Ballots and Blood Read online

“Get up! Get up!” he shouted with flourish.

  The ball cleared the sagebrush by no more than a yard, bouncing high and exploding down the fairway.

  “Safe!” exclaimed G. G. “I made it!” He giggled like a little boy.

  “You like to live dangerously, don’t you, G. G.,” said Fred Elrod, his playing partner.

  “It’s clean living,” joked G. G.

  “I know that’s not true,” replied Elrod. G. G. cackled. Elrod, flat belly and narrow waist highlighted by a white Adidas belt, bow legs balancing his frame, took his cap off and wiped his brow, revealing a deeply tanned face and gray hair turning slowly white. Only the top of his head had hints of black. Elrod leaned over his ball and made a rapid, jerky swing, sending his ball in a low slice toward a trap by the lake. The ball cleared the desert, bounded across the fairway, and skipped into the trap. He let out an expletive. “I hate it when you do this to me on the final hole,” he said, leaning down and snatching the tee up, breaking it with his fingers and hurling it into the rocks.

  G. G. was feeling good not only about his match with Elrod but also life in general. One of the top Democratic lobbyists and rainmakers in DC, he was bonding with Elrod, one of his favorite (and richest) clients. Elrod was at the top of the food chain at Hoterman and Schiff, G. G.’s law and lobbying firm, primarily because he paid the firm $100,000 a month to act as his inside-the-Beltway fixers and courtroom attack dogs. He also knew how to have a good time, shared G. G.’s nose for the jugular, had a gorgeous wife, and had plenty of problems needing solutions (but not too quickly!). Elrod owned a thirty-thousand-square-foot Mediterranean-style mansion in northern Las Vegas with its own home theater, fitness center and spa, an Olympian pool featuring statutes of Caesar and Napolean, poolroom, game room, and smoking room. G. G. was always welcome as a houseguest. To make matters even more satisfying, G. G.’s drive all but assured Elrod would owe him $10,000, half of which was for winning five net holes at $1,000 each, with $5,000 more for winning the match.

  Not that Elrod would miss it. The former owner of El Capitan casino on the Strip, he sold out for an estimated $150 million. He took the money and bought Ultimate Wrestling Federation, which featured a hybrid of wrestling, boxing, and karate. It was consistently one of the top five highest rated cable programs in the country. Television revenue alone from UWF brought Elrod $175 million a year, with the gate, concessions, and collateral revenue brining in another $130 million.

  As they jumped in the golf cart, Elrod turned to G. G. “So what’s the date for the Stanley fund-raiser again?” he asked.

  “Right after Labor Day. We don’t want to do it during the holidays.”

  Elrod nodded. “And am I the chair or a cochair?”

  “You tell me,” said G. G. “How much can you give or raise?”

  “What’s the limit again, $6,200 per couple?”

  “Correct. But that’s just for the primary, so double it when you include the general.”

  Elrod stared into the distance, turning the question over in his mind. “Total, I think I can do $75,000 between me, my family, my companies, and my vendors.” He turned to G. G. “Is that enough?”

  “It’s a good start,” said G. G. “I’d love to be able to tell Sal you can do that in hard money and then hopefully do a nice contribution to the Democratic Senatorial Committee and our 527.”

  “Sure, I can do that,” said Elrod. “Put me down for the max to the senatorial committee.” He paused. “I’ll do a half a million to the 527. How does that grab you?”

  G. G. tried not to appear too excited. He came to view Elrod as a virtual cash machine, always good for the maximum, whenever he asked. Elrod was the kind of donor who only asked one question: how do I make out the check? G. G. did a quick calculation: his fund-raising company, which had a contract with both Stanley’s campaign committee and the DSCC as well as Committee for a Better America, would make 15 percent off Elrod’s contributions, or $67,500, above and beyond the 100K he paid the law firm each month. He decided $625,000 deserved a dog biscuit.

  “Hey, why don’t we call Sal?” he said, black eyes darting.

  “Right now? ”

  “Sure,” replied G. G. He glanced at his watch. “It’s not too early on the East Coast.” He reached into the golf cart and pulled out his BlackBerry, scrolling to Stanley’s cell phone number. He hit the dial button. Turning to Elrod, he whispered, “It’s ringing.” He paused. “Mr. Leader, good morning, it’s G. G. Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.” He laughed. Cupping his hand over the phone, he said, “He just stepped out of the shower. He’s standing in the bathroom with a towel, dripping wet.”

