The place is old, worn down, and the food and drink are comparable to the output of a kitchen at a soon-to-be-closed Holiday Inn in West Virginia. But with its initiation fee of $100,000, plus a penalty of ten times that much if the club’s solitary rule is ever broken, the Button Gwinnett Club is exclusive. Parker goes through the motions as he goes down the wood-paneled hallway. With a small key, he unlocks a small numbered wooden locker in which he deposits his iPhone, watch, and wallet.
An old man, wearing a knee-length starched white apron, black trousers, and white shirt with black necktie, nods and says, “Sir … I believe your guest is in Room Three.”
“Thank you,” he says, and takes a turn past one door toward another marked with a brass numeral 3, and walks in.
Amanda Price is sitting at a small round table with a white tablecloth, sipping a martini, and he sits across from her. The room is private. All of the rooms in the Button Gwinnett are private, and with cell phones and all electronic devices forbidden in the dining areas, the club offers something that is rare in the District of Columbia: a place where the power brokers can sit and have open and fruitful discussions without any chance of being overheard or having their presence noted by the media, for that’s the solitary rule of the Button Gwinnett Club.
Pure privacy.
The door silently opens, and a waiter delivers his drink— tumbler of Jameson Irish whiskey and an ice water chaser.
Amanda says, “Really, Parker, what was your boy thinking, going out like that? I thought he was smart enough to avoid what the little man tells him to do.”
He takes a bracing sip. “Amanda, if you want to talk, talk. If you want to make jokes and snarky comments, I can go back to work and pick any random cable news channel to deliver what you’re offering.”
Amanda smiles with the face of one who knows a secret. “How’s Grace handling this?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“And where is she?”
“In seclusion. Look, Amanda—”
“How goes the search for her?”
The Jameson is threatening to crawl back up his gullet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Amanda says, “Nice try, but don’t treat me like an idiot. I know she bailed out on her detail yesterday, and I know there’s a search going on for her. As low-key and quiet as possible, but there’s a search going on.”
Parker needs a moment to think so he takes another sip of Jameson. It tastes bland and warm.
He says, “What do you want?”
A sharp-toothed smile. “That’s better. What I want is … to see what common ground we might share. In return for not passing on what I know to my friends in the media. It’s always practical to make deposits in the favor bank, especially a deposit as big as this one.”
The room is quiet, the doors and walls are thick, and the reclusive management of the Button Gwinnett Club promises hourly electronic sweeps of the premises to ensure there’s no eavesdropping equipment, but Parker hesitates.
Amanda says, “Please. If this were to get out—highly unlikely—we’ll both hang together, won’t we?”
He says, “What kind of common ground?”
Her red-polished fingernail traces the top of her glass. “Let’s just say that you and I could agree that having a First Lady that remains missing, or turns up deceased, would be a very good thing for certain parties.”
“Go on.”
“Hypothetically speaking …”
“Of course.”
“There are certain insurance corporations and pharmaceutical firms that have been severely damaged and compromised by that woman’s endless campaign to do good. They’re not looking forward to another four years of being on the other end of her constant criticism.”
Parker takes another sip of his Irish whiskey. “They may get their wish in four more weeks.”
Amanda shakes her head. “No, then it would get worse. A retired First Lady, out from under the thumb of her cheating husband and the government agencies, would be free to really go to town on her activism. And that could last a lot longer than a four-year term. She’d be out of the White House, but some see her as the second coming of Jackie O. She’d still have a lot of influence.”
The talk and the whiskey are making him slightly light-headed, a sensation Parker despises, for he feels its weakness. “Fascinating hypothetical you’ve got there, Amanda. And hypothetically again … what would encourage me to act … or not act … to assist you and your clients?”
Her smile is sweet and confident indeed. “If your boy can persuade the American people to send him back to the people’s house for another four years, without that chattering albatross around his neck, you’ll be thrilled at how cooperative my clients will be to work with Congress to get his agenda through. And if your boy loses, well, there’s always room on our board of directors, and those of our clients, to reward those who have been helpful.”
Another pause, then one last sip of his whiskey. “That’s very intriguing. I’ll see what I can do, to make sure that … chattering albatross disappears from the President’s neck. One way or another.”
She nods in satisfaction.
He says, “And just to make sure we’re clear, if you don’t change those hypotheticals into stone-cold reality, I’ll crush you—personally—and Pearson, Pearson, and Price.”
Amanda says, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He nods, takes a cleansing swallow of the ice-cold water. “I’ve never liked you, I’ve never trusted you, but I’ve always been able to do business with you, Amanda.”
“Right back at you, Parker.”
“But my boy … we’ve dealt with him. Let’s talk about your girl.”
“Fair enough,” she says. “Go ahead.”
“She needs to keep her pretty, pouty mouth shut.”
“Agreed.”
“Or she might have another accident.”
Amanda arches her left eyebrow. “Another?”
He puts his glass down. “She almost got killed in a so-called car accident yesterday, coming home from the airport. I thought that might have been you, removing any future embarrassment to your firm.”
Amanda stares right at him, face showing no emotion. “And here I was, thinking it was you, removing any future embarrassment to your President.”
Parker waits, and he slowly gets up to leave. “Guess we’ll leave that one be.”
Amanda says, “I guess we will.”
CHAPTER 41
MARSHA GRAY IS back at the front door of the sad-looking apartment complex where Sally Grissom lives. She’s taking a gamble, but she’s all right with that. Her whole life has been one big gamble, and sometimes it’s almost exhilarating.
She takes about thirty seconds to use a small transmitter on the keypad, overriding the signal and disabling the lock.
Done.
Into the entryway, up three flights of stairs. There’s a smell here, of being poor and desperate, and it’s a mixture of urine, cooking grease, and moist trash. It brings back a load of memories of growing up in rural Wyoming. The night wind that would cut through the cracks and fissures in their mobile home. The blocks of government-issued cheese. Having one pair of much-patched dungarees to wear, day in and day out.