Jefferson Brody didn’t pay much attention. He was thinking about PACs — political action committees. PACs were a glaring loophole that had survived the latest get-naked-and-honest bloodletting over election reform. Members of Congress could have private war chests with which they could pretty much do as they pleased as long as the money wasn’t spent for direct reelection efforts. So the war chests were for voter-registration efforts, political education of constituents, presidential exploratory efforts, that kind of thing.
The niftiest thing about the noncampaign PACs though, and Brody felt his chest expand as he contemplated the genius of the guy who had thought of this, was that the elected person could put wife, son, daughter, and two or three girlfriends on the PAC payroll, thereby supplementing the family income. He could also use the donated loot to pay his own expenses if those expenses were related, in even a vague, hazy way, to the purposes of the PAC.
Consequently congressional PACs were slush funds, pure and simple. In private the politicians scrambled desperately to avoid the hardship of trying to make ends meet on a salary four times larger than the average American’s, while in public they orated endlessly about all they had done to improve the lot of those said average working stiffs. Harsh and heavy, they told their constituents, were the burdens of public service.
Not that T. Jefferson Brody was put off by the hypocrisy of many politicians — Brody would have recoiled in horror at the mere thought of trying to survive on ninety thousand dollars a year. On the contrary, their greed was a real plus. Some needy soul on Capitol Hill always had a hand out. And T. Jefferson Brody was making a fine living counseling clients to fill those empty palms.
As Miss Tina Jordan returned from the powder room, Brody glanced at his watch. He had a dinner engagement this evening with another senator, Hiram Duquesne, who wanted a campaign contribution. Hiram was one of those lucky dogs who had gotten into office before January 8, 1980, so by law when he retired he could pocket all the campaign contributions he had received over the years and hadn’t spent. Needless to say, with the most recent election only six weeks past and Duquesne once again a winner, he was still soliciting. Luckily FM Development had a campaign contribution PAC to help those pre-1980 incumbents, the Hiram Duquesnes of the world, who wanted their golden years to be truly golden.
Bob Cherry was in that blessed group, too, Brody remembered with a start. No doubt he would have Miss Jordan call him next week and remind him of that fact. Brody had that to look forward to. He glanced again at his watch. He was going to have to get back to the office and transfer some funds before he delivered Duquesne’s check.
Still, he didn’t want to rush Bob Cherry and his piece. He suggested dessert and Cherry accepted. Miss Jordan sipped a cup of cappuccino while the senator ate cheesecake and Brody admired the scenery.
When the luncheon bill came, Brody expertly palmed it. Cherry pretended he hadn’t seen it.
After an hour Henry Charon got up, paid his bill at the truck stop’s restaurant — it was a lot less than Brody had just put on his gold plastic — and went to the gift shop-convenience store. He spent twenty minutes there, then another twenty in the men’s room. By a quarter to three he was once again seated in a booth by the windows in the restaurant. So at five minutes before three p.m. he saw the van pull in and Tassone get out. He stood beside the truck and pulled off a pair of driving gloves while he looked around. He stuck the gloves in his pocket and walked toward the building.
Tassone came into the restaurant right on the hour. He looked around casually and came over to Charon’s booth in the corner.
“Hi.”
“Want some coffee?” Charon muttered.
“Yeah.” When the waitress came over Tassone ordered.
“It’s all there.”
“All of it?”
“Everything.”
Henry Charon nodded and again scanned the parking area.
“So how many people know about this?” Charon asked after Tassone’s coffee came and the waitress departed.
“Well, it took some doing to get what you wanted. Obviously, the people that supplied it know I took delivery. But they aren’t going to be shooting their mouths off. Most of this stuff is hot and they were paid well.”
“Who else?”
“The guy fronting the dough. He knows.”
“And all the people working for him?”
“Don’t make me laugh. He and I know, but nobody else. And believe me, I’m not about to tell you who he is. Another thing, after you get the bread, you won’t see me again. If you’re entitled to any more money under our deal, someone else will deliver it.”
“I don’t want to see you again.”
“You might as well know this too: Tassone ain’t my real name.”
A flicker of a grin crossed Charon’s lips. He watched the other man sip his coffee.
Charon passed a yellow slip of paper across the table. “You’ll need this to get the truck back. Wednesday of next week. At a garage in Philadelphia.” He gave Tassone the address.
“The money? When and where.”
“My place in New Mexico. A week from today. Just you.”
“I understand.” Tassone sighed. “You really think you can do this?”
“Yeah.”
“When? My guy wants to know.”
“When I’m ready. Not before.” Tassone started to speak but Charon continued: “He won’t have to wait too long.”
The truck wore Pennsylvania commercial plates. Charon drove out of the parking area and followed the signs toward I-70 east. The truck was new — only 326 miles on the odometer — and almost full of gas. Charon wore his own driving gloves. Twenty-five miles after leaving Breezewood he crossed into Maryland.
He kept the truck at fifty-five miles per hour where he could. Laboring up the low mountain east of Hagerstown the best he could do was thirty-five in the right-hand lane. Crossing the crest he kept the transmission in third gear to keep the brakes from overheating.
At Frederick he took I-270 toward Washington. Traffic was light and he rolled right along in the right lane.
The storage place he had rented was in northeast Washington. Charon’s worst moment came as he backed the truck between the narrow buildings and nicked the corner of one. He inspected the damage — negligible, thank God — and tried it again. This time he got the truck right up to the open garage door of the storage bin he had rented last week.
The extra key on the ring fit the lock on the back of the truck. Charon unloaded the vehicle carefully but quickly. It wasn’t until he had the garage door down that he stood and took inventory.
Four handguns, rifles, ammo, medical supplies, food, canned water, clothes, and those green boxes with U.S. Army stenciled all over them. Charon opened each box and inspected the contents. He went through all the other items, examining everything.
Thirty minutes later he got into the truck and maneuvered it carefully out of the alley between the storage buildings.
It was going well, he decided. Everything was there, just as it should be. Getting everything done in time and in sequence, that was the difficulty. Still, it was do-able. Now to get this truck to Philly and pick up the car.
Henry Charon grinned as he came off the entrance ramp onto I-95 north. This was going to be his best hunt ever.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jack Yocke was pecking randomly and morosely on his computer keyboard when Ott Mergenthaler walked by, then sat on the edge of the desk as he played with a piece of paper. “I read your story,” Ott said, “on the Jane Wilkens murder over in the Jefferson projects.”