great at throwing barbs and javelins at the Pentagon, and not quite so good at dodging them.
Yet he was not entirely without talents. In fact, he turned out to be quite good at wallowing in a lifestyle money can’t buy: traveling in his luxuriously outfitted 747, staying at five-star hotels, and hobnobbing in regal milieus with an assortment of corporate leaders and foreign bigwigs. His deputy was reputed to be the most overworked man in Washington.
Were one possessed by a cynical nature, one might even suspect Mr. Nash was feathering his nest for a prosperous afterlife, stuffing his Rolodex to exploit after he returned to the private sector; for instance, as a board member of Morris Networks, which clearly hadn’t hired him for his managerial competence.
I allotted a respectful silence to contemplate Cy’s assurance before suggesting, “However, it’s possible we have at least the appearance of a serious violation, right? There’s what?… a two-year ban on Nash trying to influence his former department?”
Cy chuckled. After a moment, he replied, “They’ll damn sure make that case. But Danny swears he kept away from the whole damn thing.”
“No doubt.”
Slightly put out that I didn’t seem to be swallowing the assurance of an esteemed firm partner, Barry said, “Daniel even volunteered to take a lie detector test. We’ve advised him against it, but the offer’s still on the table. Would a guilty man do that?”
I always love that question. And why did I suspect that if the government actually said, Okay, Danny boy, let’s go ahead and hook your ass to the dirty liar meter, the boys and girls from Culper, Hutch, and Westin would prevail and the offer would be abruptly withdrawn?
I muffled that suspicion, however. For the time being, I was one of those boys and girls, and therefore was expected to know where my bread was buttered. Though it was their bread being buttered. And the department I worked for getting screwed. I can’t tell you how much I love being thrust into situations where I have conflicting loyalties.
It was time to move past this point, however, so I asked, “Exactly how does Morris Networks come in so much cheaper than the competition?”
“A number of factors,” Barry explained. “For starters, Morris Networks is a much newer company.”
“Oh… newer.”
Barry smiled coolly. “Its entire network is state-of-the-art and not bogged down with old legacy systems, like Sprint and AT amp;T. Newer systems are more reliable, less manpower intensive, cheaper to operate and maintain.”
“And that accounts for a twenty-five percent advantage over the next nearest competitor?”
“Partly. Jason also runs a flatter, leaner organization. He’s a more efficient manager, without the huge overhead of the bigger companies. Trim off that fat and you don’t have to spread the costs as far.” He smiled and added, “But you obviously lack business experience, so this is probably over your head.”
Cy apparently decided to head off a murder and swiftly said, “But these are good questions, Sean. Spend some time with Jason’s people. You’ll end up a believer.”
I said, “I’ll bet you’re right.” But I was lying.
I mean, having a key requirement waived for a company with a former Secretary of Defense in its pocket does tend to stretch the imagination in certain directions.
When it comes to Defense Department contracts, industry loves this little game that kicks off with the lowball bid. A few years later, the winner returns to the Department and says, “Whoops, hey, boy, this is embarrassing, but a funny thing happened on the way to fulfilling the bid. There were… well, a few unforeseeable problems… cost overruns… adjustments for things you guys failed to clarify in your request for bid… one or two acts of God, and, uh… we mentioned this is embarrassing, right?… Could you guys wrench that money spigot a bit more to the right?”
Sometimes, the Department tells them to shove it and cancels the contract, or, when it’s really smelly, sics a squad of federal fraud investigators on their asses. I think there was once even a conviction. Nearly always, the government considers the near impossibility of proving fraud, and then says, “You’re right, this is embarrassing… only it concerns a real vital program and an interruption or, God forbid, outright termination will be disastrous to national security. But, uh… let’s see if we can keep this off the front pages, shall we?”
A gleaming black stretch limo that awaited us at the Palm Beach airport sped us through town, down a highway, and across a bridge to Jupiter Island, which, from the size and grandeur of the homes, would more aptly have been named Olympus Island, as this appeared to be where the Gods of Commerce came to recuperate from the sweat and toil of shoveling the big buckos into their vaults.
We pulled into a gated driveway and drove a hundred yards to a massive, sparkling pink monstrosity perched some twenty yards from the ocean. Half of El Salvador were trimming shrubs and hedges, and tending flower beds, and one had the sense of entering another world, of a southern plantation with Massa inside slamming down mint juleps while the “boys” kept the old ranchero looking all rich and sparkly.
Sometimes I think I am a Republican, and other times I think I’m a Democrat. At that moment, I was battling fits of Marxist passions. I actually had this weird impulse to leap out of the limo and scream, “Juan, Paco, Jose, grab those machetes and shears… Viva la Revolucion!”
But before I could act on that urge, a very large man opened the front door and walked out to greet us. His pitch-dark suit marked him as hired help, and the mysterious bulge under his left armpit as a particular kind of hired help. Wasn’t this odd?
The guy grinned at Cy, and it was obvious he knew him, because he said, “Mornin’, Senator. Good to see ya again.” His eyes roved over the rest of us, and I guess we looked harmless enough, because he then said, “Mr. Morris is out back. You’re three minutes late, so please hurry along.” He was really courteous.
So we stepped it up a little, as we were led through the entry, and the living room, and through a pair of very tall French doors, a journey that lasted nearly two hours as the frigging living room was slightly larger than Europe. I counted twenty different couches clustered in various clumps. Mr. Morris either liked to throw really big parties, or had this really weird thing for couches.
I ordinarily try to avoid judging a book by the cover, but jam it up my ass and twist it around a few times and I succumb to the temptation. I mean, private jets and stretch limos and beachside mansions do tend to rub salt in the wound of lower-middle-class poverty. And just as I was telling myself, Grow up Drummond, don’t be so petty, I spotted the frigging Queen Mary parked along the dock out back-about 150 feet long, three sparkling decks of pure, shimmering, up-your-ass wealth.
Having seen the richboy’s face plastered on any number of magazine covers, I recognized the figure seated in a lounge chair by the pool, staring off at the ocean, chatting on a cell phone, sipping coffee, finger tracing down a spreadsheet on his lap-multi-tasking gone berserk.
He punched off the phone and approached. The papers listed Jason Morris’s age at thirty-nine years, and he looked every bit of eighteen: muscular, bronzed, sandy-haired, with pale blue eyes and a glistening smile, not to mention a checkbook that would have the ladies leaping out of their undies in about ten seconds. He did not look at all like a business mogul, more like a Ralph Lauren model, down to the square jaw and bony face, Bermuda shorts, faded polo shirt, and beach sandals. We looked like idiots in our business suits.
He threw out his very famous hand and said, “Cy, thanks for coming on such notice. I hope this isn’t an inconvenience?”
Cy’s equally famous hand shot out. “Inconvenience? Jason, I love that damned jet of yours. And that Jenny… she rent by the hour?”
It struck me that Mr. Berger and Mr. Morris shared a passion for the ladies, and I briefly wondered if the question was serious. But Jason chuckled. “You are an unreformed devil, Cy. Jenny makes her own arrangements. As for that jet, ostentatious as it might be, my board of directors insists it’s needed to make the right impression. Am I going to argue?” Now everybody was laughing, though in my view the joke wasn’t really funny. It struck me that when you’re really rich, you can never be sure whether you’re truly charming, sexy, or funny. I’ll bet the rich lose a lot of sleep over that. Right. Then Mr. Morris turned to Mr. Bosworth and asked, “How you doing, Barry?”
“Just fine, Jason.”
“Fine my ass.” Jason regarded Cy and said, “Look at those bags under his eyes. Jesus, Cy, give the poor guy
