He voted Republican, with one exception, a college roommate who made a hard run for a New Jersey Senate seat. Jack contributed the legal limit, and even did a little volunteer work in the campaign office. The roommate proved too radical even for New Jersey’s champagne liberals and got shellacked anyway.
The previous year’s tax return had been easily acquired and quickly evaluated by a financial forensics stud. That effort produced the following estimates: minus his real estate holdings, Jack’s net worth nested between fifteen and twenty-five million, probably around twenty; the previous year, his pretax income was six million and change; he invested carefully and conservatively, tucking the bulk of his money in tax-free municipal bonds; aside from his home mortgage, no debts, no child support, no alimony.
In short, after a superficial five-hour peek, Jack was discovered to be moderately wealthy, a wholesome, apparently well-adjusted, red-blooded, healthy American male who drove a three-year-old Lincoln (this was the only surprise; his profile nearly screamed Beemer or Mercedes). He had dated serially his whole life, tapering off a lot the past few years. Why was an open question. A good-looking, wealthy bachelor who had never been married raised obvious questions about his sexual disposition. The evidence, though, simply did not support a man who didn’t enjoy the company of women. Perhaps boredom, or an emotional setback, or plain disinterest accounted for it. Maybe he just enjoyed being single. His four-year fling at Princeton had been his only long-term romance.
If he had a current love interest, nobody knew about her.
Also, he owned a small, quaint cottage on the shore of Lake George; occasionally he spent weekends there, and all his vacations as best they could tell. No Vail, no Aspen, no Hamptons. No hobby ranch out of the middle of Nowhere, Montana, where he raised hobby horses and prattled around in cowboy duds, playing at Roy Rogers on the big range. None of the usual enclaves where the rich and hyperambitious mingled and vied to show off the swankest house, the biggest yacht, the gaudiest toys.
O’Neal was satisfied with the amount of information gathered and deeply concerned about the utter vagueness of it all. A lot of traits and colors that added up to barely a sketch: it remained anything but a painting. The absence of dirt or bad habits was particularly annoying.
O’Neal held out hope, though. After only a few hours of digging, what did they expect? Martie was confident he could find it, given enough time. He had vetted Supreme Court nominees, cabinet members, even a number of senior generals and admirals in need of background clearances. There was always something. Always. Some dark secret. Some hidden fantasy life or regretful sexual escapade, some concealed addiction or crime or loony aunt tucked away in an attic.
If it was there-and Martie O’Neal was sure it was-he would find it.
A terse written summary was sent by messenger and hand-delivered to Mitch Walters.
A scrawled directive from the big man himself shot back an hour later: Spend whatever it takes, do whatever it takes, keep looking.
In other words, find the dirt or concoct it.
At six, the taxi dropped him off, and Jack stepped off at the curb to discover a long, shiny black stretch limo idling, dead center, in his driveway. A rear door flew open and out popped a silver-maned man dressed in an elegant black tuxedo, who eagerly and noisily closed the distance. “Bill Feist,” he barked before he was all over Jack. A crushing handshake accompanied a huge smile: Jack quickly lost count of the backslaps. “Listen,” Feist told him, frowning tightly, “about that thing this morning, we couldn’t be sorrier. An awful embarrassment. Edward Blank, what a horse’s ass. We let him go this afternoon.”
Before Jack could react to that news, the frown flipped into a smile that seemed to stretch from wisdom tooth to wisdom tooth. “So, Jack, what are your plans for the evening?”
“Oh, you know. Slap a little dinner in the microwave. Catch up on the news. Then I thought I’d slip into my office and digest the offers I got today.”
“Time for that later. Hey, you got a tux?”
“Yes, why?”
“Don’t ask, just believe me, you’ll have a ball. I mean, literally, a ball.” A pause and the smile seemed to widen. “Incidentally, the tux has to be black.”
“Forget it, Mr. Feist. I have another meeting in the morning.”
“It’s Bill, and of course you do. Where?”
“In the city, but it’s early,” Jack replied, digging in his heels.
“I’ll have you home by midnight, promise.”
“Look, I appreciate the-”
“Don’t make me beg, Jack. Think of the kids I’m trying to shove through college. Spoiled brats, both of them-if I get sacked, they’ll come home, and my life will turn miserable.” He paused before he whispered, almost an afterthought, “Ever met the president?”
“What president?”
“Good one, Jack. We’re going to the White House. Come on, grab your tux.”
Whatever reservations Jack had felt instantly disappeared. “Give me a minute.” Inside five minutes, he was sinking comfortably into his seat in the rear of the long stretch limo, his tux packed neatly in the trunk, his new friend Bill shoving a scotch with two cubes in his fist. “Glenfiddich on the rocks,” Bill announced with a knowing wink. “Your favorite, right, Jack?”
“You’ve done your homework since this morning,” Jack noted, accepting the drink.
“We got off to a slow start, but we’ll catch up. I’m aware you don’t smoke, but would you care for a cigar?”
“Don’t overdo it, Bill.”
Feist chuckled. Unable to stop himself, he held up a paperback novel; the cover displayed an inhumanly handsome man with engorged muscles wrapped tightly around a lusty-eyed woman. The girl was dressed, or barely dressed, in an impossibly tiny string bikini; the guy wore an even skimpier loincloth. They stood knee-deep in the frothing waves of a white beach, a large orange sun setting gently behind some generic jungle paradise. Ecstasy in the Wild, screamed the luridly suggestive title in large silver letters.
“Read the first ten chapters on the way up,” Bill reported, slapping the cover. “Tammy Albert-lovely girl from the jacket picture. You actually dated her at Princeton?”
Jack took the question in stride. “How was the book?”
“Truthfully?” Bill didn’t wait for a response. “Awful, I mean really pathetic. Women actually read this weepy crap?”
“She can buy and sell both of us. Tammy’s sold over forty million copies.”
“For real?”
Jack smiled. “In college, she dreamed of writing the great American novel. Apparently she changed her mind.” Jack paused. “What’s this about, Mr. Feist?”
“It’s Bill, and forget business tonight. I’m only here to make amends for the morning.”
“Won’t be easy.”
“Didn’t think it would.”
“Well, give it your best shot.”
The large limo swept through the dying remnants of rush hour and nearly sprinted to the airport. Feist handled Jack like a pro; the banter and jokes and scotch never abated for an instant. After ten minutes, Jack was Jack, my boy. After twenty, Jack’s arm was limp from being squeezed and massaged.
Call-me-Bill’s best shot turned out to include a Boeing 747 parked at Teterboro Airport, fueled up, ready to launch. An armada of corporate and private jets was littered about, a convention of shiny Lears and Gulfstreams and Embraers. Beside the 747, the entire lot looked cheap, like a puny third world air force. Large gold letters-THE CAPITOL GROUP-were splashed on the side to be sure everybody knew exactly who to envy.
Bill bounded up the stairs and nearly danced into the expansive cabin, as if he owned the plane. Inside were only eight chairs, a large conference table, an entertainment console with a gigantic flat-screen television, two workstations, and a gleaming oak bar, all surrounded by enough burled wood to make a rain forest blush from envy. Designed to seat hundreds, the plane had been gutted and gentrified with enough luxury appointments to satisfy the wildest fantasies of only eight. “It’s often used for overseas flights,” Bill mentioned, as if any explanation was called for. “CG believes in taking care of its people.”