Trust Your Eyes Page 13

  Goldsmith credited the deal with thwarting another underwear/shoe-type bomber before he boarded a Washington-bound plane in Paris. But the Times story could find no definitive link between the two events. It suggested Goldsmith was inflating the value of the intel he’d received from the two theme park terrorists to justify sending them home.

  Goldsmith was pilloried. He resigned. Florida’s attorney general followed.

  What the Times didn’t know was that Florida was not the first such incident.

  A Saudi illegal with al Qaeda sympathies had tried to set off a Ford F-150 filled with explosives around the corner from the Guggenheim. He’d parked it in the middle of the night and set it to go off at nine in the morning. But a woman looking out her brownstone window wondered why he kept checking something in the truck’s cargo bed, and called the police. A tactical team arrived and disabled the device before the bagel carts had set up for business. The truck was traced to its owner, the man arrested. Goldsmith was in the loop from the beginning, scooped the suspect, found out he had a bunch of similar-minded friends he was willing to roll on, all in return for a trip home.

  Goldsmith called Morris.

  Morris balked at first. He’d prosecute the son of a bitch. Told Goldsmith he wasn’t interested in making deals with terrorists. Goldsmith said, “You know, terror suspects aren’t the only people we have a lot of background intel on, if you get my meaning.”

  There wasn’t an ambitious politician alive who didn’t have secrets he hoped were buried forever. Morris Sawchuck could only have guessed what Goldsmith might have had on him. Knowledge, perhaps, of one or more dirty tricks Howard had performed on his behalf. Campaign donations that hadn’t gone through channels. Maybe even something about Bridget’s sexual history. Or even his own.

  Sawchuck allowed himself to be overruled.

  The bomber went home.

  When the Times story broke, Howard and Morris waited for the other shoe to drop. The Times would keep digging and find out Morris had caved. They could see the headlines: “New York AG Allows Guggenheim Bomber to Skip Country.”

  It would have finished him.

  No one who let terrorists go free got to the governor’s mansion, let alone the White House. Morris would have been lucky to serve on the board of a community college after this got out.

  It is all this, Howard fears, that Allison Fitch has heard Bridget talking about on the phone with Morris.

  “Jesus Christ, Bridget, how stupid are you?” Howard shakes his head. “How stupid is Morris?”

  “He never talked about anything specific. Everything was in general terms. Just that he’s worried. That he hopes all this will blow over soon.”

  “That’s the thing, Bridget. We think it’s all going to blow over soon. There’s a very good chance this will all go away.” His voice is very low. “But not if you start blabbing about it on the phone, where some blackmailing lesbo bimbo can hear you.”

  “Howard, really, she’s bluffing. She never heard anything. I’m sure of it.”

  He turns, takes two steps away from her, turns and looks at her again. He approaches and says, “The blackmail thing—I could see us getting out from under that. But if this woman really heard something, she’s got information that trumps some girl-on-girl action. She’s got dynamite. You understand what I’m saying, Bridget? She has dynamite. She has a goddamn nuclear weapon.”

  “Howard, honestly, I’m sure, even if she heard every word I said, she never heard anything that would—”

  “Enough,” he says. “Enough.” He shakes his head slowly, thinking. He points a finger at her and says, “Not one word to Morris. Not one single word.”

  Then, abruptly, he leaves her there, striding out of the lobby to the sidewalk and heading east.

  Bridget braces herself against the wall, tries to regain her composure. Howard doesn’t have to worry that she’ll tell Morris. He scares her far more than her husband does.

  NINETEEN

  “THE FBI sent some people to talk to me, Mr. President.”

  “Yes, of course, that makes sense.”

  “Did you send them?”

  “It’s standard procedure.”

  “Okay. Because they weren’t friendly. They asked if I’d ever been in trouble.”

  “What did you say?”

  “They knew about the time that I saw Mrs. Hitchens naked. But they didn’t know about the other thing.”

  “And you didn’t tell them.”

  “No. And I think they meant the kind of trouble where I was the one who did the bad thing. But it wasn’t my fault. I don’t like to talk about it. Dad wanted to talk about it just before he died, wanted me to talk about it. It was very confusing, because for years and years he wouldn’t let me talk about it, to anyone. And I never did. Not even Dr. Grigorin knows.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s safe, telling you.”

  “What about your brother? Should you tell him?”

  “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  TWENTY

  DRIVING home, Michael Lambton wants some.

  He can go home and get it—just shake Vera so that she wakes up enough to roll onto her back—but that’s not really what he has in mind. This is a celebration, after all. If you’re going to celebrate, do you really want the same piece of ass you can get any day of the week?

  And this is definitely a cause for celebration. He’s pulled it off. At least, it sure as hell looks as though he’s pulled it off. The vote’s this coming Sunday, and all indications are the dumb bastards are going to approve it. Narrowly, probably, but they’re going to ratify a contract that gives them a zero pay increase, a clawback in benefits, and no job security clauses. But they still have jobs, and they don’t want them moving to Mexico or China or Taiwan or any of those goddamn places.

