stepped in and saw all the blood and that poor woman upended on the sofa with her neck Never mind. He did not need to go there today. Eyes on the prize. He was looking for Senator DeMouy, using the best clues he had available. There were no maps of the hideaways: in fact, on the official maps of the building, they did not exist. They weren’t even in the blueprints. But they were down here and they were highly coveted. The only way to find someone was if you already knew where his or her hideaway was. Or, as in this case, if you had a lead from a well-placed person such as the senator’s administrative assistant.
“You like Cajun?” she had asked, not waiting for an answer. “Follow your nose.”
Which Ben was trying to do, but he was feeling a little stuffy so he was not altogether sure this was going to work. What could be harder than finding someone who had come to a place that, after all, was called a hideaway, used for the purpose of, well, hiding away. When a senator like DeMouy wanted time alone, far from the prying eyes of reporters or the outstretched hand of the lobbying army-but didn’t have time to leave the building-he or she retreated to a hideaway, safely nestled in the subterranean basements of the three Senate office buildings. After the first ricin poisoning, many senators left their main offices but tried to conduct business here, and they came in droves after Senator Hammond was killed. Given the tumult currently under way upstairs, Ben should’ve known to check the hideaways first; even the Senate majority leader had to get away from the madding crowd on occasion. He probably liked to kick back, listen to some zydeco, maybe eat some takeout And that was when the aroma hit him like a blunt instrument. Had he been stuffed up before? Not anymore. He could feel his sinuses decongesting with every step.
He knocked on the door.
“Come on in!”
Ben was prepared for almost anything-he had found a corpse in one of these rooms, after all, and he’d caught senators making out with unauthorized personnel on more than one occasion-but nothing could have prepared him for this.
The leader of the Senate Republicans. Wearing a dirty apron. Swinging a large ladle like a baton.
“Ben! Therese told me you were coming. You’re just in time!”
Lucky me, Ben thought, as he slowly approached. The pungent smell of Cajun cooking assaulted him. Although now that he thought about it, he was somewhat hungry. When was the last time he actually ate a meal?
“Are you a gumbo fan?” DeMouy asked, beaming. He dropped the ladle back into a huge pot on the stove and stirred.
“I’m…not sure I’ve ever had it.”
“What do you folks eat in Oklahoma?”
“Um…hamburgers? Chicken-fried steak? Mashed potatoes and white gravy.”
DeMouy gave him a long look. “Tell me you don’t eat grits.”
“Well…certainly not where I grew up.”
DeMouy pulled out a chair. “Sit down, my boy. You are about to have the best culinary treat of your young lifetime.”
Ben took the proffered seat. “And-you made this down here?”
“Absolutely. All by myself. Even chopped the okra. Five pounds’ worth.”
Ben grimaced. “You know…you can buy it already sliced. Frozen.”
DeMouy looked as if he had just been forced to eat a bug. “That’s not how my mama taught me to do it and that’s not what I’m going to do. Might as well just buy a bowl at Chili’s.”
“That would probably save time, too.”
“It’s not about saving time, Kincaid. It’s about creating something wonderful.” He smiled. “’Sides, I like cooking. Relaxes me. Forces me to think about something other than this damned amendment. File?”
“Uhh…”
“Yes, of course you want file. What’s gumbo without file?” He scooped a huge ladleful of gumbo into a bowl, sprinkled something green on top of it, and passed it to Ben.
Ben stared at the concoction. “Mind if I ask what it is?”
“I already told you, son. It’s gumbo!”
“Yes, but…what’s in it?”
DeMouy rattled off the ingredients like a cooking encyclopedia. “Okra, obviously, onions, celery, garlic, bell peppers, bay leaves, tomato sauce, shrimp, chicken broth, diced tomatoes, and rice.”
“Is that it?”
“No.” DeMouy winked. “But I can’t give away the secret ingredients. My mama would kill me.”
“Seven secret herbs and spices?”
“Salt and pepper.” He waited a beat. “So, Kincaid…you planning to take a bite?”
“Oh-you wanted me to eat this.”
“No, Ben, it only takes four hours to make. I was hoping you’d just use it to clear your sinuses.”
Ben tentatively raised a spoonful, blew on it, then slowly drew it toward his mouth.
“Well?”
Ben swallowed. “Actually, it’s pretty good.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I really-awk!” He clutched his throat. “Bit-” He gasped for breath. “Bit of an after bite, huh?”
DeMouy grinned. “That’s the way we like it down South.” He slapped Ben on the back. “My mama raised six sons, all by herself. She needed something to help keep them under control.”
Ben shoveled in several more bites. It was growing on him. And he was breathing a lot more freely, too. “You really do enjoy cooking, don’t you?”
“Have to admit it.” He took the chair opposite Ben at the table. “Making meals is a lot more gratifying than making laws. A lot quicker, too.”
“No doubt.” Ben tried to time his remarks so as not to interrupt his devouring of the gumbo. “So, your AA told me you needed to see me desperately. I assume that wasn’t just because you thought I looked underweight.”
DeMouy chuckled. “Can’t say that it was. We’ve got ourselves a problem.”
“We do?”
“’Fraid so. On this amendment.”
Ben wiped the corners of his mouth. “Have the polls changed? Last I heard, it was a shoo-in in the House and the votes were about evenly divided in the Senate. All we need is a few more votes and we’re golden.”
“Yes, but that could be tricky.”
“Why? Everyone in the country’s talking about this amendment. It’s on the top of everyone’s agenda, whether they’re in the Senate or chatting at the watercooler. All we need to do is fling some major oratory at it. As a trial lawyer, I found that if you reference God, Abraham Lincoln, and the United States of America often enough, you can win anything.”
DeMouy laughed again. “That’s probably true, son. But even the president can’t force a bill to the Senate floor, and neither can we.”
“But-the bill got out of committee-”
“Ben, have you ever heard of a legislative hold?”
“Legislative hold…” He took another bite, hoping to buy time while he decided whether to bluff or not.
“Don’t feel bad if you haven’t. It isn’t something they teach in eighth-grade civics class. Some people refer to it as the Senate’s dark secret.”
Ben leaned forward. “Okay, now I’m interested.”
“It all goes back to the ancient and somewhat labyrinthine parliamentary procedure that still by common agreement governs congressional practice. It’s a cinch for any member to slow down or even stop the Senate’s business by making an objection before the bill hits the floor. The press talk about how the Senate bickers and bewails the death of collegiality, but that’s hogwash. Believe me, if there were no collegiality, we’d never get anything done. We wouldn’t even have anything to talk about.”
“I thought the Senate majority leader set the agenda.”
“True, but he does it by unanimous consent agreements on what’s going to be discussed and how long we’re going to discuss it. He tries to find out if anyone’s going to object before he takes a bill to the floor. He asks the party leaders in advance if anyone’s going to object. Since any senator has the power to object, the majority leader