  Elrod wrapped his mind around the sight of the Senate majority leader standing nude in his bathroom, clutching a towel in one hand a cell phone in the other. His eyes widened, visibly impressed, the precise reaction G. G. intended.

  “Senator, I’m here in Las Vegas with your good friend Fred Elrod.” He paused, listening. “Yes, he’s a big fan of yours as well.” He winked at Elrod. “Anyway, he’s agreed to cochair your Vegas event, and he just asked me to put him down for 75K hard for the event and the max to the Senate committee.” He paused again. “That doesn’t count the half million he just agreed to give to my 527, which you know nothing about.” He laughed, throwing back his head. “Sal wants to say ‘hi,’” he said, handing the phone to Elrod.

  “Senator, how are you?” asked Elrod.

  “Very well, Fred,” replied Stanley. “Just wanted to say thanks for agreeing to help out on the upcoming Las Vegas event. I’m thrilled by your generosity and truly humbled by your support. That is just terrific news.”

  “Happy to do it, Senator,” said Elrod, suck-up juices flowing. “You know, I’m one of those rare breeds in politics. I don’t ever want to run for office myself. I don’t want to be appointed to anything. I’m interested in only one thing, and that’s good government. And I’m happy to help folks like you who help deliver it.”

  “We’ll keep at it,” said Stanley. “I’m afraid the current administration is quite a burden to bear, but we’ll keep fighting the good fight.”

  “I know you will,” said Elrod. “And thanks again for your support of Sue Warren as chair of Foreign Relations. She’s a solid woman. I’ve been supporting her for years.”

  “She is indeed. She’ll do a top-notch job. Thanks again for your help, Fred.”

  Elrod handed the phone back to G. G. “Alright, Senator, you can dry off and shave now,” joked G. G., preparing to sign off. “I promise I won’t ask you to fund-raise from the shower again!”

  Stanley laughed. “Before I let you go, G. G., I assume you know Long and Noble are gunning for me big time.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “They’re trying to recruit Cartwright to run against me,” said Stanley. “They’re denying it, but we know from our sources in Trenton that it’s true.”

  “Do you think he’ll do it?” asked G. G.

  “Dunno. His numbers are good, he’s gotten a free ride from the Times, and he’s got a huge ego. With Long blowing in his ear and Noble stroking his thigh, you never know.”

  “The guy’s never been in a street fight. Not like this.”

  “No, he hasn’t,” agreed Stanley. “But he can raise money, and the White House will bring the Long national finance operation into play, so it’s going to be a knock-down, drag-out, bloodletting if he goes.”

  “How much will you need?” asked G. G.

  “Believe it or not, $75 million. I’m counting on you to be a key member of the team.”

  Hoterman let out a long whistle. “Wow. Count me in.”

  “One last thing: I heard you might testify in Mike’s trial. Is that accurate?”

  Hoterman felt a palpitation in his chest. How could Stanley have possibly learned such a closely guarded secret? As far as he knew, only the Justice Department and his attorneys knew he might become a prosecution witness. The impending criminal trial for perjury and obstructi
on of justice of Michael Kaplan, former campaign chair for Stanley, who went down in flames in the Dele-gate cash-for-votes scandal in the previous presidential election, was now just weeks away. G. G. barely avoided being indicted himself, and his lawyer was talking to the public integrity division at Justice about his possible testimony.

  “We don’t know yet,” lied G. G. “My attorneys have been talking to them for a year and a half. I had to testify before the grand jury twice. So did Dierdre, my former deputy. I’m hoping like the dickens that’ll be the end of it.”

  “Who’s your lawyer?” asked Stanley.

  “Walt Shapiro.”

  “Tell Shapiro to tell the Justice Department that you’re not a favorable witness for them,” said Stanley firmly. “If you testify against Mike, it puts me in a bad place.”

  Hoterman nearly passed out. He wasn’t a real lawyer, having barely passed the bar, but even he knew this was witness tampering—and by the Senate Majority Leader, no less. “I know, I know, Senator,” he heard himself say.

