Drummer In the Dark Read Online Free Page B

efficient and never silent. C-Span crooned the political equivalent of Muzak, a constant background drone. The outer office was tightly involved in work he did not know enough to question. Perhaps it was just their way of welcoming him, everyone occupied with something critically important. But Wynn didn’t think so. Their message seemed clear enough; he was an interchangeable cog. No matter who sat in his high-backed leather seat, the business of power would keep rolling along.
    Tension hummed in time to the overhead fluorescents. The office furniture was a hodgepodge of styles and decades. His secretary possessed a tiny alcove behind the reception counter. His chief of staff, a singularly unattractive man with the Florida cracker name of Carter Styles, had the only other private office, attached to the back of the reception area and possessing a much-envied dirty window. The suite’s other room contained five cramped staffers.
    Wynn’s own office was comparatively luxurious. It boasted a rich blue carpet, two paneled walls, built-in glass-fronted display cases, and a less shopworn desk. A burnished state seal hung over the doorway. State and national flags stood to either side of the big windows behind him. From a collection of photographs on the trophy wall, Hutchings brooded worriedly over the governor’s choice of replacement.
    Wynn was examining Hutchings’ expression when the phone rang. He glanced at his watch. Right on time. He saluted the former congressman with the receiver and announced for himself alone, Guilty as charged. “Yes?”
    “Jackson Taylor is on line three.”
    “Who?”
    An incredulous pause. “Mr. Taylor, Congressman. Chairman of the party.”
    “Oh. Right.” No doubt this would become another tidbit to pass around the office. Further evidence of his utter ignorance. “Fine.”
    “And Senator Trilling’s office called again. The third time today. They say it is imperative that you spare the senator fifteen minutes.”
    “Can I fit it in?”
    This was clearly a more appropriate question. “There are no votes scheduled for this afternoon’s session, Congressman.”
    “Book it.” He glanced at the pile of embossed cards by his phone. “Are all these invitations for me?”
    “Yes sir.” A slight lilt came to her voice. “Apparently word is out about your arrival.”
    The pile was a half-inch thick, the engraving expensive, the titles and the places awesome. “Anything I should pay particular attention to here?”
    “The one on top is a reception tonight. To greet the new British ambassador.”
    Certainly better than returning to his empty hotel rooms. “Would you call and say I’ll be there?”
    “Yes sir. And the White House just called. They ask if you could please stop by today at four.”
    “Does this happen every day?”
    “Sir?”
    “Never mind. Line three, did you say?” He punched the button before she could respond. “Bryant.”
    “Wynn Bryant, as I live and breathe. You probably don’t remember me. I’ll bet a boatload of tarpon you don’t have the first tiny idea who you’re talking to.”
    “The only Jackson Taylor I know couldn’t have caught a tarpon with a stick of dynamite and radar. If that Jackson Taylor has landed this job, then it’s time I packed up and went home.”
    “No you don’t, son. No you don’t. We need you too much up here.” A professional’s voice, polished as a putting green. “Can you spare me ten minutes?”
    “You got it.”
    “Have your people point you down here, but leave the dogs at home. Time for a little one-on-one.”
     
    P ARTY HEADQUARTERS held an intensity similar to his own office, the staffers hustling about putting out their own five-alarm fires. Wynn gave his name and was ushered into the chairman’s outer office. He’d scarcely had time to seat himself before a familiar voice said, “Wynn Bryant. I swear, politics makes for some strange bedfellows, don’t she?”
    Jackson Taylor approached with hand