  They want to keep making automotive parts—door panels and dashboards and steering wheel assemblies—and shipping them off to GM and Toyota and Honda and Ford plants, not just here in the good ol’ USA but overseas, too. They’ve seen what’s been happening across this country, for years now, where the jobs are going. And when these jobs leave, are they ever coming back? Not fucking likely.

  That is what Lambton tells them when he presents the company’s offer. He calls it “piss poor.” He calls it “a motherfucking insult.” He calls it “a punch to the gut of each and every hardworking man and woman in this plant.”

  He calls it all those things. He also calls it “our best hope of keeping our jobs.”

  “Let’s face it, folks. These sons of bitches can close up shop and be set up in Asswipe, South Korea, before you’ve even gotten home from the evening shift, cracked open a beer, and put on Leno. Do I like this contract? I hate this contract. And I’m here to tell you tonight, as your union leader, that on Sunday I am going to be voting for this piece of shit contract. You know why? Because I’m a realist. Because I got mouths to feed, and I know you do, too. Because I got a mortgage to pay, and I know you do, too. Because I got kids to send to school, and I know you do, too. Because I got people who depend on me, each and every day, and I know you do, too.”

  There’s grumbling in the union hall, but it isn’t as bad as Lambton fears it will be. There was a time when they’d have been throwing chairs at him. But that was then, when there was still a Pontiac and an Oldsmobile division. Before Hummer and Saturn got sold off. Before Chrysler nearly went tits up. This is now. It’s a whole new ball game. And even though there are signs things are coming back, that the big car companies are going to be buying parts from this particular manufacturing plant for the foreseeable future, people are still nervous. They don’t want to derail this recovery. They want to keep their homes.

  They know, in their hearts, that Michael Lambton is right. They don’t like hearing what he has to say, but they know he’s a no-bullshit kind of guy. They know Michael Lambton is looking out for them. They know Michael Lambton is a straight shooter.

  They know shit.

&
nbsp; Weeks ago, the company bosses have him in for a little chat in the boardroom. Three of them on one side of a long, mahogany table, Lambton on the other.

  They slide some paperwork across the table to him and the company president says: “You are going to sell our offer to your people. You can bad-mouth it all you want. You can tell them they deserve better. You can tell them the company is forcing them to eat shit and smile as they swallow and say, ‘May I have some more, sir?’ But in the end, you’re going to sell this offer, because it’s the best they’re going to get in the current climate. Tell them that if they’re happy for someone named Juan or Felipe or Dong Hung Low to make these parts, then vote to reject. But if they want their jobs, they’ll take this contract.”

  Michael Lambton calmly pushes back his chair, stands, unzips his jeans, and sends a stream of urine across the mahogany tabletop, thoroughly soaking the contract in the process.

  The company people, seated on the other side of the table, push their chairs back a little as the puddle of piss spreads.

  Lambton tucks his penis back into his pants, zips up, and says, “That’s what I think of your offer. The economy’s coming back. GM’s having a good year; so’s Chrysler. The bailout worked. You guys are making money and you can afford to continue to give my workers a decent wage; don’t even think about any takeaways.” He smiled. “Are we done here?”

  The president turns to the man next to him and says, “Get some paper towels and blot that up.”

  The man can’t believe what he’s being asked to do, but he does it. When the mess is cleaned up, the president places a leather satchel on the table.

  “It’s half a million,” he says. “You can count it if you want. All you have to do is get your people to vote for this contract.”

  Lambton takes a moment to consider this new bargaining tactic. He says, “That does change things.”

  It would not be the first time he’s done bad things for money. He is a practical man.

  “Half now, half after the vote, assuming it goes the way it’s supposed to,” the company president says.

  Now, leaving the union meeting, he’s certain he’ll be getting the other quarter mil. In a few days, the members of the local will mark their ballots. Michael Lambton has been doing this kind of thing a long time, has addressed a lot of crowds, and can read a mood. All the votes he’s been through, he’s never called one wrong.

  They’ll go for it. They’ll hold their noses when they vote, but they’ll go for it.

  Driving home from the meeting, sitting in the power, heated, leather captain’s chair of his SUV, thinking about all that money he has coming his way, he has some major wood going on.

  He thinks, briefly, about hitting a bar, maybe lucking into somebody. But that can be a hit-or-miss play. He may end up paying for it, and he can damn well afford it, but feels that’s beneath him. He considers himself a good-looking guy. Maybe a bit heavy around the middle, but Tony Soprano had a gut, too, and it didn’t stop him from getting some strange whenever he wanted it.

  He’s heading down the two-lane highway, hitting the wipers every ten seconds or so to clear some light drizzle coming down, when he sees a car pulled over onto the shoulder about a hundred yards up ahead.

  Some Japanese import wagon, the back door swung open. The way Lambton figures it, in some ways, it’s the Japs’ fault he’s taken the money, that he’s compromised his principles. It’s the Japs who nearly killed North American auto manufacturing. The Germans, too. Two former enemies, getting their revenge at last. Lambton, taking that money, keeping his guys working, it’s the Japs and Krauts who’ve forced his hand. Because when you really thought about it, they—

  Hold the phone, what’s this?

