A Revolutionary Romance

A Revolutionary Romance By Melody Clark Published by Melody Clark at Smashwords Copyright 2011 Melody Clark Editors: Annie Booker, Lyn Townsend Cover by Melarry Graphics

Discover other titles by Melody Clark at http://melodyclark.net

Chapter One

"Mr. Thomas Jefferson, as I live and breathe," the cabbage rose organza-clad Asian man said to his long-time employer. The employer entered his office for the first time that morning and shined at the Asian man, his secretary, a genuine if patient smile. "Please, Lee, just Tom Jefferson ... I have exaggerated enough expectations, thanks to the press." He moved across to hover a moment by the other man's desk. "So how is my morning to unfold?" Lee handed Jefferson his morning messages. "Here is the paper trail, as you requested. I’ve also emailed it all to your PDA, my liege. You have a press conference on the Senate steps and then a meeting with Senator Paulson." Tom smiled a little to himself at the morning's prospects. He pouted a little at the messages in his hand. "No word yet from the Founders Committee?"

"No, nothing. And since you mentioned it, mind if I ask what that thing is anyway? You're certainly all worked up about it." "It is only the most prestigious social group in Washington,” T.J. said. “They're all direct descendants of the US founding fathers. You have to have a lot of friends inside the organization to get in, even with the right family tree.” “Sounds like a bunch of boring dumbasses to me,” Lee said. “Let’s face it, you only want in because Jack’s in there.” Tom nodded a little. “Yes, and there’s something to be said for acceptance as well. Jack wrote an introductory letter for me. I'm a little nervous for an answer." "Aw, come on, a popular new Senator like you? If they let in the Beltway's top sparring partner, Jack Paulson, then you're a shoo-in. I mean, how many inside friends can he have?" Tom tilted a cautionary eyebrow in Lee’s direction. "You were saying what about my dear friend?" "Oh, I'm sorry but even you must admit he's never going to win Mister Congeniality on the Hill. So I mean, you know, they'll have to like you." Tom laughed, glancing dully through his messages again, as if he might have missed something. "It isn't that simple, I'm afraid. My ancestor was President Jefferson’s French love child, you see, and I myself was born and raised in England, so all of that together -- " “-- doesn't matter a whit beside the real issue which is that you're a big old queer," Lee said. Jefferson nodded. "Probably. Jack says I'm crazy to care about it at all, but it would sort of be a formal acceptance into the larger family of the American Revolution. The first revolution, I mean, not the ongoing one. Speaking of which, did you hear that insane fascist bastard this morning?" "How could I not? He ran his mouth on TV all this morning about how the Bill of Rights is Marxist propaganda. I thought our old King George was a fascist. This one makes him look like Mr. Rogers." "On that note, I'd better go feed the press. You'll want to pencil in for tomorrow that Senator Paulson and I will be driving in a bit early for the Independence Hall re-dedication." Lee flipped open his laptop, hitting a key for the right screen. "I still can't believe the monuments people actually invited him." T.J. lowered his voice a little. "This is solely between you and me, but they didn't invite him. I'm inviting him. If I don't, I'll have to hear for days on end about how my ancestor's more beloved than his ancestor." "So that's the real reason for the pricey threads ... a road trip with Jack," Lee said, grinning wisely as he pointed at the other man's clothes. "I thought the Armani was for the unveiling." "It is. I'm gussied up for the press, as they say among my constituents."

"Then why are you wearing it today, my captain?" Lee asked, raising an eyebrow. "For the same reason. The press. Remember, the p-conference?" "Bull. You wore Harvard sweats to your last p-conference,” Lee said, thumping a finger at his boss’ chest. “You bought the suit for tomorrow for Jack and you wore it today in case he doesn't go tomorrow. I just hope for your sake he notices this time." Tom shook his head a little tiredly as he peeled open his office door again. He let himself smile a little. "If he did notice it, he'd die in agony before he admitted it." Lee evoked an audible sigh as an overt reply then tapped his Gigantor the Space Age robot wristwatch. "And speaking of dying in agony, my captain, your journalistic firing squad awaits.”

He always stopped along the Potomac to jog in place just long enough to give the finger at the Jefferson monument before he journeyed on. His destination was an amphitheater-shaped pit of despair, wholly of stone and of an iron color, also known as Dante's fourth level of hell and sometimes, the US Senate building. The Beatles blasting into his ears, he ran up the steps to the Senate, past the gaggle of reporters with their lollipop mikes all aimed in the direction of the media’s latest Senate darling – the new gentleman from Virginia. The darling’s attention darted for a moment in his direction before the Virginian tossed him a regretful smile – a smile Jack briefly met with a more grudging one of his own. He had trod all the way to the top of the steps before one of the reporters on a live feed recognized him. She said loud enough to be heard, “Massachusetts Senator Jack Adams Paulson has just jogged past us, perhaps we can get his opinion on Senator Jefferson’s domestic partnership legislation -- ” And Jack replied by pointing at his ear buds, shrugging his shoulders and making a mad dash through the doors to relative safety. His office lay on the shallow end of chaos, which usually made for a quiet morning. His secretary, Taneesha, looked like one very unhappy young black lady, waiting for him at his lobby office door. She waved the messages in her hand while stabbing a long acrylic nail at the muted overhead TV. “I know it’s awful to say, but I swear I hate Republicans. Did you hear what that pickle-faced, two-bit one-trick-pony dictator of ours said this morning?" “First of all, you don’t hate Republicans, you just hate idiots. But yeah, I wish we had a nonidiot in office right now.” Jack pulled the buds from his ears as he slowed down to a circling walk to keep leg cramps at bay. He grabbed his messages from her hand. "What do we expect? Nobody with more than a quarter-inch of forehead voted for him." "Well, I'd like to kick his tiny ass from here to Katmandu."

Jack pointed to his Revolution t-shirt and gave her a one fist salute. "Sing it, sister." "I swear, I gotta get me that t-shirt. It’s so -- " "Senator Paulson!" rang out a reedy little voice he knew too well, from the inner direction of his office. On the other end of the voice stood one of those well-dressed social barnacles who forever set his teeth on edge. There hovered Ms. Anna-Beth Franklin from the Founders Renaissance Committee – a group of pretentious busybodies who used their incidental descent from a founding father to curry social favors on the Hill. “Good morning, Ms. Franklin,” he called out as if accepting the terms of his surrender. “Wonderful to see you, as always, but I'm sorry to say I have a monstrously busy morning ... don't I, Taneesha?" His secretary nodded avidly. "He does. Busy. Monstrously so." "I swear I won't have but a few minutes of your time," the lady barnacle said. “It's about Senator Jefferson's membership application. I felt I should come to you directly ... as you are his sponsor advocate to the Committee." Jack groaned softly, pinching at the space between his already tired eyes. He nodded. "Five minutes," he said, motioning her to follow him through the door to his private office. He yanked a bottle of water from his office fridge. Uncapping it, he drank from the bottle while he slumped backward into his desk chair. "So, enlighten me. What's all this about?” Ms. Franklin gestured with a little primal despair. "The Senator is ... a friend of yours, is he not?" "Most of the time. Why? Is there some problem with T.J.'s candidacy?" "There are ...” she said, gesturing once more, as if beyond words in a land where she barely knew the language. "There are a few issues I'd like to address with you confidentially, as his host to the committee." "Such as?" “Well … for one thing, it's my understanding that his real last name isn’t even Jefferson." “No, it’s Thomas Jefferson Delaney, Jefferson is his middle name. He changed it for political showbiz purposes. Why does that matter? My last name is Paulson but I’m still an Adams.” “Of course,” Ms. Franklin said, emphasizing the words. “But you must see how this namechange might suggest, well, that the Senator is trying to trade publicly on his ancestry.” “Ms. Franklin,” he said, trying to laugh only politely, “you are the head of a whole organization of people who trade publicly on their ancestry. You have your Benjamin Franklin family tree on your personal letterhead, for heaven sakes. Anyway, it’s Tom’s ancestry to trade on, isn’t it? I know that he submitted ludicrously exhaustive proof of his family heritage. And I know he had to pony up the blood and bucks for the background study like the rest of us did.”

“Yes, of course. It’s just --” She gestured toward a chair. “May I sit?” He shrugged. “Believe it or not, that is what the chairs are for.” She primly poised herself at the end of one of the plusher seats. “In your case, Senator Paulson, you have a direct line of unbroken descent from President John Adams, as clearly witnessed by public records. Your mother's family has a long and meritorious history of public service.” “My father's family, on the other hand, had a long history of driving trucks. Semis. Eighteen wheelers. Driven by sweaty, hairy men who can barely spell. My mother, the Adams, was a schoolteacher. I went to UMass as an undergrad. T.J. attended Oxford before he transferred to Harvard, for christsakes. And he has a very respectable record of public service too. Plus his family has a direct line from President Jefferson’s son just like I have one from John Adams' son. What's the difference?” She looked around Jack's office, as if uncomfortable in the company of her own thoughts. “Yes, but ... his ancestor was a son ... born out of .... wedlock." Struck silent for only a moment, he shook his head hard and moved forward in his chair. "Ms. Franklin, it seems you haven’t heard the bad news. I regret to inform you that Queen Victoria is dead. Born out of wedlock? And pardon me for further pointing out the facts of life to you, but when Ben Franklin called his son, the Royal Governor, a little bastard, he wasn't just speaking pejoratively." She pulled a sour face. "Senator Paulson, please understand. It's merely harder to make a case to the board -- " “T.J.'s ancestry is backed up by abundant genealogical records and Jefferson’s own letters to Paris. He accepted absolute paternity of T.J.'s ancestor." “Let this be very clear, my reservations about his candidacy are not based upon legitimacy. I am satisfied that he is an actual direct descendant of Thomas Jefferson’s. It’s just that I must think of the reputation of the Founders Committee. And my own reputation in making this recommendation. If it was merely one thing ... " Jack pressed a hand against something hot and bristling behind his eyes. “Ms. Franklin, I have known T.J. Delaney … pardon me, Tom Jefferson … since Harvard law. T.J. is very much in line with your organization’s aims and beliefs. One hell of a lot more than I am. I didn't even want to write the stupid introductory letter for him until he badgered me incessantly for it.” “Again, his philosophical fitness isn’t our issue,” she said. “Then what could possibly be the problem? That he’s English? He became a citizen at sixteen. Beneath the posh accent, he’s a freaking Yankee Doodle Dandy. He has a floor-to-ceiling wall poster of Independence Hall in his office. I have long suspected he’s had an inappropriate relationship with it.” Jack drank more water before screwing the lid back on the bottle and tossing it in the desk drawer with a week’s worth of unfinished water bottles. “So why don’t we discuss the real problem you have with him?” “All right, if we are to be honest," she said, nodding.

"I am troubled by his more … militant

social positions." “You mean the militant social position that he occasionally has sex with other men?” Jack smirked to himself as a moment of prissy discomfiture rippled through her sniffy countenance. Ms. Franklin lowered her voice. “Of course not! I am not a homophobe. But members of the Foundation have raised concerns about this … latest legislation of his.” “Then members of the Foundation had better wake up and smell the 21st century. Thomas Jefferson Delaney, by whatever name, is a brilliant attorney and splendid senator. He and I may have had our personal differences in the past, but I assure you that he’s a great asset to your organization, not a liability.” Ms. Franklin exhaled. “Senator Paulson, can you honestly say you support this domestic partnership legislation?” "Of course not." "Then you see our problem --” "Oh, I’ve always seen your problem. My problem is his bill doesn't go nearly far enough. While you were reading through the public record, you might have leafed through my own legislative history prior to this little suck-up session we’re having. As the name should make clear, I cosponsored the Moyers-Paulson bill. T.J.'s dom partner bill is a thin, wimpy, politically truckling shadow of that one." “But Senator, you’re thought of as a moderate,” she said. “Yes, and I think it’s very immoderate to say nothing of inherently un-American to give special rights to my own people while denying them to others. We're a nation of laws, Ms. Franklin, not religion. In a Republic, the government only exists to protect the minority from the simple minded beliefs of the mob." Her mouth twisted with a touch of bitterness. "Let's hear you say that in the Senate." "Who are you talking to? I already have. Twice, in fact." Jack groaned, pulled open his top desk drawer and dragged out his checkbook. He snatched up a pen. "All right, let's get down to the nitty-gritty. How much?" "Excuse me?" "How much? To buy T.J.'s way into the Promised Land. You must need something. A new plasma TV for the imperial tea room, a nice expensive rug woven by impoverished, half-blind Chinese artisans. Something. Give me a number." "Senator Paulson, really! Our organization has a long history of high selectivity of membership. We admit only true and honorable descendants of our American founding fathers. Membership cannot be purchased at any price," she said. "However, should you want to make a donation, which is not a surety, I promise you, we could use a plasma TV for our social office."

"Fine, this should cover it nicely," he said, scrawling out a check, tearing it free and handing it over. "Consider this a donation. It's a write-off for me and it'll secure some ... oh, let's call it benign myopia in assessing T.J.'s application. Frankly, I'd just as soon you turned him down. I wouldn't belong to your group myself if you guys hadn’t gone to my wife to have her talk me into it.” “I didn’t realize you had a negative feeling toward the Founders Committee,” she said. “I don’t have a problem with the Committee itself,” Jack said. “I have a problem with the prissy, right-wing fascists who often populate it. Present company accepted, of course. But T.J. wants in really badly, for some inane reason. On the other hand, if you don't accept T.J., you can consider this my official resignation. Since I am one of the few Ancestral Founders Committee members still in any kind of elected office, you may want to think carefully over your decisions." “Don't be silly, of course there's no real problem,” she said, standing while she laughed with the sound of a bag of nervous cats. She stowed the check in her handbag. “I merely wanted to make my concerns known. I will inform Mr. Jefferson of his acceptance later today.” She moved a little to the door, as if reluctant to part company with the chill in the air between them. “I hope you’ll give my very best to Mrs. Paulson.” Jack picked up the first pile of the usual morning chaos from his desk. “As much as I'd love to, I can't. You need to catch up with your tea-pouring social chinwag, Ms. Franklin. My wife died well over a year ago.” “Oh," she said sharply. An uneasy silence passed between them. "I’m so – " “Sorry. I know. You’re sorry. We’re all sorry. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I have an appointment coming through the door right now." “Of course,” she said gently, turning to walk through his office door and out into the public office only to have her path crossed by a sprightly stepping Tom Jefferson coming through Jack's lobby door. “Ms. Franklin, delightful to see you again,” he said, smiling. “Senator Jefferson,” she said, extending her gloved talons, “it's my great pleasure and honor to welcome you to the Founders Committee.” And so they babbled mercilessly on beyond his range of hearing because, wanting to prevent nausea, Jack had returned to his desk to shuffle through the morning flotsam before the previous English voice made its way to his office door. “I can't believe it! Did you hear? I’m in!” Thomas said/ “Yes, I’ve heard, believe me,” Jack said dourly. “Now come in and close the door before that arrogant, uptight old biddy comes back in here. Enjoy your little Mr. Smith moment on the Senate steps?” “Did I look like I was?”

“Some of us wouldn't know. Some of us have to go through six years in Congress before we can graduate to the Senate. Some of us go Hollywood, serve one term in Congress, take the Senate in a year, and end up giving Mr. Smith epistles on the Senate steps." T.J. smiled playfully. “Don’t be jealous, Jack.” “I’m not jealous, T.J., I’m resentful. There’s a difference. Now, why have you chosen to go slumming in the office of a political capital-poor Senator who barely squeaked by his election when your rainbow flag waving acolytes are waiting for you in the streets below?” Jefferson grinned. “I’ve come bearing an invitation. The monument people want us both to unveil the refurbishments to Independence Hall. They asked that I bring the idea to you personally." Jack squinted with a thousand suspicions. "I can certainly see why. I mean, just last month you unveiled the redo of the Jefferson monument too. I suppose my invitation to unveil the Adams monument should be coming soon. Oh, no, wait, that’s right, President John Adams doesn’t have a national monument, does he?” Jefferson laughed and shook his head. “Christ, here we go again.” Jack squinted on, smirking with even great misgivings. “Yes, President John Adams, founding father, member of the continental congress, signer of the Declaration of Independence, first US Vice-President, and second US President doesn’t have a national monument. I keep forgetting, just like they do. So why would they remember me now? And why not come themselves?" "Perhaps it's setting a new trend. You certainly rag on them about it often enough. As for me being here in their place, well, for some unfathomable reason, it seems they’re afraid of you.” Jack shook his head, flipped open his laptop and hit the spacebar for the screen. He struck the keys for his business schedule. “Knowing you, you've already checked with Taneesha. You will already know that my schedule is free for whenever this is to take place --” T.J. grinned more widely. “Tomorrow at 2 PM. And yes, I've already asked." Jack shut his laptop. “Plenty of advance notice, I see. Very well, as I have sunk one paw in the tar pit of destiny already, I'll just surrender. Shall we drive in together or did you plan to have your leather-wearing minion hand-carry you triumphantly through the streets of Philadelphia?” “That’s a little ostentatious, don’t you think, Jackie? Let’s drive in together. Looks green, saves gas. I should warn you, Senator Paulson, as we'll be alone for some time on the road together, you’re really quite adorable when you’re sarcastic.” “As my late wife would assure you, I am always adorable. Tomorrow at nine say?” “Nine-thirty.” “That's right, I forgot all about your beauty sleep.”

So the plan had been for Jack to jog up 14th Street to Constitution instead of his usual path down Independence Avenue. That change would nail another few minutes onto his daily pace to safely and plausibly make him reach the Senate by 9:45 am. This would make for a thoroughly innocent, or arguably so, degree of lateness which would force T.J. to leave DC without him. Even if T.J. waited, Jack would have the excuse of needing to change into his suit and then he would still be pardoned with an acceptable reason for absence. And he’d evade another hideous public appearance. Thank. God. But it seemed that T.J.'s counter-insurgency plan had been to drive up Independence to Constitution to see which route Jack took. At roughly 9:20 am, Jack heard the hideously annoying meep of Tom’s hybrid horn as the car pulled up at his side. “Lucky I found you!” Tom called over, popping open the door. Jack slowed his pace to a momentary plod. He stopped in his tracks, undisturbed by the threat of leg cramps while in the face of this gently looming hell. “Yes … lucky …” he said, his words chugging out with each breath. He pulled his neck towel around to dab at his face. He remembered and gestured down at his sweats. “Too bad I don't have time to change though.” “Yes, you do. I nicked a suit from the spares in your office closet. We’ll dodge by the truck stop off Manhattan on our way out of town. You can shower and change there.” He popped open the door. “Come on, be a man, stop pouting, get in.” Jack firmly exhaled, closing his eyes. He shook his head, resigned to his fate and climbed into the car. He settled into the seat and yanked on the seat belt to connect it. “At least turn on the air conditioning, would you?” Tom buzzed down Jack's window instead. “Air conditioning is bad for you.” “Worse for me than DC air? Get real!” “Yes, worse for you. Now shut up and stop moping. You agreed to this so act like a grown-up and deal with it.” “Yes, Marmee." “Who the hell is Marmee?” “The mother in Little Women, of course,” Jack said, scowling. “You’ve never read Little Women?” “Funnily enough, I don’t read books for little girls,” T.J said with a smirk. “Little Women is a fine piece of American literature. Anyway, I read everything when I was a kid. I'm secure enough in my masculinity to admit it.”

Tom grinned to himself again. "You really thought you'd get away with that, I suppose?" “With reading Little Women?” “No, with that nakedly puerile attempt to avoid going to this unveiling with me.” Jack shrugged, glaring at him sullenly before turning his face toward the window. "I had hope. I don't suppose I could persuade you to let me grab a motel room for an hour rather than force me to shower at a truck stop." "Not enough time. Thanks to you. You're the son of a truck driver. You'll manage."

The truck stop sat atop a kind of earth-built belvedere which provided a nice view of the interstate and Virginia in one direction. The lot was semi-crowded, quite literally, with every imaginable make of truck. It was early on a workday. Thankfully, there wouldn't be a line. Tom cracked open his newspaper and, without once looking up, gestured to the door. "Remember the suit. And your shaving kit." "Yes, Marmee," Jack shot back and leaned over to snag the black suit and accoutrements with which Tom had so thoughtfully accommodated him. He popped open the door and dragged himself and the suit toward a sign that read "Manhattan Tower Truck Stop -- SHOWERS THAT WAY". Jack had seen the good and decent man who was his father drag in, dirty and dragon-eyed, off enough long haul routes that Jack was not in the least afraid of the majority of dirty, dragon-eyed people who turned to look at him as he made his way to the shower. A couple of them smiled wanly in recognition of him. Probably vaguely recognizing him from CNN or CSPAN, he decided. He smiled. He nodded. He just wanted to curl up and die. The coin-op shower thankfully took paper dollars. He shoved one in, went inside and did everything he had to in as brief a time as humanly possible. Finally, he stepped into the locking dressing room to throw on his city duds.

As he walked up toward Tom's car, the trunk popped open with a hush. The implication was clear. Jack stored his sweats there and slammed the trunk closed. "You're insufferable," Jack said, climbing in and yanking down his seat belt again.

"Thank you," Tom said. "By the way, you always look smashing in that." Jack leaned back a little, staring over at his friend in near amazement. "Good lord, was that an actual compliment?" "One should give the devil his due, I always say." He buzzed up the window then leaned over to click on a dashboard switch. "And now that we've deodorized you, we can switch on the AC."

"Will you look at it?" T.J. murmured as they pulled into Independence Mall's special guest parking area. He hung halfway out the window while he steered them into the lot. He beamed his usual Independence Hall smile. "Isn't it magnificent?" "They painted wood and fixed floors, T.J., they didn't bedeck it in sapphires and saffron. Anyway, can we please temper your Independence Hall orgiastic glee just a little so you don't completely embarrass the crap out of me this time?" Jefferson shut his eyes and breathed it all in. "You can just smell the history." "Actually, I think that's the trash dumpster across the street," Jack said though his friend hadn't heard him. Thomas had sprung from the car already and started walking quickly in the building's direction. The front of the building wore a big red, white and blue plastic shroud that would have looked tacky on a used car lot. Here, it transcended the merely tacky to aspire toward a tragically chic, high-end glitz. "Unbelievable," Jack said. "They manage to take classic architecture and make it look like Glitter Gulch." "See!" T.J. said with a triumphant smile. "I knew you loved it! You were just going on to cover your tracks." "I recognize its importance enough that I don't want it to look like a whore house tourist attraction ... even if it is one. I don't maintain pointless emotion for big piles of brick, wood and glass." "Thomas!" a voice shot out of the sands of time and landed between them. There stood Charlie Puget, lieutenant governor, a tall man in business gray evidently covered with enough nuclear-powered Scotch to remain fragrant above the “Essence Polie pour les Hommes” he had splashed on to cover the Scotch. "How good to see you!" Puget said, greeting Jefferson with a capped tooth smile. He took up T.J.'s hand like a true politician and pressed serious flesh. "What a pleasure to see you again! And --”

Puget turned toward Jack with a kind of hazy vague recall one saw in the eyes of a late stage dementia patient. Too much data, just not enough room on the drive. "Jack Paulson," Jack told him. "Of course!" Puget said in a loud enough voice to convince Jack he didn't know who the fuck he was. "Senator Jack Paulson," Jack went on. "I'm an Adams descendant. John Adams. You guys wanted me here, remember?" "Of course I remember, so good to see you again!" Puget said, in a convincing enough voice that further reassured Jack the man didn't know who the fuck he was. "If you gentlemen will follow me, we'll get the unveiling behind us." And Mr. Lieutenant Governor, wearing his air of eau de hooch, was just as quickly gone. When Thomas looked back, Jack was practically tanning him with red-hot eyes. T.J. gestured his capitulation. "Yes, all right, I lied. I didn't want to hear you whine about your not being invited." "I wouldn't have known about the stupid unveiling if you hadn't told me about it," Paulson said. T.J.'s reply was cut in half by the voice over the sound system announcing Thomas' name. "Here's your cue, Batman,” Jack said, with a tone of disgust. “Gotham waits." "You're coming with me," Thomas said, grabbing his arm to tow him along with him toward the temporary podium on the Hall's front steps. "Oh, no, I’m not." "Oh, yes, you are," he said and used his natural tall man’s leverage to pull Jack in the direction he was going.

T.J. delivered his speech to the crowd and yanked the ugly tarp off the new front of Independence Hall. Glory hallelujah, Jack thought to himself, as the crowd dispersed. An hour remained before the Hall opened for tourism. Jack could see a few bored-looking camera toters herding scattered gaggles of children all over the mid-week sidewalk. The people occupied themselves with the reading of colonial history plaques: John Hancock spit there, Button Gwinnett here relieved his horse, that kind of thing. "I've asked security if we can go in before it opens and have a look around," T.J. said, grabbing Jack's arm yet again and towing him through the door before Paulson could even hope to object.

Letting go of Jack's arm, T.J. hurried down the middle of the front hall where sunlight splashed from the high ornate window up toward rooms used often for great parties, and just as often as a makeshift hospital during the Revolutionary War. The sun, mediated by shadows, shimmered down the ascending stairs and over Thomas' face. He lifted his smile toward the particles dancing through its beam. He shut his eyes, as if in the act of receiving dusty bits of god. "You and Independence Hall seriously need to get a room," Jack said, shaking his head in wonder. “It's probably a gay thing, you know. A phallic obsession or something.” T.J. aimed good-humored pique in his direction then suddenly saw something past his old friend's shoulder. "Look, Jack, the assembly room is open!" "Look, Marmee," Jack said with equal eagerness, "there's no line for Splash Mountain!" Thomas swung a wounded look back in the other man's direction. "Can't you restrain your cynicism for fifteen minutes? Surely you know this place means a lot to me. You may have grown up mere hours from Philadelphia but I've only been here twice before. And I'd love a private audience with the assembly room before we get dragged out of here by our naughty scruffs." Jack felt a hard tug at his conscience. "I'm sorry. Okay, I know it's special to you. I'll play nice. I seem to remember that the assembly room is through that door." The primary shades in the Assembly Room were dark green and a deep honey wood but somehow the net effect was gold. "My god, look at it," T.J. said, sinking his fingers into his hair. I read the history on it last night again. "That's actually Washington's chair. Think of it, Jack, Washington's chair! Right there.” “Yeah,” Jack said disinterestedly, “where Washington's own holy butt cheeks were planted.” T.J. continued on, “Of course, most of the rest of the original furniture was burned when the redcoats seized Philadelphia, but the ink stand is also real." "Fascinating," Jack said dully, fighting a yawn and checking his watch. T.J.'s eyes narrowed as he pointed to a single window. "And Jefferson sat right there, by that window, not there, where they usually say he did," he said, in a soft ghost of a voice. "I know in my bones he did." "I thought you said you read the history last night." "I did, but that's not how I know, Jack," he said, his voice bright with wonder. "I just know, like I know that John Adams sat right there. Not the usual place they attribute to him, not the third chair but the second from the end. My god, I know it, Jack. To a certainty." Jack, finally clued in, shook his head at the very old ceiling. "Oh, god, not this reincarnation crap again!" "Scoff all you like, but we were here, Jack. The two of us. I know it sounds a bit crazy ... I know it does ... but I know equally well that I’m right."

