Free Code 13 by Don Brown Page B

more than you sharing our frustration. We need action.” He paused. “Now!”
    Another pause.
    â€œTell you what, Richardson. I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do.”
    â€œExcellent. I thought you would see it my way. Call me as soon as you hear something. One week. You have one week.”
    The line went dead.
    Bobby looked at his chief of staff. “Tommy, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say we just got threatened.”
    â€œYou know, Senator, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re right, sir.”
    Bobby turned in his chair and folded his arms. “We’ve got to stay in good with GPVF.”
    â€œNo doubt, sir.”
    â€œDeKlerk’s got a lot of sway with Joe Don Mack.”
    â€œWhen you give millions to an organization, you’re going to have sway like that, Senator. You know the ole saying better than I do. Money’s the lifeblood of politics.”
    â€œRight. And Joe Don Mack’s gonna follow the money. And if I don’t deliver here, they could throw a primary challenger at me, and the Democrats become the least of my worries.”
    â€œRight, boss. These super PACs are kingmakers. And incumbents are sometimes most vulnerable in the primaries, when you have a lower number coming out with an ideological purpose.”
    â€œNo kidding. Anyway, we’ve got to figure out a way to get the Navy moving on this. I can’t afford to lose that fund. Any suggestions, Tommy?”
    â€œLet me think.”
    â€œMaybe I should call the Secretary of Defense.”
    A wry expression crossed Tommy’s face. “Nah. Doesn’t feel right.”
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œIt might be more effective to call Roberson Fowler and see if he’ll make the call. That way you get the long-standing chairman of the Armed Services Committee involved, and you’ve got plausible deniability. Fowler carries the kind of weight Jesse Helms and Ted Kennedy used to carry, even though they were from opposite ends of the political spectrum. He’s more powerful at the Pentagon than any Secretary of Defense will ever be.”
    Bobby felt the lightbulb come on. “Tommy, you’re a genius. On all fronts.”
    Mandela chuckled. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks, sir.”
    Bobby picked up the telephone. “Maryanne, get Senator Fowler’s office on the phone. See if you can arrange a time for me to speak with him. Tell them it’s a hot topic and I need to chat with the senator ASAP.”
    â€œYes, sir, Senator.”

CHAPTER 6

    HEADQUARTERS
    NEW YORK CONCRETE & SEAFOOD COMPANY
    EAST 161ST STREET
    THE BRONX
    MONDAY AFTERNOON
    Phillip D’Agostino kicked back behind his desk in his simple-looking offices in the concrete building down the street from Yankee Stadium, puffed on a Macanudo, and grew angrier by the word as he stared at the lower right corner of the front page of today’s New York Times .
    The madder he got, the faster he alternated between sucking on and blowing out the cigar. His wife had given him hell about oversmoking for years, but the smoking had kept him from overeating, which was a problem for many Italian men who ate too much pasta. Liquor wasn’t the problem. It was the pasta. So unlike Big Sal and other godfathers whose bellies had grown rotund over the years, the smoking had kept Phil’s waistline down to his fighting-weight, thirty-six-inch waist, and other than the fact that his black hair was starting to turn gray, the smoking definitely had its benefits.
    But one vice the smoking did not cure was that red-hot Italian temper.
    And it certainly wasn’t stopping his blood from boiling at the moment. And the harder he blew out the stogie, the angrier he got and the more smoke-filled the president’s offices of the New York Concrete & Seafood Company became.
    Finally, after about the fiftieth blow, Phil had enough and ground the cigar into the