Free House Odds by Mike Lawson Page B

least he thought he could. Like he’d told Ted, John Mahoney was unpredictable. Then it occurred to him that what Ted had told him could benefit several people, people much more important to his business than Ted Allen. The information Ted had given him, if properly exploited, could be used to hurt John Mahoney—and he could think of ten people in ten seconds who would like to hurt John Mahoney. If Ted’s information was shared with too many people, however, it would dilute its value. So it was a matter of deciding the single best person to share it with, a person who would be of use to Preston Whitman not just today but in the future. He let his mind wander through the political landscape for a few minutes and made a selection.
    There was a problem, however, and it was significant. If Ted found out that he had shared his information with someone else, Ted would be quite unhappy. But what would Ted do if he found out? Kill him?
    Maybe.
    * * *
    “Preston, I have to leave in about ten minutes, so you’re gonna have to be quick, son.”
    “Of course, Congressman,” Whitman said, “and I appreciate you taking the time to see me.” He found Robert Fairchild calling him “son” a little annoying, as he and Fairchild were about the same age.
    Big Bob Fairchild was one of the most influential Republicans in the House. He was forty-nine years old, six feet five inches tall, and slim as a whippet. His dark hair gleamed with whatever grease he applied to keep it in place and his eyes were small and black and cold. He would have been a handsome man if he’d had a chin.
    Fairchild had never struck Whitman as a person of staggering intellect, but he did have other attributes that made him a good politician: he could be quite charismatic when he made the effort; he was an above-average speaker, particularly if someone else wrote the speech; and he was good at forging alliances. His constituents liked him because his first loyalty was to his home state—versus the country —and thus lots of federal dollars, whether needed or not, ended up in his district.
    The most significant thing about Big Bob, however, was that he was popular with Hispanics, more popular than any other white Republican. He couldn’t actually speak Spanish but he could give a short speech in the language if the words were spelled out phonetically on a teleprompter, and a number of people on his staff were Hispanic. The real force behind Fairchild, however, was his wife. She could speak Spanish fluently and devoted considerable energy—and money—to Hispanic causes to increase her husband’s popularity with that demographic. It was a well-established fact that Fairchild had a seat in the House only because of his wife’s money and influence; it was unconfirmed rumor that she totally dictated her husband’s political agenda.
    Because of his potential ability to pull in Hispanic voters, and regardless of whether it was due to his wife’s acumen or his own, there was a very good possibility that Robert Fairchild would be his party’s choice for vice president in the next national election—a situation that didn’t bother Preston Whitman as a lobbyist but which did bother him as a private citizen. Whitman had always felt that the man who sat in the Oval Office—and the man who was a heartbeat away from the Oval Office—should be significantly smarter than the folks who had elected them, although history had shown this was often not the case. In fact, it was rarely the case.
    “So get to it,” Fairchild said. “You said on the phone you had something that could help my nephew.” Fairchild wasn’t looking at Whitman when he spoke; he was answering e-mails on his BlackBerry, pecking away with two clumsy thumbs.
    “Yes, I believe I do, sir,” the lobbyist said, speaking to the top of Fairchild’s oily head. “And as I told you when I called, I believe this information can do more than just help your nephew. I know he’s one of your primary