"Look, T.J., I’m glad you have something to believe in. With all the loved ones I’ve lost, I wish I could believe in an afterlife, but I can’t. I think we are here for seven or so decades, if we’re lucky, and then we’re dead. Dead and gone. Dust to dust. We have one life and nothing else remains but track marks through the ashes and a lot of empty words. Probably a few beer cans. But that’s it.” "Then how do you explain your knowing where the assembly room was? You can barely find your way to the Congress men’s room and you went there every day for six years." "Lucky guess," Jack said. "Cellular memory from my ancestor, I don't know. Just not some past life nonsense." T.J. smiled at him knowingly. “The idea we were here before really scares you, doesn’t it?” “No, it annoys me. We were not here before. They were here before. They are not here now because they are dead. We're not dead. We're not only not dead, we're damned hungry. If you're done snorting the cremains of history, can we go grab a sandwich or something?" T.J. sighed sadly, softly, and then checked his watch. "It's more time for dinner than for lunch." "Call it whatever you like. So long as there's food involved, I'm in." “So long as the restaurant doesn’t have a friendly mascot, so am I."

The Perry Tavern was deep and dark, lit by candles kept by clay holders like small ceramic hands guarding the flame. From the windows, they could see the sharp bend of the city traveling up the sky. They had been seated in the main room. They were the only male couple among a group of couples sipping at wine, studying menus. Jack regarded his own menu. "I seem to recall Izzy thought the squab was okay. And the lemon pepper pasta. I think I just got hammered, last I was here." "You've been here before?" "Yeah ... in this lifetime, I mean," Paulson said, tossing a knowing grin in the other man’s direction. Then Jack's face left levity behind. He sipped at the Montrachet they had ordered. "Izzy and I came here for our last anniversary." "God ... Jack," T.J. said, letting the two soft words speak volumes. "I'm sorry. I didn't know.: "I know you didn't know," Paulson said sharply. "Listen, Isabel and I were married for fifteen years. If I avoided places without memories of Izzy, I'd stay at home half the time. I have to get used to it. Life now means living without her. Missing her is just the price of loving her as long as I did."

T.J. nodded slowly. "I miss her a lot, too, if that's any small comfort." He set aside his own wine and leaned forward a little. He stayed silent for a long moment before finally murmuring, “I also miss ... us." "Us?" "Yes." T.J. smiled and punctuated it with a wink. "Us." "Oh!" Jack said sharply, his eyes widening in scale to the width of the room. He set down his wine flute with a considerable thud as he blushed darker than the drink in his hand. "That us. Sorry, it's been a while. At least it seems like it." "It's only been a year and a half, Jack. The last time the three of us were together like that, she was so ill, all we did was hold her and talk. After Izzy died, it was like I lost both of you. I know Izzy always initiated ... us. That was her thing. But I truly could have thought you have been avoiding me for the last six months for all the --” "I was not avoiding you." "Maybe not consciously. But I've called you, I've emailed. I've dropped by." "I called back!" "When?" "On your birthday! I'd have called you last Christmas, too, except I gargled down a ton of cheap holiday cheer and passed out watching Frosty the Red-Nosed Snowman or some stupid shit." T.J.’s eyes grew sad. "We used to spend at least some time on Christmas, the three of us. I realize she was your wife, but you and I are lovers too." "No, we’re not!" Jack said, aghast. T.J.’s mouth gaped open wide. "Of course we are. Don't be ridiculous." "Technically, maybe. Look, I know you and I ... interacted, okay?" Jack said in a voice small enough to only be heard by them. "But like you said, it was Izzy’s thing. We always agreed on absolute honesty and when she ... came up with this idea, she said you'd both only do that if I agreed too and, well, the rest is very, very awkward history. Can we just change the goddamned subject?" "No, we can't. You are a vision of denial, Jack Paulson. There was at least as much ... interaction, as you would call it, between you and me as there was between Izzy and either of us. I can recall a couple of times when our interactions ended very ... advantageously for you, and loudly so I might add. Izzy may have been watching, but it was me touching you. It wasn't all just performance porn for your wife." "I didn’t say it was. Look, that's the past. Izzy's gone. Can't we just eat -- " "No, damn it. Izzy’s gone, but I'm still here, Jack."

"I know that. I know you are. I just don't know where I am anymore.” Jack sat back, abandoning his glass altogether. “As we've said before, we both stuffed our grief during our respective elections. I'm just now coming out of it and maybe you are, too. Can we just have some dinner and leave the private talk for some time when we’re not in public and my stomach isn't competing for attention?" T.J. surrendered up an uneven smile. "All right, but you still owe me a very awkward, honest talk about all that. Somewhere more private." Jack nodded as he sighed in relief. "Agreed. And thank you." “You’re welcome. And by the way, you and I are –" "What may I get for you gentlemen this evening?" a smiling waiter asked as he stepped up to their table. T.J. glared up at the intrusion. Seeing the situation, he looked down at the menu again. "Oh, yes, well … broiled squab is dove, right? I don't eat doves. Sets a poor precedent. I'll just have the lemon pepper pasta." "And I'll have the same," Jack said, having casually glanced at the television set running mutely on the wall. "Is that the game?" "Yeah, it sucks," the waiter said. "Celtics are winning." "Not for me," Jack said, "I’m from Boston. What's the score?" "I forget but Todd German just fouled out so they sent in that new guy, Corey Jackson. He's pretty lame so I think the 76ers have a shot." "Lame? Bull!" Jack said, his voice dropping a full octave. "Corey has some chops. German's getting old." "Old?" T.J. broke in loudly. "German kicks ass. You get him on the court in some balls-to-thewall one-on-one and he'd still make Jackson look like a world champion pussy." Jack smiled derisively back at his oldest friend, yanking away his menu and handing both menus to the waiter. "Just bring our food, okay?" he said to the waiter as the young man nodded and left. Then Jack leaned nearer to Thomas. "You can disengage the testosterone turbo-thrusters. I get the point, you’re a brawny, ballsy manly man. But English men just sound silly saying pussy.” T.J. grinned victoriously and sipped again at his wine. "I am an English-American. We can handle it." Something in Jack's pocket beeped. He pulled out a cell phone, holding it to the candle to read. "Oh, no." "What's happened?"

"It's a text from Taneesha." He read it through, the cell phone held gradually tighter in his hand. "Izzy's Yorkie George had a stroke they think. She took him to the vet and they may have to put him to sleep. He's 12 but -- " "Say no more. Let's go," T.J. said, turning back toward the waiter. "We'll need our order boxed to go, I'm afraid we have an emergency." Jack hit the button for Taneesha's phone. "What?" Jack said to the woman who'd picked up quickly. Finally, he added, "I understand. I'll be there as soon as I can. I can have T.J. drop me off -- " "I'm coming with you," T.J. broke in. Jack looked at him for a gentle moment then finally nodded. "Okay, we'll both be there as soon as we can." He shut down the phone then turned to the other man again as T.J. was paying the bill and accepting the boxes in a bag. "T.J. you really don't have to -- " "Jack," Thomas said firmly. He tentatively reached out to capture his friend’s hand. He squeezed it gently for a moment, as if trying to convey the first of what he finished with his words, "I'm still here." Paulson nodded, looking more than a little contrite. "And I'm glad." "So let's go, shall we?"

Jack had decided a year ago that human emotion must have an elastic effect on public roads. As they sped out of that city and toward another more distant one, the drive seemed both three times longer and yet twice as fast as it should have been. T.J. kept him talking about business in the Senate. Being a junior senator versus a veteran congressman. Who was in the closet, with special detail given to the anti-gay ones who were also heavily closeted. The reflected lights upon the river that sliced through their edge of city led them to Columbia Veterinary Hospital. The lot was empty except for Taneesha's little blue Volvo. The short hallway with a brief set of steps led up to another corridor. At the top, Jack saw Taneesha's little boy Aberon sitting on the floor. Just beyond the child, Taneesha pressed her nose into a handful of tissue while she dragged a toy train around in a circle as if to keep Aberon's interest. The minute she saw Jack, she stood. "I'm so glad you're here. I mean, your housekeeper couldn't get hold of you so she called me. I got there as soon as I could but I had to pick up my son at the preschool --”

"You did all you could," he said gently, placing an arm around her. "He's an old, old dog. This day was coming. How is he now?" She shook her head and pressed the tissues again to her nose. "He's gone, Jack. I thought to call you on the road when it happened, but I thought it would be bad enough when you got here. He went real fast. Just gone like a fiddle string. Even before they could put him down. There wasn't any pain at all." Jack nodded a little, taking it all in. "Thank you. Why don't you take the baby home? You look wiped out and it has to be past his bedtime. I've got it from here." "I am and it is. But I wanted to stay to tell you. The vet left him in that exam room so you could say goodbye, if you wanted. I guess you guys had set-up a cremation order beforehand, if your pets ever died. They're going to do that in the morning then I can pick up the urn on my way to the office." Jack nodded once more, reaching out to grab and squeeze her hand. "Thank you. For everything." He gestured to the door marked EXAM. "He's in there?" She nodded. "Then I'll go in," he said, opening the door and entering the room without another word exchanged. Taneesha turned toward Jefferson, shining a tired smile at him. "Thank you, Senator, for coming with him." Thomas still stared at the door through which Jack had walked. “I wouldn't be anywhere else." "You look like you lost your own dog too. Did you know George that well?" "As well as you can know a friend's dog," T.J. said quietly. She reached out to touch his shoulder, staring deeply into his face. "Is something else wrong?" T.J. propped up a smile. "Taneesha, you've borne enough problems for the world tonight. I can deal with this one." "Something about Jack?" The senator shrugged once, like a gesture of utter resignation. "Well, let's just say that for a while I thought I had lost something. But it turns out the thing I thought I'd lost I never really had to begin with." "That almost sounds worse than losing something," she said. "It almost is." He reached out and patted her arm. "You and your young one get along now. I'll stay with Jack. I'll see that he gets home safely." She smiled in the direction her boss had gone. "Beneath all that bravado and bullshit, you know, he's only about the sweetest man in the world."

"Yes, I know." She smiled a little teasingly. "Yeah, I just thought you might." He glanced up with a sharp surprise. "Good lord, am I that damned obvious?" "Well, probably just to me," she said, grinning while she hefted up Aberon with his toy train. "I best get this one off to dream land. Good night, Senator. See you in the morning." Taneesha's heels announced her quick descent, the sound fading after her eventual exit through the street level door. T.J. moved to the exam room door, to listen distantly, quietly, and with more than a touch of guilt for listening at all. He watched his friend lean over the dog, moving his arms around it. Jack just stood there quietly, his face against fur. Jack finally stood back up, one hand still filtering through little George's graying gold locks. "Nothing gold can stay they say ... So long, little guy." He seemed to force himself to turn around and walk through the door then he looked halfconsciously at the man waiting for him. Jack shook his head grimly. "You have got to have better things to do on a lovely evening than watch me swan dive into an Olympic-sized cesspool of self-pity. Go ahead home. I can take a cab back to my place." "Will you stop? The only thing I have in the offing is the writing of a position paper on something about which I don't have a goddamned position. That's the worst part of this job. Coming up with the right opinions about stuff you have no opinion on. Besides, you promised me we'd go out to drinks after I won the primary. I still haven't collected on that. So let’s make it a night of drinks at your place." "What's this, Delaney?" Jack said, trying for a grin but giving only a broken one. "You trying to get me drunk?" T.J. tossed a grin back with his infectious laugh. "Well, that's not the original intent but if it goes in that direction, I cannot promise that I won't take full advantage of the opportunity." Jack nodded and laughed and started their descent of the stairway. "Fair enough," he said.

As he stood on Jack's big balcony, T.J. stared northward into the night. "What are you drinking?" Paulson called out while busily strip-searching his small home bar. "White wine, if you have it," T.J. called back. "I have everything. I’m a versatile alcoholic." After a moment of pouring sounds, Jack joined

him on the balcony and handed him his wine. Jack was slugging back a snifter of something dangerous-looking. "It's nice to be with a good friend for a change. I'm so sick of bending elbows with passing acquaintances. And yeah, I know that was mainly my fault." T.J. laughed softly. He looked one way up Brindle Close and then the other. The road was lined with one dark brownstone edifice after another. Finally he decided to just ask what was bugging him. "”Want to answer the $64,000 question?” Jack shot him a focused look that drifted off into the distance. “Only if there's payola involved.” “Seriously, Jack.” “Okay, okay, seriously. Shoot.” T.J. girded himself for the answer. “What do you think are our legitimate chances of getting the gay marriage amendment through the Senate? You’ve been in Congress a lot longer than I have." "Truthfully? Snowballs in hell have a better shot." T.J. grimaced at the words that had been said but then accepted them with a curt nod. "I was afraid you'd say that." "There’s a wall in our way. A wall of bastards who didn't want to give up old, simple-minded ideas." "But they're dying off." Jack nodded and shrugged at the same time. "Yeah, and being restocked by our enemies with a lot of young fundamentalist cretins. Proud graduates of the Bizzaro Jesus correspondence school of law that considers critical thinking the work of the noonday devil.” “Then we have to find a way through the wall,” T.J. said. Jack sipped at his drink. His face grew thoughtful. “We will. We will find a way through the wall. We have to find a way through the wall. It’s just a matter of how and when." He finally turned his back on Georgetown and his attention toward his oldest friend. "C'mon, let's go up to the roof garden. You can finish getting me drunk up there. It's quieter." From the balcony, a second set of steps zigzagged toward an unseen landing. The wrought iron railing had been woven with ivy. At the top, Jack reached over to unlatch the gate and pushed aside the barrier so they might enter the little roof garden. It was easy to see from there that this was an old chunk of city. Nineteenth century masonry hewn by long-dead hands had been cobbled over with twentieth and twenty-first century repairs and renovations. Through the early masonry, one could see slices of the eighteenth century peeping out of the layers of time. "My god, I'd forgotten how beautiful the view is up here," T.J. said, craning up to look over the fencing at the straight sight of city and sky without interruption.

Jack gestured toward the vista. "It is amazing. I don't get up here often enough. Really, at all, since Izzy died. It's so private up here." T.J. smiled meaningfully. "Very private, which was a good thing, on a couple of occasions." Jack coughed out a bashful laugh after swallowing a mouthful of his drink. "Yeah, that's true. Izzy was a wild child. And you didn't help." "Can I help it if I think beyond some silly bourgeois boundaries?" "Almost gave the helicopter guy a heart attack." "He was the one staring down here, wasn't he?" Paulson chuckled again. He shook his head as he stared long into his nearly empty glass. "God, I'm glad you're here. Thank you for staying. Thank you for being persistent against all my usual battlements. Thank you for caring enough to try." "You are a battle worth winning, my friend." "I'm glad you think so. And I'm glad you're my friend." T.J.’s smile weakened. “I’m more than your friend.” Jack leaned forward toward his own fencing, tapping nervously at the center post. “I know that. But I need friends these days, so I count you twice. Believe me, I have enough enemies.” “That’s just your persecution complex.” “No, these are real, not imagined. They’re your enemies, too.” He emptied his glass and set it aside. “People who want to keep us imprisoned in the dark ages. Those who want to keep freedom for the wealthy and powerful alone. Nevertheless, time is on our side. There's no real conservative belief of fifty years ago that people want to preserve. Crack open the door, then open it a little wider, then a little wider still." "Just like with abolition and integration and everything else," T.J. said, gesturing expansively toward Washington DC which looked in the distance like a pearly lake of fire. Jack nodded toward the thickening darkness. "Hell, just like our ancestral grandfathers did with their radical, almost heretical views about God given liberty. They were outrageous assertions at the time. Now they're just accepted. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal." "That they are endowed by their Creator,” T.J. said, “with certain inalienable rights -- " "Unalienable." "Inalienable." T.J. shook his head then rubbed the bridge between his eyes. "Not this again." "It says unalienable in the document."

"It says unalienable because your ancestor intimidated the printer. My ancestor wrote it. It was to say inalienable." "Then it was to be wrong. My ancestor kept your ancestor from looking like a gigantic jackass. Let's leave it at that," Jack said with a grin to show he'd been joking. "Truth becomes selfevident and we realize we preserve our own rights by extending them to everyone. It takes a long time. Ignorance is a formidable opponent.” T.J. laughed with a kind of wonder. "Jack, how on earth have you done it? Setback after setback, near election after near election, insults over injury, but you have never lost hope." "Who says I haven’t?" "I say. You're still here." "I don't know where the hell else to go, man." Jack picked up his empty glass from the small wicker chair at his side. He seemed to consider its emptiness. “Somehow, this is who I am. I mean, what in hell are we here for but to be voices for those who can't speak for themselves? Where do you go when there's so much left to be said? See what I mean? Obnoxious pedantry must run in the family.” T.J. looked at him for the longest time, considering the composition of things that defied his ability to speak of them. He turned his wet eyes toward stars and fought the smile that came too quickly. "You ... are ... truly ... something." "Yeah. I ... am ... truly too fucking sober. Come on, there's more stuff to get drunk with on the roof bar." "Lead the way." They walked into the little trellis-surrounded area, with great wooden boxes of flowers all closed for business for the night. Jack reached over to touch a Sacred Beauty rose, his fingers running over the petal flesh. "Izzy used to love her roof garden." "She still does, I'm sure," T.J. said. Jack sighed sadly, sinking onto the futon and patting the space beside him. "I wish I could think so. I really do." T.J. sat beside him. "I wish you could too. I just know. Like in the assembly room today. I can remember the temperature of the room. The light coming through the windows and how the old glass panes looked like the glass at the bottom of an empty bottle. Where people sat. What people said. Thoughts. Feelings. I remember it all. I know you have to have that in you, too." "I have nothing in me ... a straight line I will quickly redeem by saying ... speaking of bottles," Jack said, pulling a bottle of some old Chablis from the bar hutch beside the futon. He pulled up the cork, spilling some Chablis into his old glass and then T.J.'s new one. "Probably ... rationally ... you just have a vivid imagination." "I know the difference between memory and imagination, Jack. I remember all this."

"Okay, okay, whatever. I give up the battle for reason for tonight. Let's just drink a toast to memory," Jack said, lifting his glass. "Which Shakespeare said gives us roses in December. And I'd add, lets us keep the company of the people ... and the dogs ... that we love for as long as we may live." "And perhaps beyond," T.J. added with a grin, tapping his glass to Jack’s. "I don’t think so,” Jack said, pulling the gold watch Izzy had given him out of his pocket to look at the time. He turned it over to consider the inscription. “In the words of Robert Frost, then leaf subsides to leaf, as Eden sank to grief.” “Izzy’s favorite poem,” T.J. said in recognition. “She always told you that you took it too seriously.” “She said I took everything too seriously.” T.J. lifted his glass. “She was right. To our Izzy … and to my beloved Jack from whom I hope I am never again parted.” Jack leaned over and pressed his own stemware against the other man’s glass when a small escaping leaf shook loose from the roof arbor and landed in T.J.'s hair. Jack reached up as if to whisk off the leaf but his fingers encountered skin. T.J. smiled back at him, with questions and promises. Jack grabbed out for T.J.'s face and pushed their mouths together. The other man grasped Jack’s face in his hands, as though Jack might vanish completely. He leaned his head sideways, furthering the kiss, deepening it quickly. Jack's tongue moved toward T.J.’s, driven by instinctive fire and a buried hunger and a thousand other things. Then he realized. Remembered. He broke free and stumbled backward, his hand grabbing hold of the trellis. As if fighting to understand, Jack dragged himself to his feet. "Christ, I'm sorry. T.J., I don't know what the hell came over me --” T.J. felt balanced on the fault line between joy and tears. "No, damn it! Don't you dare apologize for that, Jack! This is what I was just talking about at the restaurant." Jack seemed to be grappling with the growing realization as he remembered the glass in his hand and slammed it down like an imminent threat. He dropped his wristwatch which hit the ground with a brittle crack. “Shit!” Jack said, grabbing it up. His sad eyes studied it in his hand. “Fuck, I shattered the goddamned watch face.” “I’m sorry, Jack,” T.J. said. “I’m sure we can get it fixed.”

“It’s just a cheap watch. It has more personal meaning than value. I’m really screwing things up tonight. First, I hurt your feelings. Then George dies. And now I break Izzy’s first gift to me.” “The only way you could have hurt me, Jackie, is to shut me out of your life. That kiss just assured me you haven’t. Izzy's kink might have provided a convenient way to fuck another guy and still tell yourself you were relatively straight but I always thought it was more than just a buddy fuck with us.” “Of course it was!” “Earlier, at the restaurant, you strongly implied to the contrary. You were actually trying to tell me there was no emotion behind what happened between you and me --” "I never said there wasn’t.” "You never said there was. I heard very clearly what you were trying to tell me, Jackie.” T.J. patted the other man’s face. “But I know differently now. I know it. You said everything you needed to just a moment ago with that kiss. Now we need to help you accept it." Jack turned away to walk toward the skyline. He looked up as if to see the stars but then buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I don't know what the fuck to do or say half the time anymore. I keep thinking I'm past the worst, I have a leg up and then ..." "I know," T.J. said, reaching out for both his hands to turn him around again. "You look exhausted. Let's get you inside for the night. You need to go beddy bye.” "Beddy bye? We’re middle-aged, Tommy. Anyway, I never sleep. I’m an incurable insomniac, you know that. I usually just pass out up here on the roof." "Too cold for that. The bite is in the air. Come on, I'll stay with you as long as you like." T.J. walked toward the roof gate and opened it, once again unveiling the flight of steps down to the balcony. He then took up Jack's hand and drew him along to the stairs.

Chapter Two

At first she wondered if the man outside was a vagrant that had somehow slipped past the long and daunting arm of Senate Security. The questionable person wore a huge man-eating hoodie that draped around him like an oversized monk's robe. She went to the office door to ask after his business when she recognized the face behind the hood and dark glasses. "Don't breathe," Jack said, flinching. "The air hurts me."

"Somebody tied one on last night," she said, while her sharp giggles collected inside her hand. "I did not tie one on. I pinioned one around my neck and shoulders," he said, walking gingerly through his office lobby doors to hover in the office center. "Do you know it's after noon?" she said gently, reaching for the coffee warmer where his morning cup had waited for him. "You missed three appointments but I, being your brilliant if humble secretary, covered for you and rescheduled them. How the heck did you jog to work in this condition?" "I didn't jog. I took a cab," Jack murmured, taking the coffee from Taneesha into his hands and staring down at it as if it wasn't quite familiar but healing all the same. "You should've called me. I'd have picked you up,” she said. "Why should you suffer for my transgressions?" he asked before taking a sip of coffee and trying to grasp at his messages on Taneesha’s desk. His fingers finally encountered paper. He handed the message slips back to Taneesha. "Call these and cancel them. My neurons will be backfiring for at least another hour." "No can do with the first one. It's Senator Hamilton." She smiled with a big apology. "He said, and I quote, tell Jack to get his wise ass down here and not come up with any piddley diddley excuses." Jack groaned softly at the whole idea. "What the hell does that gasbag piker want?" "He says, as he's the ranking Democrat, he wants to discuss policy with you." "He wants to, as he's ranking Democrat, bully me into voting for something I don't want to vote for,” Jack said. “All right. I’ll let him summon me to the presence. How long do I have before I'm to arrive?" "Fifteen minutes." "Wonderful,” Jack said, gulping down hot coffee. “My hell is now complete."

Othel Felix Hamilton was such a relic of the Dixiecrat days that Jack thought his ass might have grown into his chair. He looked sort of like a schnauzer -- and not an especially sweet or friendly one. He'd come into politics with the George Wallace southern Democrats who had tried to swerve the party right by opposing segregation and civil rights legislation. Hamilton had fallen out of favor with them by eschewing extremes and leaning toward the more moderate tones of centrist Democrats. For this reason, Jack actually kind of liked him. For this reason, Hamilton was still the ranking Democrat. As Jack made his careful way through Hamilton's office door, he tried not to look like he was

hung-over. He was certain he had failed miserably. "Where's the cat?" Hamilton asked, poised beside his office tee to putt a golf ball into a sideways foam cup. "What cat?" Jack asked. "The one that coughed you up this morning, partner. You look like you got righteously shitfaced last night. Better have a seat over there before you fall over and nobody can get you up." "Thank you," Jack said, nodding and sinking with only a hint of grace and ceremony into one of the big purple velvet chairs that had been au courant like, oh, when Edward the Fifth was King. "It's that cheap mass-produced Yankee liquor you pasty northern boys suck down all the time. Try fine southern bourbon. It has history, it has manners. Goes down easy. Doesn't come down hard. I'll send you a bottle over, compliments of my brother-in-law's fine distillery." Jack nodded as if he gave a flying fuck. "Thanks. There was something you wanted to discuss?" "Right to business, as always. You need to be more social, son," he said, putting the ball into the cup. He hung up his nine-iron on a wall rack. "But then look who I'm sayin' that, too. No offense." "Not offended," he muttered while sinking back, swatting away the topic. "Now about what you wanted to discuss ...” Hamilton retired to his desk chair with a heavy thump. He leaned back into it. "There is coming up a defense appropriations bill that I'm particularly fond of --” "Edison-Sobo," Jack said, fighting mental murk for the memory. "Edison-Sobo, exactly,” Hamilton said. “Now you know I network extensively. Some have called me a champion schmoozer, and I am. I don’t mind that appellation at all. I have seen a general trend among my fellow moderate Democrats toward positive movement in regards to your friend's domestic partnership measure.” “You have? Among your Stone Age cronies? Have they also discovered fire?” Hamilton cackled at the reply. “Now, they’re not all ass backward. Personally, I don't give a good goddamn what sausage jousters and kitty bumpers do with their lives. Marry, adopt kids, rent a womb, have little David Crosby babies, I don't pay it any mind. Why should straight people alone suffer the travails of marriage? All due respects paid to your late wife, however." Jack nodded slowly, fighting a wince again. "Thank you." Hamilton unpeeled a nicotine patch and slapped it onto his arm below one rolled-up sleeve. "Now you know yourself that we Senators do not represent ourselves. We are there as the voices of our state and constituents. My constituents, God love 'em, don't know what the hell a domestic partnership is. Sounds to them like some kinda housekeepers union or something. And that’s a good thing.”

