Barely pausing to watch the result, Janos headed back to the Dumpster and knelt next to Matthew’s already pale body. From his own wallet, Janos took five hundred dollars, rolled it into a small wad, then stuffed it in Matthew’s front pocket. That’ll explain what he’s doing in the neighborhood. White boys in suits only come down here for drugs. As long as the money’s on him, the cops’ll know it wasn’t a jump-and-run. And with the car bow-tied around the telephone pole, the rest of the picture blooms into place. Kid gets hit on the sidewalk. Driver panics and, as he flees, does just as bad a job on himself. No one to hunt for. No one to investigate. Just another hit-and- run.
Flipping open his cell phone, Janos dialed a number and waited for his boss to pick up. No question, that was the worst part of the job. Reporting in. But that’s what happens when you work for someone else.
“All clean,” Janos said as he bent down to pull the cinder block out of the car.
“So where you off to now?”
Wiping his hands, Janos looked down at the room number next to Harris’s name. “Russell Building. Room 427.”
9
“All set?”
“Harris, you sure this is right?” Senator Stevens asks me.
“Positive,” I reply, checking the call sheet myself. “Edward — not Ed — Gursten… wife is Catherine. From River Hills. Son is named Dondi.”
“Dondi?”
“Dondi,” I repeat. “You met Edward flying first class last year.”
“And is he a Proud American?”
“Extremely proud,” I say. “You ready?”
Stevens nods.
I dial the final number and grab the receiver. If I were a novice, I’d say,
As Stevens introduces himself, I toss a piece of hamachi in my mouth. Sushi and solicitations — typical Stevens lunch.
“So, Ed…” Stevens sings as I shake my head. “Where’ve you been my last dozen flights? You back in the cheap seats?” His pitch is off, but it still works like a dream. Personal calls from a Senator always hit home. And by
“You were here? In D.C.?” Stevens asks. “Next time you’re around, you should give me a call and we can try to grab lunch…”
Translation:
“… we’ll get you into the Capitol — make sure you don’t have to wait on any of those lines…”
“I mean, we have to take care of our friends, don’t we?”
Stevens hangs up the phone with a verbal pledge that “Ed” will raise fifteen grand. I pass the Senator some yellowtail and dial the next number.
Years ago, political money came from powerful WASPs you met at a dinner party in a tastefully decorated second home. Today, it comes from a well-vetted call sheet in a fluorescent-lit room that sits directly atop a sushi restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue. The office has three desks, two computers, and ten phone lines. Old money versus new marketing. It’s not even close. There’s not a Congressman on the Hill who doesn’t make these calls. Some do three hours a day; others do three a week. Stevens is the former. He likes his job. And the perks. And he’s not about to lose them. It’s the first rule of politics: You can do anything you want, but if you don’t raise the cash, you won’t be doing it for long.
“Who’s next?” Stevens asks.
“Virginia Rae Morrison. You know her from Green Bay.”
“We went to school together?”
“She was a neighbor. When you were nine,” I explain, reading from the sheet. When it comes to fundraising, federal law says you can’t make calls from your government office or a government phone — which is why every day, this close to elections, half of Congress leaves the Capitol to make calls from somewhere else. The average Member goes three blocks away to the phone rooms in Republican and Democratic campaign headquarters. Smarter Members hire a fundraising consultant to help build a personal database of reliable supporters and potential donors. And a dozen or so mad-genius Members kiss the ring and hire Len Logan, a fundraising expert so organized, the “Comments” sections of his call sheets have details like: “She just finished treatment for breast cancer.”
“Yup, yup — I got her,” Stevens says as the phone rings in my ear.
“Hello…” a female voice answers.
The Senator slides me the yellowtail; I slide him the receiver. We’ve got it running smoother than a ballet.
“Hey, there, Virginia, how’s my favorite fighter?”
I nod, impressed. Don’t reintroduce yourself if you’re supposed to be old friends. As Stevens takes a two- minute gallop down memory lane, one of my two cell phones vibrates in my pocket. The one in my right pocket is paid for by the Senator’s office. The one in my left is paid by me. Public and private. According to Matthew, in my life, there’s no distinction. What he doesn’t understand is, if you love your job like I do, there shouldn’t be.
Checking to see that Stevens is still busy, I reach for my left pocket and check the tiny screen on my phone.
“Harris,” I answer.
“Harris, it’s Cheese,” my assistant says, his voice shaking. I already don’t like the tone. “I–I don’t know how to… It’s Matthew… he…”
“Matthew what?”
“He got hit by a car,” Cheese says. “He’s dead. Matthew’s dead.”
Every muscle in my body goes limp, and it feels as if my head’s floating away from my shoulders. “
“I’m just telling you what I heard.”
“From who? Who said it?” I ask, going for the source.
“Joel Westman, who got it from his cousin in the Capitol Police. Apparently, someone in Carlin’s office forgot their parking pass and had to park out by stripperland. On their way back, they saw the bodies…”
“There was more than one?”
“Apparently, the scumbag who hit him took off in a panic. Smacked into a pole and died instantly.”
Shooting to my feet, I run my hand through my hair. “Why didn’t… I can’t believe this… When’d it happen?”
“No idea,” Cheese stutters. “I just… I just got the call. Harris, they said Matthew might’ve been trying to buy drugs.”
“Drugs? Not a chance…”
The Senator looks my way, wondering what’s wrong. Pretending not to notice, I do the one thing you never