  “Ketih Golden timed this trial deliberately so it damages my reelection,” said Stanley, spitting out the words. “They’re criminalizing a political dispute. It’s payback, pure and simple, and it’s corrupt as the day is long.”

  “It’s a disgrace,” agreed G. G.

  “Well, Shapiro’s good. If he needs to talk to my counsel, let me know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hoterman hung up the phone. Elrod had been listening to only one side of the conversation, awed that the Senate Majority Leader was G. G.’s phone pal. “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Just Dele-gate.” He sighed. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving.”

  “Mike Kaplan’s trial?”

  “Yeah,” said G. G. “Poor Mike did nothing illegal, but he made some dumb mistakes, including shredding some documents. He’s in real trouble, and it’s tearing Sal up inside.” He brightened, his thoughts returning to Elrod’s large contribution and his 275-yard drive. “Hey, let’s hit our shots!”

  “Now you’re talking,” said Elrod, stepping from the cart and walking to his ball.

  Hoterman glanced back at the tee box, where a group had been standing around waiting while he wrapped up his phone call. They had their hands on their waists, clearly annoyed. They clearly didn’t know how important he was. He approached his ball, which to his astonishment cleared the desert by only a few yards and then bounced hard left, giving him barely enough room for a stance on the fairway. He addressed the ball, his back heels on the desert floor, and tried to balance his weight and focus on the target. But his mind was a jumble, and he kept returning to Stanley’s phone call. What if he did testify and helped send Kaplan to prison? How could he live with himself? Would Stanley ever forgive him?

  He tried to focus, ripping a five iron low into the wind toward the green. But a combination of a poor stance and his distracted mind forced the ball to the right, where it skipped into a greenside bunker. G. G. let out an expletive and slammed his club on the ground. His phone call to Stanley, intended to impress Elrod, backfired and now threatened to cost him the match. Elrod, meanwhile, hit a spectacular hybrid club out of the fairway bunker with a slight draw that bounced toward the green and skipped onto the putting surface, rolling to a stop just twelve feet from the pin.

  “I got you now, G. G.!” Elrod shouted, pointing with his index finger. “What a difference a shot makes.”

  The men heard some shouting behind them. Was it those jerks back on the tee box, wondered G. G. But when he turned around, he saw Elrod’s wife Ling and Dierdre, G. G.’s girlfriend, standing on the deck of Elrod’s massive home on the eighteenth fairway, waving. They wore bikini tops and skirts, their bodies glistening with lotion, holding umbrella drinks.

  “Hey, girls, did you see my shot?” shouted Elrod.

  “Good shot, honey!” replied Ling.

  “Hey, Ling, he hasn’t won yet,” said G. G. playfully. “I’ve seen him putt. He’ll probably three putt from there.”

  “Get up and down, G. G.!” cried Dierdre.

  “Fred, why don’t you and G. G. join us by the pool for a drink when you’re done? I make your favorite mohito,” said Ling.

  “Great idea,” replied Fred. “Thanks, baby!”

  By now the exasperation of the foursome on the tee box had reached the snapping point. One of them threw his hands in the air in frustration, turning to the others and jawing about their slow play. Tough, thought G. G. I’m playing the final hole for $10,000 with a billionaire whose gorgeous wife is making us a homemade mohito.

  As they pulled away in their cart and headed for the green, G. G. turned to Fred. “Ling seems to be a very good fit for you,” he said. Elrod married Ling a little more than a year earlier after going through a messy divorce.

  “She’s fantastic,” Elrod fairly gushed. “She’s naturally submissive. She’s Korean. . . . She aims to please.”

  G. G. smiled admiringly. “Good for you, Fred.”

  “You know, I probably never should have married an American woman.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re too demanding,” Elrod, replied, making a face. “Too much complaining, too much take, not enough give. I’m telling you, if you want a wife who’ll take care of you, go Asian.”

  “How did you meet Ling?” asked G. G. as they got out of the cart.

  “An online dating site,” said Elrod. “It specialized in Asian women.”

  “Really?” said G. G. “I didn’t know there were sites specializing in ethnic backgrounds.”

  “Is this a great country or what?” exclaimed Elrod.