“How on earth is ignorance a good thing?” “It gets it past ‘em, son. Give the gays all the partnership benefits without the word marriage, is all I ever asked. That's what your boy Jefferson has done with his stunning piece of legislation based, I realize, on your good work." Jack squeezed at his eyes, inhaling to subdue the acid wrath building up in his throat. "Okay," he said. Hamilton pointed at the Stealth airplane model mounted on the wall. "Now I realize you're not a big fan of huge defense appropriations. I believe you called it blood money to a murderous pimp, with your peculiar gift for graphic metaphor. But there's a lot of jobs gonna come out of all that spending. Working people earning their daily bread. In my state, the surrounding states, and in the manufacturing base in your own state of Massachusetts, as it happens. So I'm thinking this presents a nice, multilevel side benefit for you --” "And a nice kickback for you from the defense industry?" Hamilton exploded in a loud, bouncing laugh. "Well, hell, yes. A very nice kickback indeed. So everybody goes away fat and happy." "Except for the poor and disabled," Jack said, still fighting to compose himself, “or our crumbling infrastructure or our woefully under-funded educational system, to name only three hideously neglected public programs that could use the funds instead. The way I see it, the US doesn’t need another intercontinental ballistic missile.” "Yes, I know all that. Sure, we got more weapons than any of our enemies and the enemies we got now, we can’t use ‘em again. But we make it through the battle, Jack, and we live to fight another day ... and wage another battle. Right now, the run-of-the-mill joe is more worried about the Republican White House lunatic President Walker than they are the gay bar down the street. President Horse Thief hates the domestic partnership bill and everybody but everybody hates the Horse Thief. This is the ideal time for the measure to really make some headway." "Ham," Jack said quietly, trying to keep his mental facts in a row, “you honestly expect me to believe we might pass the dom part bill if you help?" "Pass?” Ham said, frowning as he popped in some nicotine gum. “Possibly not ... this time. But you never, ever will pass it without me. It's how we play the game, son. You get a little closer to the goal every time." "But even if we get the votes to pass it, President Walker is going to veto the thing out of the gate." "Yes and then all you need is 2/3rds of the votes to override his Presidential veto. That's not a whole lot of people. With a chief executive as uniquely despised as the aforementioned horse thief, I dare say that would be doable among our cadre." "Almost impossible,” Jack said stiffly. "There's a whole heap of slip between a cup and a lip, my boy. The devil is always in the almost.

You know Deke Mendehlson, don't you?" "Representative Deke Mendehlson? Of course. He was in the Mass State Senate for years. He won my Congressional seat after I went to the Senate. I know him, but I don't know him very well." "He's something of an expert in finessing majorities out of legislatures and the like. Wrote his master’s thesis on it, I believe. I recommended to Thomas that he go down and see him. Be a good idea for you to go with him. You know the boy a little. Schmooze, talk, and establish trust. He might have good insights on transforming this from impossible to what old Ben Franklin called the art of the possible." "And in exchange for this almost impossible possibility, you want me to vote for Edison-Sobo?" "We have the already-mentioned improvement in the domestic partnership. This gives us improved present and future chances as reasons enough. And as I recall, they tallied the votes far into the night before they called your last election.” Jack rolled his gaze toward the ceiling. “I don’t give a damn about that crap and you know it.” “Well, when reup comes and the moronic right calls you a queer lover, and you know they will, you can splatter your re-election TV commercials with those good-paying Massachusetts jobs you helped create. Who’d you rather have in your chair, you or that young Big Oil whore, Michael Rhodes?" Jack gradually rose to his feet. He nodded slowly. "I'll think about it," he said, turning toward Hamilton's door. “Anything else?” Hamilton leaned toward him. "Just what I said. I'm not expecting an instant decision, particularly in your current state of being. Oh, before I forget, word on the Hill is somethin' big is gonna break tomorrow." Jack tried to care. He really did. He looked around. "Like what?" Hamilton smiled like he had gulped the fat canary whole and in a single swallow. "Somethin' big ... and potentially goddamned useful, too, if it’s anything like I hear it is. You keep that in mind."

Jack groped his way into the welcome darkness of his inner office. The curtain was closed, for which he made a mental note to thank Taneesha. He saw the new set of messages on his desk. He saw his flashing PDA. He saw his telephone system, like a distant city, alive with the lights all blinking. He noticed, finally, the small urn newly setting next to his Harvard Speakers Club trophy. He petted the urn lightly and then surrendered his body to the deep, black depths of the sofa.

And then, of course, his cell phone rang. He knew that one of only ten people could be at the other end. He answered it, muttering, "You'd better be dying." "No," T.J. piped back, “but I am by the porter exit waiting for you to motivate yourself through the door. You talked to Ham I'm assuming." "We exchanged grunts,” Jack whispered through his hand. "Then let's get a move on. We've an appointment with Deke to keep." "T.J. ... please ... “ Jack pleaded, slumping harder against the couch. “I have a murderous hangover. Either that or a whole village of rabid elves is living in my hair. Can't this wait until tomorrow?" "Don't be silly. You don't have enough hair left for a whole village. And no, I am afraid this cannot wait. Besides, if you had kept with our kiss last night, you'd have awakened in a far happier state of being this morning. I'd have fed you strawberries and cream in bed. I might have even put whipped cream on the strawberries." "We're on a cell line," he snapped dully. "No one is going to listen to us. You can barely get them to hear you on the Senate floor. I'll expect you in ten minutes. Don't lollygag around." The line hung up. "Lollygag this," Jack said roughly and shoved the cell phone back into his jeans. He once more donned the man-eating hoodie. He again put on his sunglasses. He groped his way through the new Senate block to the old porter exit. He saw his oldest friend through the glass gateway doors as T.J. waited with evident impatience while leaning against a wall. Jack walked out to join him. T.J. gave him a thorough if droll once-over. “You look like one of the Sand People from Star Wars.” “Gosh, thanks, T.J.,” Jack said, having to move quickly to keep up with T.J. as he began a quick stride around the scalloped security wall toward the House block. “I guess you’re still mad, huh?” “My God, you’re a walking, talking Anglo Charlie Chan, you inscrutable sot you. Yes, Mr. John Adams Paulson, I am angry. I realize you were pissed, in the English sense, when I left last night, so you may not realize that I was pissed in the American sense as I left.” As they walked, Jack stole a sheepish glance over at T.J. "I don't suppose you realize that I might be feeling a little awkward and embarrassed about what happened last night." "Yes, I realize that, Jack ... because you're an unmitigated jackass." T.J.’s angry laugh lashed out at the space between them. "Let me guess ... you want me to forget the kiss last night ever happened."

"I don't think that's possible." "Well, why not?" Thomas said as they walked over the barricade toward House Block Building. "You've asked me to forget all of our past, haven't you? Why not overlook last night? While we're at it, what else shall I forget for your pleasure, Jack? Canada perhaps? We’ll just make a hard steep right should we ever drive north. Hey, why not forget a whole continent? The vastness of Africa ceases to exist because Senator Jack Adams Paulson asks it be so. Poof. Happy, Jack?" "Could you try to be a bit more sarcastic? Your imperious glower is a little off today." T.J. groaned at the man beside him with a loud sound of frustration as they reached the crosswalk to their destination. "All these years I cherish you. I cherish what we shared ... or what I thought we shared. And now I find out that all it ever was to you was a visual aphrodisiac for your wife." "I’ve already told you twice that I never said that!" "You came close!" "No, I didn't!" Jack shouted back even louder. He looked around quickly, grateful to find them standing alone as they waited for their turn to cross. "Look, can't we just discuss this -- " "Some other time? Which other time? Every moment that presents itself you seem to find something wrong with." T.J. exhaled as they got the green and made their way to the building. After a moment of tense silence, T.J. looked back at Jack and blurted as if somewhat reluctant to do so, “I'm throwing a party this evening and I'd like for you to be there." Jack had been opening the side door. He stopped to look back at T.J. as if the man might have spontaneously burst into flame. "You're inviting me to a party?” “Yes, I am. Didn’t it seem like I was?” “Well, yeah,” Jack said, as they walked into the primary hall. Jack punched an elevator button for the new C wing floor. “But I am, in your words, a surly bridge troll at social gatherings. I'm a one-man party demolition crew, remember?" "I have never said that, you just imagined it. It's a small party at Charles Heights. At my house. Just some friends and associates. And yes, I do very much want you to be present. If you want to prove to me that our relationship is at all important to you, you'll be there." Finally, Jack acquiesced with a bouncing nod. "Okay, okay, I'll try to be there. What do I wear?" T.J. fixed eyes of warning on him. "You'll do more than try, you'll be there. And I don't care what you wear so long as you're in attendance. Well, no frankly vulgar t-shirts or that sort of thing. Slacks would be an asset." "Nothing vulgar, wear pants, I think I can handle that," Jack said as they finally entered the elevator.

Mendelsohn’s office lay in one of the older wings of the building. Jack remembered Mendelsohn as animated and busy and friendly and industrious beyond the range of the everyday energetic jack rabbit. The man before them was not even a little like that. He looked pale and drawn and diffident as hell as the other men laid out their need for information. He definitely seemed to be urging the meeting through to a quick end. "Sure, I can probably help with that," the man said, pushing his overly large glasses up to his eyes. He raked a nervous hand back through his hair and checked his laptop for the sixth time since they’d been sitting there. He pushed it away and turned back to them. “Kinda like teaching cat herding, but there’s some science along with the art.” Jack dredged up one of his better encouraging smiles. “Everything okay, Deke?” “Sure.” Mendelsohn’s smile got nervous. He plucked up a pencil from his desk and tossed it into a drawer. “You guys, you know, give me a few days. I’ll look over the domestic partnership bill, other pending legislation we can barter with, and any existing position papers. I’ll come up with something.” Jack felt like the conversation had been quickly brought to an end. It felt like barely a moment after he’d sat down that he stood up. “That’s all we can really ask.” “Can I ask … “ Mendelsohn said, pausing for a long, hard moment. He looked from one man to the other as if reluctant to go on. “Is there a particular reason you came to me about this? Other than Hamilton’s recommendation, I mean?” Jack looked to T.J., already moving for the door; T.J. looked quizzically over at Jack. “No, none,” Jack said. “Why do you ask?” The younger man tried to laugh. “You know the gossipmongers. Don’t have to tell you that. I mean, you had this job before I did, Jack. I thought maybe … because it had something to do with gay rights legislation … well, that … “ “No!” Jack said quickly. “Not at all. I haven’t heard anything … not that I listen to gossip anyway.” “Unless it’s about you,” T.J. countered. “Well, of course if it’s about me. Or you. Deke, try not to worry about that crap. Old jerks with nothing better to do than pry and blabber. It’s pointless to be concerned.” “Hard not to worry about it,” Deke said, with a gesture of mild despair. “Like this morning, there are all these rumors about some list with names on it that’s going to be published, you know? Makes you wonder what names? Even if it’s not true, you know. A little false allegation can crush a career.”

“What list?” T.J. asked, walking a step toward Jack. Mendelsohn shrugged. “Some list of names from somewhere. You know how it is. It may not even exist, right?” Jack smiled his assurances again. “Probably doesn’t exist, Deke. Don’t let them get to you. Is this what Ham was talking to me about? The thing about to break?” Mendelsohn shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Everyone’s heard about it, but no one has seen it.” “We haven’t done either one,” T.J. said, grinning as he finally opened the door. “We’ll be back to you in a couple of days then?” Mendelsohn looked back quickly, smiling nervously. He nodded. “Couple of days.” When they had left the Congressman’s office and made it down the hall, past the bank of elevators in order to take the short flight of stairs that led to the main annex and over to the Senate chamber, T.J. stopped in his tracks and looked back in the direction of the office they had left. “That young man looks fucking frightened.” “I got that impression, too. It seems like half this town is scared at the moment.” Jack conferred with his watch, leaning to the sconce lamp only to have his gaze slide off the watch face and focus on the wall. A weirdly familiar wall. “I thought this was all new building.” “No, I believe some of it is a repurposed old building. Why?” "This wall ...” Jack said, laughing. He shook his head in amazement. “How weird." "Looks like a thoroughly pedestrian wall to me. What's weird about it?" "No, it's weird because ... I know it. I mean, I recognize it. I don't remember ever having an office here but somehow I know this place really well. How could it be a new building?” T.J. shrugged. “As I said, they repurposed a whole existing structure.” “I know this so well though.” He walked across to the wall and placed his hand against it. “I think there’s a hiding place or something behind here. Don’t ask me why I know it but I do. Jesus, this is strange as hell. Maybe I’m catching your delusion.” “Or perhaps you’re remembering the truth,” T.J. said with a grudging smile. “Look, we both are in committee. We’d better get cracking. I will see you tonight, yes?” Still distracted, Jack murmured something that sounded vaguely like he concurred. "I guess." "No guessing. Tell me yes. You will be there." Jack looked around, finally called to attention. He shrugged in a gesture of provisional uncertainty. "Like I said, I guess." "If you are not there, John Adams Paulson, I will come for you and drag you there, understood?

So accept your fate and tell me you'll be there. Just say yes." "Okay, okay, yes ...” Jack said, crossing his arms. "Excellent. I'll see you there," T.J. replied, jogging the few steps down to the landing in the direction he had to go. And as his friend pushed open the outer door to the far-ranging circle of street, Jack watched as T.J. blended into the first flow of heavier foot traffic. Then Jack added softly, "I guess."

It had, in fact, been a barefaced lie. He had never had any intention of going to the party and had only told Tommy yes to shut him up. But it hadn't really been a lie since he was virtually certain T.J. had known he was bullshitting him. So in a way it wasn't a lie ... even if it was one. He had forcefully shut-off his half-born memory of that wall into a distant corner of his mind in favor of a little mindless television. The longer he sat there in his front room, staring at the utterly meaningless scramble of images leaping through his TV screen, the more he was thinking of Izzy. That was pretty much status quo these days. She had always been his flotation device amid the social swim of things. When they attended Washington parties, all Jack had to do was stand there, smiling, with a glass of something in his hand and occasionally answer a question. Izzy did most of the smiling and shaking of hands. She was supposedly in attendance as his wife at the parties. Really, he was Isabel Smithton Paulson's husband whenever they went to those things. It had always been that way. There would be no friends of Jack's at T.J.'s party. Jefferson's parties were uniformly for the DC gay community. So you will do what? Jack asked himself. Sit there, staring into a drink while being stared at like a sideshow exhibit by curious strangers? Come see the two-headed aardvark man? But the fact of the matter was he felt badly about lying to T.J. And the idea of Jack being there, for some indeterminate reason, had seemed so important to his friend. "Okay, you want to go, so go," he said to himself, flipping unproductively through one zillion cable channels. So finally he went. Charles Heights was to Washington, DC what Main Street was to Disneyland, USA. It was a clear, good face – a charming little artist colony replete with beguiling houses big enough to be lovely but small enough to seem friendly and quaint. On the day Jack had helped T.J. move into the neighborhood, Jack had looked at him and asked, "So where do Snow White and the Seven Dwarves live?"

The area was occupied by the financially well-endowed who were far too mannerly and gracious to seem “rich.” And T.J. owned one of its largest, oldest homes, sprawling like a turn-of-thecentury manor on a darkly recessed hill. He had become a gay gothic hero of sorts, Jack had told him a time or two. That night, the lights around his friend’s home could be seen from the road that swerved around until it reached the Colony’s conditionally open gates. The bored if vigilant young man at the gate looked at his clipboard. “Name?” “Jack Paulson.” “You’re kidding.” “No. Why?” “Because I hate you,” the kid said. “You’re always rude to everyone on the TV. Especially the hot anchor babe on Facts Network.” Jack rubbed at his very tired eyes. He wanted to scream right back at him, ‘the hot anchor babe who works for corporate entities that would enslave you, body and soul, you sub-mental putz?’ Instead he quietly asked, “Who are you? The Ferryman on the River Styx?” The mercury in the kid’s eyes instantly rose. “What did you call me?” Jack finally pounded his forehead, trying to wake himself up from an apparent nightmare. “Look, will you just let me in? I’ve been invited. I’m on Senator Jefferson’s guest list?” “Yeah, I know. I guess so.” He slapped a button that triggered the gate to rise. He muttered as he had clearly been trained like a good little monkey to do, “Enjoy your stay.”

He sat in his car for nearly half an hour, trying to summon the courage to go inside. The house peered out at him from behind the tilted hedges. Laced with rippling fairy lights, the hedges appeared to undulate with life as if a corpuscular part of the people all around them. The people were all clothed in the coolly Spartan swank of the working rich -- most of them young and animated and fitting in perfectly with the street-long lines of lively sports cars and upscale hybrids. No matter the make of the car, the patio light reflected in their every gleaming surface. Not a thing seemed out of place. Except for him, of course. Jack laughed and shook his head at the percolating youth all around him. He finally made himself get out of the car and walk up the unlit border of T.J.'s driveway, where it swung wide to pass beyond the hedges and venture through a narrow locked gate.

On the other side of the parallel hedges, the front portico had been sprinkled with some bistro tables and chairs around which people were clustered. On the patch of lawn between the portico and its hedged walkway to the rear, two men stared raptly at each other as they intertwined their fingers. The big art-glass double side doors were standing open for people to enter. A rumbling tumult of jazz piano pulsed down the hallway with T.J.’s favorite Ray Bryant tunes. T.J. seemed everywhere … and nowhere. Jack walked up to the bistro tables, and the people there looked around at him as if he was a large black bear that had just strolled casually into a midtown cafe. “Senator Jefferson?” he asked of the staring people. Two of them gestured silently toward the rear of the house. He walked out onto the lower terrace of T.J.'s familiar backyard and watched as every head out there pivoted in his direction. He didn't know a way to smile at thirty people at once so he just ignored them all. He kept looking at the mauve orchids and lit candles floating on the still, dark pool. The smooth evening water might have been liquid black amethyst, especially with the residual oily substance that had surfaced with sheen. Probably washed away sunscreen, he decided. Filtrates of a probable earlier pool party to which Jack had not been invited. He was certain there were plenty of those. The pool adjoined a fenced in area from which streamed a warbling water sound. Jack recognized the sound as coming from T.J.'s hot tub. The only light source in the hot tub patio was an overhead lamp to ward off collisions in the dark. There were also the glow from above and the distant lights dreaming on the edges of the not-too-distant town. Within it all, it took a couple of minutes for Jack's eyes to adjust to dark. It wasn't until Jack saw one young man getting his tonsils tongue-bathed by another young man, that he completely got what sort of party he was attending. Then he scanned over various male/ male couples wrapping around each other like herds of mud wrestling snakes. This reinforced his conclusion. He tried to crawl behind his hand to hide but his gaze just wouldn't fit. “You’re Senator Paulson?” a bright voice asked from over his shoulder. Jack looked up and around. “Yeah.” He was handed a big frothy green drink in a glass. “Senator Jefferson sends this to you with his compliments.” Jack accepted the glass, considered it, swishing the contents around. He sniffed at it. The scent didn’t kill him so he sipped a little. “Thanks,” he said. “Where is he?” “Not sure. He said you should relax and he’ll find you,” the young man replied before he vanished into the crowded night. Jack stared long into the glass. He actually sipped a little more. It still didn’t make his tongue swell so he drank again.

The bright assault of T.J.’s laugh lit the night air, sailing over the din surrounding them. Jack set down the glass and followed the laughter. The tiled terrace made a wide circle around the patio's declivity. He could feel the sweaty male mist of the hot tub on his skin. A rock Tuscan wall surrounded the glowing, churning hot tub. It bathed everyone around it in a mild, psychedelic light. At last, the sound of his laugh led Jack to T.J. He wore black shorts and his favorite black shirt unbuttoned. He was smiling all over some hunky fellow who seemed equally entranced by him. T.J. had one foot laced around the other guy's leg, one hand poised on his knee, and was paying no one else even the slightest attention. As Jack watched, T.J. leaned over and brushed his lips over the other man's receptive mouth. Jack reached out and grabbed hold of a piece of Tuscany to balance himself. He sank coldly into an adjacent chair. The touch of the hard metal surface felt even colder. He tried to wrestle back the moments into some semblance of reason, but they simply wouldn't align. So what, you're jealous or something? he asked himself. How distinctly adolescent of you. Okay, T.J. is a slut. Always has been, always will be. That was nothing new in that revelation. But then T.J. had said only yesterday that he cherished their relationship. Jack laughed darkly at the full memory. It bugged him badly. What bothered him most, of course, was that it bothered him at all. What do we do now? Go back and confront him? That would be cute. Big bunch of drama. Sizeable young audience. Tele-novella on the Hilla. Yeah, that would be just the thing to yank their fairly low-visibility old relationship into a whole new high-intensity spotlight. Page Six is on line two, Jack. What were the alternatives? Staying? Sitting around like a bug-eyed garden frog, waiting for T.J.’s attention? Maybe that had always been the idea -- to hurl this scene in his face. Finally, he grabbed hold of the edges of his dignity. Fuck T.J., Paulson told himself, just get the hell out of here. At that moment, somebody dressed like a waiter sidled up to him for a drink request. "Nothing, thank you," he said to himself, returning the cold glass he held to the waiter’s platter. Jack moved away without being seen, wove his way quickly through the crowd to the door and the sidewalk then the street. At last, he found himself rounding the curb toward his car. "Jack!" a familiar voice called out to him. Jack paused in unlocking his door to see T.J.'s secretary Lee just a few feet away. He wore a sari

and he carried a margarita. It created an image that would have been weird if the ensemble had been worn by anyone else. "I was paged. Some ... emergency or other," Jack called back while climbing into his car. He forced up a smile. "Tell T.J. I'll call him tomorrow." "But you shouldn’t --” Lee started to say, but the door that Jack slammed between them muffled the rest of his sentence. Jack managed to chug his car to life and peel away from the curb without once looking back. “Was that Jack?” T.J. asked, puffing out gulped air as he jogged up behind Lee. “I saw him dart out of the patio.” “Yes and we have to go after him!” Lee said. “Yes, yes, I know,” T.J. said, turning around as if trying to sort out what had to be done first. “I’ll go ask my assistant to close up the house and – “ “No, we have to go now,” Lee said, covering his mouth with a worried hand. “Somebody at the party dosed his margarita.” “What? Why on earth would they do that?” “It was a stupid joke. They told me about it afterwards. Some people don’t like him. Well, a lot of people don’t like him – ” “None of those people know him,” he said. “What did they give him?” “Some party drug. They call it triggers.” “Triggers? That’s a mild hallucinogen, isn’t it?” Lee shrugged helplessly. “I think.” “Wonderful. Jack thinks everyone hates him anyway and now you guys do this.” “I didn’t do it. Don’t shoot the messenger.” “I know, I know,” T.J. said, as if his head was spinning. “Listen, give me your keys. I need your car. Mine is blocked by guests.” “Well, how do we get home?” Lee asked, handing over his car keys. “In a taxi,” T.J. said, calling over his shoulder as he moved toward Lee’s car. “I’ll pick you up in the morning.” Jack only relaxed when his car reached the end of the housing tract and he drove back through the security gate. He only breathed out at the first length of open road. He shook his head hard, trying to persuade himself the mists in his eyes came less from tears than from his eye strain at still driving in that hour of the evening.

"You just shouldn't have gone. That's all. You just shouldn't have gone. So go back home and pretend that you never left." So he just drove the fuck home. As he made the turn toward Georgetown Boulevard, he noticed a new gold statue standing at the side of the road. A new nude gold statue – it kind of looked like Thor. That was different. He was almost sure he hadn’t seen it while leaving. “Damned housing association. They wouldn’t okay Izzy painting our house yellow, but a naked gold Thor in the neighborhood is fine,” Jack muttered, as he turned a corner into his block. His brownstone always got the worst of the rain where the old structure huddled on the corner. Exposure to countless winters had left the burnt red brick a perpetual November brown. It made for a warm and homey appearance at all times but especially when he needed a place to crawl away. A shower, a drink and then eight full hours, in that order, he decided. That would sufficiently wipe away all he had just experienced. At least for a while. So he shoved everything else to the back of his mind and slipped in through the rear-door entrance to his house. It felt like slipping on a warm jacket on a straight-to-the-bone chilly night. He treaded up the back stairway to the master bath. He dragged off his clothes, slam dunked them into the hamper and then groped his way through a hot shower. He dried himself quickly and slipped into his favorite sweatpants. And for his last act, he would suck dry the bottle of high-end brandy he had abandoned earlier on his bureau. He would then bury his head for the night. But then he noticed that someone stood in the doorway to his room. T.J. was still clad in the black silk shorts and shirt Jack had last seen him wearing. T.J. gazed at him worriedly while still defiantly crossing his arms. "Well, that answers the question of whether or not you still have your key," Jack said. “Are you feeling all right?” T.J. asked, approaching him carefully. “Yeah, fine. I just left because it wasn’t a party. It was a gay meet-and-greet and I didn't know anyone there. It was a mistake for me to come at all so I left." "I was there!" T.J. snapped. "You knew me." "You were busy with some guy," Jack replied with an edge to the words. He grabbed up a heavy amber bottle from the bureau and sloshed something into the glass he'd abandoned earlier beside the brandy. "It seemed you were cherishing our relationship." Sudden recognition washed away T.J.'s puzzled expression with a slowly growing smile. "Oh, that guy? I was trying to prick tease some information out of him. About that stupid list everyone's talking about." "Looked like more than teasing to me."

