Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 1 Page 8

  “Grew up privileged and never watched Jimmy Cagney movies, that’s why.”

  “My mother knew Mr. Cagney. They would bump into each other now and then on Martha’s Vineyard. He told Mother she could have had a career in film.”

  McGill hadn’t heard that tidbit before. He was tempted to say maybe he’d been thinking of Edward G. Robinson, but for all he knew “Little Caesar” had been Patti’s godfather. At least he’d been right about the privileged childhood. Martha’s Vineyard, la-di-da.

  His family had summered at the Wisconsin Dells.

  As he had many times before, McGill thought he was the luckiest guy in the world.

  “Would you like me to ask if the hospital might roll in a cot for you?” Patti asked.

  “That or a throw rug. I could curl up at the foot of your bed.”

  “The rug might be a possibility. I doubt they have any Milk-Bones, though.”

  Trading quips with Patti Grant was a no-win proposition, McGill knew. So he leaned over his wife and kissed her.

  “I am so fortunate to have you and all the other people I love. At the start of this day, I thought —” McGill’s voice caught in his throat.

  Patti took his hand. “Looks like you’re stuck with all of us a while longer.”

  McGill kissed Patti again. He sat in the chair next to the bed.

  “I’ll spend the night right here. I can see you better that way.”

  The two Secret Service special agents in the room had been studies in looking the other way, but there was no question they’d heard every word that had been said. Patti cleared her throat and they looked at her.

  “If the two of you would please step outside now, I think I can fend off Mr. McGill on my own.”

  The agents said, “Yes, ma’am,” without smiling.

  But they couldn’t hide the mirth in their eyes.

  Once she and McGill were alone, Patti asked, “Do you remember the favor you did for me that night I was in London and you were in Paris?”

  McGill said, “I sang you to sleep. Over the phone.”

  McGill’s mother was a voice teacher, and he’d been an apt student.

  “Bob Seger,” Patti told him.

  “You’ll Accomp’ny Me.”

  “Do you think you could do a light rock medley for me tonight?”

  “Start with Rod Stewart?”

  “You’re the maestro.”

  Patti was asleep and breathing evenly before McGill got to his cover of Dylan’s “Lay Lady Lay.” He started to drift off moments later, counting his blessings. Only one niggling thought disturbed him. He hadn’t seen Sweetie all day.

  Where the heck had she been?

  2

  August 22 – August 31, 2011

  Florida Avenue NW — Washington, D.C.

  Sweetie just couldn’t bring herself to do it in Vegas.

  She had accepted Putnam Shady’s proposal of marriage without hesitation, which was something of a surprise, though maybe it shouldn’t have been. Ordinarily, deciding to make a commitment she held to be sacred and lifelong would have required a lengthy period of careful consideration. Then again, she’d never imagined that any man she might have married would have had a gun pointed at his head the day before he popped the question.

  Not only had Putnam’s life been threatened by Speaker Derek Geiger, Sweetie had been present to see it happen and, along with Jim McGill and Special Agents Kendry and Latz, she had thrown herself on Geiger. Putnam had done his part by losing the will to stand upright and falling to the floor.

  That night she and Putnam had stayed awake at his townhouse, sitting close and holding hands. Sweetie had managed to spend part of that time thinking of Kenny McGill and offering silent prayers that he would recover his health and have a long and fulfilling life.

  Uncharacteristically, though, the majority of her thoughts had focused on herself and Putnam. Geiger, in his final moments, might have killed either of them. Or Jim. Or one of the special agents. Latz had been wounded and rushed to the hospital.

  Sweetie spared the time to pray for his recovery, too.

  The thought of losing Jim McGill had shaken Sweetie to her core. She’d once stepped in front of a bullet meant for him. Jim was the keystone to both his marriage and his family. But unless he was killed outright, Sweetie was sure he would regain his strength and meet his every obligation.

  If she had been killed, though … It was a strange thing to say of a grown man already on his way to becoming wealthy, but she wondered what would have become of Putnam. Not in terms of simple physical sustenance. He wouldn’t miss any meals; he’d likely eat too many. That kind of overindulgence lay at the heart of her concern. Putnam had grown so much in the time she’d known him. He was still shrewd, sophisticated and even conniving, but now he was also levelheaded, dependable and showing signs of developing a moral center.

  She worried all those virtues might slip away without her.

  Attagirl, Margaret, she thought, pat yourself on the back.

  Maybe you could leave just a little room for the rascal in Putnam to survive.

  She wanted it to. He made her laugh. Softened some of her more rigid attitudes.

  His company had made her a better person, too.

  God, the thought that either of them might have been killed was reason to —

  Say, “Yes,” when Putnam asked, “Margaret, will you marry me?”

  But she couldn’t see doing it in Las Vegas. Yes, that was where they could get married without delay, but Sweetie believed that a good start was the most important part of any endeavor. It set the tone for everything that followed. She didn’t want the tone of their lives together to be characterized by casinos, neon marquees and all-you-can-eat buffets.

  Sweetie wanted a natural setting. That was what she told Putnam.

