Hughes shook his head again. Platt didn't know it, but he'd been under surveillance for six weeks, by a very discreet — and very expensive — investigative firm hired to keep tabs on him. Since Hughes trusted the big man about as far as he could throw him one-handed, he thought it wise to make sure Platt wasn't playing any games he shouldn't be playing. No doubt Hughes would hear from his hired operatives about the street fight later. As he would hear about the 'masseuse' who came to minister to Platt's needs.
The woman would be black, of course. They always were.
Platt had availed himself of outcall massage services fourteen times in the last six weeks; had sampled the wares of half-a-dozen prostitutes in Guinea-Bissau during his stay there, along with a streetwalker working the airport during his long stopover in Cairo. All had been black women, more than twenty of them. He did not mistreat any of the trulls, as far as Hughes's investigators could determine, nor was he interested in anything other than heterosexual-style relations, no whips or chains or funny clothes.
Platt's racism was apparently not wide enough to encompass females of African heritage. A wonderful dichotomy, Platt. He would beat up a black man in the morning, then fornicate with a black woman in the afternoon. Hypocrisy was such a wonderful thing. The world wouldn't be able to run without it.
'All right,' Hughes said, 'I'll call when I have something else for you.'
'I hear you,' Platt said. 'See you later, alligator.'
Chapter Eight
The Senate meeting room was too warm by at least five degrees, which certainly didn't help Alex Michaels feel any less sweaty. He sat on the hot seat at the table reserved for victims of the inquisition — more euphemistically known as 'witnesses called to give testimony' — facing the panel of senators, whose dais was raised high enough so there was no doubt who was in charge. That had to be, in a society that equated height with superiority. Next to Michaels sat Glenn Black, one of the FBI's top legal eagles. The two of them, backed by a gallery of other witnesses and interested watchers, faced the eight senators of Robert White's Governmental Finance Oversight Subcommittee.
Net Force's budget was the only item on today's docket, and after a pretense at politeness, the charge, led by White, was in full attack.
It was going to be a long day.
Michaels hated this part of his job, sitting in front of committees whose members might — and usually did — range from idiotic to brilliant, but who almost never knew what was
Being ignorant of the truth never stopped men like Senator White, however. And while he wasn't the dimmest bulb on the string, his wattage was hardly what you would call blinding on his best day.
'Commander Michaels, what exactly are you trying to tell this committee? That Net Force doesn't
'No, sir, Senator White, I did not say that.' Michaels was beginning to get pissed off, and his reply was a little more clipped and sharp than it ought to be. Black leaned over, put his hand over Michaels's microphone, and whispered, 'Take it easy, Alex, it's only eight-thirty. We're going to be here all day. He's just playing to C-SPAN's cameras and the audience at home.'
Michaels nodded, and under his breath said, 'He's a fool.'
'So when did
Michaels grinned. Glenn was right. It was going to be a long session; no point in losing his temper. Michaels usually kept a low profile at these things, and that was considered a good idea. Let them rant. When it came to the actual vote, the sound and fury before didn't count for much. He knew that. Still…
White went on: 'It sounds to me as though you're saying that Net Force has more important fish to fry, Commander. And I have to tell you, sir, from where I sit, your oil doesn't seem hot enough by half.'
He must have a new speech writer, Michaels thought. Somebody trying to downplay his rich man image and give him a little folksy touch. Good luck, writer boy.
Michaels knew that his boss, Walt Carver, the Director of the FBI, was in the audience behind him. So far, Carver had been able to keep White at bay, using his network and ties from when he'd been in the Senate, but White was getting more aggressive all the time. At the very least, Michaels had to put on a decent performance while on the hot seat, and not embarrass himself or the Bureau.
'I'm sure I don't know as much about oil as the honorable senator from the state of Ohio does.'
Michaels hadn't really planned to say that, it just kind of slipped out. There were a few chuckles. It was a small dig at White's wealth, some of which had come from petroleum shipping, a business run by his grandfather.
White frowned. Michaels held his smile in check. Maybe it wasn't smart to pull the lion's tail, especially when the lion had you in the cage with it, but it sure felt good.
'There seem to be some serious problems in your organization,' White said. He shuffled through some hardcopy. 'We are talking about issues of national security, about which I will not speak in public, but these are grave matters that Net Force is failing to address properly.' He looked at Michaels. 'What is the point in funding an agency that doesn't do its job, Commander Michaels?'
'I'm sure, Senator, that you know much more about agencies that don't do their job than I.'
More laughter, but Michaels caught a warning look from Glenn, and it was easy enough to interpret:
A day's ride from Black Rock was the Western town of Dry Gulch. Jay Gridley hadn't been disposed to spend that much time in the scenario, so he'd logged in on the edge of town. Black Rock had been a bust, no sign of the bad guys, so Gridley had moseyed on.
It was close to high noon, and the sun hammered the bleached road so dry that clouds of reddish-gray dust hung in the windless air after every step his faithful steed Buck took. Just before he reached the outbuildings behind the blacksmith's shop and livery, Gridley took the U.S. marshal badge from his Levi's pocket and pinned it on his shirt. The silver gleamed brightly in the hard, actinic light. He didn't want anybody catching that mirror-shine on the trail, but in town he wanted the official muscle the badge offered.
Like Black Rock, Dry Gulch looked like a place from a Western cowboy vid, circa the mid-1870's. The main street — and the
Jay nodded and tipped his hat at an elderly woman in a long dress crossing the street. 'Howdy, ma'am.'
The old lady gave him a suspicious glare and hurried on, stepping onto the boardwalk next to the storefronts. The walk was a foot higher than the street, and that made sense. It probably flooded here during the infrequent rain, and you'd want to be above all that sudden mud.
A couple of boys chased barrel hoops down the dirty road, driving the flat metal rings with short sticks, laughing. A quail offered his song in the distance, not the usual '