"Well, it wasn't. I honestly didn't think you'd be there at all or I'd have been more careful." "Oh, that makes me feel much more confident." T.J. shook his head, clearly fighting to understand. "You know, Jack, just yesterday, you said we didn't have a relationship, remember?" "Yeah, I know," Jack said, turning away to drink from his glass. He muttered grimly, "Listen, my mistake. Forget I said anything. Never mind." T.J. grabbed the glass out of Jack's hand and slammed it into the bedroom trash bin. "Goddamn it, stop that!" "Hey, that's Napoleon cognac -- " "I don't care if it's liquid fucking gold. Reach for some again and I'll throw your whole fucking bar off the balcony. Want to try me?" He slammed his hand against the wall, as if forcing back his temper only to swallow it whole. “Anyway, I have something more important to tell you. Somebody at my party dosed your margarita.” “They did what?” Jack gasped, his voice snapping in two. “Some friend of Lee’s did it. I’m very sorry.” “The green margarita, I should have known never to trust a gift horse,” Jack said, shaking his head. “So what should I do? Go to the emergency room or something?” “Not necessary. Have you heard of Triggers?” “You mean Roy Rogers’ horse?” “That was Trigger, singular. This is Triggers, plural, and it’s a party hallucinogen. Guys drop the crap at my parties all the time. No one ever has anything worse than some mild hallucinations.” “Oh, hell, that’s a great comfort. Don’t worry, Jack, you’ll just mildly hallucinate.” He remembered the drive up to his house. “Well, at least that explains the naked gold Thor.” “What?” “Never mind.” Jack stood there in shock, trying to determine what was happening from within his own distracted state. "I suppose I can’t drink anything, right?” “Nothing that you want to drink, no. And anyway you’ve had your fill. I'm sick of you hiding in bottles or telling me to forget it or wanting to talk about something else," T.J. said sharply. “Admit to me you were jealous.” “About what?” “About the guy at my party, of course.”

Jack reached forward to grab at T.J.’s shoulder. “I’m feeling dizzy. I better lie down.” T.J. blocked his way. “I’ll hold you up. First, the admission. Then you lie down.” “All right, I was jealous, okay? Happy? Now can I relax before I rip my clothes off and go screaming through the streets like an ape-man?” T.J. smirked and stepped out of his way. “Yes. But I must say, I think I’d pay good money to see that other thing happen.” “You’re a sadist,” Jack said, as he crawled across the bed to prop himself up with pillows. At that point, a piece of his bedroom wall slid away and Izzy walked into the room. Even if it seemed to be Izzy, Jack seriously considered screaming. He glanced back at T.J. “You don’t see her, right?” T.J. looked in the direction Jack was staring. “See who?” “That answers that question.” Jack pointed toward the wall. “I’m hallucinating Izzy standing right over there.” T.J.’s eyes widened. “Is she saying anything?” he asked, looking around the room. “Give him my love,” she said, smiling. “Not till you just said something,” Jack snapped. “That’s the thing with suggestion. You suggest something, it happens, see?” “What did she say?” T.J. asked, his eyebrows crowding together. Jack winced like he’d been clobbered by pain, as it hurt too badly to look at her. “What do you care? She’s a hiccup in my neurotransmitters. A very sad and wonderful hiccup but a hiccup.” Jack made himself look back toward T.J. He shook his head in exasperation. “Okay, she sends her love.” “I send mine back,” T.J. said to the wall. “Oh, my god,” Jack said, staring up at the ceiling, as if asking for patience from uncountable gods far beyond it. “You need to tell each other the truth,” Izzy said. “We need to tell each other whose truth?” Jack shot back. “The truth,” she said. “There is no ultimate truth, Iz, there’s … good grief, listen to me. I’ve lost my fucking mind.” “At last, he understands,” T.J. replied with a gentle smile. He crawled over Jack to lay beside him. He reached over and grabbed one of the hands that Jack had balled into his usual fists. "I love you, Jack. Don’t worry, I don't expect for a moment that you will say it back. I know you feel it, but if the words ever flew out of your mouth, I'd die from the shock. Just promise me

something?" "If I can." "Don't go anywhere again. Ever. When I thought what I thought after you said what you said – " “What?” “You know what I mean. At the restaurant. When you tried to convince me I was nothing more than a game for you. I felt like dying. No exaggeration, Jack. I really did.” “Christ, T.J., I’m sorry.” T.J. pulled his phone out of his shorts pocket. He plucked at a button and put the phone to his ear. After a moment, he said, “Be an ace and lock up for me, will you? I need to babysit Jackie tonight. See you in the morning.” He clicked the phone off and placed it on the table on his side of Jack’s bed. “So I guess you're not going home?” Jack asked. “Not a chance. You’re a danger to yourself enough when you’re sober. Just ask Izzy.” Remembering, Jack looked up and around to find an empty room beyond them. He felt a familiar jolt of pain at her absence. Her absence again. “She’s gone?” T.J. said, as if he’d read the vacant sadness on Jack’s face. “Yes. She’s gone.” Jack pulled T.J. into the crook of his arm. “But you’re still here. Now get some sleep.” “Thank you. I am exhausted,” T.J. confessed in a small, tired voice. “But I’ll stay up until you’re asleep.” “I’m an insomniac, Delaney. I’ll be up for hours. It’s a comfort to have you here, though. Asleep or awake.” “Thanks, Jack,” T.J. said, in an even smaller voice. His lips bent up in a smile as he closed his eyes. “Wake me if you need me.” “I will,” he said. Jack lay there for an hour, staring out the big bedroom window that ran the length of the other wall, the window that Izzy had called their stararium. Lights of the block blinked out one by one until there were no more lights to ponder. A huge purple rabbit hopped past the window, but Jack pretty much chalked that up to the hallucinogen. At the thought that Jack might be in danger, T.J. had left his own party, from which Jack had fled in a jealous snit. He thought about what T.J. had asked for and the piss-poor assurances he had given him. How could he promise more? If life had taught Jack anything, it was the impermanence of everything.

Even love was transitory. Poets had warned of it forever, but no heart wanted to believe it. Robert Frost had warned of it in the best way. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day ... Jack murmured softly into the sleeping man’s ginger-brown hair, "Nothing gold can stay."

Chapter Three

"Oh my God!" Taneesha said over the office phone line, looking all around her to make certain the office was still empty. "Lee, you will not believe it! You will just not believe it! Oh my God!" "Tell me, Tan! I'm dying here! You wouldn't tell me on my cell phone," Lee said over the sound of his bag being dumped under his desk. She took a steadying breath like a kid waiting on a huge Christmas secret. "Senator Jefferson didn't come home last night, did he?" "No, he called and told his butler he wouldn’t be home," Lee said, clearly surprised she had known. "In fact, my husband and I had to stay and lock up the place. Do you know where he is? He was supposed to pick me up this morning, but he's not answering on his house or his cell. I was getting worried." Taneesha stifled a laugh that turned into an excited snort of a sentence that tried to come out all at once. "I called Jack early, as soon as I got in this morning, to read him his monthly quarterlies and guess what half-asleep person answered the phone!" "Who?" "Who do you think? Who are we talking about?" "Oh my God!" "Like I said!" "Oh my God! Oh my God! What did he ... was he --" "Wait for it. Like I said, he had way obviously been all asleep when I called, right? And I'm all

bug ass startled comin' out with it, right, but then I calmed down and said could I talk to Jack. And then Senator Jefferson says, in this smoky little bedroom voice, like he was right there next to him, Jackie, phone call." "Oh, my God! They're back together." "I know!"

"They're really back together." "I know!" "This is fabulous. What do we do now?" "Let's keep our ears open and report back anything that we see." "I'm down with that homegirl," Lee said, each word dripping with sarcasm as he turned his head to the side and saw Jefferson about to open his office door. Lee cleared his throat theatrically. "So like I was saying, I got that information you wanted from the Office of Offices which I didn't even know existed." "Shit, he just walked in, didn't he?" Taneesha said. "That means mine will be here any second, too." "Mm-hm," Lee said, giving a good morning wave to his employer who was smiling at him knowingly as he walked past him toward his own office. "Okay, here's everything I could find. That building is new construction but they built the damned thing around a heritage protected structure for some reason so I had to go all the way down to Mrs. Tennyson, that old Miz Beasley-looking bitch at Nat Historic.” “I hate her!” “Tell me about it, she’s about as friendly as a rotten egg. Anyway, the damned, stupid old structure is top secret. No one has had an office in that room in 200 years. End of story. It's real old but before it got the building put around it, the heritage site was used for storage for like a hundred thousand years. Because it’s all need-to-know, I couldn’t find out more." "Okay, I had to ask," Taneesha said, sighing audibly. "I knew it wouldn't come to anything. I looked and looked and I cannot find any record of him having an office anywhere near the Banks building.” "Then you've done all you can do," he said. "Lee," a voice shot over his shoulder. The younger man looked around to find Thomas half-smiling at him and half-reading his PDA. "Sir, yes, sir," Lee said, saluting.

Thomas shone back a truly unusual smile while he read the data in his hand with a gradually wrinkling brow. He distracted himself long enough to tell his secretary, "First, I apologize for not picking you up. I was … detained. Secondly, please ask Taneesha to have Jack come over here in a half an hour. Tell her it's important." He gave him a final teasing smile. "I mean, if you're all done catching up with the Cap Hill gossip." Lee tilted a guilty smile in his direction. "Sir, yes, sir. Tan, gotta run." "I heard, I heard. Later, tater." Taneesha set the phone down and looked up to see out the glass doors as a familiar figure opened one of them. "Well, well, well, well, well," she said brightly, folding her arms together then broadcasting a generous smile. Jack grinned a little in return. "Well, well, well, well, well what? "Just my way of asking if you had a pleasant evening?" Jack smirked. "Not nearly as much fun as you’re thinking." "You don't pay me to think, Jack." "Yeah, right," he said, laughing and nodding. "So what absolutely pressing message can't I possibly ignore this morning?" "It's a nice one this morning," she said, grinning widely. "Senator Thomas Jefferson requests the honor of your presence at his office as soon as possible. He says it's important." Jack tried to suppress a chuckle. "With Tommy, it always is.” Taneesha’s lips stretched into a knowing smile. “Oh, so it’s Tommy now.” “It’s always been Tommy. Or T.J. or Thomas. Or various other things, when we’re not around the office. Speaking of offices – ” She groaned a little before she drew a deep breath and ventured on. "Jack, I love you, like my own weird brother, but honestly, you never had an office there. That’s all the hell southwest, on Morton Street. You never even had an office near there. Why would you even have one there?” "Then how come I remember it so clearly?" "Do I know? Maybe you dreamed it or saw it in a picture or a movie and just projected that onto a room that looks like it. The damned thing is as old as the oldest buildings around here. I mean, I could swear I'd been all over England from all those Merchant and Ivory movies my auntie made me watch when I was a kid." "Maybe." He thought it through, shrugging with no certainty at all. "Or maybe it was before you."

"Nothing is before me, Jack!" she said with a sigh of real despair. "I came to work for Isabel when you were still part of the Barber First Amendment practice after you passed the bar exam. I had my orthodontic braces off the week before I started. I got married. I have a baby. I even got some gray in my hair. You know how old I am?" "But I have a distinct memory of that room. Of that wall. And there’s even something important about it … something about it I can’t remember. Like it’s so important that it bugs me that I don’t remember. Ya know?" "Well, I am fresh out of ideas. I am merely the world's best secretary. I am not omniscient, no matter how perfect you may think I am." Jack thought for a moment then finally gave a gesture of conditional surrender. "Okay, well, keep digging for me anyway, will you?" he asked, pulling open the door again, pausing before going. "I will, Jack, I will," Taneesha said. She then shifted into full teasing mode before Paulson had passed through the door. "Feel free to take a long, hot lunch with Senator Jefferson. I mean, if you feel so inclined." Jack grinned and laughed a little awkwardly as he opened the door to go out. "Ms. Taneesha --" "I know, I know, ain't none of my business." "No," he said, smiling. "I was just going to say thank you ... I just might do that."

Lee was typing on something as Jack walked into Jefferson's office. Jack nodded to the closed office door. "Is T.J. in -- " "Yes, he's waiting for --" The door to the inner office swept open. "Get in here! You've got to see this!" "See what?" Jack asked, following the other man into the office, closing the door quickly behind them. He handed Jack his PDA. "I got an email with the list from that fellow I was prick-teasing last night. It's astonishing." "Do we know what the damned list is in the first place?” "You know what they always call the Hotel Hines-Windsor?" "The In Flagrante Delicto, of course." T.J. nodded. "The list contains the reserve suite listing. Room assignments, names, special

requests for, well, let's say particular supplies. They have scans of everything. Credit cards, identification, signatures, everything.” Jack's jaw dropped open in shock. He quickly scanned the screen. "Gee,” he said wryly. “Any big names?" "Huge names. Gay, straight and everything in between participating in a truly mind-numbing array of fetishes and kinks and bizarre costumes. Some I didn't even know existed and truly would have preferred to remain ignorant about. I mean, doesn't an otter have claws?" Jack squinted harder. "I don't think I want to know why you're asking that question." "Page down. See for yourself. There is another part we don't have yet and it's reportedly the biggie. My source said he'd have it tomorrow. I suspect he's holding out for money.” "Oh, my God." Jack continued scanning. "You're not kidding. Half the No-Homos voting block is on here. And shit, here's Deke Mendelsohn. No wonder the kid was sweating bullets." "I know." "Where is your source getting it from?" "Someone who works on staff at the hotel,” T.J. said. “He has all of the substantiating evidence. Because of the anti-gay political orientation of the No-Homos block and the obvious fact they are hotel patrons, the supposed aim was to shame them in public. Not the best of intentions but then again if their guests weren't hypocrites, they wouldn't be ashamed. More likely, the staff members were going to blackmail people.” Jack focused harder on the screen. "What in the hell could you use an ice cream maker for? Sexually, I mean." "I think that, too, is a secret best kept by the ages." Jefferson's interoffice line buzzed. Lee’s voice interrupted, "Senator Hamilton on line two." "Thank you, Lee," T.J. replied, pressing the indicated line. "Want me to put it on speaker? It's probably about this. I swear to Christ the big bastard has the office bugged." Jack shook his head. "Of that, I have no doubt. Go ahead and put him on speaker. He's probably looking for me anyway. He always is." T.J. pressed a button. "Ham, you old scoundrel," he said, dropping into a chair while he motioned Jack toward one. "Where have you been keeping yourself?" "In the potty trying to piss most of the morning, like many men my age. Right now, I'm about to tee off. Is my party paisan, Jack, there with you?" "Hello, Ham," Jack added tiredly. "Hello backatcha. I hear you boys got a digital copy of the big list everyone is talking about."

T.J. shot an amazed look at Jack. Jack shrugged wildly. "Yes, yes, we do as a matter of fact. How on earth did you know that?" "We all got our sources. It appears you gay boys got quite a network goin' for ya," Hamilton said. "I got just the way to use that list. I thought you boys might want to join me in a few rounds. You know where the Big Green T is?" "Big Green T?" T.J. said uncertainly, looking over at Jack who was shrugging again. "Not off hand, but we'll find it."

"When you said teeing off, somehow I had a different image," T.J. said, grinning over at the multi-colored octopus smiling at them from the pink front gate. "Any candy ass pansy ... no offense ... can play the regular kind. It takes a real man to play miniature golf, boys," Hamilton said, as he stepped up to the little pink castle with the moonbeams shooting out of the front that came together and became a hopeful hole in one atop the balcony wall. "Real golf takes too damn long plus I need a little green time for my soul. And we need to get away from dangerous ears, so here we are. I must say though, you do make a pretty piss poor caddy, Jack." "I wasn't aware you needed a caddy for miniature golf," Jack said, in the throes of abject boredom. "Oh, you don't. But you’re too big of a pissy-pants to play and we needed to involve you in the game somehow. Plus it builds character to carry around lavender golf balls and clubs. It's a test of your level of comfort with your sexuality. I ought to tell you that it ain't passing just now." Hamilton walked up to the tee and poised his lavender club. He sliced the putt -- the ball hopped across the moonbeams and flew straight into the big frog's mouth. "God dang it!" "Nice shot," Jack said uncertainly. "No, it wasn't. I was aiming for the goddamned parapet. That's the next hole over. Your turn, Thomas." T.J. grinned over at Jack who was squeezing at his eyes and making a low frustrated groaning sound. "Very well. It has been awhile but I think I can do this,” T.J said. Teeing his ball and aiming his club, Thomas swung and then connected with a straight shot right into the parapet. "Now, that's a nice shot," Hamilton observed. "I have nieces and nephews," T.J. explained. "Do you now? It's good to be around family," Hamilton said, as the three men walked up the

dragon back bridge to the fiery snout where the big frog sat with Hamilton's ball still stuck in its gaping mouth. Hamilton returned the ball to the right position. He wielded his mini-club again then eyed the shot. He paused before putting and looked around at the other men. "Either of you boys notice the sad state of chocolate candy bars in this country?" "No, but we can launch a discovery committee," Jack shot back, still bored. Hamilton cackled in reply. "Jack, my boy, you slay me. No need for discovery, I already know all there is to know.” “Why do I sense a southern oration coming on?” Jack asked. “Because one is,” Hamilton said, grinning. “I have a pack of grandsons, mostly good boys, mind you. And I have noticed that those one-dollar chocolate bars I buy 'em aren’t nearly half as good as the ones I used to get when I was a puppy for two to a quarter at the neighborhood five-anddime. Don't believe this happy horseshit about low food inflation, fellas. Instead of raising the whole price much, they baffle us with bullshit and lower the quality too. It’s the old toad in the hot water trick. So don't you boys baffle me with any more bullshit. I got about all I can handle. Comprende?" T.J. nodded. "Understood." "This list. How much of it do you boys have?" "Three pages," T.J. said simply, succinctly. Hamilton nodded. "I'm given to understand there are four and a half pages in total, aside from the scanned documents." T.J. glanced over at Jack. "We'd heard four." "No, it's four and a half. I know that to a certainty." T.J. squinted in growing concern. "How could you know at all?" "I know on account of the fact I've got the other page and a half." Hamilton swung his club. The ball glanced off the big plastic water lily then toppled into the drink. "Damn! I just can't catch a break today. Your turn to make me look bad again, Thomas." "No, wait, we need to deal with this first," T.J. said, focusing on the older man. "We were supposed to get the last part of the list later." "Supposed being the operative word," Ham said with a hint of guilt behind the grin. "Sorry, boys, I had to do a double-cross .... just to put me in a stronger position for negotiation, you understand. Nothing personal. I know how hard Jack here will be dragging his loafers on this deal. I got the last portion in exchange for a shitload of ol' mazuma and a couple of back markers with a promise to me that nobody else will get it. You boys have the first three pages. I got the last parts." "And you want to negotiate a trade?" Jack asked sharply.

"That's about the size of it. If you boys aren't in the mood now for any more miniature golf then allow me to buy you some lunchtime ptomaine at the Golf and Gulp over by that big, butt-ass ugly lime green thing that's supposed to be the Emerald City. We can discuss the terms for the exchange of hostages. Mind the plastic munchkins as we walk across the bridge." With that, Hamilton led the way down the yellowish faux-brick road.

"And so we come to the matter at hand," Hamilton said, as he considered his hamburger and curly fries before him. He lifted one of the curly fries, inspecting it as if for defects. "They call these things curly fries for their curious whirligig appearance, I take it?" "No, they're named after the lead character in Oklahoma," Jack shot back. A loud laugh rocketed out of Hamilton and then bounced like a pinball around the Quonset hut building. "I swear to god, boy, you missed your calling. You should be writing comedy for Johnny Carson or something." "That'd be hard," Jack said. "Carson's been dead for years." "Has he? See, I really gotta read something other than the business section. Anyhow, it's like all this -- you got your pages, I got my page and a half. Jack, I need your vote on Edison-Sobo. As soon as I have that, we can fully exchange information. Until that time we may independently work with the information that we have. The question is how we go about it." Jack shook his head and sipped at his drink as if he tasted each thought. "If we move on this ... if we do ... we have to do so carefully. We have to carefully plot our course every step of the way. The first step in the journey would be making certain the list is real." "Oh, it's real all right," Hamilton said. "I don't shell out that much scratch without being danged sure about it." "What is your idea, Ham?" T.J asked impatiently. "I say we go to the people on the list," Hamilton said, gesturing expansively over his cheeseburger. "We make clear to them the potential ramifications of the list of names getting out to the press. And we can outline ... ways in which they might assist us in keeping a lid on the information. For everyone's sake." Jack's mouth dropped open, nearly setting a world gaping record. "Extortion, in other words. And that can win us a decade or so in the Federal pen along with some lovely parting gifts including permanent disbarment." "Jack, how long have you been practicing law?" Ham said, with a loud guffaw. "You should know by now that when attorneys do it, it's not extortion. Then it's merely discussing the terms of an agreement." "That doesn't make it right. Or moral." "No, but it does make it legal if done right. I'm just laying it on the table. Nobody's doin' the

boarding house grab for it yet. It may be this tiny immorality might serve a greater good." T.J. reached out and touched Jack's arm as if for a moment of patience. "How would you suggest we do this, Ham?" "We could convey to those on the list that their interests and our interests are mutually entwined. The gay ones, Thomas, you can appeal to as brothers and sisters of an oppressed minority. To all of them we can make clear our sensitivity to the delicate nature of this situation. We can reach out to their own sense of compassion and social justice ... appeal to the better angels of their natures. And if that doesn't work, we'll threaten the motherfuckers. Legally, of course." "How do we know the rest of this list is even worth our time?" Jack asked sharply. Ham grinned. "Oh, it is. It is, I assure you." Jack shook his head. "Funny how that doesn't quite cut it for confirmation. We need names." Hamilton's grin grew large. "How about the Speaker of the House?" "Perry Malone? Where's the big news in that?" T.J. said sharply. "Everyone knows Perry is gay. First ever openly gay Speaker of the House in fact." "Yeah, but if he's on there, third in line to the throne, makes you wonder how far up the old royal bloodline it goes, doesn't it?" Hamilton leaned forward to make his point. “Are you saying the President is on it?” Jack asked. Hamilton shrugged. “I’m saying I will bring all my influence to bear. Play by my rules, boys, as I've outlined them, and we'll win this thing. We will knock the legs out from under the whole No-Homos Voting Block." "A little while ago, you said we might win this thing," Jack said darkly. "What makes you so certain we will all of a sudden?" "Because I have seen the rest of the list," Hamilton said, smiling. “So the President is on it,” Jack said. “I can’t answer that question and you know it,” Ham said. "Okay, are you suggesting we start on our list and you on yours?" T.J. asked. "Is that what you're saying?" Hamilton nodded. "That is what I recommend, yes. And there's no time like the present to begin. However, there is a very serious point I want to make to you both." "Yes?" T.J. said, looking with questions toward Jack who seemed just as mystified. Hamilton looked around them and lowered his voice accordingly. "This list is political dynamite. Careers could be destroyed. Marriages ruined. Plenty of people would like to see this list go away. If I found out you have the list, others will, too. You've both seen the list, I take it,

and so you both need to watch yourselves. Keep numerous digital copies somewhere safe. Somewhere else. Many somewheres even, if you know what I mean. And keep in mind, there's safety in numbers." T.J. looked over at Jack who was already looking over at him. "We will."

Jack slammed the door behind him as they climbed into the car. He waited until they drove out of the parking lot to look over at the driver. "I cannot believe you're considering his proposal," Jack said as soon as their wheels reached the road. "I can't believe you're not," T.J. snapped back. "Look, the good people on the list are voting with us anyway. The others are cowards and hypocrites. They work against our interests while hiding behind a facade of false morality so they can enjoy the liberties they would deny to others." "So you're to be the one to parse the good and the bad?" "Where hypocrites and cowards are concerned, yes." "Okay, they're hypocrites and cowards, but they live in shame. They're to be pitied, T.J., not attacked. Are we to just ruin their lives and their families' lives because they don't agree with us?" "They are attacking us, Jack!" T.J. snarled in reply. "They are trying to ruin us. They're the ones who put their families at risk ... we didn't do it. They put them in the line of fire with their behavior, not us. All of which you'd fucking understand if ..." He made himself stop. As if to avoid the topic, he turned the car up Independence. "If why?" "Never mind ... I spoke in anger." "Don't bullshit me, Tommy. Finish your fucking sentence. If why?" T.J. aimed a profoundly wounded stare back at him. "All right. If you weren't such a hypocrite yourself." Jack leaned back, staring hard at him as if he couldn't believe what he'd heard. "Do I have to remind you that I wrote the initial piece of legislation that you watered down to the consistency of pablum and then glad-handed through on your Senate world tour. I was working free for the District gay caucus when you were a legislative frat boy, Senator Jefferson." "I didn't mean it that way."