  “Adam and Eve had a garden,” he said. “Welborn Yates and Kira Fahey had a parklike setting. Things can still go amiss.”

  “Yes, they can, but be honest. Be the son of a famous handicapper.” Which Putnam had told Sweetie was exactly what he was. “Would you like the odds of things going better after being married in Las Vegas or somewhere outdoors and pretty?”

  “Outdoors and beautiful,” he said. “No half measures.”

  “All right, beautiful. Can we narrow that down a little? Mountains or seaside?”

  “Seaside and warm.”

  “Big or small wedding?”

  Putnam said, “Small. You, me and the padre — and we frisk the padre.”

  Sweetie smiled. She’d have liked Jim McGill to be present. But you couldn’t invite the president’s henchman without inviting the president, and everywhere Patti went hordes of people went with her. Maybe Putnam would give in and allow a photographer to be present so they could send pictures to people.

  Putnam saw she was thinking things over, and like any good prospective husband he made a preemptive concession.

  “We can always throw a party when we get back to town,” he said.

  “I’d like that,” Margaret told him.

  He took matters one step further.

  “I want to buy you an engagement ring, right away.”

  “I’d like that, too. Should we wait for the stores to open or go window shopping now?”

  The sun was just coming up.

  “Let’s have breakfast first,” Putnam said. “I’ll cook.”

  Sweetie nodded. He was far better in the kitchen … and the bedroom. She had the edge in the gym and on the street. They both had a lot to learn.

  She said, “But let’s settle on a location first. Somewhere warm near the water. California or Hawaii? The Caribbean?”

  Putnam shook his head. “We met, got to know each other and fell in love right here on Florida Avenue. Why not go with what’s worked so far?”

  “I like that,” Sweetie said.

  They discussed a number of places in Florida and settled on Key West.

  Third Street — Bloomington, Indiana

&n
bsp; Sheryl Kimbrough was driving to her new job at Indiana University when her phone rang. She’d been hired to teach the lessons outlined in her book Cutting Through the Bull-Puckey: Reporting Political News in the Age of Double-talk. That Monday was the first day of classes. She pulled her car to the curb on East Third Street two blocks from campus.

  Sheryl had taken her bachelor and master degrees from IU in journalism and political science respectively. She figured she’d done the equivalent of earning a doctorate by putting in ten years as the press secretary to the state’s retiring senior United States senator, Charles Talbert.

  A careful woman, she never carried on a phone conversation while driving.

  Nine times out of ten, she simply let voicemail take the call.

  Last night, however, Tal, as precious few were allowed to call the senator, had phoned to tell her to expect an important call from Neal Drummond, the chairman of the state’s Republican Central Committee. Tal hadn’t told her what Drummond wanted, but if he or any of his friends was looking for a press secretary, they would hear a polite but unshakable no thank you.

  Sheryl was looking forward to starting a new life in academia. She liked the idea of teaching. Yes, she’d heard there were no politics pettier than those of a university, but having spent a decade in Washington, she refused to believe that. She looked forward to dealing with bright young minds that had yet to be calcified by ideology and greed.

  If she could help create just one great journalist, one great statesman or woman and one great bar owner — because, after all, in Washington, you had to have a place to unwind — her labors would not be in vain.

  Nah, she never went for that doing just one of something stuff.

  She wanted to send swarms of young people to D.C. to knock the place on its ass.

  Not that she’d expressed that opinion during her job interview.

  She answered the call, “Chairman Drummond, a pleasure to speak with you, sir.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, Sheryl,” the chairman’s gruff country voice told her. “How’re you and that sweet girl of yours?”

  “I’m fine, sir, and Cassidy makes me more proud of her every day. Senator Talbert told me to expect your call. What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me how you’d like to elect the next president of the United States.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Senator Talbert thinks highly of you, Sheryl. He put your name in nomination to be a Republican elector. The central committee took a look at your CV and liked what we saw. I imagine when we take a formal vote, we’ll respect the senator’s wish. All you have to do is say yes. Then you’ll not only be a teacher at IU, it won’t be long before you’re a member of the Electoral College.”

  Sheryl Kimbrough was overwhelmed. She never expected to have such an honor. She felt tears well up in her eyes. Wouldn’t that be something to tell Cassidy? To tell her students, if she could get to class on time.

  “You there, Sheryl?” Drummond asked.

  “I am, sir,” she said, her voice husky, “and I’d be honored to be an elector.”

  “I know just how you feel. I’ll be an elector for the fourth time this year, and every time it’s a thrill. We are the people who actually elect the president. Hoo-wee, that’s a feeling you don’t forget. Well, I know you’ve got honest work to do now, so I’ll just say we’ll be sending you all the information you need to know. But if any old question comes to mind, you give me a call.”

  “I will, sir, and thank you very much.”

  Sheryl took a deep breath and pulled back into the flow of traffic.

  Just before her phone rang again.

  This time, she let it go to voicemail.

  Hart Senate Office Building — Washington, D.C.

  Senators John Wexford and Richard Bergen, the Democratic majority leader and his assistant, and representatives Marlene Berman and Diego Paz, the Democratic minority leader and her assistant, sat at the conference table in Wexford’s office suite. Paz had the floor.