  G. G. twisted his feet into the trap until the sand covered the soles of his shoes, giving himself a solid stance for the bunker shot. He stared at the pin, which was only five paces on the green from the edge of the lake, a foreboding steep drop into the water just beyond it. If he was short, he could not make the putt and tie Elrod; if he was long, he would go in the water and lose the match. What the heck, he thought. I’ve got nothing to lose. With a full swing, he blasted the ball out of the trap, sending it about fifteen yards onto the green, where it rolled rapidly toward the hole as if drawn by a magnet, hitting the pin dead center and dropping into the cup.

  G. G. threw his arms in the air in a celebratory fit, pumping his fists in the air and shaking his torso. “I can’t believe it went in! Now the pressure is really on you, Fred.”

  Elrod let out an expletive, disgusted. “You never give up. I guess that’s why I pay the big bucks for you to represent me in DC.” As the caddy accompanying them raked the trap, Elrod paced around the hole, kneeling with his hand cupped over his eyes, reading his putt from every angle. Then, with a firm stroke, he hit the ball to his right, and it fell in the right side of the hole. “Take that!” he cried.

  G. G. walked over, grinning from ear to ear, shaking his head. “After all that, no blood.”

  “Let’s go have a drink with the girls,” said Elrod. “Then I’ll have Ling give me a deep tissue massage. She walks on my back!” He winked.

  They walked off the green, arm in arm, oblivious to the poor foursome that had waited behind them all day, now standing in the fairway shaking their heads with a mixture of manly respect and thorough disgust.

  15

  Satcha Sanchez walked through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton Residences on Twenty-third Street, NW, one of the premier power addresses in DC and home away from home for Jay Noble. Poured into skinny jeans, Christian Louboutin pumps, an embroidered Bebe white tee and blue jacket, Satcha drew the stares of the bellhops as she fairly pranced, her bouncing bouffant of black hair, ruby red lips, and molasses skin even more striking in person than on TV.

  Approaching a house phone, she dialed the hotel operator with her index finger, her enamel-red fingernail clicking on the button, asking for Jay’s apartment.

  “Hel-loooo,” he answered.

  “Hey, sugar, it’s me,” said Satcha.

  “Co
me on up. Apartment 1202.”

  After riding the elevator to the twelfth floor, she stepped into the hallway, walked to the door, and rang the doorbell. Jay opened the door.

  “You look mah-velous, darling,” he said, his hungry eyes sizing her up from head to toe. “As always!” He felt a surge of desire rush through him. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious.

  “Thank you,” said Satcha. She pulled a green bottle from behind her back. “Look what I brought.”

  “Champagne?”

  “Not just champagne. It’s Dom,” she said.

  Jay made a mock frown. “Darn, I already opened a bottle of wine.”

  “No problem,” said Satcha with an alluring smile. “We’ll have the champagne first, then the wine.”

  Jay apologized profusely for leaving her standing in the hallway. He opened the door wide and motioned her into the apartment. As she breezed past, her body brushed against his chest. He felt a surge of sexual tension. He wondered: Was she feeling it, too?

  “Oh, I love your apartment,” gushed Satcha. “Who decorated it?”

  “This is how it came. Honestly, I didn’t change a thing,” said Jay. He gave her a quick tour of the eighteen-hundred-square-foot unit, pointing out the oak paneling in the library, the Sub-Zero refrigerator, gas range and espresso maker in the kitchen, and the cozy master bedroom with a terrace. “When the president asked me to come to the White House, I told my real estate agent I had to find a place no more than ten minutes from work that was low maintenance. I signed the contract the next day.”

  “It’s wonderful,” she said. “I love it.”

  “Come here. . . . I’ll show you the balcony.” He walked to the kitchen, grabbing two fluted champagne glasses from the bar, and led her outside. As they stepped onto the balcony, they drank in the panoramic view, the White House to their right, the illuminated Capitol dome visible beyond it, the twinkling lights of downtown DC to their left, the National Cathedral, and spires of Georgetown University farther in the distance.

  “Oh, what a view,” said Satcha.

  “It’s nice,” said Jay. He opened the champagne, the cork flying off with a loud pop, and poured the bubbly lovingly into the glasses. He handed Satcha a glass, then lifted his aloft, proposing a toast. “To victory in November . . . for me at the ballot box and you-slash-Univision in the ratings.”