"Then how did you mean it?" "I meant that many people who are out have very little patience with those who are closeted. I am one of those people." "I'm not in any closet. I'm a pariah all on my own because I'm obnoxious. I'm long past caring what other people call me. But what about people like Mendelsohn?" "What about him? He's another one who's chosen to live his life as a lie. Some of us never have. And we've borne the burden of opening the way for people like him." "Forgive me, Saint Paul. Can you get any more highhanded?" Jack said, shaking his head. "Anyway, you're not from Appalachia." "I've lived in the southern US for many years!" "You lived in city Virginia. Mendelsohn is from rum-running, snake-handling, fiddle-plucking country. And Deke is really from there. Born and bred. His family didn't even have indoor plumbing until he was twelve." "Yet do I fear thy nature," T.J. groaned. "It is too full of the milk of human kindness." "Yeah, well, I fear thou art full of something else, Shakespeare." "And anyway," T.J. said, as if pleading his case to a Jury Invisible, "who was it who said cutting words can be the kindest wisdom?" "Oh, I dunno ... Satan?" Jack boggled for a moment at the deep streams of traffic all around them. He looked back at Thomas. "You know why you're angry.” “Reveal to me now the contents of my soul, oh Swami Paulson.” “Okay. You’re angry because you know that I'm right." "Damn it to hell, yes," T.J. said, turning into the parking access and then into the first, closest slot to stop the car. He yanked out the keys. Grasping the steering wheel before him, he leaned his head against his hands. "Why do I have to have a bloody conscience? Why can't I be cunning and calculating and ruthless?" "Because you're a good man. And like all good men, you have a greater burden and fewer ways to get where you need to go, to borrow a recent metaphor." "Very well," T.J. said, exhaling. "What about this. Let's say we avoid all the cheating spouses, multiple-partner configurations, freakish otter costumes and gay people except for the clear hypocrites like the Values Voters and the No-Homos ... and we warn all the lightly-closeted people and other relative innocents about what is going on. If we can come up with an approach with which you feel ethically comfortable, would you sign on?" Jack thought for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah. If you agree to all that, I will meet you halfway."

T.J. nodded in return. "Thank you," he said. He glanced reluctantly over at Jack. "I'm sorry. About before. About the hypocrite thing." Jack laughed out loud. "No, you're not. Don't bullshit me about that either. I've known you too long." T.J. confessed with a grin. "Can't I at least feign regret?" "Not with me." T.J. laughed and looked around, as if to make certain they were alone. He leaned over quickly to capture Jack's lips under his. He leaned farther into it, farther than Jack had expected then their tongues glided together as if drawn there helplessly. T.J. made himself pull away. He yanked out his cell phone. "We'd better stop that before we decide to become adventurous. I'll call Lee and have him get hold of everyone on the list who isn't a Values Voter or NoHomo. Shall we all do dinner somewhere reasonably discreet?" "Why not that Italian place with the big backroom? Della Collina on Ambassador." "Della Collina it is. Where are you off to?" Jack had clicked open the door and was checking his PDA for time. "First, I'm stopping by Mendelsohn's office to tell him the bad news. Then I've got that stupid Ways and Means meeting with chicken Congress members who want someone else to kick right-wing ass over entitlement programs." "And a good time will be had by all, I'm sure. Oh, when you come to the meeting tonight, pack some stuff for a couple of days." Jack had climbed out of the car and then looked back in. "Why?" "Safety in numbers, remember? Besides it'll make seduction that much easier." Jack gave an awkward laugh. "We could go to my place. We have security." "A doorman who's a seventy year old retired policeman is not security. My neighborhood has 24 hour sky surveillance and our own armed tactical squad." "Yeah, okay, you win," Jack said, laughing. He closed the door behind him and then walked away toward the hub of the Banks building. And T.J. wished that Jack had looked back just once. Just once.

Mendelsohn seemed like one of those guys perpetually perched on the edge of his life. Hypervigilant, they called it. Many years filled with trauma and stress had in essence left him

psychological road kill, left dangling on the tenterhooks of fate. The tiniest bit of bad luck seemed like a cloud of coming locusts. Anything with an unknown resolution heralded an unhappy end of life. Jack knew the phenomenon well. Too well. He had been living it for at least two years. He gently tapped on the windowed door and he watched as the poor kid scrambled to his feet like an expectant father in a waiting room. He saw Jack, gave a nervous smile and beckoned him in. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Jack said, coming in and closing the door. The tone of voice he was going for was conversational. "Needed to talk to you a couple of minutes, if you have the time." Mendelsohn flashed him the smile he no doubt kept on ice, as did most people in their profession, for just such occasions. But Mendelsohn faked smiles about as well as Jack told lies. In other words, poorly. Mendelsohn tried to settle back into his chair with an air of casualness. He didn't do that too well either. His right hand rubbed at the center of his chest, as if the weight of the world rested there. "So, Jack, whatcha been up to," he said, fighting to maintain the smile. Jack tried a more sympathetic smile of his own. Short and fast, he decided. Like a bandage removal. "We have the list, Deke. And you're on it." The smile broke apart a little bit at a time. Mendelsohn looked around his desk as though searching for some evidence to not believe and slowly, aimlessly rose to his feet. His hand pressed harder against his chest. "You sure?" Jack nodded. "We've seen it." "Is it public?” the younger man asked, fear firing in his eyes. "Not public. Not yet. My friend Tom Jefferson was able to hunt down a copy but so far as we know, it's only T.J. and I who know you're on it. It may very well stay that way." "Well, if it doesn't," the younger man said, sitting again with a kind of numb despair, "My life is done." Jack leaned forward. He grappled inside himself for the right words. He wished T.J. could be there to help him find them. "Deke, I know you're from a conservative town but you represent Massachusetts ... one of the cradles of liberty, for heaven sakes. No one really cares." "I'm not just from a conservative town, Jack. I am from Storybook, Alabama population 2109. They still speak in tongues up there. No one in my family knows about me. No one has even guessed." "Coming out is always hard, I'm given to understand."

"Not hard. Impossible. Look, what's to be done with this list? Do you plan on letting anyone else see it?" "We plan on keeping it as far away from the public eye as we can. We'll be talking to you about all that in a couple of days. I just wanted to tell you in person." Jack stood up from his chair. "I thought it would be kinder coming at you in person." "So ... it's possible no one else will ever see this thing," Mendelsohn said, on the verge of hope. Jack nodded for want of anything better to say. "It's possible." Deke tried to smile, as if he had given him just enough to save his sanity for the moment. "Thanks, Jack. I appreciate your telling me. A lot." "I'll let you know," Jack said slowly, "if anything changes." "Yeah, thanks, do that," Mendelsohn said in parting, with very little inflection in his voice, as his gaze wandered away. Jack almost turned his back in defiance against the wall. The Wall wall. As he walked back into the big area where all lower halls of the building seemed to cross, he realized the little area room that had been annexed for the corridor was in reality quite old. Only the building around the room was new. He kept his back to the wall, but he managed a glance over his shoulder at that troubling blankness behind him. That space on the wall. Something was supposed to be there. But what? His cell phone rang. He didn't even need to answer it to know the caller. His old friends and colleagues at Ways and Means were nothing if not profoundly punctual. "I'll be right there," he said, without a greeting or a goodbye. He shut down the phone and slid it back into his pocket. And he made his way through this intersection of history and modernity, leaving behind for the moment his unsettling funhouse of memory. "Where are you?" T.J.’s voice burst out of Jack's cell phone as Jack escaped the utter act of futility that had been the committee meeting. "Walking back to my office," Jack replied stiffly. "All done with our meeting, are we?" "No, I always conduct meetings on city sidewalks. Yes, T.J., we are done with our meeting." "Excellent. Where are you now?" Jack glanced around, not entirely certain. "Near the Rotunda, why?" "Perfect. I'll pick you up. We have 5:30 reservations at Della Collina." Jack flinched a little, spotting T.J.'s car in its approach. "We're actually, really doing that?”

"Yes, we are. Actually and really," he said over the phone before shutting it down and pulling the car into the loading slip. He popped open the passenger door and called over to him, “Now get in. I've got news I'm dying to tell you." Jack slammed the door behind him and then fastened his seatbelt. "What news?" T.J. grinned mysteriously. "Oh, I can't tell you yet. It must wait until after dinner, though the wait will be excruciating." "All right," Jack said shrugging, "suit yourself." "You aren't the least bit curious about what it is?" "Of course, but you won't tell me about it so why continue the topic?" T.J. smirked back at him. "Damn you and your infernal pragmatism. You're no fun at all." "I'm sorry if your sadistic thirst feels cheated of the delectable juice of my agony, but that’s just the way of things, me bucko." "Oh, we'll get to the juicy stuff later, I promise." T.J. then guided the car out of the walkway depression and into the moderately sane braid of traffic. "So what did Mendelsohn say?" Jack rolled down his window. "That his life is over if word gets out." "Oh, such passionate melodrama,” T.J. said. "Your compassion stirs my soul." "Oh, stop. Yes, yes, it's so hard to be gay. I manage very well, thank you, and have all my life. I've never hidden a thing from anyone. As long as you don't wear a pink sequin-studded thong down Main Street at midday, nobody gives a rat's ass. Sometimes, in your working class hero circle of acquaintances, it's harder for me to be a Republican than gay. Of course it will be harder for him coming from where he does, but with the risks come great rewards." "Says the one who doesn't have to take the risks and already has the rewards." "My family didn't all receive me with open arms. I lost friends when they found out, too. But it's a handy filter. Those are people I wouldn't want to have had as friends anyway. Losing bigots from your life has many advantages." T.J. grinned in his direction. "Not to abandon one of your crusades ... okay, in order to abandon one of your crusades ... guess which couple is the new talked-about item in the rumor mill." Jack smirked back at him. "Based on the fact your secretary is the veritable water wheel of the rumor mill ... and the fact he hates me and knows being gossiped about would bug me ... that couple would be you and me." "Lee does not hate you." "Yes, he does."

"You think everybody hates you." "Everybody does." T.J. moaned a desperate sound of frustration. "I don’t hate you. Taneesha doesn’t hate. If we don’t hate you, there are a lot of others who don’t hate you. Thus, that is merely your persecution complex at play and nothing even approximating reality. And yes, we're the couple." Jack squinted back at the road. "Not to be a driving nag ... okay, to be a driving nag ... are we going to the restaurant via Fredericksburg or something?" "Of course not, why?" "Because we just passed the Ambassador Road turnoff and the only thing of note that way is Maryland." Having successfully navigated the slow-moving molten lava that was DC’s early evening traffic, T.J. finally sidled up the car to the curb of Della Collina. "Before you say a word, yes, we're doing valet parking today. Yes, I insist, your proletariat sympathies will just have to adjust for an evening." "Did I say a word?" Jack said, climbing out. "No, but you were thinking several of them," T.J. said, coming around the side toward the curb and handing the keys over the suited valet while the young man was focusing on Jack. "Hey, you're Jack Paulson, aren't you? The Senator who bitches everybody out on CSPAN." "Yes, he is," T.J. said, looking approvingly over at Jack. "You see, you do have fans." The young guy scowled noticeably. "Oh, I'm not a fan. I hate his guts. He comes off like the biggest jerk in the world on TV." "What was that about my persecution complex?" Jack said to T.J., yanking the call slip out of the valet's hand. "That is reprehensible," T.J. replied sharply, looking back in the valet's direction as Jack kept pulling him to the door. "Ignore it,” Jack said. “Happens all the time." "I should talk to your employer!" T.J. yelled back once more to the valet. "Don't bother, that’s Michael, he's the owner’s nephew," Jack said, pushing their way into the restaurant. “Santo’s sister makes him employ the little jerk.” The Della Collina customer base consisted of Capitol Hillbillies, administrative officials, and the occasional wayfaring layman. The internal construction suggested a series of private cubicles centered on the circular tables. The room wore a kind of feathery chartreuse-gray, almost the money-green of a Yankee buck,

with walls adorned by large etchings of various government buildings from a myriad of periods of time. T.J. looked full circle around to the other man. "You wanted to speak to the chef about your imaginary food allergies, did you not? Go on in then. I'll wait here to have a word with Santo about his reprehensible nephew." "T.J., don't bother." "I'm sorry, right is right. You know I'll gnaw at it unceasingly unless I talk to someone about it as I know you'll obsess all night about MSG if you don't speak with the kitchen staff. So let's both satisfy our compulsions and I'll meet you back here." Jack looked at him with eyes of suspicion. "Okay ... I guess ...” he said slowly and circumspectly. He moved through the swinging waiter gates into the bright, white kitchen beyond. "I'm sorry, Senator," the owner T.J. knew as "Santo" said as he approached him from the other side. "I heard what he said through the breezeway. He's my only sister's only child. He is a lost cause. What can I say?" "Yes, I can well understand your plight, believe me," T.J. said, lowering his voice as he looked for signs of Jack watching from the kitchen. "However that was just a convenient excuse I gave my friend. I needed to ask if you were able to take care of the ... issue with the meeting room." Santo thought for a moment. "Oh, that. Yes, I put up a standing screen as you requested but I must ask ... it is a beautiful relief. Many customers ask to sit near it, in fact. What is it about it you find so objectionable?" "I find nothing objectionable, I think it's beautiful, but Senator Paulson has ... issues with Mount Rushmore." "Who in the world has issues with Mount Rushmore?" "Senator Paulson, I'm afraid." "Who's afraid of Senator Paulson?" Jack asked, walking back through the swinging kitchen gates. "The real question is who isn’t," T.J. replied with a grin, pointing him in the direction of the room that was waiting for them. "So who are we expecting?" Jack asked, as they entered what was predictably labeled Meeting Room. "Well, it's not the sort of occasion you send a respond card to, is it? I sent out messages to everyone but the No-Homos crowd. Ten of them replied. We'll see how many of those actually show up." "Well, if somebody calls you to say you're on some naughty list somewhere,” Jack said, sliding into a chair at the primary table while T.J. sat down on another, “I guess you might think you're

being conned or smoked out or something. They may not want to come at all. But maybe we'll be surprised." "Speaking of surprise," T.J. said to someone he was looking at behind Jack. "Eugene, what the hell are you doing here?" The last person in the world Jack would have thought would walk through that door had just walked through that door. He found himself gawking at Eugene Broslin, the most wholesome and virtuous man in the free world. Broslin stood tall and smiled with the world's straightest, whitest teeth, all of which had come from a lifetime of excellent dental health and not from the dentist chair. His hair was always perfectly combed. His suit was up to date but not garishly stylish. He had been married for a zillion years to the same virtuous, well-respected woman. They had brought into the world numerous honor roll candidates plus one new Midshipman at Annapolis. Gene was a Big Brother, a Boy Scout leader and had been Father of the Year in the Senate more times than Jack could count. The only time Gene had ever missed a vote was when he had to pinch-hit teaching Vacation Bible School when his best friend was nearly killed saving a child. Broslin's nickname in the Senate was Saint Gene. And it had not been borne altogether out of humorous overstatement. And on top of it all, he lived by all that judge-that-ye-be-not-judged, do-unto-others liberal theology. There just wasn't a dog in the world mean enough to bite the man. Broslin shrugged and dragged his muffler off all at one time. "I dunno why I'm here. I had a friend ask me to come and represent him and some of his friends. I don't even know what any of this is about. I'm flying blind here." "Send someone no one would suspect of anything and whom they know won't tell a soul," T.J. said aloud. "That was one cowardly option I'd considered." "What the hell is this about? The guys sounded frantic." Gene tossed his overcoat on the chair across from Jack then sat down. "They wouldn't even give me a hint." "Clearly, they trust us to be too embarrassed to tell you," Jack said, shaking his head. "Or they don't think that we have details." T.J. removed a document from inside his jacket. He pushed the folded pages across to the new man at the table. "We've blacked out names and identifying details. From the rest of the content, I think you'll see what the meeting is about. This is a list that we've obtained a copy of. We're trying to keep it out of public hands. I'm sure you'll see why when you read the list." Broslin removed his reading glasses from his top coat pocket then narrowed his vision at the unknown text. His eyes widened a little more as he appeared to read down the page. "Oh. My. God." "That was our reaction, too," Jack replied. His face rumpled in confusion. "But doesn't an otter have claws?"

"Which was my question," T.J. said. "For obvious reasons, we need to keep this as quiet as possible. So we're informing those we know are of like mind about the existence of the list." "That sounds downright dangerous,” said a new voice from the entry. Jack had only known Miller Alexander as slightly as any Senator might know another Senator. But he knew that T.J. didn't like him at all and the bad blood between them ran long and cold. From the set of his friend's shoulders, he could plainly see nothing had changed. "Funny that I don't remember inviting you or your co-conspirators to this meeting," T.J. said. "Co-conspirators, are we?" Miller said, growling out a laugh. "That sounds downright ignoble." "That would be one word to describe the No-Homos," T.J. said. Jack added, "I'd be happy to share some more colorful ones." "I am not a NoHomo," Miller said sharply to them all while saddling a chair at the far end of the table. "I'm a networker." T.J. laughed darkly. "You say networker. I say opportunistic thug who'll bargain with the devil if you think it'll get you ahead in life, including No-Homos. No matter who or how many you harm in the process. So long as you get yours, you'll do a deal." "Like the rabbi said, if I am not for myself then who will be for me?" Miller said, smirking. "Yeah, you're some rabbi," Jack added. Thomas stared Miller down with a hard, sharp stare. "And in point of fact you always ignore the other end of that saying. If I am only for myself, what am I? However, I think we all know what you are." "And who are you for, Delaney," Miller said, yanking a breadstick out of the bread dough flower vase, “If you're subtly but legally blackmailing people into supporting your fucking legislation." "My legal last name is Jefferson now. I'd prefer you use it or I'll opt to call you my preferred name for you and it's not nearly as nice. As for your absurd contention, you would see it that way. It wouldn't occur to you that people might do something for the greater good." "Oh, you'll look the other way if certain people mind their manners when it comes down to the vote. You'll fan the list around a little. Your engine has been running really rich ever since you arrived up here. You're trying big things way too fast. You're ruining an old and wellestablished order." "An old and well-established inertia that helps no one but the people whose pockets it lines." Miller laughed loudly, chucking away the rest of the breadstick. "Shit, you've really fallen for your own notices. You're beginning to even believe this Jefferson lineage bullshit." T.J.'s eyes aimed straight at Miller. "My lineage is very real."

"Sure, it's real ... if you don't mind a few white trash bastards in the mix. The old Founders Committee didn't even want you in their stupid club. You only got in because Senator Sunshine over there bought old Mrs. Franklin a high-def television set." "You've said enough," Jack snapped loudly, standing out of his chair. As Santo entered the room in response, Jack called over to him, "Santo, we have a party crasher. This is a private function and this guy's not invited." After a moment, Santo said firmly while pointing toward the exit. "If you will accompany me, Senator?" "No need to set the hounds on me, Santo, I'm leaving. I never did like your dive anyway," Miller said, standing to follow the owner to the exit. He slung a look back at the other man and pointed toward a temporary wall of shojis. "Although I always did like that beautiful Mount Rushmore relief. Don't know why you hid it behind a screen." With a final mocking laugh, he left the way he had come. "Mount Rushmore?" Jack said, staring accusingly at the standing screens while he walked across to them and pulled them aside -- unveiling an artfully rendered southwestern toned bas relief of South Dakota’s most famous national monument. "Wonderful. Just wonderful." "I did not carve it, Jack," T.J. said. "It's not my fault. And I tried to have it obscured so it wouldn't upset you." "Why should Mount Rushmore upset you?" Eugene said, having finally broken his apparently stunned silence. Jack glowered in Eugene's direction. "That is a three-dimensional affront to my ancestor, that's why. It's a mountain of Presidential insult. Two of those people were important founding fathers who later became President. As usual, Thomas' ancestor Jefferson is remembered and my ancestor, John Adams, is ... also as usual ... forgotten." Eugene shrugged. "Franklin's not up there either." Jack shut his eyes as if holding a tight rein on his anger. "Benjamin Franklin," he said slowly, “was never President." "He wasn't?" "No. He wasn't." Eugene frowned in thought. "But he's on money -- " "So is Alexander Hamilton. He wasn't President either. Thank God.” “He wasn’t?” “No. What state are you from again?" "Arkansas."

"Oh. Never mind." Jack looked around the nearly empty room. "Well, T.J., it looks like this early warning party is an early bust." "I fear you're right. The only people here on time were two people who weren't invited and only one of those two knew why he was here." T.J. stood slowly and tossed a fistful of tip money onto the table. "Thank you for at least showing up, Gene. Feel free to take the censored list to your friends. If you like, stay and have dinner. It's on me." Eugene rose slowly from his chair and shoved the pages into a pocket. "I think I'd just as soon go home and have pot roast with my family ... if I have any appetite left after reading this list. See you tomorrow, guys." "Good night, Gene," T.J. said to the man now leaving the room. Then Thomas turned toward Paulson. "As for you, I have something to show you." "Another insulting national monument?" "No. Proof that you're a walking, talking Adams monument all on your own." "I'm a what?" T.J. grabbed Jack's arm and pulled him along behind him like a three-wheeled wagon with a load. "Where are we going?" "You'll see." T.J. shoved the slip for the car in the valet's direction and called out, "Bring my car around, will you? We won't be but a moment." T.J. continued to drag Jack by the arm into the street and toward one of the corner big showcase windows that started the art gallery row. "Where are we going?" Jack asked yet again. "It's my surprise." "Right now?" "Yes, right now." He pulled Jack around to the front of him and pushed the man toward the large showcase window of the Sutter and Brownmiller Gallery. Jack saw immediately what he had been intended to see. In the window, on an easel, set a sketch of something familiar -- as memory colored inside the lines, the image in the sketch grew very familiar indeed. Jack touched the cold glass window, as if to steady himself and draw nearer to its surface. "That's the wall from the Banks building," he said grinning brightly.

T.J.'s smile in reply might have glowed in the dark. "It's more than that. It's a sketch by the artist Ann Stewart who used her uncle's summer office as a makeshift studio. She decided to commemorate the view in this sketch. Part of the view is that mysterious wall of yours.” Jack swung the smile back at his friend. "You've got no idea how much that wall has been haunting me. And now you've solved my mystery. How did you find this?" "Lee spoke with Ms. Tennyson from National Historic,” T.J. said. “She's the one who told him about the drawing. It was donated by the Stewart descendants to be auctioned off to fund the Trust. Apparently, there was some security problem with its public display, so it was brought down to this smaller gallery for private sale.” “What security problem?” T.J. shrugged. "Possibly for the same reason the Feds didn’t want that part of the existing structure torn down? It seems the wall that was part of the room was too historically significant to just destroy. It's come under a covenant of trust or something." Jack nodded. “Okay, so it has some historic value?” T.J.'s gaze softened. "It seems Ann Stewart's uncle was, at one time, President of the United States.” “No kidding.” Jack swallowed hard. “Which one?” T.J. laughed. “My dearest man, Ann Stewart’s maiden name was Adams." "Stop it!" Jack said like a knee-jerk reaction to the words. He stepped back a little, running a hand once again over the surface of the glass. He shook his head and pushed away and walked to the curb. He looked as though he was contemplating crossing the whole street to make an escape. "It just can't be my wall. It just looks like it.” “Her Uncle John kept a summer office in that room which was kept for some tactical purpose or other, since it was near the shoreline.” "Enough!" Jack snapped, his voice trembling with anger. "It's a coincidence. An admittedly bizarre, improbable, incredible coincidence, but it's only a coincidence. It's not the same door. I've somehow confused the two in my head. Occam's Razor says the simplest explanation --” “... is the best one, yes, and it applies in all those cases except where it does not apply! Jack, don't be insane." "You're talking about past lives and you're calling me insane?" Jack shot back. “T.J., the only reason the physical world exists is because all things have a limited duration. Space ends. Time ends. So do our lives. Anything else is an illusion.” “Maybe the concept of an ending is the illusion,” T.J. said. Jack looked deeply into his hands until he turned them into fists and then shut his eyes for a long moment. He whispered distinctly, "It's another wall in another room I'm thinking of and that one just looks like it. It's as simple as that. Anything else is just delusional.”

"A part of you knows better than that. That's why you turned away from me last year. I remind you, Jack. That there is transcendent hope and cosmic purpose to our lives, yours and mine. I remind you that nothing ends.” "Watch how quickly this insane conversation's going to end," Jack said, about to cross the street for a final escape. The car lights slung violently with the squeal of rubber. T.J. pulled Jack backwards into the arms of the gallery entry. The big, black featureless car swung past them and screamed away faster than it had arrived. T.J. reached out to touch his friend's stunned face. "You all right?" "Yeah. I think." He touched his chest then T.J.’s shoulder, as if to make sure they remained in one piece. "Thanks to you. That guy really must hate me." "Wasn't the valet, Jack. The driver came from the far street. He was aiming for both of us." "Yeah, yeah, I got that,” Jack said. “It was a joke. I get nervous, I make jokes, remember?” The valet was suddenly running toward them, his sneakers snapping in the air behind him. "Are you guys okay?" "We think so," T.J. replied. "Should I call the cops?" the valet asked. Jack shook his head. "And tell them what? That we were almost run over by a big featureless metal blob?" "Just tell us where our car is," T.J. said, reclaiming the keys and filling the valet's now empty hand with a ten. Jack looked toward T.J.'s sleek hot-ride-of-the-year candidate cooling its wheels a few feet away. "C'mon, let's get the fuck out of here before he takes a second shot, shall we?" "That’s the best idea I’ve heard in the last five minutes." They climbed in and buckled up in record time. A quiet second intervened between T.J. jamming in the key and revving the engine to life. Jack said, "You know what that was about, right?" "Yep." "Guess Ham wasn't exaggerating." "It seems not. I doubt the driver was trying to kill us. If he'd wanted to, he could have. It was probably just a warning." "Well, it was a damned good one."

As T.J. hurried the car into a cross stream of traffic, he decompressed into his seat. He surveyed the streets in front of them. They were headed toward T.J.'s house. There they would have a measure of safety, which was what really mattered. "Who do we call about something like this?" Jack asked, clearly looking for any sign of followers in the rear view mirror. "I mean without telling the whole world about … everything." "Once we're back at my place, I'll talk to the Blue Caps. See anything back there behind us?" "How the hell would I know?” Jack replied. “I’m not a private detective. But nothing obvious. I mean, the Joker’s ambulance isn’t tailing us or something." T.J. nodded. "We'll be safe at my place. Tomorrow we can think through our options." looked in Jack's direction. "You want to talk about -- "

He

"No," Jack said sharply. He stayed quiet for a time before he added firmly, "That topic I'd prefer to be off-limits. Completely." "As you wish. But you know we'll be discussing it eventually." Jack appeared to swallow hard. "I know. Just not ... right now."

