Zeke did the shoring up himself, and Hank Greenbaum watched him closely. By quitting time all the cross-members were in, and the framing was ready for the plywood flooring.
“Good job,” Hank said. “You’re going to be real useful around here. I like the way you use tools.”
“Thanks,” Zeke replied. “What you want me to do tomorrow?”
“Come on up to my office and take a look at some plans,” Hank said.
Zeke followed Greenbaum up to a small room above the platform and watched as he unrolled some architect’s plans. “This wasn’t done by no kid,” he said, looking at them.
“Nope, this was an expert job,” Hank agreed. “These are the plans for the podium. It’s pretty elaborate, as you can see, wide, with raised paneling. It has room for all the telephone and sound-system wiring and the TelePrompTer equipment, and, directly under the podium, there’ll be a closet where all the junction boxes will be located. That way, if there’s a problem during the convention, we can solve it without sending men out onto the platform.”
Zeke nodded. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to another kind of box at the center of the podium.
“The Secret Service is supplying that. It’s basically a three-sided box made of quarter-inch steel plate. It’s accommodated into the design, so that it won’t show, but anybody standing at the microphone will be protected on three sides from gunfire.”
“It doesn’t have a floor,” Zeke pointed out.
“You think it needs one?”
“Nah, only authorized people would be under the podium, anyway, and I’m sure the Secret Service will check it out for bombs more than once.”
“You ever had any experience working with the Secret Service?” Hank asked.
“No, I’m just going by what I read in the papers about how they work. They’ll be all over us like flies.”
“I guess they will,” Hank said. “They’ve already been around to case the place, and they’ve approved the plans for the platform and the podium. I understand you’ve done a lot of installation of cabinetwork.”
“That’s right, I have.”
“Then I’d like you to take whoever you need and assemble and install the podium. It’s due in tomorrow morning from the cabinetmakers. Then, when you’re done, the painters will come in and finish it.”
“What about the electrical work?” Zeke asked.
“That’s being done by an outside contractor.”
“I think it would be a good idea if, after I’ve got the thing installed, I worked with them on running the wiring and siting the junction boxes. I’ve done a lot of that.”
“It’s okay by me,” Hank replied.
“Can I take these drawings home with me tonight and do some planning? Then I can go right to work on the installation as soon as the cabinetwork arrives tomorrow morning.”
“Sure, go ahead, but for God’s sake don’t lose them. That’s my only copy.”
“Don’t you worry,” Zeke said.
That night after supper, Zeke spread the plans out on Rosa’s dining-room table, set up a lamp, and began his work.
“What you doing, baby?” Rosa asked, coming from the kitchen, where she had been washing dishes.
“I’m planning something very important,” he said, pointing at the plans. “Do you know that the man who might be the next president of the United States is going to be standing right there, making a speech? You can watch it on television in a few days.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, it’s going to be pretty exciting,” Zeke said.
41
Freddie Wallace answered the door himself at his Georgetown home. It was late, and his visitor looked both tired and worried. “Come in, my boy,” Freddie said, in his most avuncular manner. “Come in, and have a drink.”
“Thank you, Senator, I could use one,” the man said. He was in his early forties, well dressed, and possessed of the sort of accent that spoke of generations of Ivy League ancestors.
Freddie led the man to his study. “Bourbon?” he asked. “I’ve got some awful good bourbon.”
“Scotch, if you have it,” the man replied.
“I’ve got some awful good scotch, too,” Freddie said. “At least, that’s what I’m told; I never drink the stuff myself.” He poured a double of a single-malt whiskey, dropped in a couple of ice cubes, and offered it to his visitor.
The man accepted the glass gratefully and took a very large gulp of the whiskey.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here at this time of night,” Freddie said, waving the man to a chair before the fireplace and taking one himself.
“Yes,” his guest replied.
“You and I have been helpful to each other in the past, John,” Freddie said, to remind the man of past indiscretions.
The man said nothing.
“I have a feeling you know what I want from you,” Freddie said, and he knew immediately that he had hit the mark.
“I can’t imagine,” the man said stiffly.
“Now, John, you and I both know that, sometimes, a man can be in a position to help his country in ways that are not obvious to the casual onlooker.”
The man gazed forlornly into the fire.
“Just tell me what you want,” he said.
“Tell me about Joe Adams.”
The man winced. “What about him?”
“You see him as often as anybody, except maybe his wife.”
“I suppose.”
“It’s come to my attention that Joe has not been himself of late.”
“He seems fine to me.”
“Really? That doesn’t jibe with my information.”
“What information is that?”
Freddie leaned forward in his chair, as much as his ample gut would allow. “Now, laddie, let’s not play games. I don’t want to make this any more difficult for you than I have to.”
“I’m not playing games,” the man said, “I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your tenure in the White House is coming to an end, John,” Freddie said. “When the new man, whoever he may be, takes over, you’ll be out in the cold, unless you have some sort of inside track to George Kiel or Eft Efton.”
“I don’t,” the man said.
“Well, if you want to continue to rise in this city, you’re going to need the help of people of influence,” Freddie said, “and, especially, protection from those who would, shall we say, make your life more difficult.”
“How would anybody do that?” the man asked.
“Laddie, we’ve all done things in our lives that we’re not proud of. All of us have committed small sins, while others...” He let the sentence trail off.
“I’m sure you’ve read my FBI file, Senator,” the man said testily. “And if you have, then you know that I’ve led a blameless life.”
I’m sure that’s true,” Freddie said, without admitting to having read the file, which he had. “But blame can always be apportioned. Sometimes things get past even the FBI. Not everything is in their files.”
“Senator, do me the courtesy of being direct with me,” the man said. “Tell me what you want, and what you’re threatening me with to get it.”
“John, I have uttered no threat of any kind,” Freddie said soothingly.
“Haven’t you?”
“Certainly not. Let me pose a question to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“If you believed that a threat to the stability of the country existed in the behavior of a high, elected official, would you want to protect your country?”
“Of course I would, but I’m not aware of any such threat.”
“Suppose this high, elected official were ill, and his illness posed a threat?”
“Senator, what are you talking about?”
Freddie was becoming exasperated with the man’s intransigence. “I’m talking about Joe Adams,” he said.