Free The Road to Omaha by Robert Ludlum Page A

Devereaux pressed the accelerator and three cars crashed behind him.
    It had all started within minutes after he left the office following an afternoon conference with a gaggle of related corporate executives whose single-family company was in deep shit if they did not take his advice. The problem was not in their criminality, it was in their stupidity, which could not be pried away from their stubbornness until Sam had made it clear that if they did not follow his instructions, they could all look for different representation, and he would visit each of them in prison, but only on a social basis. Although somewhat obscure, the law
did
make it clear that grandfathers and grandmothers could not place their grandchildren—especially those between the ages of six months and twelve years—on the company’s board of directors at salaries exceeding seven figures. He had weathered the onslaught of Irish indignation, accepted the eventuality of eternal damnation for shorting the bloodlines of the clan of Dongallen, and fled to his favorite bar two blocks from the firm of Aaron Pinkus Associates.
    “Ahh, Sammy boyo,” the owner-barkeep had said as Devereaux slumped on the stool farthest from the entrance. “It’s been a rough day, it has, I can see it. I always know when one or two liquid remedies may lead to a couple more—you sit down at this end of the bar.”
    “Do me a favor, O’Toole, and soften the brogue. I’ve spent damn near three hours with your crowd.”
    “Oh, they’re the worst, Sam, let me tell you! Especially the two-toilet variety, who are the only ones who can affordyou fellas. Here, it’s early, so let me pour you the usual and turn on the tellyvision and you take your mind off business.… There’s no Sox game this afternoon, so I’ll turn on the all-day news.”
    “Thanks, Tooley.” Devereaux had accepted his drink with a grateful nod as the solicitous owner turned on the cable news network, which was apparently in the middle of a human-interest segment, in this case depicting the good works of a supposedly obscure individual.
    “
… a woman whose selfless charity and kindness keeps her forever young, a face the angels kiss with the gift of youth and clear-eyed perseverance,
” proclaimed the sonorous voice as the camera zoomed in on a white-habited nun dispensing gifts in a children’s hospital located in some war-torn Third World country. “
Sister Anne the Benevolent, they call her,
” continued the vowel-rolling announcer, “
but that’s all the world knows about her … or will ever know from her own lips, we are told. What her true name is or where she came from remains a mystery, a mystery wrapped in an enigma perhaps filled with unendurable pain and sacrifice
—”
    “Mystery, my
ass
!” Samuel Lansing Devereaux had screamed, leaping and falling off the barstool as he roared at the television screen. “And the only unendurable pain is
mine
, you bitch!”
    “Sammy,
Sammy
!” yelled Gavin O’Toole, racing down the length of the mahogany, waving his arms in a sincere effort to quiet his friend and customer. “Shut the fuck up! The woman’s a goddamned saint, and my goddamned clientele ain’t exactly all Protestant, do you get my goddamned message?” O’Toole had lowered his voice while pulling Devereaux over the bar—then he glanced around. “
Jesus
, a few of my daytime regulars are takin’ exception to your words, Sammy! Don’t worry, Hogan can handle them. Sit down and
shut up
!”
    “Tooley, you don’t
understand
!” cried the fine Boston lawyer, close to weeping. “She’s the enduring love of my life on earth—”
    “That’s better, that’s much better,” whispered O’Toole. “Keep it up.”
    “You see, she was a
hooker
and I
saved
her!”
    “Don’t keep it up.”
    “She ran off with Uncle Zio!
Our
Uncle Zio—he
corrupted
her!”
    “Uncle
who
? What the hell are you talkin’ about, boyo?”
    “Actually, he was the
Pope
, and he messed up