"I've alerted internal security," T.J. said as he entered the bedroom from his den. "They'll be doing twice an hour flyovers and fifteen minute drive arounds. My neighbors will love me but we'll be safe enough." Walking up behind Jack, he laced his arms around him and tried to look where ever Jack was looking -- through the French doors and over the hill veranda. T.J. saw nothing out of the ordinary. He wondered if Jack was staring at something that couldn't be seen with anyone else's eyes. "I've also spoken with Senate security,” T.J. said. “They want to come in as early as possible tomorrow so they can set-up a security detail." "Wonderful," Jack said tiredly, rubbing at his forehead. "Maxwell Smart has our back." T.J. laughed. "Oh, it's not quite Maxwell Smart, is it?" Jack frowned a little. "Yeah, more like Barney Fife. He was worse." "I don't know, I think I'd rather be Barney Fife than Maxwell Smart." He tugged on the shoulder of Jack's lounging clothes then glanced toward the suitcase that had been dropped off earlier. "I see you've found the clothing that Taneesha dropped off for you." "Yeah," he said distractedly. "So why so pensive?" Jack went quiet, as if forming a firm intent. Then he said softly, "All right, I'm thinking about ... it."

T.J. fought a far too radiant smile. "Ah, but I thought we weren't discussing the wall and the room." "We're not. We're discussing the drawing of the wall and the room." "Ah, yes, that is different." "Stop smirking," Jack said, grinning. "I didn't smirk." "No, but you were thinking about it." Jack crossed his arms and stepped back from the window. He circled around as if stalking the light. He shut his eyes for a moment before asking, "Look, I'm not saying I buy this for a moment, mind you. But if I'm sharing your delusion, I want to at least understand it. So I have questions. I'll deal with this like an attorney. Can I ask them of you?" “You’ll listen and not prejudge?” “I'll try. That’s the best I can do. And don’t go quoting Yoda again.” T.J. nodded. "If I have the answers for your questions, I'll give them to you. Go ahead." Jack sat down on one corner of the bed. “If this isn't just some narcissistic fantasy, why is it all the people with this reincarnation delusion think they're great people of history? Nobody was ever Sol the brick-layer or some nomadic wanderer who died penniless, unknown and alone.” "For one thing, that isn’t true. For another, if there is reincarnation in the manner I believe, there are people alive who were those great people of history. I came to the idea of reincarnation after realizing my memories, not the reverse. Are people like me to deny their experiences ... their intuitions ... solely because your belief system doesn’t conform to them?” “I don’t have a belief system,” Jack said. “I don’t believe in anything.” T.J. stared at him knowingly. “Not believing in anything is a belief system. And I know you know that as well as I do. ” "Theoretically maybe, but that doesn't mean that every belief system is equally valid." "We do not as yet have enough information to assess all belief systems. Certainly I agree that politics and science shouldn't enact policy on any of this. I'm merely telling you what I believe in my heart, as you asked. You said you’d listen and not prejudge." Jack’s mouth bent into a guilty half-smile. "I'm sorry. You're right. Go on.” T.J. sat near him on the bed. “It is my ... intuition that you and I are born together to accomplish things. In that time, we were born to do what we did. Just as we were now. Our ancestors, Adams and Jefferson, were arguably the two most important elements of the American revolution.” Jack nodded. "If only they both were recognized."

“One neurotic assertion at a time, please?” “Yeah, sorry. Continue.” "All right then,” T.J. said. “Imagine what would have happened if those men hadn’t lived? If they hadn’t known each other in all the ways they did when they did. And later in their lives, after their rapprochement, think of all their letters back and forth. Their correspondence has been vital to driving back religious extremists from laying claim to the foundation of our country. You have said it yourself many times in Congress." Jack nodded again. "And once again, that only seems fortuitous because it brought about what happened. We only think it’s important because of our perspective. The patterns you see are relative to your beliefs." "No judging, remember?" "God. Sorry. This not judging stuff isn't easy for me." T.J. continued, “If you need final proof of their destiny together, surely it’s the day of their deaths.” Jack made a sour face. “I knew this was coming sometime.” "They both died on July 4th, 1826. The fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. They both died on the same damn date, Jack. Completely independent of each other, many states away, in their own beds within a few hours of each other on the very same day. The last words John Adams uttered on this earth were Thomas Jefferson’s name.” "It only had to happen once to be an unlikely coincidence,” Jack replied. “I know that's a lame answer but ... they were both old men! They were going to die eventually. The 4th of July would have naturally been a day of mixed feelings and old anxiety for them." "Mixed feelings and old anxiety from fifty years before? I mean, John was almost 92 years old.” “He walked five miles a day. He came from a long-lived family. His mother lived to be 98.” “Yes, but his father didn’t make seventy. One of his brothers didn’t hit forty. John was a short, chubby fellow who smoked, for heaven’s sake. Why hadn’t the catastrophic date of July 4th killed him before that?” “1826 marked the fiftieth anniversary of independence. That’s a big emotional day for a 92 year old man.” “Maybe, but Jefferson was nine years younger than Adams. If they had died on September 12, 1823, I would think it might be coincidence. But not the way it happened. Unless your brain is mired eternally in reductionism, you must admit that their dying together does suggest that a divinity shapes our ends.” Jack made an impatient clucking sound. "Or they were both old men who got rattled by old memories on a significant anniversary of a big day in their lives and their bodies both gave out

on that day. It's a weird coincidence, I'll grant you. But simple logic gives it a simple solution.” “So far, all you’ve done is argue with my proof. Let’s see you give some proof arguing against destiny. And yes, I know you can’t prove a negative. But work with me here.” “Fine, in the interest of fair play, I have a perfect example. The election of 1800. Jefferson stabbed Adams in the back with the whole Hamilton publication sponsorship. Where’s the shaping divinity in that? Adams and Jefferson crucified each other in that election.” T.J. grinned widely. “And Jefferson and Adams eventually mended fences and deepened their friendship to the ends of their lives. In fact, Jefferson recognized that his presidency was only successful because of Adams’ achievements in office. And also because John’s son, John Quincy, became a very important Congressional ally for Jefferson. Which brings me to my own theory about 1800, the whole of which is fairly complicated.” “Somehow, I knew you would have one,” Jack said. "But I have a very short question for you, Jack,” he said, leaning toward him to look at him closely. “From where do our memories come?" "I didn’t admit to memories." "You didn't have to admit to them, my dearest man. I saw them all in your eyes tonight when you looked at the drawing." Jack turned away again. "Okay, so, here is how I see it. I've absorbed the pathology of your delusion.” “Jack!” T.J. said, laughing and shaking his head. “I heard you out, you hear me out, okay? I may still be under the effects of the hallucinogen. Because of our ancestry and losing Izzy, I‘m especially imprint vulnerable now. Whatever memories I may think I have are merely an elaboration of that delusion I now share and which your beliefs have fostered.” T.J. laughed again, loudly. “Who are you trying to convince of that? Me or you." "A little of both, I think," Jack said softly. "Look, do you know how many movies we must have seen? How many stories and books we've read?” "Before now you doggedly refused the idea that you'd seen the room in a book or movie. You said you had a personal memory, just like I do. You insist it’s important to you. You drove poor Taneesha batty over it, trying to find it." "Okay," Jack said, as if preparing his final question. He lay back over the bed. He covered his face with his hands. Finally, he asked, “Are you suggesting ... I mean, you're not asserting that Adams and Jefferson were ... well, you know, like you and me?" "Politicians? Statesmen?" T.J. asked with a teasing grin. "Men who work in government?" "An item ... in love ... friends of Dorothy’s," Jack said. "To quote a friend of mine, work with

me here." "You mean lovers? Good heavens no! Where'd you get that idea?" "I don't know. Because we're involved and your theory is ...” "My theory doesn’t include that, believe me.” T.J. recoiled a little, somewhat aghast. “I'd never even considered it. For one thing, John was hopelessly in love with Abigail. Thomas was hopelessly in love with the better part of the women of Virginia to say nothing of various regions of France.” “To one of those women, we can personally attest,” Jack said. T.J. chuckled. “From the little I understand of reincarnation, we may well have lived together in all kinds of different relationships in different times. Why? Would it be so bad if they had been ... friends of Dorothy’s, who wasn’t even born at the time, mind you?" "Of course not. I'd just have to rethink history. A lot." "Tell me about it. Of course by today's standards, the lot of them were practically flippin' crossdressers. And yes, Mr. Champion of the People, I know most male cross-dressers aren't gay. It was a joke." T.J. moved up to lie on his side next o Jack. He grinned down into his face. "Now, for the real question of the evening. Did you really have to bribe Ms. Franklin to get me into the Founders Committee?" Jack laughed out loud at the question itself then scrunched up his face. Finally, he looked away. "Of course not." "You're certain about that?" "Hey, who're you gonna believe, me or that walking human pustule?" T.J. tilted an inquisitive eyebrow then sent him down another taunting grin. "And if, in this instance, I opted for the pustule’s account?" "Then I'd say you showed appalling disloyalty," Jack replied, obviously fighting to hide his own smile and failing badly. "And pretty good judgment." T.J. shook his head in wonder. "Taneesha's right, you know. You are about the sweetest man in the world." "Taneesha said that?" "Yes. You see, I'm not the only one who's onto you. But that does bring me about to my final question." He lowered his face so that his smile hovered just above Jack's. "Namely, how I can kiss you as hard and as hot and as long as I'm going to without breaking the bed. Frankly, I don't think that's physically possible." "I'm almost afraid to find out," Jack murmured. "Almost. However, if we get that party started, neither one of us will have the willpower to keep from seeing it through till the end. And Agent 86 needs us first thing in the morning."

“Who cares?” T.J. asked. “We are in a relationship, no?” “We are in a relationship, yes,” Jack said. Thomas leaned over and brushed his lips gently over Jack's then nestled himself against his chest where he whispered, “I do have another question, though." "Don't you always?" T.J. poked him in the ribs. "Before ... when comparing them to us, you asked if our ancestors were in love. Do you see us that way? Do you view us as in love?" A narrow moment of wary silence slipped through on Jack's end. "Do you?" "Give me a break, Jackie. I've already stripped my heart bare before you. I'm asking you to come clean too.” Jack laughed softly, almost like a lost sound in the night. "Yeah, I guess I really do." "See, I knew you were playing hide-and-seek at the restaurant. If you had told me forty-eight hours ago that we'd be here tonight, right now, with your saying that to me, I'd have called you one crazy bastard." "C'mon, you'd have called me that anyway." "Well, yes, I guess that’s true, too,” T.J. said, before he finally pressed his lips against Jack’s.

Chapter Four

Jack lowered his voice as they were directly in the path of their new security fellow. Security Fellow was looking at his smart phone and silently sipping at coffee. "You really think we have no other option than to approach them individually?" Jack asked. "You don't need to lower your voice. Nothing makes security more suspicious than when you whisper." T.J. glanced over at their preposterously not-intimidating company. "Something tells me Senate Security didn't take our threat very seriously." Jack considered the security guy yet again. "Gee, what makes you think that? The fact Taneesha could put him in a hammerlock without breaking a sweat?" "Among other things. And yes to your first question as well, I do think that's our only option.

We're only going to the most staunch No-Homos. If Mohammad won't come to the mountain ...” "Then the mountain becomes a molehill,” Jack said. “Okay but we have to go according to plan." "Agreed." At that point, their security officer answered his cell phone, spoke a few words into it and hung up. He glowered in their direction. "There's some ruckus in chamber. Don't deviate from your security advisory and I'll meet you back at your destination. Where are you headed now?" "Senator Pilsner's office," Jack said for what must have been the fifteenth time. Max's métier was clearly not his memory. "Is there a problem in the House? Is Boehner crying again?" "No, it’s the Senate. Kucinich is singing some nineteenth century spiritual." Jack shook his head for all manner of reasons. "God knows that's bound to get ugly."

Piper Pilsner was one of those apple-cheeked, smiling uber-moms that made glad the heart of Christendom and made Jack absolutely want to puke. She had a 500 rating from the Fight for the Family Heritage Council, the literal top of the scale. All of which only confirmed to Jack that water seeks its own level. Which is why it didn't surprise Jack at all to see her name on the list. Strike a right-wing religious zealot, find a rampaging, out of control, smut-sucking pervo, Jack had always said. "Please, Jack, do not ask about the otter costume," T.J. said as they checked in with building security. “And no otter jokes either.” "Like I had any intention of doing that?" "Just making sure. And ask how her children are." "Her mini-master race of Secaucus, New Jersey? Why?" "Because it's polite. We have to be polite, remember, Mr. Attorney?" "You have to be polite. In this I'm strictly Satan's little helper." "Well, at least attempt it. For me."

He had never quite got past the surprise of walking into an administrative office and seeing exercise equipment. It was kind of like finding an entertainment center in the middle of a football field. But for people who lived with one foot in their home state and one foot in the district, you were bound to find all manner of weirdness in Senator offices ... and not just the

governmental kind of weirdness. He'd heard tales of tanning beds ... pinball machines ... ice cream fountains ... flotation tanks ... Piper was running on her treadmill at full gallop. She was puffing out and sucking in with some kind of syncopated breathing routine that probably had as much to do with her mindset as the workout. She was a puffing and blowing kind of person. A lot of huffing and puffing. And considerable blowing and sucking for that matter, Jack had heard. As she looked over at them, she was gradually slowing her pace to a stop. She pressed her fingers to a throat pulse point while she was reading off some gauge. She switched off the machine. She pulled a bright red hand towel from around her neck and dabbed it across her face. "Thomas, Jack, punctual as always," she said then, as Jack took notice, her hand touched each of the gauge's edges as well as the wall, and then and only then did she step off the belt. She gestured toward her inner office. "Can I offer you coffee, tea, a soda or something?" "Nothing, thank you," T.J. said. "Just a few moments of your time." Jack observed Piper touch the left and right edges of the doorjamb as she opened the door to allow them in and then once again when she walked through it herself. She touched each edge of her desk and then aligned her telephone with her wireless laptop mouse as she lowered with clean precision into her office chair. A toucher and an orderer, Jack concluded. He imagined there had to be a checker and obsessive somewhere in the Pilsner world of frenetic high anxiety. And as usual, Piper's office smelled to Jack like the funeral parlor of a cheap whore house ... unleashing a veritable carpet-bomb of ersatz floral fragrances against his nasal and paranasal passages. This classy degree of moderation was further complimented by a glowing threedimensional bleeding heart of Jesus setting up on a pillar mount. Above it hung a diorama of Her Lord and Savior suffering on the cross. Jack gathered this was where Piper came to relax. "So," Jack said, trying his best to sound like he gave a flying fuck, "How's the family?" She gestured toward the visitor chairs. "Quite well, thanks. Please, make yourselves comfortable." She touched each corner of a large framed portrait at the edge of her desk. It held a photograph of Piper smiling smarmily beside a balding, middle-aged man in a bold blue suit. Behind them, a boy and girl loomed like two bored and bemused-looking potted plants. Everyone on the hill knew that David Pilsner was a malicious drunk who cheated on his wife and that their son had already tumbled twice through the juvenile justice tank. It was the sort of situation that would normally make Jack sympathize. But Piper's was no normal situation. Jack as quickly as possible shuffled adroitly aside to one of the indicated chairs while T.J. did the same. Jack happily let T.J. take the floor from there. "I'm afraid," T.J. said, "We are here with troubling news."

She nodded. "So you implied on the phone. From your request for an urgent personal meeting it seemed even more serious than you'd say." T.J. folded his hands properly in his lap. "It's the sort of sensitive information one should impart in person." "I see," she said, and the artificially-flavored smile never wavered. "By all means, let's hear it." T.J. removed his PDA from his suit coat pocket. He handed it over, the screen displaying the name-censored list with only her name peeking through. She pulled eyeglasses from a desk drawer and peered down at it through her glasses, as if locating the bottom line on some incidental office budget in need of her signature. Jack watched as all the color had drained from her face when she saw her name beside the ... details. "Utter fiction, of course," she said, recovering quickly to zealously return the hand-held. “Otter fiction, did you say?” Jack said, with an innocent tilt to his voice. T.J. gave him an excoriating stare and then continued on with Piper. "But you can see why we were concerned." "Well, of course. I mean, I doubt I've even been to that hotel and certainly never with the individuals described. It's an obvious production of my political enemies. I would like to know your source so that I may at least confront my libeler and accuser." "We're not free to disclose the name due to confidentiality issues. We're sure you understand," T.J. said. "However, it's not our intention for anyone to find out about the list, whether it is or isn't real. Merely to inform those mentioned of its existence. Forewarned is forearmed is our feeling." She nodded, not smiling as casually now. She sat back in her chair. "You don't have intentions of this reaching the public? What do you intend to do with it?" "We're hoping to initiate dialog among people in Congress." "Dialog? What kind of dialog?" T.J. smiled confidently, gesturing with Jeffersonian grace. "A dialog as a means of mutually stipulating that we all live adult private lives. That all lifestyles are alternative ones." "But I have just informed you that this is fiction," she said. "In your case, yes. In other instances, that is not the situation. With those people who may wish to interact with us in earnest, we can open that dialog." Suddenly her smile darkened into a smirk. "Thomas ... Jack ... how can I know there are any other supposed cases at all? Maybe you've made this up to strong arm me. Someone sends something around to claim and control the news cycle. I'm not saying it's your work necessarily, but you may be an unwitting dupe. You won't even disclose your source. Has one case on it

been proven to be true?" Jack’s gaze moved toward T.J. for the other man’s reply and could see only uncertainty flashing through his eyes. T.J. looked anxiously toward Jack then turned to Piper and said, "Deke Mendelsohn. He's confided in us that his ... situation ... is true. That must go no farther." The muscles in Jack's throat all gathered in the middle of his larynx. He bit back each word, looked down and continued to listen. "Of course," she said, looking a bit more sober, but she hid it well. "Representative Mendelsohn from Massachusetts, I take it. That's a different matter then. There is more than one of us involved." "Many more," T.J. said. "But we might see this as a healthy means for inspiring discussion between the two wings of our party and also Jack's party. These topics are sure to come up, for instance, in the vote on my proposed legislation in the Senate. This dialog I propose may help us connect with our more right-leaning colleagues through our shared ... non-mainstream sexuality and help them see the benefit of our sticking together on these issues. And thereby reach a greater understanding among all of us." "I see," she said again, this time loading the smile with a little formality. "I'm certainly in favor of dialog. I will ask around myself about this matter and see if I can find any information regarding it. Until such time, I trust you're taking steps to make certain this doesn't reach anyone else." "We've uploaded it to very many, very safe places," T.J. said. "No one will get to it but us." "Then I can only thank you gentlemen for bringing it to my attention," she said, standing and extending her claw yet again. "I promise you I will speak of the dialog initiative with people in my circle." T.J. stood. "Always happy to be of service." So Jack and T.J. reversed the entry process, dutifully shaking her cloven hoof and then walking to her door. Just when they reached the door, Senator Pilsner cleared her voice to speak. "Jack, tell me something." Jack stopped in his tracks and glanced over at T.J. who was regarding him with nervous eyes. Jack then looked across to Piper. "Tell you what?" he asked, trying to drag a smile out of somewhere. "Well, you've scarcely spoken a word during our whole meeting. You're not letting Thomas do all your talking for you now, are you?" Jack visually checked with T.J. who continued to scold him gently with his stare. Jack tried to seem as though he hadn't heard her right. "Senator, I'm surprised at you. You otter know me better than that."

Paulson felt himself pushed out the office door then around to the elevators and into the first one that opened. When the doors slid closed, T.J. buckled in unstoppable laughter against the elevator wall. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you?" he managed to cough out through added giggling torrents. Jack hit the button for the parking level. "She made me do it. Anyway, why should I be polite? She's the devil." T.J. grinned and shook his head. "And you're incorrigible." "I know, you’ve told me. Repeatedly. You really think it was a smart idea to drop Mendelsohn's name that way?" "Why not? The information is safer in her hands than anyone's. She's not about to let that get out for fear the dike won't hold, so to speak. And it gave it some veracity." He reached over, pinched gently at Jack's face then kissed the other side. "I've got meetings. Where are you off to?" The elevator doors parted to reveal the parking level. "The Banks building. We're having a Break Fast strategy meeting. Where are you off to?" T.J. shrugged casually. “Just a meeting around the corner here.” “Is it a secret or something?” “No, just a meeting. With a member, you know,” T.J. said, gesturing as if to dismiss any importance. Jack checked his watch. "All right, but Max will be back any moment now. Hey, if we move fast, we can lose him completely." "I'm going through that door. Security is right up there. You have a considerable distance to walk. Therefore, you will be taking Max with you." "Why? We mentioned to Senator Cruella de Vil that we have numerous copies other places." "They'll still be after the source of the document." "We don’t know the real source of the document. I still would rather take my chances. I don't want the responsibility. Max could get broken or something and 99 would be pissed. I'll meet you back at your place before dinner." “Okay, okay,” T.J. said, “I know better than to talk you out of anything. Do you have your cell phone charged?" "Yes, Marmee." "At the first sign of trouble, call?"

"No," Jack said, walking away slowly to where he needed to be going. "I'll let them beat me severely and drag me away to their evil otter kingdom in Secaucus." "Jack -- " T.J. said and waited till he turned around. When he did, T.J. mouthed "I love you". Jack smiled, pretended he caught something then acted like he tossed it back. "Gotta book it. Here comes Max."

The room was soundless and almost airless, with that stale, cold smell common to all modern office buildings. There hadn’t been an attempt made at warmth with a picture on a wall or a real, living plant. It wasn’t till you left the central hallway that you reached some dose of personalization. Even that seemed contrived. That was just as well. T.J had no intentions of staying a moment longer than necessary. Miller Alexander never looked up from whatever he was poring over. He merely gestured him in through the open door. “Be with you in a moment,” he muttered. “Be with me now, I don’t have a moment,” T.J. said sharply. “You left a message for me to come alone once we met with Piper. I’ve already had to lie about it to someone I detest lying to. So tell me what it was you wanted to discuss so surreptitiously?” Miller flung him a grumpy glance. “I hear you were much more polite to Piper.” “Word does travel fast, doesn‘t it? As it happens, I’ve no particular reason to despise Piper. Out with it. Come on.” Miller pitched his pen across to his desk set. “Very well. I have an offer for you.” “Already?” Miller nodded, stretching out his hands together to crack his knuckles. “Already. It seems Pandora’s box has had the lock jimmied. Word is out. Capitol Peach has names. Not many but some.” “That cable access gossip show? Who cares?” “Half the younger members of Congress. It’s popular. Granted, it has a reputation for accuracy similar to your average supermarket tabloid, but it’s damned near impossible to unring a bell. Where they go, the Post will follow. People will start checking around. One of the names they’re announcing is Lon Waldie. Another is Deke Mendelsohn.”

“Dear god,” T.J. said, craning his head back to shut his eyes, looking for something not to see. “Why Lon? He’s a ranking member. Everyone likes him. Deke is new.” “Who knows?” He tilted in his chair a moment, locking his fingers together behind his head to lean back against them. "The point is we have to head this off now. No one wants this list to get out. We all have a personal stake in it staying under wraps." “I don’t. Other than concern for the innocent people on the list, I don’t care whether it comes out or not. I’m not on it. And the chief reason I’m not on it is that I’m out.” Miller’s grim smile flickered a little. “What about concern for your friend?” “Who? Jack? Why?” T.J. insisted, staring him down. “If you’re looking to leverage the situation with intimidation tactics -- “ Miller held up a hand to stop the topic of conversation. “Not at all. It’s just that we need to take a stand. I'm ready to broker a deal between you and my contacts. And it involves your friend." "Involves him how?" T.J. asked harshly. "As a sacrificial lamb.” T.J. turned quickly and walked toward the door. “This meeting is over.” “This will happen with or without you,” Miller said sharply before Thomas could leave. “If you want to moderate the impact on your friend, you’ll listen to me. These guys I represent are Social Darwinists, Thomas. They call poor people useless eaters. They make Ebenezer Scrooge look like Andrew Carnegie. You could send ten years’ worth of chain-rattling ghosts after these bastards and they’d still sleep through the night like babies.” “I know all of that. What I want to know is how you live with yourself while allying with them?” “I’m not an ally. I’m just their goddamned go-between. They have me by the balls just like they do half the people on the Hill. Except for a few. Your buddy Jack Paulson is as incorruptible as Saint Bernadette. You know how many bribes he’s turned down? Plus, he’s impossible to blackmail because he isn’t ashamed of anything. And, to top it all off, he’s the descendant of a fucking founding father. His House years were neutralized by his lack of influence in Congress. His wife’s dying kept a lid on him too. But now he’s back with a whole new sense of purpose. A dangerous one, from my contacts’ point of view.” “I think all of that is a wonderful thing,” T.J. snarled back, still not moving far from the door. “So would you if you were an actual Democrat and not a paid shark for the have-mores. I’m a Republican and I may disagree with Democratic methods, but most legitimate Republicans understand the other party is trying to do what they see as best.” Miller laughed darkly. He shook his head. “I live in reality where most Democrats fear to tread. With the idiot Republican we have in the White House, the right feels like the left is emboldened. They want to spin what would have been a positive for the Democrats into a negative. The same thing the Democrats would do if the shoe was on the other foot. These

Republicans want to make an example of one of the neo-bleeding hearts.” T.J. crossed his arms, trying to rein in his anger. “And that’s Jack?” Miller nodded. “The mid-term election’s rallying cry will be fiscal conservatism against socialism. We need a good conservative issue to pimp along with a socially moderate one. Your pal will be the face of their bulwark agenda against liberal spending initiatives. If you don't stop him and his push for social spending, he’s going to be the Jew they nail up before the throngs.” "By doing what?" "Primarily by killing that pointless, feel-good Break Fast bill of his. The one he’s at a meeting about now, I’m told.” “That pointless, feel-good bill, as you call it, will feed millions of poor children,” T.J. said, at the very edge of his ability to contain his anger. “It’s an emergency allocation which must be made.” “Come on, you’ve played the game here long enough. These aren’t the days of reasonable people building consensus … Goldwater and Simon are dead. Nowadays, everyone would sign onto it as a big political spit-swapping fest and then damn it with faint funding. A million dollars sounds like big bucks to Main Street but a million won’t even cover the fucking budget to administrate the thing.” “But Jack was too smart for you,” T.J. said, the edges of his mouth curling up in a small, proud smile. “He built the rapid funding into the bill.” “Exactly. And oh, John Adams’ ancestral grandson demanding money to feed the poor children of America? The press will eat that with a spoon. Just one little watershed event to open up the taps of the public coffers for a whole new era of liberal freeloading.” “Yes, heaven forbid we use some of the public’s money to benefit them. Much better to hand it off to bankers and CEOs.” T.J. shut his eyes in the slow realization, shaking his head in response. “Let me guess from here. Your bastards want my ancestral grandfather’s name to counter it.” “Precisely,” Miller said, with a daring gleam in his eyes. “Democrats may see themselves as Jefferson’s descendants but your ancestor was a big-time states rights man. That’s GOP territory. Here’s what they ask. Break with your buddy on Break Fast. Side with your party. Lend your name to the cause to counter his name and I'll broker the deal to get your Gay Marriage thing pushed through.” “You can’t be serious. You honestly expect me to believe the No-Homos -- “ “The party faithful will do what they’re told. You know the names that the real powerbrokers call these moronic religious zealots behind their backs. No one gives a rat’s ass about anyone’s sex life. But people kept stupid enough to think that cavemen rode dinosaurs can be made to buy anything. We already managed the Supreme Court to get sodomy laws off the books. So we'll sell it as a human rights issue just like that. Have our media snake oil men close the sale with the audience. If you'll be sure to keep this list quashed and neutralize your friend, I can work the

deal." "Well, you may shove your deal up your skinny whoring ass,” T.J. said. “I would never do that to Jack." "You'll be doing it for Jack. Persuade him to table his agenda. For everyone's sake. Including his. Don’t be silly -- you know what these people can do. You know what they did to Peter Milestone. You know what they will do if they have no other choice. Jack is a threat to them –” “Is that supposed to be a threat to Jack?” “It’s friendly advice. Don’t say no now. Think it over. Get back to me.” Miller checked his watch. “That’s all I have to say.” T.J. turned around, feeling like he was moving in a cloud of numbness. He stopped inside the door and then looked around to ask, “How the hell do you sleep at night?” Miller paid him one last glare before he went back to his work. “With one eye open like everybody else in this town.”

