Chapter 9 – The Conspiracy
Governor Reginald Jackson Montgomery looked like a man who could be president someday: designer hairstyle, golden Florida tan, photogenic blue eyes, blinding white smile, leading man looks, billionaire wardrobe. Reginald could actually trace his family line back to the first governor of Florida, Andrew Jackson—who, himself, had gone on to become president.
Unlike Andrew Jackson, Reginald Jackson Montgomery did not plan to become president. Frankly, it was too much stress and too much danger, with too little fun and way too little privacy. No, Reginald was going to be vice president, which would entail almost as many photo opps, but fewer sleepless nights on the brink of global catastrophes.
There was one way in which Reginald emulated his ancestor, Andrew: they were both foul-mouthed and corrupt. Allegedly corrupt in Reggie’s case, since he had avoided arrest, indictment, or conviction thus far.
Of course, Reginald was not stupid. In this era of sound bites, ubiquitous cameras, and long-range microphones, Reginald kept his bad language private. Andrew had taken no such precautions with his verbiage back in the 19th century, and he had suffered for it. Reginald and his image-advisers had taken that lesson to heart.
Following a prestigious charity luncheon at a swank Tallahassee hotel, Reginald left his security detail outside the men’s room door and, being assured the room was clear, ducked in for a few moments of solitude. He touched up his perfect hair, carefully flicking a few strands so they drooped toward his eyebrow in calculated disarray. He cultivated the image of a hardworking servant of the people, showing the strain of his selfless devotion to duty.
Women who thronged to shake his hand as he left the hotel in a few minutes would have the urge to smooth his hair; he would remind them of an adorable little boy in need of their mothering. His image consultant had coached him specifically on the hair trick, and he enjoyed using it.
The restroom door squeaked just as Reginald was leaning closer to the mirror to examine what surely could not be a gray hair. Reginald turned with rehearsed, regal posture to see who dared to enter. It was the man who had been an uninvited visitor to Shepard Krausse’s living room earlier in the week. Reginald went back to studying his hair in the mirror.
“Make it quick,” the governor said. “I want to get out of the hotel and into my limo before the afternoon thunderstorm opens up on us.”
The henchman’s haircut was imperfect, his teeth were yellow, his suit was off the rack at a men’s clothing warehouse. He didn’t have Paul Newman blue eyes. His eyes were an eerie gray so otherworldly that people were chilled by them and remembered them. Sometimes he didn’t want to be remembered, so he did what he had to do to make it so. “Saw your nephew,” he said.
“What did you think?”
“Impossible to tell. He may have the pictures and he may not. He could be just blowing smoke to keep the late-night radio nuts happy.”
“Is he going to keep on blowing this smoke?” asked the governor, turning from the mirror to look into the gray eyes.
The henchman shrugged.
“Of course he will,” Reginald said. “He was a good kid, but he’s grown up too much like his grandparents: stubborn, self-righteous, and short-sighted. Shep just won’t look at the bigger picture.”
“At least he’s not naming names,” the henchman said. “He’s given enough hints that everybody knows who the builder probably is, but I don’t see anybody pointing fingers at particular government employees.”
“Well, see that they don’t! If anybody even whispers the name of anyone on my staff, you stop it cold. My plans are right on track for that vice presidential nomination, and nothing—no rumor, no scandal, no pictures in the paper—nothing can be allowed to connect me with Shepard Krausse’s conspiracy fairy tale. You make sure of it. I’m paying you well, and I’ll be holding you personally responsible.”
The henchman nodded. “I plan to be proactive. Can’t sit around hoping that old Audubon lady didn’t have the proof she claimed. Could be she passed it along to Krausse and he’s just waiting for the right time to spring it. Big ratings. Local hero. Y’know?”
The governor turned and washed his hands at the sink. He thought while he crossed to the towel dispenser and dried off. “You’re right. I need Shepard to realize there will be serious consequences if he keeps stirring the pot on this bid-fixing thing. Do whatever you have to do to get his attention—just don’t kill anybody this time!”
“How about the dog? Krausse sets a lotta store by that dog,” said the henchman.
“You can do anything you like with that vicious mongrel,” Reginald told him, and the governor left the room.
The henchman would not emerge until the governor’s motorcade had left the hotel.