Free The Franchise by Peter Gent Page B

into the office, confronting the small white-haired man, the senior United States senator from the solid South. Bailey Bradley Thompson chaired several important committees and subcommittees. He had been in the Senate since before the war and had access to the Mexican vote in San Antonio, El Paso and South Texas to the Rio Grande Valley. They all voted for Bailey Bradley Thompson. Alive or dead. Several times.
    “You want the payoff or you just want to jack off?”
    The secretary’s mouth dropped. She looked quickly at the senator for some indication of how to react.
    “Don’t look so shocked, honey,” Conly said. “If he ain’t laying pipe on you and keeping you up-to-date on his business, I don’t want to bribe the son of a bitch anyway.” Conly leered at her. “I’m at the Mayflower.”
    “Dick, you old joker.” Senator Thompson stood to his full five-foot-eight inches and stuck out his hand. He motioned the secretary out with his eyes. “And hold my calls,” he yelled after her.
    Conly didn’t even bother with the senator’s extended hand. He just flicked the latches on the attache and dumped the twenty-five thousand dollars out on the senator’s desk.
    Dick Conly had figured the exact combination of small bills that would not only total twenty-five thousand but would fill the briefcase. It spilled out onto the senator’s desk and looked like a lot of money.
    “Goddam,” Senator Thompson gasped involuntarily. “Goddam.” His eyes grew large and he ran his hands over the pile of old bills.
    Conly watched the little man and wondered how in God’s name the government worked if senior senators were this overcome by such piss-ant little amounts of money. Dick Conly had special contempt for a man who so obviously hungered for the actual bills, the pieces of paper with the meaningless denominations printed on them. An IOU from a government a trillion dollars in debt wasn’t money. Not real money. Real money was a concept, a brilliant scheme, seizing the opponent’s weak point, taking the high ground in an elaborate power play. Power —that was wealth. Changing the rules, changing the game. Not pieces of paper.
    Senator Thompson began stuffing the paper into his desk drawer.
    “We get the right ruling out of your subcommittee on this bill. Senator,” Conly said. “That’s the deal. The money for the ruling and the votes.”
    “Yes, certainly.” The little gray senator never took his eyes off the bills. “I’m a man of my word.” He kept shoveling the bills into the drawer. “Couldn’t be a US senator if my word wasn’t my bond.” He put in the last packet and locked the drawer, using a key he carried on a gold watch chain tucked into his waistcoat pocket. “Now, how about a drink, Mr. Conly?” Senator Thompson looked up to find an empty room.
    Dick Conly was already gone.
    “Well ... I’ll be goddamned.” Senator Thompson was puzzled. It was like Conly hadn’t been there at all. Bailey Bradley Thompson’s confusion slowly turned to action as the senator took the key from his vest pocket and reopened the drawer to make certain that it all had happened. The paper bills were still there; he called his secretary to count them and fill his briefcase. He thought again about Conly’s abrupt departure.
    Senator Thompson looked around the richly appointed office, then spoke to his secretary.
    “Hell, you’d think Conly thought he was too good to drink with a United States senator.”
    The secretary smiled, nodded, and lost count. Ten-cent dollars.
    Later she met Conly at the Mayflower.
    Two weeks later a Senate communications subcommittee, chaired by Senator Bailey Bradley Thompson, ruled the Football League must accept the franchise application before it from a certain Texas city or run the risk of being investigated by the FCC and possibly being found in violation of antitrust laws.
    The franchise application at the League office had been filed by Dick Conly for Cyrus Chandler.
    The