Free Thirteen Million Dollar Pop by David Levien Page A

it the exact opposite way. It’s stood me well,” Kolodnik said. “And I’ll tell you something else, and it’s how I’ve avoided all this recent
unpleasantness
in the economy. I never bought into the idea of overleveraging, and I’ve tried to avoid people who do. What I’m saying is: my business life is very … balanced.”
    A secretary ushered the group toward Kolodnik’s office, then leaned over to Kolodnik and said, “The Trachtenberg group, sir.” Behr couldn’t tell if they were political lobbyists, real estate developers, or from a law firm.
    “Be right in,” Kolodnik said, and then turned apologetically back to Behr.
    “You said you had people on this. I wonder if I could confer with them?” Behr asked.
    “I asked an old senator I count as a friend for some advice when the appointment came in. You know—how to manage the demands on my time, weigh the equities, all that. And you want to know what he told me?” Kolodnik paused for emphasis. “ ‘Learn to hold it, because you’re not going to have a chance to take a squirt for the next six years …’ Well, four in my case, but you get the idea.” Kolodnik was using his folksy gentleman’s idiom to give Behr a message: he was too busy to deal with the matter further.
    Just then an exceptionally well-tanned man in his mid-forties with blond hair going to gray, and a suit jacket sporting shoulder pads that were a shade too big, strode up.
    “You ready to get in there?” he asked Kolodnik with great familiarity in his tone.
    “Yep, right in, Shugie,” Kolodnik answered, then made the introduction. “Frank, this is Shugie Saunders, my political consultant. Shugie, this is Frank Behr, the reason you still have a client.”
    “No, no, no,” Shugie corrected with a porcelain-veneered smile that creased the suntan, “the reason I still have a
friend.
”
    Saunders shot out a manicure-soft hand, which Behr shook, as Kolodnik wrapped things up.
    “You should come by the house, Frank. Not now. I’m about ready to decamp to D.C.—”
    “We’re going to get the seat. We’re going to be confirmed right away,” Saunders informed.
    “But at the end of the summer, Labor Day, I’ll be back for a bit,” Kolodnik continued.
    “So the attempt,” Behr tried a last time.
    “That’s been downgraded as a priority at the moment,” Saunders said with finality. “We appreciate all your efforts.”
    What could Behr say? Especially in the face of that powerful “we” that smacked of handlers and aides and institution, of government itself. Everyone he was dealing with was plural, from his client to his company and even Kolodnik. He thought about his own “we” for a moment. All it meant—all it would ever mean—was him, Susan, and his coming son.
    “Like I said, Frank, bring the wife over to the house for some tennis when I’m back in town. Do you have a wife? Do you play tennis?” Kolodnik smiled.
    “Not exactly,” Behr said, and after a cordial pat on the back, Kolodnik was on the move. Saunders gave a parting nod and followed his man through the double doors into the office. The doors closed behind them and Behr was left in the waiting area empty-handed and as inanimate as the Johnson statues lining the streets of the town.

17
    The shite holes that accepted cash were the same the world over. It was a truth Waddy Dwyer had learned long ago, after the military when he was in intelligence, and then in his life as a private military contractor and all ’round useful bloke: they were thin, through and through. Thin sheets, thin blankets, thin pillows on the beds. Wafer-thin slivers of soap and paper-thin towels in the bathroom. Cracker-thin walls with worn-thin industrial carpet on the floor. The places often liked to include the word “quality” in their names, as did the one he was at currently, though there was rarely much of it in evidence. But after what seemed like a lifetime of shite, it didn’t bother Dwyer much. He’d always