  Some chick’s trying to wrestle a spare tire out of the back. He can only see her from behind, but he likes what he sees. Blond hair to the shoulders, black jacket, blue jeans, over-the-knee leather boots. Slim. Could use a little more meat on her bones for Lambton’s liking, but not bad.

  She has the floor panel in the hatch propped open and the tire halfway out.

  Lambton slows as he cruises past, scoping her out through the misted passenger window. She glances over and he can see she’s probably late thirties. Nice face.

  Pull over and help, or not?

  He doesn’t have to think long. He noses over onto the shoulder just ahead of her car, kills the engine, and takes out the key. He’s got his hand on the door when his cell rings.

  “Shit.”

  He reaches into his jacket, looks at the number. It’s no one he knows. But he hears from a lot of people, some who like to use different phones all the time. Ones that are hard to trace. Michael Lambton knows how important that can be.

  But he doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now. He’s got to tend to a damsel in distress. He slips the phone back into his jacket.

  Lambton doesn’t see another car coming either way on this stretch of road. Not much traffic out here, he thinks. Something could happen to someone out here, no one would ever know.

  Don’t let your mind go there, he says to himself. Then, Okay, maybe just for a minute or so.

  He pulls his long jacket around the front of him, buttons it. Not just to keep dry against the drizzle. He doesn’t want to scare this chick from the get-go by showing off the growing bulge in the front of his pants.

  “Trouble?” he shouts.

  Figures, help her out, change her tire, then see if she wants to grab a coffee somewhere. He’ll be all wet by that time. She’ll feel sorry for him, indebted. It’ll be hard for her to say no. Maybe she’ll suggest he come back to her place, dry off.

  The woman peers out from behind her car.

  “Oh my God, thanks for stopping!” she says. “I think I ran over a nail or something!”

  “You call Triple A?” he asks, hoping she’ll say no. Doesn’t want some tow truck driver crowding in on his action.

  “I’m just kicking myself, right? I get those notices in the mail, telling me I should join, but then throw the things away. Total idiot, right?”

  He’s around the back of the car now, getting a good look at her. Five-nine, maybe 140 pounds, high cheekbones. Small tits, but you couldn’t have everything. Looked European or something. Long legs, jeans fitting her good and tight like leggings, tucked into her boots. Leather gloves. Something athletic about her. The way she holds herself.

  “You should join,” he tells her, then worries she’ll suggest he call using his own membership. He’s only a couple of feet from her now. Doesn’t want to crowd her, frighten her. She looks wary. Like, I’m glad you stopped, but please don’t start waving it at me, okay?

  “I guess I’m lucky you were going by,” she says.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Nicole.”

  “I’m Frank,” he says. Why use his real name on what is clearly not the beginning of a long relationship?

  “You want to sit in my car while I do this?”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Nicole said.

  Lambton’s cell rings again but he ignores it.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Nicole asks. “Like, hold a flashlight or something?”

  “You got one? I got one in the truck.”

  She takes out her own cell phone from inside her jacket pocket, which Michael thinks is interesting, since most women keep them in their purse. “I’ve got this app. I can turn the phone into a flashlight.”

  “You don’t want to get that all wet,” he says. He has a grip on the tire and is leveraging it over the back bumper, getting ready to drop it to the ground.

  “Which tire’s flat, anyway?” he asks. It occurs to him, at that moment, that he hasn’t noticed the car listing to one side or settling on any one corner.

  “Front passenger,” Nicole says.

  As he peers around to the front of the car, Nicole bends down, like she’s giving a tug on one of her knee-high boots.

  “Nicole, that tire doesn’t look flat to—”


  The ice pick, swift and noiseless, feels hot going into his right side, just above his waist. In the second it takes him to register the pain, Nicole has withdrawn it, the pick red and glistening, and thrust it into him once again, this time higher, between his ribs.

  Nicole withdraws again, then drives the ice pick in a third time.

  Hard.

  Michael Lambton gasps and falls to the wet gravel. He tries to speak but all that emerges from between his lips is blood.

  Nicole kneels down and says to him, “Your people, they wanted me to tell you, they know you sold them out. They know about the double-cross. They know you fucked them over.”

  Then, just to be sure, she runs the ice pick into him a fourth time, piercing his heart.

  She stands and turns her face up to the rain. It feels good. Cleansing.

  She rolls Michael Lambton down into the ditch and slips the spare tire back into the hold below the hatchback floor. Once she’s behind the wheel and heading off down the two-lane blacktop, her own phone rings.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s me.” No hello, no introduction. But she recognizes the man’s voice. It’s Lewis.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “I’m calling about your availability. I mean, it’s not like you’re exclusive with Victor anymore.”

  “Kind of busy right now,” she says.

  “I may have something for you.”

  “I’m north of the border. About to take some time off.”

  “But if I had something for you, could you take it on? It’d be worth your while.”

  “What do you mean, if?”

  “I have to make the case to my boss. I think he’ll go for it. I’ll know very soon.”

  She thinks. She really wants some time off, but then again, she hates to turn down work.

  “What’s the job?”

  “Some chick works in a bar,” he says. “Piece of cake.”

  “Sounds like a job anyone could do,” Nicole says.

  “We need some distance on this one, too.”