“First, a bit of background,” Kurt said in his clipped military style. “I learned from the limo driver that he’d picked up the patient and his woman companion from the Atlantis resort. Through employee contacts at the resort that I’d been provided by the local police, I found out they are staying in the Poseidon Suite, registered to Carol Manning of Washington, D.C.”
“Carroll Manning?” Spencer questioned. “I never heard of him. Who the devil is he?”
“Carol Manning is a she,” Kurt said. “I had a friend run the name on the mainland. She’s the chief of staff of Senator Ashley Butler. I checked with the Bahamian immigration authorities; Senator Butler arrived on the island yesterday. It is my belief the patient is the senator.”
“Senator Butler! Of course!” Spencer said, while slapping the top of his head. “You know, I thought I recognized him this morning, but I just couldn’t put the face and the name together, at least not with him in that ridiculous tourist outfit.”
“Crap!” Paul swore. He jammed his hands onto his hips and paced in the small area the storeroom afforded. “All this trouble to find out who he is, and he turns out to be a freaking politician. There goes our big payoff.”
“Let’s not be too hasty here,” Spencer said.
“And why the hell not?” Paul said. He stopped and looked at Spencer. “We were counting on the mystery man to be rich and famous. That meant a celebrity like a movie star, a rock star, or sports hero, or at the very least, a prominent CEO. Certainly not a politician!”
“There are politicians and there are politicians,” Spencer said. “What could be important to us is that there’s been considerable talk of Butler running for the ’04 Democratic nomination for President along with everyone else.”
“But politicians don’t have any money,” Paul said. “At least, not any of their own.”
“But they have access to people with a lot of money,” Spencer said. “That’s what’s important, particularly with serious Presidential contenders. When the field of Democratic Presidential hopefuls gets whittled down, which it undoubtedly will, there will be lots of money. If Butler runs, and if he does well in the early going, we could get that monetary windfall yet.”
“That’s a number of big ifs,” Paul said with a wry, disbelieving expression. “But regardless, I’m happy with what we’ve got already. Windfall or not, I got great exposure to HTSR, which we’ll profit from greatly, and that’s in addition to the forty-five K, which isn’t chicken feed. So I’m happy, especially getting Dr. Lowell to sign that statement. He’s not going to be able to deny what he’s done here, and I’m going to push for that article with the Shroud of Turin twist in the NEJM. Publicity will be our big long-term payoff, and for that, a politician is as good or better than any other celebrity.”
“I’ll be getting back to my normal security duties,” Kurt said. He wasn’t going to stand there and listen to the drivel of these two buffoons. He stepped to the door and pulled it open.
“Thanks for getting the name,” Paul said.
“Yeah, thanks,” Spencer added. “We’ll try to forget it took you a month and you had to kill someone in the process.”
Kurt glared back at Spencer for a moment, then he was gone. The automatic closer pulled the door shut.
“That last comment wasn’t fair,” Paul complained.
“I know,” Spencer said, with a wave of dismissal. “I’m trying to be funny.”
“You don’t appreciate his contribution around here.”
“I guess I don’t,” Spencer agreed.
“You will when we get up and running at full capacity. Security is going to be a big issue. Trust me!”
“Maybe so, but for now let’s get back to the implantation, and let’s hope it goes better than it has so far.” Spencer pulled open the door and started out.
“Wait a second,” Paul said, grabbing Spencer’s arm. “Something just occurred to me: Ashley Butler is the senator who has been spearheading the movement to ban Lowell’s HTSR. Now that’s ironic, since he is now going to be the beneficiary!”
“It’s more hypocritical than ironic, if you ask me,” Spencer said. “He and Lowell must have come up with some kind of clandestine deal.”
“That has to be the case, and if it is, it bodes well for our financial windfall, since both would be committed to keeping it a deep, dark secret.”
“I think we’re in the driver’s seat,” Spencer said with a nod. “Now, let’s get back in that OR to make sure there are no more problems, so the implantation actually takes place. It was a damn good thing we were around for that X-ray muddle.”
“We’re going to have to get a portable X-ray machine.”
“Let’s hold off until we get some cash flow, if you don’t mind.”
Spencer hesitated just outside the OR door. He turned back to Paul. “I think it is important we don’t let on about knowing the senator’s true identity.”
“Of course,” Paul said. “That goes without saying.”
twenty-five
11:45 A.M., Sunday, March 24, 2002
For Tony D’Agostino, it was like being caught in a bad dream, unable to wake up, as once again he found himself pulling up to the front of the Castigliano brothers’ plumbing supply store. To make matters worse, it was a cold, rainy late March Sunday morning, and there were a thousand other things he’d prefer to be doing, like having a cappuccino and a cannoli in cozy Café Cosenza on Hanover Street.
After opening the car door, Tony first stuck out his umbrella and got it open. Only then did he climb from the car. But his efforts were to no avail. He still got wet. The wind was whipping the rain around so that it was going every which way. It was even a struggle to hold on to the umbrella to keep it from being yanked out of his hand.
Just inside the door, Tony stomped the moisture off his feet, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and leaned the umbrella up against the wall. As he passed the counter where Gaetano usually worked, he swore under his breath. There was no doubt in his mind that Gaetano was the one who had screwed up yet again, and he had hoped the hulk would be there so he could give him a piece of his mind.
As usual, the door to the inner office was unlocked, and Tony entered after a cursory knock without waiting for a reply. Both the Castiglianos were at their respective desks, the cluttered surfaces of which were illuminated by the matching desk lamps with green glass shades. With the heavy cloud cover, very little light was coming in through the dirty, small-paned windows facing out over the marsh.
The Castiglianos looked up in unison. Sal had been busy making entries into an old-fashioned ledger book from a stack of crinkled notes. Lou was playing solitaire. Unfortunately, Gaetano was nowhere to be seen.
Following the usual ritual, Tony gave each twin a slapping handshake before sitting down on the sofa. He didn’t sit back or even open his coat. He planned on making the visit as short as possible. He cleared his throat. No one had said a word, which was a little strange, especially since he was the one planning to act irritated.
“My mother talked to my sister last night,” Tony began. “I want you people to know I’m confused.”
“Oh, really?” Lou questioned with a touch of scorn. “Welcome to the club!”
Tony looked from one twin to the other. It was suddenly obvious that both the Castiglianos were in as ugly a mood as he, especially with Lou showing the disrespect of immediately going back to his game of solitaire, snapping his cards on the desktop as he played. Tony looked at Sal, and Sal glared back. Sal appeared more sinister than usual, with his gaunt face illuminated from below with sickly green light. He could have been a corpse.
“Why don’t you tell us what you’re confused about?” Sal suggested superciliously.