Free Code 13 by Don Brown

nomination for something or other.
    Bobby checked his watch. Atlanta Constitution or not, he needed to cut this off.
    â€œHey, Johnny, I’ve got a meeting coming up with the Augusta Chamber of Commerce. I’m gonna have to—”
    No luck.
    His office door opened. Tommy Mandela, Bobby’s wily chief of staff and an Emory law grad who never practiced anything except politics, stood there, decked out in his blue pinstripe suit. Mandela may have coincidentally borne the same last name as the great South African Nobel Prize winner, but in ethnicity, in political philosophy, and in shrewd cunning, he was opposite in every way. Bobby read Mandela’s lips. “I need to see you.”
    â€œJohnny, hang on a second.” Bobby punched the Hold button on his phone. “Find somebody else to talk to this guy.”
    â€œThey all want you, boss.”
    â€œTell me about it. Whatcha got, Tommy?”
    â€œSir, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Richardson DeKlerk’s on the phone from AirFlite.”
    â€œDeKlerk? What’s he want?”
    â€œTo talk about the drone project, sir.”
    â€œI’ll be right with him.” He punched the Talk button, reengaging the energetic reporter, mockingly known around Georgia political circles as Little Johnny White. “Johnny, I apologize, but something’s come up. I’m gonna let you talk to my secretary, and she’ll set a time for us to finish this. That okay?”
    Without waiting for Little Johnny to respond, Bobby punched the line for his secretary. “Maryanne, pick up on two. Schedule a time for me to finish this interview . Find a way to tell him diplomatically that he’s got ten minutes to wrap this up.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWhat line is Richardson DeKlerk on?”
    â€œMr. DeKlerk is on three, sir.”
    â€œThanks.” He punched line three. “Richardson. How ya doing this afternoon?”
    â€œAs well as can be expected.” The business magnate spoke in his trademark South African accent. “How about you?”
    â€œDoing fine. Hey, listen. You’re on speaker so I can jot down some notes. That okay?”
    â€œBobby, I don’t care if I’m on a bullhorn, as long as you do what we need you to do.”
    Bobby chuckled. “You always drive a hard bargain.” He looked up as Tommy Mandela walked back into the office and DeKlerk kept talking.
    â€œThat’s why I’m a multimillionaire, soon a billionaire, if we get this drone project through the worthless bureaucrats up in DC whose sole job is to single-handedly wreck the American economy. You know,” DeKlerk added before Bobby could squeeze in a word, “if this project goes through, it won’t be a bad thing for the Georgia Political Victory Fund.”
    Tommy grimaced.
    â€œNow, Richardson, we’ll do everything we can to help. But the GPVF is an independent political action committee. I’ve got nothing to do with them.”
    Bobby heard laughing from the other end of the phone. “You’re hilarious, Senator. I’ve got my lawyer, Jack Patterson, with me, and he’s in stitches at the notion that the Fund isn’t your political ace in the hole. Heck, they even send the glossy flyers here to my office, reminding all dutiful Georgians of what a fabulous job-creating record you’ve built for the Peach State. You know we gave a hundred thousand to the Fund when you were first elected.”
    â€œWell, we’re grateful for what they do,” Bobby said.
    â€œI know. I know. These political action committees that allow unlimited contributions to support candidates that are technically—quote—‘independent from the candidates.’ I’d give you a big wink if you were here in Savannah, Bobby. Anyway, there’s more coming to the Fund if this drone deal goes through.”
    Bobby’s mouth salivated. DeKlerk touched on all the hot buttons before