The only real substance of any senatorial meeting spanned maybe thirty minutes. It blew thirtyfive if they included a roll call. From there it was all parlor politics. Parlor politics was nothing but an enthusiastic sleight of hand demonstration by a falling down drunken magician. The experience was weird and awkward and fumbling and he usually came away less amazed at the magic than embarrassed for the bibulous magician. Jack had perched on his chair as he listened to the steady, endless, brain-deadening drone of unctuous grandiloquence and pompous pontification to the point he was certain his eardrums would explode. Then somebody suggested "a trust building exercise" and Paulson got the hell out of there as fast as he could move. He had almost reached the cross halls which fed into the older structure which he was not about to look at even once before he left when he felt a small, cool hand slip securely into his. Little girl. Maybe nine. Wearing a mob cap. Big trusting smile. She held fast to his hand as if she worried he might let go. “Are you lost?” Jack said, not knowing what else to say. She shook her head. “Come please and I’ll show it to you,” she said and pulled on his arm. She pulled in the wrong direction. Entirely in the wrong direction. And he didn’t seem to have a whole lot of choice in the matter.

“You see the wall,” she asked. “Remember the room?” “Yes, I do,” the voices kept coming out of him and through him, “But why do I remember the wall?” “Because it cannot be opened,” she said. “And it must be opened. You must open it again, and soon.” “It’s a wall. I can’t do anything to it.” She smiled. “It only seems to be a wall. There is more to it than that. That’s what you have to remember.” Trying to jolt himself out of this reverie or hallucination or whatever the hell it was, he looked toward the wall. But the scenery that appeared to him was not a 21st century office building. It seemed a very old, very closed-off part of what seemed to be an office. He looked away from the wall, across what was now a tethered terrace abridging a picture window. Puffs of dust from construction blasted into the air beyond it, puffs like ghosts being born to the mist. “You told me once it must always, always be open,” the young girl said. “It isn’t just a wall, Uncle. It’s a very important door. You must remember. It is a very important door.” She pulled his hand toward a piece of molding. He felt there a long piece of wood. “Turn the knob, Uncle, and it opens.” Jack heard himself sigh with the breath of a man who had tried so long and so hard to remember everything that he had forgotten how to rest. Suddenly, his hand was set free. The sunlight filtered into his eyes. The sun reflected in a bright, white wall of light that solidified into modern glass. There was no picture window. No abridgement of terrace. There was only another wall and beyond it the usual bank of glass doors. There was yet more afternoon sunlight splashing through the series of partitions. Twenty-first century sunlight. He turned to survey his surroundings. People with briefcases and vague looks on their faces. Someone with a cell phone. Someone else with a smart phone. He listened to the blessed sanity of a loudspeaker announcing a car parked in a temporary loading zone. And then he groped his way down the steps toward the glass doors and got the hell out of that fucking place before he could lose his mind again. Drinking himself into a state of mental paralysis seemed like just the thing to do at that point in time. Sitting in Pepper’s Place, a little bar near Ambassador, he occupied a corner booth. He looked long into the dregs of his Scotch and water with its watery residue of melting ice. Specks of dust once locked in ice now floated on the amber-colored liquid in his glass. Would you come up with a hallucination that wouldn't serve the delusion? he asked himself. Someone had dosed his drink at T.J.’s party. It had been a very vivid daydream locked into the

psychopathology du jour. Like the specks, he thought. Remnants of grief melting out of ice and floating to the surface. That was it. That was all. Or remnants of something else? Get hold of yourself, he yelled internally again. He decided he didn’t need mental paralysis. After three drinks, he concluded he needed strong coffee before he could drive. He decided any other state might not be conducive to getting his dumb ass home alive. He found his way to the only place he knew where he could still get a basic cup of coffee at the original sticker price, without the dealer add-ons that dressed it all the way up to five bucks a pop. Cuppajoe's was a little honest coffee bar with next to no pretense. And it was on Ambassador. Okay, just off Ambassador. Okay, by happy accident, just around the corner from the gallery. But it was just coincidence he went there. Really. He made a call to T.J.'s voice mail, since he didn't pick up his cell, and let him know it was around 4:45 and he would be running some errands. "What errands?" he asked himself as he climbed from his frumpy little import. The import, as usual, had no answer. Their humble cup of decent coffee had gone up in the world to $1.25. Still better, he wagered, than a five dollar half-caff-decaf with a full-gainer and twist. So he bought his coffee. He took it out to the street to sip from his cup and breathe in the darkened afternoon. He found himself looking toward it. By chance. And he saw two people standing beside it. Jack had never met an art buyer before. Had Jack ever met one before, he would have bet serious cash that he’d look just like this man. The man was staring at the drawing with something of a fleeting professional interest. Finally, the buyer pointed at one watercolor then another etching. He made some uncertain gesture toward Jack's drawing. His gesture toward Jack’s drawing was uncertain -- he neither seemed to accept or dismiss the drawing but left enough doubt in the matter to make Jack feel distinctly sick. The buyer wandered away and the assistant stayed behind apparently to hash out details with the gallery rep. The gallery representative was nodding and smiling and just all-in-all looking inordinately pleased. The assistant said something that seemed to be words in parting. She followed in the footsteps of the buyer. Jack didn't like the look of this. Didn't like the look of it at all. And he didn't even goddamn know why. And so it was that he set his cup inside his car and found himself walking into an art gallery. A part of him felt queasy and desperate but the rest of him was just wondering what the hell he thought he was doing.

"Did those people buy the Ann Stewart drawing?" Jack found himself asking the rep. She looked around, obviously surprised. "Not yet." "How much is it?" he was almost shocked to hear himself ask. "The Stewart? Twenty-five." It was an art gallery and he didn't want to look like an ignorant schlub ... but at least he would look like a wealthy ignorant schlub. "Twenty-five-thousand?" "Yes, of course," she said, continuing to smile. "Thanks anyway," he made himself say. Twenty-five thousand dollars? That was a car. A new car. A new car with a couple of options. It was ludicrous to consider. Just thoroughly insane. And he made it all the way to the doorway to see the buyer and his assistant talking animatedly while looking in the drawing’s direction. Then Jack turned back around to the gallery rep and simply said, "I'll take it." "Art is an excellent investment," he repeated like a mantra to his package in the backseat as he drove all the way to T.J.'s neighborhood entry gate.

"Hi, your favorite person back again," Jack said to the kid who hated him and who was now squinting at a puzzle he seemed to be working. The kid looked up, slapped down his puzzle book. He pulled something out of a drawer and then reached over to paste a sticker on Jack's windshield. He grudgingly handed Jack a gate slip and a key. "You got a resident entry permanent pass," he grunted. "Guess we'll be seeing a lot more of each other, huh?" The kid scrunched up his face in disgust. "What? Are you hittin' on me?" Jack could only squeeze at his eyes while quietly quashing the resurgent urge to kill. "Art is an excellent investment,” he said in reply and drove on. He was accustomed to the crazy quilt of parked cars and Harleys that usually covered the street for T.J.'s parties. But T.J. sure hadn't mentioned a party and the house was quiet and dark and evincing few obvious signs of night life.

He pulled his carefully-wrapped purchase from his back seat. And he repeated his mantra once again regarding the investment excellence of artwork as he finally walked up to the door. He was about to fumble for his key when the door was swept open. "Thank heavens. I was beginning to worry," T.J. said, pulling him in and closing the door behind him. "I left you a message. I did some shopping." He set the package quickly to the side. "Let me tell you, I‘ve had one weird-ass day -- " He stopped when he saw the look on T.J.’s face. “Hey, what’s wrong?” “You haven’t heard?” “Evidently not.” T.J. shook his head and motioned Jack to follow him toward the dark end of the hallway. “Come on, we have to talk.” He followed after T.J. as they rounded the foyer corner into the lighter end of the living room. "Capitol Peach has some names. It announced them this afternoon." "Oh my God! Oh, no!" Jack said then added, "Okay, now tell me ... what the hell is Capitol Peach?" "Local cable access show. Gossip on the Hill, that sort of thing. Jack, one of the names they announced was Deke's." "Christ." "Precisely. Lon Waldie was another. He's already announced his resignation." "Fantastic. Why the grim face? We've lost one of the major No-Homos. That guy had been attacking the community from inside his deep, highly fortified closet for decades. His resignation is a thing to celebrate." “There’s more. You had better sit for this part, I’m afraid.” “When you say I’m afraid, I’m really afraid,” Jack said, sliding out of his jacket and then sinking into one of the front room easy chairs that he didn’t ease into in the least. He remained on the edge of it, both of his hands gripping his knees. “What is it?” "Deke Mendelsohn had a heart attack when he received the news." Jack sank back uneasily. "He’s a kid." "Nonetheless, he did. It seems to have been a relatively minor episode. The doctors say he’ll likely recover completely." "I should call the hospital," Jack said, beginning to stand. T.J. caught his shoulder and urged him down again. “He’s probably asleep.”

“Yeah, probably.” Jack shook his head at the realization, leaning back as if to take in the whole scene. “You realize this is partly our fault.” “I realize you’ll think that it is, yes. This information was coming out anyway. We were just caught in the tide.” “We brought it to Mendelssohn -- “ “Because he was on the list anyway. That’s the only reason we saw him. When we saw him, he was fine. It wasn’t until the Capitol Peach piece aired that he became ill. Obviously, that’s what got to him.” “Maybe that’s just what’s easy for us to believe.” “Mendelssohn will be fine. He‘ll fully recover. We can deal with the rest of it later. There’s something … else. Something … more.” Jack refocused on T.J. “There always is when you look like this.” T.J. fairly melted into the chair across from Jack. He took a deep breath and went on. “Earlier today, I wasn’t entirely honest with you -- “ “No kidding.” He held up a hand. “Please, let me finish. When I went to that meeting, I met with Miller Alexander.” “You did what?” he yelled back. “I know, I know. Just listen.” T.J. sighed softly, studying the inside of his hand as if he might find an answer there. “He said he might be able to broker an agreement about the gay domestic partnership bill.” “And you believed him?” “I thought it worthwhile to listen to him, yes.” “So worthwhile that you didn’t tell me about this earlier?” “All right, I didn’t tell you because I knew how you would react.” “Thomas Jefferson Delaney, you don’t have the right to keep the truth from me just because you’re afraid of how I’ll react. The truth is the truth. I thought this morning our plan was to gently intimidate people with the list. What kind of agreement could he possibly devise that would be acceptable to us?” T.J. leaned backward into the chair, turning his head in the direction of the window and the bright, white glow of the Capitol district in the distance. “It’s complex. But I believe … as awful as it is … the idea is worth strongly considering.” “And the idea is?”

He leaned forward again. He met Jack’s skeptical glower completely. “Me abandoning Break Fast. And persuading you to go along with it.” Jack stood up slowly, with obvious effort. “I must have taken temporary leave of my senses. You can‘t possibly have said what I just heard --” “For gods sakes, Jack, just think for a moment -- “ “No. I don’t have to. No. As simple as that. T.J., for some kids that breakfast program is the only food they have all day.” “I know that but you should at least hear what he’s offering -- “ “No, I shouldn’t. I don’t care what he‘s offering. The bastard couldn’t offer me enough.” “You know what they do, Jack. They pass the thing and then underfund it. It looks great to the press, but the reality is it does nothing.” “It’s the principle of the thing.” “You and your goddamned empty principles,” T.J. barked back. “What’s more important to you, a principle or a reality? The reality of gay people finally being allowed to have the most basic civil rights? Forget the fucking list! This is a much faster road. And the breakfast program will come to naught, we know that. Of that, I am sorry, but I think equal rights beats out even the best-intentioned hunger program.” “I don’t see that one is any more important than the other. T.J., goddamn it, this is how the bastards do it. This is how they divide and conquer. You get sane people from both parties working together and they toss out the red meat to one side or the other. Abortion for women, gun control for men, that‘s the way they work the middle. These guys are not going to give in without one hell of a lot more concessions from our side. There’s more to this. What is it?” “I think they just want to make it impossible for you to progress with your agenda,” T.J. said softly, staring down into the empty place made with his coupled fingers. “They’re terrified of your pedigree. They’re afraid this new effort of yours will unleash a new tide of social spending.” “Keep going, there’s more. What is it? Why go to you? Why not just threaten me directly?” T.J. shook his head with a hollow and melancholy sigh. “The only way they can think to counter your ancestry is with … my own.” “Wonderful. And for my last round of Final Jeopardy, Alex, the answer is ‘What is History repeating itself?’. I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this. And for Miller Alexander? Someone we both supposedly dislike?” “I more than dislike him, I hate him. Anyway, I’m not asking you to do this. I told him I wouldn‘t do that to you. But I had hoped I might convince you to act on your own. Aside from the prospect of gay marriage, Miller Alexander more than vaguely threatened your life.” “How often does that happen in this town? We don’t make the money we do without reason.

Some of that comes with risk.” “I know that. But what if he isn’t just threatening? That car almost hit both of us.” “They were trying to scare us. We agreed on that. If that car had intended to hit us, it would have.” “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” T.J. gave a gesture of surrender. “Do you want to die? I think not. Do you want to leave me alone? Well, perhaps you do, God knows it’s what you’re best at.” The fleeting reflection of pain surfaced plainly on Jack’s face. He turned his head as if to send it away. “To quote a close, personal friend of mine, I’m still here, T.J.” T.J. dismissed his own words with a wave of his hand. “At the very least, they’ll ruin you, Jack. They said so. Things may change. If you sit tight and wait until your next term -- ” “What next term?” Jack snarled back at him. “Christ, T.J., I’m not going to be re-elected. My opponent schtupped his best friend's wife.” “You’re such a damned defeatist!” “Now I’m a defeatist. The other day you said I was a hopeful constant. I’m neither one. I’m a fucking realist. My winning that election was a total freak. I've got nothing to lose – and that’s why I scare them. So what if my enemies ruin me? Bring it on. They're going to try to kill me? Let 'em take their best shot. But in the brief time I’m here, I will do my job as a Senator and serve the public trust.” T.J. smiled gently, fondly. “Now you sound like a maudlin old man.” “Goddamn it, T.J., as maudlin as it may sound in this age of fashionable cynicism, I won’t abdicate my duty to my constituents. Those people go out on voting day, some of 'em take buses, some maneuver wheelchairs up ramps, seniors use walkers, but somehow they get there, against all the cynicism in our society, against all the broken promises, and they go against the grain. They vote. Unmarried mothers, unemployed fathers, seniors who have to decide between meat and medicine. But for that one instant of time as they vote, they have hope. That maybe someone will listen. That maybe their lives will be a little better this time. Let the Senate bastards hate me. I don’t give a damn if they hate me. I’m worried about kids going hungry. I’ll take on the bullshit if it gets them fed. Fuck the rest of it. Fuck every last member of the Congress. And if you can’t accept that, Tommy, then fuck you too.” T.J. laughed harshly at something welling up within him. He shut his eyes to whisper, “Good God, Jack, do you have any idea how much I love you?” “Then please don’t ask me to do this.” “Goddamn you and your antediluvian patriarchal attitude about life,” T.J. yelled back at him. “The world isn’t black and white, John Paulson. Sometimes when you stick to doing what you think is good, it ends up as something evil. You know that! So are you going to do some stoic civic good because your puffed-up ego demands it or are you actually going to find a middle way to really make positive change? Confess your sins, John Paulson. Who are you really serving?

Your people or yourself?” “Like I said, T.J. … fuck you … and to hell with you too,” Jack said, standing quickly, his voice full of more pain than anger. “Here’s an idea. Maybe it’s a love/hate thing with you and Miller. Why not invite him over for a hot tub and brandy? I mean, who knows, maybe he’s the one.” “Impossible,” T.J. said, standing to block Jack’s departure. He stared at the wall and the ceiling and the window till he finally said, “As maudlin as it may sound in this age of fashionable cynicism, Jack, you are the one. You always have been. Right from the fucking start.” Jack pushed around him to grab for the front doorknob. He pulled the door open but waited for a long moment as if for a reason to walk on. “And to at last make my final confession, the simple truth is so were you … So are you. Right from the fucking start.” He opened the door completely and pushed through the outside security screen to walk quickly toward his car. T.J. followed him out, to the walkway and the driveway and beyond them to his car. “Don’t you dare just drive away after saying something like that to me!” “Just watch me.” “Lee has my car and I can’t chase after you. Anyway, we’re not supposed to be separated for security's sake, remember?” “This is something I have to do by myself,” Jack said and slammed the car door between them then locked it. “What are you going to do?” T.J. yelled at him through the car window. “Smash my way through a wall,” he yelled back. “What?” “Look at the package I brought in. All will be revealed,” he yelled again, jamming his car into reverse to back away then surge forward toward the exit road. “Jack!” T.J. screamed a last time, his voice bouncing uselessly against the gathering distance between them. Thomas pulled his cell phone from his pocket and clicked a button. “Lee, I’m sorry about this but I need my car. Or at least a driver. Yes, it’s an emergency. Yes, right now.” T.J. ran his fingers back through his hair, standing there a moment more in the soft path of a breeze before he remembered Jack’s parting words … Look at the package. All will be revealed T.J. found it in the hallway between the wall and the foyer closet. He had barely noticed with all that was happening that Jack had even carried something in. He lifted it on a chair and tore at once through the outside brown paper wrapping until he reached the bubble wrapped package

within. He stared through the distorting wrap but couldn’t believe what he thought he saw. When he had removed it all and held the painting in his hands, he still really didn’t believe it. It was the painting of the room. The wall in the Banks building. And Jack had bought it. Jack the friendly miser had just invested $25,000 worth of trust in T.J.’s vision. And the proof of Jack’s trust was right there in his own hands.

Chapter Five

His phone rang just as he rounded the hospital walkway to push through the cranky automatic doors. “Taneesha?” Jack said into the phone. “You owe me big time,” she replied. “I just came back from a $200 dinner with a National Historic aid. But before I get into that, you got messages. Tons of ‘em. Senator Jefferson is worried sick about you.” “I know,” Jack said, “Look, it’s a long story. Can you hold them off for me a little while?” “I’ll try. For a little while. At least until I think you’re in over your head.” “Thanks. What is it you found out?” “It seems,” Taneesha said, her hushed voice full of secrets, “that the old summer office that President Adams used, while the White House was still being constructed, is now part of the Banks building – ” “Yeah, I know that much from the portrait,” Jack said. “What portrait?” “Long story,” he said. “Go on.” “Well, beyond that, there’s something top secret about it. Something that made the Secret Service pitch a fit when my friend inquired about it. You’d think it had a goddamned backdoor into the Lincoln bedroom.” And then he realized. Just then, he remembered. “I must have seen it in a documentary or something, but I remember now. There is a door. I know it.” The little girl in his hallucination had said, ‘It isn’t just a wall, Uncle. It’s a very important door. You must remember. It is a very important door. Turn the knob and it opens.’ “You sure? Don’t you think they’d have filled it in by now?”

“They may not even know it’s there,” he said. “Taneesha, you’re a credit to your profession.” “Tell me something I don’t know, but you still owe me $200. Oh, and call T.J. back.” “I will,” he said, closing his cell phone before moving through the hospital’s automatic doors. “Do I look like a goddamn baby doctor to you?” Hamilton growled as Jack walked into the hospital. The older guy looked as rumpled as Jackson Pollock drip art. His hair appeared to have been several hours without a comb. “Coz only goddamn OBGYN’s and ER docs get calls like I just got. I am not on-call twenty-four and seven, Senator. I was watching a good damned movie and my wife was in an amorous mood which meant I just might have gotten lucky which is not an easy thing for a faithful man of my age.” “Sorry, Ham, it’s an emergency,” Jack said. “You didn’t tell T.J., right?” “How the hell could I have told T.J. any damned thing? After six o’clock, I let my service take all my calls short of a Constitutional crisis or a full-on nuclear war, son. I only pick-up my special cell on those occasions, the number for which is known only to the President, the Vice President, the Speaker and now apparently your secretary, Taneesha, who is just too damned smart for her own good. Now what is this entire ruckus about?” Jack turned toward the elevator doors and thumped the call button. “We’re going to see Deke Mendelssohn.” “Who?” Hamilton snapped as he sluggishly followed him into the elevator. “Representative Deke Mendelssohn. My old district?” “Oh, yeah, I think I remember the name. Why the hospital? Is he sick or something?” “He had a heart attack when he got the news.” “What news?” “He’s gay. Two guesses.”

Mendelssohn’s eyes were half-closed, seemingly aimed at a nearby droning television to which he was paying scant attention. As the two men entered, his eyes opened a little more. Deke squinted at them through a happy fog. Mendelssohn was obviously medicated. “Jack?” “We’re just here for you to be a witness, Deke,” Jack said. “Don't worry about talking. Are you in much pain?” He shook his head, glancing toward the slow drip feeding medicine into his arm. “Hell, nothing hurts now.” His gaze moved slowly aside to the other senator. Mendelson seemed slow to

focus. “Othel Hamilton, right?” “That’s right,” Hamilton said gently. “I know that heart attack probably seemed like a good idea at the time but so did marrying my first wife and I guarantee you that was a big mistake. Are you all right?” “They say I will be. I’m sorry, but, I don’t think we know each other, do we?” “I dragged Hamilton here with me,” Jack said simply. “I’m here to ask Ham an important question. And I wanted you here to bear witness and give him a good and guilty conscience. You up to this? It’s about this stupid list.” “I’m up to that for sure,” Deke said wanly, clearly fighting to focus again. “Okay, I knew there was another sneaker about to go plop,” Hamilton said. “What is it about this damned list again?” Jack pulled from his pocket an envelope and slapped it against Hamilton’s shoulder. “Here‘s your pound of flesh. You’ve got your Edison-Sobo signature. In a world of lesser evils, that’s the least of them. The first part of the list has already leaked and we’re still getting threats so obviously the second half contains the real dynamite.” “Who the hell is threatening you?” Hamilton said. Jack waved it away. “Who do you think? Anyway, here’s the deal. You get my signature and you give me the rest of the list. And if you give me an excuse instead, you’ll have to explain it to Deke Mendelssohn. You owe it to me now, and you owe it to Deke, to man up and deal with this situation truthfully.” Hamilton groaned heavily, sagging down into a chair. “Hell, Jack, I would give it to you if I could.” “Why the hell can’t you?” Jack asked. “Because I can’t give you something I ain’t got. All right, I lied. I don’t have the last page and a half.” “Why in the hell did you lie?” Jack asked angrily. “Because,” Ham said, looking guilty as sin. “I thought I could finesse you boys into coughing up your list while I dredged up the rest. Saw it as a way of making short work of Edison-Sobo.” “You set us up for some bullshit scheme?” Jack said, thunderstruck. “You endangered our lives -- “ “I didn’t realize it would work out that way! I just warned you boys on the outside chance … which unfortunately turned out to be the inside likelihood. Don’t feel so put-upon. I got my tit caught in the wringer, too, you know.” “You put your tit there in the first place, Bonnie Big Ones. Why don’t you just go over to the dark side with the rest of your kind?”

