Drummer In the Dark Read Online Free Page A
the packet and pulled out a series of documents fronted by the contract.
“Ma’am? Excuse me, is this your car?”
She blinked in confusion at the valet standing by the Camaro’s open door. Jackie handed him a bill without even checking the denomination and slipped behind the wheel. Then she read the figure typed onto the contract’s payment line a second time. She looked up at the valet who was waiting to shut her door, and declared, “This can’t be right.”
2
Wednesday
N EWLY ELECTED United States Congressman Wynn Bryant checked his watch. In precisely nine minutes he would be back inside the longest day of his entire life. And it was scarcely one in the afternoon.
Scattered across his desk were the remnants of a sandwich his secretary had brought up, and position papers on fourteen urgent matters that yesterday he had not even known existed. He licked the mayonnaise from his fingers and sifted through the seven he had not yet read. The previous weeks had been a whirlwind of cameras and meetings and people and chatter. Wynn had clocked over three thousand miles and never left the district, always accompanied by a party staffer. Election day had found him too numb to care, even when the local press had declared him just another of the governor’s lackeys with their interchangeable names.
After meeting yesterday with his regional office staff back in Melbourne, Wynn had caught the last flight to National and gone straight to the Willard—according to his travel agent, the best hotel within walking distance of Capitol Hill. It was a grand old place, full of Federalist grace and lofty heights and gilt. As good a place as any to call home for a while.
This morning, his entire Washington staff had been present to greet him. Everyone seemed highly intelligent, motivated, sharp, and far more aware of the business of politics than he would ever be. Even his secretary had a degree from Princeton. After a brief run-through of pending business, much of which Wynn had not understood, a staffer had walked him to the Capitol via the underground tunnel system. While inside the concrete maze, Wynn noted dozens of faces that had the vague familiarity of news flashes. All he could think was, sooner or later he was going to have to ask all nine staffers their names again. The aide had guided him into the House chamber, pointed him to Hutchings’ desk, wished him luck, and departed.
The swearing-in had proceeded swiftly. A few other members had stopped by his desk, shaken his hand, welcomed him to the club. That’s what they called it, or some did. The club. They had all seemed impossibly at home with the place and the proceedings. One had even mentioned how his own desk had once belonged to Samuel Adams. Wynn had seen little beyond the pomp and circumstance and the sea of faces in the visitors’ galleries. He sat and let the process wash over him for an hour or so, then rose to his feet, exchanged nods with the Speaker, and returned to his office overland. He doubted he could even find the tunnels, much less navigate them. Springtime in Washington meant tulips and cherry blossoms, mint-green trees and wind too cold for a supposedly southern city. The flowers were obviously for the tourists. No one else paid them any attention.
He had arrived in his third-floor office to the sound of ringing phones. They never seemed to stop. He had taken nine calls back to back, the last from the state secretary of commerce with regard to an upcoming bill. Wynn had duly taken notes and then lost the page. These had been followed by two subcommittee meetings. Thankfully, nobody seemed to expect him to do more than show up, look through his papers, and shake a few hands. He had returned to his office and demanded time for a solitary lunch. His chief of staff had immediately brought in the stack of position papers for him to peruse. A little light reading to go with his chicken Caesar roll.
Two minutes.
His suite of offices were quietly
“Ma’am? Excuse me, is this your car?”
She blinked in confusion at the valet standing by the Camaro’s open door. Jackie handed him a bill without even checking the denomination and slipped behind the wheel. Then she read the figure typed onto the contract’s payment line a second time. She looked up at the valet who was waiting to shut her door, and declared, “This can’t be right.”
2
Wednesday
N EWLY ELECTED United States Congressman Wynn Bryant checked his watch. In precisely nine minutes he would be back inside the longest day of his entire life. And it was scarcely one in the afternoon.
Scattered across his desk were the remnants of a sandwich his secretary had brought up, and position papers on fourteen urgent matters that yesterday he had not even known existed. He licked the mayonnaise from his fingers and sifted through the seven he had not yet read. The previous weeks had been a whirlwind of cameras and meetings and people and chatter. Wynn had clocked over three thousand miles and never left the district, always accompanied by a party staffer. Election day had found him too numb to care, even when the local press had declared him just another of the governor’s lackeys with their interchangeable names.
After meeting yesterday with his regional office staff back in Melbourne, Wynn had caught the last flight to National and gone straight to the Willard—according to his travel agent, the best hotel within walking distance of Capitol Hill. It was a grand old place, full of Federalist grace and lofty heights and gilt. As good a place as any to call home for a while.
This morning, his entire Washington staff had been present to greet him. Everyone seemed highly intelligent, motivated, sharp, and far more aware of the business of politics than he would ever be. Even his secretary had a degree from Princeton. After a brief run-through of pending business, much of which Wynn had not understood, a staffer had walked him to the Capitol via the underground tunnel system. While inside the concrete maze, Wynn noted dozens of faces that had the vague familiarity of news flashes. All he could think was, sooner or later he was going to have to ask all nine staffers their names again. The aide had guided him into the House chamber, pointed him to Hutchings’ desk, wished him luck, and departed.
The swearing-in had proceeded swiftly. A few other members had stopped by his desk, shaken his hand, welcomed him to the club. That’s what they called it, or some did. The club. They had all seemed impossibly at home with the place and the proceedings. One had even mentioned how his own desk had once belonged to Samuel Adams. Wynn had seen little beyond the pomp and circumstance and the sea of faces in the visitors’ galleries. He sat and let the process wash over him for an hour or so, then rose to his feet, exchanged nods with the Speaker, and returned to his office overland. He doubted he could even find the tunnels, much less navigate them. Springtime in Washington meant tulips and cherry blossoms, mint-green trees and wind too cold for a supposedly southern city. The flowers were obviously for the tourists. No one else paid them any attention.
He had arrived in his third-floor office to the sound of ringing phones. They never seemed to stop. He had taken nine calls back to back, the last from the state secretary of commerce with regard to an upcoming bill. Wynn had duly taken notes and then lost the page. These had been followed by two subcommittee meetings. Thankfully, nobody seemed to expect him to do more than show up, look through his papers, and shake a few hands. He had returned to his office and demanded time for a solitary lunch. His chief of staff had immediately brought in the stack of position papers for him to peruse. A little light reading to go with his chicken Caesar roll.
Two minutes.
His suite of offices were quietly
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