No Rules, Ridge King [the snowy day read aloud TXT] 📗

utterly and irrevocably determined to carry the Oklahoma delegation for St. Clair in the House. You control that delegation. You must give your support to St. Clair.”

Fulton laughed out loud.

“You must be touched with fever, Phil.  You know exactly how I stand on this question and so does the President, the motherfucker!”

“We have an enormous catalogue of your illegal dealings with the industry,” Slanetti continued seriously, almost like a child forced to do something to an elder against his will, an impression he hoped Fulton would pick up.  “It involves literally millions of dollars you have gleaned from various producers and refiners for your support in their areas of concern in Congress and before your committee.  The Administration is determined to completely ruin you unless you will change your vote. It’s really that simple, John.”

Slanetti shrugged.

Fulton was serious.

“Be specific,” Fulton demanded softly, raising an eyebrow.

Slanetti went through the list.  Fulton’s was the only case that required more than one page for the contact interview.  There was that much involved.  Slanetti occasionally glanced up to see how the old man was taking it.  There was no expression on the man’s dignified face until Slanetti got to the Swiss bank accounts, the link in Fulton’s chain, which led to the Isle of Wight. Slanetti saved this for the end.

“You know about Switzerland, too, I see,” said Fulton at last, leaning back, a rueful smile crossing his lips. “That new bilateral agreement we reached with them through Treasury a couple of years ago was the crack in the door I needed.”

“I see.”

“Yes, I know more every week, in greater and greater detail.”

“All right,” he said simply, leaning up in his chair.

Slanetti could tell by his tone of voice he meant he would vote for St. Clair and instruct his colleagues from Oklahoma to do likewise, but he couldn’t believe it.

“You’ll vote for St. Clair?”  Slanetti asked timidly.

“Yes,” said Fulton, raising his eyebrows and speaking rather loudly.  He saw that Slanetti didn’t believe him.  He snapped up his phone.

“Connect me with President Norwalk immediately.  I’ll stay on the line.”  The secretary did as she was told, much surprised.  Fulton hadn’t called Norwalk in years.  The White House told his secretary that the President was in conference and asked if an assistant could help.  Fulton broke in.

“Interrupt his conference and tell him that I mean to talk to him—very urgent. Don’t worry, he’ll take the call,” he said impatiently, drumming his fingers on his desk and glancing at Slanetti, who sat silently.  Finally, Norwalk answered.

“Yes, John?”

“I’ve got your Phil Slanetti in my office right now, Mr. President.  He’s told me, well—what he came to tell me, and I want you to know that as of this day I will support Sam Houston St. Clair for President without reservation.  I don’t think Phil believes me, but I give you my word, despite our differences, that I will support your effort on this end if I can rely on the White House to support me in the matter Phil and I discussed.”

“Your word is solid gold in my book, John.  I’m just sorry that we haven’t agreed in the past and that I couldn’t have your support previously.”

“You had more persuasive arguments this time, Mr. President,” said Fulton with a bitter smile as he looked briefly at the embarrassed Slanetti sitting opposite.  The conversation was short and Slanetti was relieved when it was over.

“I know you to be a vengeful man when you want to be, Mr. Fulton, but please believe me when I say that if you vote for Thurston on the third, in the seventeen days before the President leaves office on the twentieth, you life will be ruined here in Washington and back in Oklahoma, too.”

“I don’t doubt it.  I know how fast those boys over at Justice can work when they get a hot iron put up their backsides.  I know my power in Congress, don’t delude yourself that I don't.  A lot I could hush up, but you’ve done your homework a little too well for me.  I won’t fight when I can’t win.  It’s that simple.  I’m a very practical man,” said Fulton, “above all my opinions and preferences, a very practical man.”

“I can see that,” said Slanetti.

He got up to leave.

“By the way,” Fulton said.

“Yes, sir?”

“If you don’t want to work for St. Clair’s people after this term, give me a call.”

Slanetti smiled.

“I’ll do that.”

In the car later, he felt sorry having to bring down a bull like Fulton. But he had great respect for the man’s ability to change with the wind when it wasn’t blowing his way. And he was outright proud that he’d been able to bring the man down. That he’d been up to the task.

With Fulton’s quick conversion, the Republicans had twenty-five states he thought would hold fast.

Hawkins was the only one left now.  Slanetti had half the states in the Union behind him.  He needed only one more for the majority.

Chapter 7

THE GRAND SCHEME

As soon as the go-fast boat that had brought him out from Havana tied up to the Big Fish IV, Fernando Pozo climbed into the fishing boat.

Captain Chico DeCespede extended a helping hand.

“Careful, my friend, the seas are a little choppy.”

Pozo clasped Chico’s arm and laughed as he clambered aboard the fishing boat that Chico purposefully kept in slight disrepair. It always looked good when something needed painting, or a piece of brass needed polishing. These elements enhanced the sense of authenticity Pozo insisted all his boats radiate. No one had to know how much money his team players made as sub-agents of the DI.

Chico DeCespede, captain of Big Fish IV, had been on the DI payroll for over fifteen years. His father had worked for the DI before him.