The lobbyist gave him an avuncular smile as he lamented, “Ah, Rob. I love it. How I wish our politics were more compatible. I would hire you in a New York minute.”
Perkins made no comment.
Scott steepled his fingers before his lower lip, allowing Rob to see that his gold cuff links were stamped with something suspiciously reminiscent of the presidential seal. “All right. Since the topic of Irene has already been broached, let’s talk about that. It is hardly my own opinion that Governor Zigman is taking a beating because of FEMA, among other things-deservedly or not. Can we agree on that?”
“I will agree that people have their facts wrong and are blaming us and FEMA for their problems,” Rob said cautiously.
“Ah, ha,” Scott responded, one finger in the air. “Still, that suggests that a little help proffered in that area might be seen as a real advantage.”
“Depending on the ins and outs attached to that help, sure,” Rob agreed. “What are we talking about, exactly?”
“Philosophically?” Scott immediately evaded. “Let’s call it the common man’s readiest complaint: I need money and I want it now.” He laughed at his own wit. “That’s their frustration in a nutshell, is it not? Vermonters think FEMA has the cash, and they want it faster than it’s being produced. Already, the papers are filling with nightmare stories about the size and complexity of the government’s aid applications. All the more poignant with the first twinge of fall in the air.”
Again, Rob kept silent.
“The proposal I’m imagining,” Scott continued, “would result in a noncompetitive, legislatively backed, but privately funded program that would effectively address those delays and the overall cash availability surrounding the present situation.”
Perkins couldn’t resist smiling at the careful phrasing-each word chosen for its apparent precision and its vagueness.
He responded in kind. “Well, of course you know that the governor’s office can’t speak for the legislature.”
Scott laughed artificially, making Rob wonder how it was that so many people fell for this man’s supposed charms. “Oh, come, come, Rob. We Republicans are barely allowed access to that building. Between the Democrats, the Libertarians, and the Progressives, I’m half surprised Gail Zigman hasn’t been proclaimed governor-for-life.”
“And yet she hasn’t been,” Rob said, “which leaves us with an old-fashioned democracy, as clunky as that can be. Which also, by the way, includes FEMA itself. I imagine they’ll be fascinated to hear of this project, and more than happy to withdraw their own money if Vermont comes up with a benevolent billionaire to replace them.” He seemed to ponder the thought of that possibility, and then asked, “Putting that aside for the time being, where are you proposing the money come from?”
Scott raised his eyebrows. “Was Susan Raffner that poor a messenger that she didn’t tell you?”
“I’m just asking for confirmation,” Rob said stiffly, beginning to thoroughly dislike the roundabout, quasi-devious, pie-in-the-sky nature of the conversation. He was feeling himself increasingly among the shoals.
“Who did she say was offering his generosity?” Scott asked innocently.
Rob sighed. “Harold LeMieur.”
Scott spread his hands wide. “Well, then-there you are.”
Perkins frowned. “Are you his official representative with this proposal?”
“I represent Harold on all his affairs in Vermont, and many others elsewhere.”
Rob held up a hand, as if in protest, struggling to remember that he was here on assignment, and not to air his own opinions. “I get that. Look. Don’t get me wrong. We like the sound of this. It would be good for us, reflect well on LeMieur, and help the entire state get past this mess far more quickly-if,” he emphasized, “we’re all very clear on who’s offering what and how. To be perfectly honest, Mr. Scott, there is nothing in Mr. LeMieur’s past that would make me believe he’s being genuine with this offer. It just stretches credibility.”
Scott was nodding sympathetically. “Totally understandable. You merely repeated what I said when I first heard of this, Rob. There is a factor here, however, that you’re unaware of, and I think it may help to change your mind-Harold is not in the best of health.”
Rob’s mouth fell open, as much stunned by the message as by its manipulative undertone-assuming it was true. “He’s dying?” he blurted out.
“He’s not well, and you know how sentimental people can get, especially if they’ve lived a long and full life and feel that they need to give back before it’s too late.”
“You’re telling me that’s what this is?” Rob asked. “A dying man’s guilt trip?”
Scott’s polite smile froze. “That’s a bit harsh. He is my dearest friend. But it may be one way of looking at it, from your perspective. I see it in a more sentimental light-a man lending a hand to his birth state in its time of greatest need.”
Perkins couldn’t sit still anymore, he was feeling so uncomfortable with the various covert possibilities-most of them bad. He rose from the clinging embrace of the large chair and crossed to a window to stare sightlessly out onto the Montpelier traffic below. Sheldon Scott let him take his time quietly.
Eventually, Perkins turned and faced the owner of this elaborate scheme. “Mr. Scott,” he said. “I’ll have to get back to you on this. The ramifications, the logistics, the sheer number of players that would have to sign on to make it happen are staggering, not to mention that the need for money and action is right now-today.”
Scott nodded sagely and seemed to carefully consider what Perkins had said before replying, “Of course you’re right, Rob. I had mentioned all of this to Harold. It does seem as if we may have knocked on the wrong door. Your mention of FEMA’s possible response to this philanthropic gesture makes me think that we should perhaps speak to Vermont’s Washington delegation. They are, after all, right there at the seat of power, even controlling FEMA’s purse strings. This entire matter may in fact be more than a mere governor can address.”
Rob Perkins stared at the man in wonder and horror, fully realizing with that last pitch the true nature of the trap that had begun with Susan Raffner and ended with him. He felt light-headed and slightly nauseated as he heard himself say, “I’ve got to go. We’ll be back in touch soon,” while feeling like a man who’d just told his own firing squad that he would in fact enjoy the short-lived respite of a last cigarette.
Sheldon Scott didn’t protest, nor rise to see him out. Instead, as if by magic-and reeking of prearranged orchestration-the far door opened and the same tailored woman appeared to usher Perkins from the room. As he passed her by, Rob made a conscious effort to memorize her features, suspecting that he’d see her again, most likely as a witness to his having met with her boss in a clandestine, closed-door setting, no doubt to be portrayed in the worst of all lights.
* * *
“Hey,” Joe said into the phone.
Beverly Hillstrom chuckled on the other end-a side of her that he had rarely glimpsed. “Hey, yourself. Are you calling about your two burned special deliveries from Shelburne?”
He let out a laugh, startled by the phrasing. “Not actually. I really just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Ahh,” she let out slowly. “Now, that’s very nice. How are you feeling, Joe?”
“Truthfully?” he replied. “Very happy. The whole state is under three feet of silt, you’re buried in bodies, and I have an asylum escapee wandering loose, an old folks’ home straight out of Agatha Christie, and somebody who’s missing his coffin, but I feel as if something fundamental has just slipped into its proper place. I’d like to thank you for that. How ’bout you? Is that way more than you wanted to hear?”