  “My wife has a friend who works at GWU Hospital,” he said.

  “Mrs. Paz is a retired nurse and now works for the American Nurses Association,” Representative Berman added.

  “That’s right,” Paz said, “and her friend Barbara Marcos was part of the medical team treating Kenny McGill.”

  “How’s he doing?” Senator Bergen asked.

  Paz said, “Good. It’s still early, but it looks like he’ll be okay.”

  Wexford nodded, glad to hear good news.

  “Anyway,” Paz said, “Barbara Marcos confided something to Yolanda that she really shouldn’t have; Yolanda told me, and she shouldn’t have.”

  “Now, you’re going to tell us,” Wexford said.

  “Yeah, but if it goes any farther, there’s going to be a special election for my seat because Yolanda is going to have my ass,” Paz said.

  “Lucky for you we can’t afford to lose anyone in the House,” Bergen joked.

  The minority party could never afford to lose a seat.

  Berman told the assistant leader, “Don’t keep the senators in suspense, Diego.”

  “You guys ever hear of something called mitral valve prolapse?” he asked. “No? Well, Patti Grant experienced it while under anesthesia at GWU Hospital for her bone marrow donation. There was a possibility she might have had a stroke or even died.”

  Wexford said, “Jesus!”

  Bergen saw the subtext. “Wait a minute, Diego. You said Kenny McGill is doing okay. Do you mean that when the president experienced this condition the doctors still let her go through with the donation?”

  “Jim McGill’s call. Word is, he had to choose: risk the president or watch his boy die.”

  Both senators shuddered. Paz and Berman had, too, when first they heard of it.

  The minority leader turned the focus back to politics.

  She said, “The question is, gentlemen, what do we do now? We’re not supposed to have this information, but we do. Do we back away from making Patricia Darden Grant our party’s nominee to be president? Do we take a chance with her and hope she doesn’t suffer a stroke or worse? Do we go through a normal primary election process? Do we kick ourselves if the president runs as the head of a new party and whips both us and the Republicans?”

  Wexford looked bleakly at Paz.

  “Diego, tell your wife she really has to keep these things to herself.”

  The White House Residence

  Patricia Darden Grant was released from the hospital on the second day following her bone marrow donation to Kenny McGill only because a team of heart specialists would be on hand at the White House to keep resident physician Artemus Nicolaides company. Short of major surgery, they would be able to provide any sort of medical attention the president might need on site. If the situation rose to the point where hospitalization was required, well, the good woman had her own helicopter and a Marine flight crew parked out back.

  Having made sure that Kenny was continuing to recuperate, and promising his son that he would visit him again later that day, James J. McGill accompanied his wife to the residence. The fact that the First Couple wasn’t in a working area of the White House didn’t stop people from wanting some of their time.

  Acting President Wyman asked if he might have some of Patti’s time, if she felt up to receiving him, so he might tell her the details of the successful raid at Salvation’s Path. Chief of Staff Galia Mindel also said she had important news to share with the president. Galia assumed if Patti was back in the building she was ready to talk. Special Agent Elspeth Kendry urgently requested a meeting with McGill.

  All the above had been relayed through Nick. The White House physician shook his head.

  “Madam President, I must insist that you rest — preferably sleep — for an hour before seeing anyone, and then limit yourself to thirty minutes of discussion.”

  Patti looked to McGill for a second opinion.

  He backed up Nick.

 
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll be good. For now.”

  “I’m cleared to see Special Agent Kendry?” McGill asked Nick.

  “Of course, but if I might see you privately for a moment …”

  McGill nodded, uneasy now that Nick might have some disquieting information about Kenny. He tried to push the fear aside as he accompanied Patti to their bedroom, waited for her to change into pink cotton pajamas and get in bed. He pulled the covers up for her.

  “You’ll tell me whatever it is Nick has to say to you?” she asked.

  “What, you want me to break doctor-patient confidentiality?”

  “You’re not his patient, I am.”

  “That’s why you’re president; just can’t slip anything past you.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’ll tell you.” He confirmed his promise with a kiss.

  “I am kind of tired,” Patti said.

  “You want a song?”

  “We have to be careful about that. It could be habit forming.”

  She settled for another kiss. McGill dimmed the lights and left.

  Looking back from the doorway, he saw Patti was already asleep.

  He found Nick waiting in the hallway. The White House physician asked, “The president is sleeping peacefully?”

  “She is.”

  “Has she shared any complaints with you? Discomfort or pain, particularly in the area of her chest?”

  “No, none of that.”

  “Would you tell me if she had, if she asked you not to?”

  McGill said, “Anything you have a need to know, Nick, I’ll make sure you do. Is there anything else?”

  “Two things. You’re due for your annual physical soon.”

  In the past, McGill had not always been prompt about attending to that obligation. Now, with both Patti and Kenny on the mend, he thought he’d better not give anyone cause to fret over him.

  “I’ll set up a date soon, and keep it.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m not looking pale, am I?” It was an old joke between the two of them.