“Now, Jack, don’t get nasty. I’ll tell you who the source is if that helps. It’s a little weasel who works at that hotel. The one the information is from. He told me how long the list was and that the Speaker‘s name is on it, that’s all. We‘re still negotiating on price.” “Fine, who is he? What’s his name? I'll go pummel the damned thing out of him.” “That’s the thing, I don’t know his real name,” Hamilton said, guiltily. “I know him by some pansy Renaissance painter nickname. No offense, boys. Leonardo, Botticelli, Donatello …” “Michelangelo?” Jack asked shortly, almost surprised to hear the word leave his mouth. “Yeah, that’s it. Michelangelo. You know him?” “I might,” Jack said, reaching into his pocket for his keys. Jack glanced around toward Mendelsohn. “Deke, do you have a pass key to the Banks building?” “Of course. In my suit jacket pocket, I think. Why?” “I need to borrow that thing we talked about, you know, the thing in your office,” Jack said, pulling a nearby tweed suit coat off the arm of a chair. He reached into its waist pocket. “The thing T.J. and I talked to you about.” Deke’s brow wrinkled deeply. “I don’t recall the conversation. Is it something about the list?” “Yeah, it is.” Deke pulled the jumble of keys out of Jack’s fingers. He shook the keys down to select only one. He handed it to Jack. “Then go for it.” “I take full responsibility for whatever happens with these,” Jack said. Ham clambered out of his chair. “What in hell are you gonna do?” “First, I’m going to find this little Michelangelo bastard,” Jack said. “And then I’m going to make sure this whole situation is remedied for good.” He looked last toward Hamilton. “Call T.J., would you? Tell him not to worry and that I know what I’m doing.” “I’ll tell him that first part, but I won’t vouch for the second. Jack, you know first-hand how goddamned dangerous it’ll be to actually have that whole thing in your hands.” “Believe me, I know,” Jack said, and then he left the room without another backward glance. “Any other day, the roads would be empty at this time of night. Now, of course, they’re not. It would work out in Jack’s favor on that account,” T.J. said, “But doesn’t it always.” “I may not be Jack’s biggest fan,” Lee said. “But I can’t really blame the traffic on him.” T.J. swerved a hard, probing look over at Lee. “He thinks you hate him, you know.” “I don’t … hate him really,” Lee said. “I barely know him. He’s not the most approachable teddy bear of a guy, you know. I respect his opinions on issues. I know Taneesha loves him like a brother. I don’t like the way he treated you, ignoring you the way he did after his wife died.”

“Jack’s not the only one to blame for our relationship unraveling,” T.J. said in the voice of a personal revelation. “After Izzy died, I was terrified. I’ve known I had deep feelings for Jack for years. It’s the reason I approached Izzy about our arrangement – ” “Wait,” Lee said, his jaw gaping open a little. “You approached her? I thought it was the other way around.” T.J. exhaled a strangled, breathy sigh but laughed all the way through it. He shook his head as he scrutinized the faces of sidewalk people. He could have recognized Jack wearing black clothes on an unlit mid-winter moonless night, but he needed the brief fleeting hope he felt as each person walked past them. He saw Jack everywhere and then nowhere. “Now you know what I mean. I’ve been as disingenuous and conflicted about our relationship as Jack has.” “Well, don’t worry so much,” Lee added. “You’ll get perpetual worry lines. We’ll find him. What is this whole thing but some grandstanding on his part? It’s just some competitive thing.” T.J. laughed sadly to himself. “Yes, that comment makes it obvious that you don’t know him very well. This isn't competition. It's Jack being certain he's right. Even if it means his own destruction, he will stick to his guns. And the greatly annoying part of it all is that he is usually right.” “Oh, please,” Lee said, scowling. “He is. The shameful fact of the matter is I need to be liked. Jack doesn't. I will be politic just to gain acceptance. It only matters to him if he does the right thing as he sees it. And that makes Jack most annoying. However, that which is most annoying about Jack is what makes me respect him enormously and love him even more. I predict that I shall spend the rest of my life knowing Jack was right about more things than I could ever admit.” “He isn’t right about everything,” Lee said. “The way he goes on about your ancestor and his ancestor is ridiculous.” “No, I’m afraid he actually has a point on that one, too. Adams has been woefully undervalued by history. I’d never admit that in front of him, of course, but he’s right to be miffed about Adams being discounted.” T.J's cell phone rang. He grabbed it quickly. “Jack?” he said, before he realized the word had flown out of his mouth. “No,” Hamilton’s voice replied. “Hell, I was hoping you'd heard from him.” T.J. settled back in his seat, still scrutinizing the people on the street. “Not since earlier, why?” “Because he is about to get his dumbass shot, that’s why. He got me over here to the hospital to see Deke Mendelsohn. Jack handed me his signature warranty for Edison-Sobo because he wanted me to give him the rest of the list. When I couldn’t give it to him, he flipped out.” T.J flinched inwardly. “Why couldn’t you give it to him?” “I couldn't give it to him. Tom, because I lied about having it. See, I thought I might be able to

dig up the rest of the list and –” “That doesn't matter now,” T.J said quickly. “What the hell happened with Jack?” “That's what I was getting to. I think he found out how to get his damned fool hands on the rest of the list. I gave him the name of my contact at the hotel, because I felt bad about lying. Some guy named Michelangelo. He seemed to know who he was.” T.J. grasped its meaning. “I think I may know him too. What else did he say?” “He muttered some nonsense about needing Mendelsohn’s passkey to his building. He said you two had talked to Deke about picking up something from there.” “We said nothing of the kind,” T.J. said, swallowing hard. “But I think I know why he needs them. We've got to find him and fast.” “Well, come by the hospital to pick me up, too, will ya? Jack made it sound like Jesus was about to roll away the rock so I'm standing here in my jammies jacket freezing my jiggly white ass off.” “All right, wait for us in front, we'll be there,” T.J said, hanging up the line. “What the hell am I now, the DC Senatorial taxi service?” Lee asked with a sneer. “Until my Jack is found, I’m afraid you are, yes.” He drove down Ambassador past the row of galleries he also fought to ignore. Focus, Jack, focus, Izzy’s words floated back to him. She understood too well his ability to be distracted by every other cause that came his way. One thing at a time, one hour at a time, one day at a time, she would say. The thing at this time was Della Collina. The day and hour was now. Its windows still flickered with the shadows of people moving beyond them. The outside lights were still on. Somebody was home. He made two fists and pounded them both on the center of the door. A click on the inside door produced a slight opening. An eye peered out at him. “Yeah?” Jack forced the door open more with his foot. “Michael, open up. You and I have business to discuss.” “What kinda business?” the young guy whined in reply. “I got work.” Jack’s foot moved forward again. “Just open the damned door or I’ll be too happy to tell your uncle all about your other job and your new enterprise.” “What enterprise?” “You know,” Jack said. “Extortion for fun and profit. You get my drift, Michael Angelo?” The eyes beyond the door opened wider. Jack thought he might have seen the young man blanch a little. “Okay,” the kid said, opening the door. “Come in.”

Jack moved inside as the kid shut the door again and locked it. Michael looked one way then the other. “Look, I got bills. I need these jobs. You know how much the insurance on a Jag runs at my age?” “Poor baby, my heart bleeds for you. You should have thought of that before you started playing craps with peoples’ lives. Anyway, I don’t want to get you in more trouble than you’re already in. You’ve done enough damage for one day. Why don’t you just cough up the list for me and I’ll be on my way?” “It’s not that easy,” Michael said, his voice wavering badly. “Sure it is. You give me the list and I don’t dropkick your balls. See how easy that is?” Michael lowered his voice even more. “I give it to you and you’ll give it to them. They’ll find out where it came from. I’ll be dead. Or at least on Guantanamo.” “Obama shut down Gitmo.” “You think this dude didn’t open it up?” Michael asked. “You don’t have to worry about it if you give me everything,” Jack said. “Give me everything and your risk transfers from you to me. I have no criminal culpability. I’ll tell the whole fucking world I don’t know where it came from. As far as they know, some dude did a Watergate and got it all.” Michael shook his head. His voice trembled, as if under the weight of the words to come. “You don’t know who’s on it.” “I’ve got a pretty good idea. Care to clarify?” Michael Angelo, already a tapioca-color, blanched bone white. He glanced around at the room. “He’s on it.” “Who? God?” “No, somebody more powerful than that,” Michael said, looking around, as if even the chairs might overhear them. He finally spit out, “The fucking President of the fucking United States.” “Yeah, I figured as much, with the way everyone is tripping out. So what?” Michael’s eyes grew large. “So you think he’ll think twice about killing you to save his ass?” “Let me worry about that.” “What if he waterboards you or something and you give up my name?” Michael asked. “Your concern for me is touching. Look, they probably already know who you are and what you are. I’m in a position to stop them. You aren’t. The list is too hot to be lucrative for you now. Anyway, if they torture me, they’ll have to kill me to get any information. You’ll get a good head start out of town. And I suspect that sort of thing might spur my old friend, T.J., to mount a primary challenge against his party paisan.”

Michael sighed long and loud. He shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a USB drive. He dropped into Jack’s palm as if it was a burning ember. Jack took out his handheld, slid the small drive into the slot and hit enter. It made a soft moan, as if having electronic sex. “What was that?” Michael asked. “That, Mr. Angelo, was the process of propagating enough copies to enough places across the globe to cover both our butts.” Michael exhaled in audible relief. “Where are you going now?” “Oh, believe me. You’ll hear about it soon enough. It’ll be all over the news in an hour,” Jack said, sailing out the door with the speed of a man who knew exactly where he was going. A cumbersome, lumbering man stood out starkly against the streaming late night lights. He wore a black slicker over a striped pajama shirt with what looked like old holey blue jeans to complete the tout ensemble. As T.J., now behind the wheel, drove up to the curb, the big man jerked his arm free from the clasp of a city cop. “I told you, I am a United States senator, partner! I was just visiting a friend,” Hamilton lashed back at the policeman as he looked toward the door that T.J. had just popped open for him. “And anyway, here’s my ride, just like I said.” “He’s right, Officer,” T.J. called out, now behind the wheel. “We’re late in giving him a lift. We’re terribly sorry. Loads of traffic about tonight.” The cop nodded and said, “Just so he gets where he’s going safely.” “I am not a goddamned mental case, I already told you that!” Hamilton snapped again, and then crowded his way into T.J.’s car. He shut the door against the night with a slam for emphasis. “Goddamn your boyfriend for leaving me in the lurch this way.” Lee coughed out a laugh from behind them. “The cop thought you were a psychiatric patient?” “Hell, that was the nicest thing he thought,” Hamilton said. “At first, he thought I was a goddamned john looking for action. When I told him I was a Senator, he wanted to pack me off for a 51-50 psychiatric evaluation. Given the circumstances, I expect he had the right to be suspicious.” Hamilton turned around and glared at Lee, who had withdrawn into the rear seat. “Do I even know you, partner?” Lee nodded. “I’m Senator Jefferson’s secretary,” he said. “Lee, like the general right?” Hamilton asked. “Yes, sir.” “I remember. Then again, you’re a bit hard to forget.” Lee nodded. “So I’ve been told, Senator.”

Hamilton yanked down the seatbelt and fastened it sharply. He glared over at T.J. “So where the hell is your goddamned boyfriend?” “You’d know that better than I,” T.J. said, glaring around at him. “What did he say to you?” “He didn’t say any damn thing. He turned tail out the goddamned staff hallway to get around me, the little son of a bitch. He told Deke Mendelsohn he was going to get the list from Michael whats-his-bucket. Jack also borrowed Deke’s pass key to the Banks building.” “The Banks building,” T.J. said, looking over at him hard. With a second to consider, he swerved into the turn lane and made a hard left toward Morton Street. “Good lord, at least I know where he’s going. I just wish I knew why.” T.J.’s phone rang. “Jack?” he asked hopefully, with the word that had become a greeting for him in the last few hours. “No, it’s Taneesha,” the woman’s voice rang back through the line. “I haven’t talked to him in a while. He won’t answer his phone so I thought you might have heard from him. I told him to call you which, of course, he didn’t.” “What did he say when you spoke with him?” “I told him some stuff I found out about the Banks building,” she said. “That wall he’s been fixated on.” T.J.’s heart almost stopped. “What did you tell him?” “Only thing I could find out. That the wall had been part of President Adams’ summer office. It’s top secret, with a Secret Service seal. I suggested it might be a backdoor into the Lincoln bedroom, and that seemed to trigger something in him.” “That makes sense. And it explains why he’s headed there. Call me if you hear anything. I’ll do the same,” T.J. said. He shut down his phone then looked over at Hamilton. “Ham, you know of anything hush-hush that might be concealed in the older section of the Banks building?” Hamilton grimaced in thought. “Well, there’s the old saw about the Lobsterback Pass, but that’s just a myth.” “Perhaps not. What is it?” “Supposedly some emergency bolt-hole out of the White House and down to where they had a carriage at ready, in case the redcoats attacked. Of course, back then it wasn’t the White House. They called it the Presidential Estate or some such.” “Why did they call the tunnel Lobsterback Pass?” T.J. asked. “Because lobsterbacks was another name for redcoats. The story goes that Franklin and Jefferson designed the thing. That would have been some huge engineering feat for the time, given the circumstances. The end of the bolt-hole was supposed to be the office the President used for the summer. The idea was to go down to the far end of the point and then by boat across the river to escape.”

“And if you could get from the White House to the Banks building,” T.J. muttered, mostly to himself, “Then you could get from the Banks building to the White House. Inside the building. Beyond the gates.” Hamilton shrugged. “If it really existed, sure, but it doesn’t.” “Perhaps it does,” T.J. said. “Tommy, wouldn’t something like that be fairly obvious?” Lee asked. “Well, it’s supposed to be hidden behind a wall or something,” Hamilton said. ‘Smashing my way through a wall,’ Jack had said. “Oh my God,” T.J. said, realizing. “If I know my Jackie, and I think I do, he’s going to confront President Walker with the fucking list.” “Messing with Wendell Walker is like French kissing a king cobra, Thomas,” Hamilton said. “And I am still in my nightie. All I need is to go ambling along down the Beltway so some photo-snapping son of a buck can shoot me in my jammies with the likes of you two. That might knock the Horse Thief off the front page.” “Gee, thanks, Senator,” Lee said. “No offense intended,” the senator replied. “Now, how could I possibly be offended at that?” Lee shot back. Hamilton frowned over at him. “What I’m saying is, you best drop me by my penthouse.” T.J. slammed the heel of his palm against the steering wheel. “What the hell do you mean? I have to get to Jack before he gets himself arrested.” “I understand that, Thomas,” Ham said. “Just drop me off at the switchback to M Street. I’m in the West End. I can hoof it from there.” “I’m in the West End too,” Lee added. “I’ll walk you home. I’m not getting my ass in grass either.” “You live in the West End?” Hamilton said, suspiciously. “What kinda salary you make working for Thomas?” “My husband is the Gallagher of Gallagher, Peters and Associates,” Lee stiffly replied. “You mean to tell me,” Hamilton spat out, “Five-over-Par Tony Gallagher is your gay boyfriend?” “Only when he’s having sex with me, honest,” Lee replied tartly. “Be careful, old man, or I’ll trip you while I’m walking you home.” Jack always marveled at how much lighter the inside of office buildings appeared at night, as if the electricity within fought to build a dam against the darkness. He imagined how dark the

buildings must have been in the days of dark wood and fire-lit lamps, especially at night. He thought of that especially as he rounded the corner to the oldest part of the Banks building. He had planned ahead, of course. He pulled out an old black shirt and tented it over the tire iron’s teeth so he could raise the shirt and fit it over the front of the video surveillance camera’s eye. He trusted in the cheapness of the last years of Presidential administration to provide for a system that wouldn’t alert the surveillance operator to a lapse in visual cues. Sure enough, no signal had sounded. ‘Turn the knob and it opens.’ He wondered if the darkness had been the reason the knob was made easy to find. And it was still easy to find. It took three or four hard twists with the help of his thumb. ‘Turn the knob and it opens.’ He turned the knob, and the wall slipped apart from the corner. He pushed against age and dust to force the wall to slide into the opposite pocket, fit inside the rest of the wall. There was a door. There was absolutely a door. Of course, he knew he had to have read of this somewhere. The little girl ghost had arisen from the last of the hallucinogen in his body. The information itself he must have already read or seen. Good, old cryptomnesia was the culprit, he told himself. He tried to force the door aside, against even more age and dust. When he couldn’t, he squinted at the door’s edge to see a line of rusty old nails that had been hammered into wood. Somebody had nailed the door shut a long time ago. A long, long time ago. He lifted the tire iron again to pry the nails away from the wood. They exploded like brittle teeth in a broken jaw. The door came open without another complaint. A rush of stale air and dust blew past him, as if something inside had been waiting to exhale a very long time. There was a very old piece of yellowed parchment hammered to the inside of the door. The parchment read “Lobsterback Flight from Presidential Palace”. Beneath the words, a crude sketch had been made, a diagram of what appeared to be a passageway from one black X through a series of rudely articulated corridors up to what Jack recognized as the basic floor plan of what was now called the White House, but which had only been called the White House for a little over a century. Judging from the lettering, the parchment was a lot older than that. He knew where this went, but he yanked down the diagram, just to be sure. He pulled out his flashlight and drew the door closed behind him. He shone his light into the dark passageway ahead. The rough floor seemed to have been unwalked for a long time. His footsteps left imprints behind him. He didn’t know how long he walked … he didn’t even know where he was walking, for sure … He knew, but he didn’t, which was the best way he’d be able to explain this to anyone for years after.

Above him, streams of light filtered through the dust. He thought he heard street noise. He sensed he heard voices. He had the notion he wasn’t far underground which, for a man with mild claustrophobia, was a comforting sensation to cling to, so he clung to it. He turned a corner to find three more planks covering his way. He raised his crowbar to pry those away. It took more effort through longer moments, since the wood seemed less fragile, but he pried away one that allowed him to move through. In all, there stood five more barricades ahead of him, each made of three to four planks, each blockade newer than the last. For a man who didn’t know where he was going, Jack told himself, he certainly made short work of the obstacles in his path. The final obstacle was another wall. He felt along the edge till he found the knob, just like the other. This one turned more easily. He hadn’t really known where he was going. He didn’t have a reason to expect a stronger obstacle. But wherever he was going was at least as old as the tunnel. The Presidential Palace had been one of the first names for the White House, so he supposed it was on the walk. That building would surely have been renovated too, as the Banks building had been. But all that was revealed after he slid the wall aside was another door, just like the last door. No one had nailed shut this door. He turned the knob and it simply opened. He was looking through the slots in what seemed to be industrial shelving. He could see the inside the small, spare room. It stood old, cement-walled with nothing embellished and looked somewhat like an old heating room – like the old heating room in the White House. He hadn’t been expecting this. Well, he had but he hadn’t. He leaned his shoulder against the shelving and managed to push it out of the way of the door. It moved just enough for him to squeeze himself around it. The space had once been part of the porter’s room that had become the old boiler room and later a utility closet. Most of this part of the building had been burned in 1814 by the hand of the British. Very little of the original interior structure remained so none of it was original. Apparently, only the tunnel door had survived the onslaught, no doubt due to the tiny room around it. He slipped out of that room, around the dumbwaiter and through rooms that were now used as part of the national office. Before he had enough time to stand in awe at the place where he stood, black suited men encircled him from every angle. Each of them pointed a sizeable gun at him. The Secret Service team leader raised a hand and each of the others drew back a little. “Senator Paulson?” he asked. “I’m Deputy in Charge Duffy. I’m sorry, sir, did you have an appointment with President Walker we weren’t informed about?” “No,” Jack said, smiling, “But he’ll see me.” Duffy regarded him with a skeptical squint. “President Walker is in the private residence, sir. His office hours – ”

“Are over, I know, but he’ll see me.” Double doors from the direction of the main staircase opened. President Walker, whom Hamilton had called President Horse Thief so many times that Jack had almost forgotten Walker’s real name, stepped into the corridor. Walker looked like he’d been run through with a sword. “I’ll see him, Agent,” the President said, as if he had to spit out each distasteful word. Jack smiled at Duffy as the other man holstered his weapon and nodded to the others to stand down. “Sorry to disturb you, Senator. Good evening, Mr. President,” Duffy said, as he led the retreat like Doc before the Seven Dwarves. Walker’s eyes turned dark as they turned toward Paulson. “Well, Senator, my press secretary has just spoken with the London Times. We know the … situation.” Jack shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir, I wouldn’t know what situation that is. I just came to warn you about this list thing that’s going around. Senator Jefferson and I spoke with various House and Senate members, but I made the decision to bring it directly to you, once I had a copy of it. That way, you and the Vice President could protect yourselves from any fall-out from the press. I mean, you know, since you’re both on the list.” “We’re … aware of that.” Jack grinned. “Are you? Then you must know the highly sensitive nature of the information.” The President combed fingers back through his brown-dyed hair. “Enough so that I’m standing here, talking to you, instead of calling the Uniformed Deputies, Senator.” Walker stared down at his feet. Jack couldn’t see his eyes but he wagered they weren’t happy and shiny. ““I know you don’t like me. I know we see things very differently. Believe it or not, I only wanted to serve my country, but our term in office is half over. If we do as we now plan, we’ll avoid House Hearings, a Special Prosecutor, Impeachment and the rest. I’m sure this outcome will make you happy.” “No, it won’t make me happy. I hate your politics, but I’ve got nothing against you. I didn’t know you and the Veep were on there. I mean, I didn’t care. But for thirty years, you and your ilk have whipped up this sanctimonious fervor against people who are different. You used it to hold office and drive out enemies. You blackmailed everyone for doing what you yourselves were doing. You hide behind this family values bullshit plank and stage vicious, unfounded attacks on anyone who doesn’t comply with your pro-corporate political agenda. But you got hoisted on your own petard, Mr. President. That’s what you get for hiding in the closet while you serve the rich, abuse the poor and sneer at compassion.” Walker grinned a little in contempt. “I’m in no closet, Senator. I am straight, as is Vice President Richards. I think the number of women on our respective entries might have indicated that. Although I’m not sure what you’d call yourselves these days.” Jack laughed harshly at the sound of the words. “You call me whatever you want. I’m a man

who fell in love with another man. Everybody knows who and what I am. You can’t use anything against me. See, this is what you guys don’t get. It’s not about your sex life. It’s your hypocrisy … Mr. President.”

Chapter Six

The Banks building glittered off the starlight, so close T.J. could almost see inside the lobby windows. The traffic down to Morton Street, at that hour of the night, had thinned. He neared the exit and his cell phone rang. “Jack?” he asked, hopefully. “No, just me,” Lee said. “Are you sitting down?” “Of course not,” T.J. replied, making a sharp turn toward the bridge exit again. “I always stand at attention when I drive through DC. What the fuck could have happened? I just dropped you off ten minutes ago. I’m still trying to get out to Jack.” “Don’t be bitchy. This is big. The BBC Daybreak Report broke the story in its morning report. We just got it over the wire.” “About the list?” “No. The wire service story says that the President and Vice President will be making a serious, early morning announcement. The speculation is they’re going to resign. You think Jack got to them?” T.J. stopped at the red light, just one turn away from the building. “He must have. President Horse Thief doing something selfless? There had to have been a powerful motivator behind that.” At that moment, T.J.’s passenger door popped open. Jack climbed inside. T.J. practically melted into the seat with relief. He reached over to pluck some chalky white dust off Jack’s shoulder and then kiss him hard on the side of his face. “Thank great flipping God. Where in hell have you been?” “Oh, here and there,” Jack said, grinning like a sunbeam. “Call me back!” Lee yelled through the phone. “I’ll call you back,” T.J. said, and hung up the line. He tossed the phone between them. “Did you hear about Walker and Richards?” “Hear about it?” Jack said, laughing. “Tommy, I had a front row seat.”

“I’ll just bet you did. They were both on the list?” “Yup.” He brushed more tunnel debris off his clothes and into his hand. He dumped the handful out the window. “I found a way into the White House.” “So I gathered,” T.J. said, pulling through the green light and making a right toward the beltway again. “Ham, Lee and I pieced all that together. Of course I didn’t tell them how you knew.” “We don’t know how I knew,” Jack said. “Anyway, I gave the list and everything with it to the London Times … and another dozen major world newspapers and media outlets. I figured that was the only way to put out the fire.” “Jack,” T.J. said, “do you know how bloody, goddamn, fucking dangerous that was?” “Yeah, I do now. I had a bunch of men in black pointing their mighty phallic symbols at me. As soon as I got there, Walker had already heard from the London Times. He let me in. In exchange for my not affirming the stuff in the list is true, and therefore not ruining their lives, marriages, and further political careers, they’re resigning and not throwing me in the hoosgow.” T.J. slammed his hand against the wheel. “Don’t you ever take a chance like that without me again!” “Like you’d have let me take that big a chance with you?” “That was my point.” “It was too important to gamble on your hindering me, Tommy.” “Gay marriage, yes, that might have been worth a gamble. Might have been. But, while I’m happy to be rid of the merchants of menace, that wasn’t the goal. I’d much rather have you here and alive. As it is, we can worry about working a deal on gay marriage later.” “You are forgetting yourself, dear sir,” Jack said. “What do you mean?” Jack smiled with a good dose of self-satisfaction. “I am a Constitutional lawyer, as you may recall.” “As if you’d ever let me forget it,” T.J. said. “How does that apply?” “Presidential Succession Act, adopted in 1947,” Jack said. “What does it do?” T.J. nodded. “Okay, I’ll play. It establishes the line of succession to the office of President of the United States if neither a President nor Vice President is able to discharge the powers and duties of the office.” “You are correct, sir,” Jack said, grinning. “If Miss America cannot fulfill her duties then the first-runner-up will take over her role. But if neither the President or Vee-Pee can fill the post, to whom does the title go?”

“The Speaker of the House, of course,” T.J. said, scowling a little in his direction. “I still don’t get the – ” His eyes flashed open wide. “Oh, my God.” Jack grinned even wider. “And who is the Speaker of the House?” “Perry Malone. Holy Mary, Mother of God,” T.J. said, as he quickly swerved toward a curb to stop the car. “Our new President is gay.” Jack laughed and nodded. “I told you I’d take care of it.” T.J. stared over at him for a long moment. “I’d kiss you full on the lips, but you’d read too much into it.” He looked at him longer. “Oh, what the hell.” He leaned over and consumed Jack’s grin in a kiss. “I love you,” Jack said, as if from the soul of sincerity itself. “See, you didn’t die from the shock.” “I love you back,” T.J. said. “You accept, don’t you, that you recalled the details about the Lobsterback Pass because of -- ” “I accept no such thing,” Jack said strongly. “Obviously, I saw a film about it somewhere, at some time. I read a lot of books and saw a lot of documentaries about the founding fathers. Somewhere, in all of that, I gleaned the information.” T.J. laughed a little sadly. He shook his head. “I guess I can’t expect perfection from you right away.” “However,” Jack said softly, looking around as if someone else in the car might overhear him. “I have a question. The election of 1800. The whole argument. It was a plot, wasn’t it? A conspiracy between Adams and Jefferson to keep Pinkney and the pro-slavery south out of the Presidency. That’s why John Quincy was able to work so closely with President Jefferson, and why Jefferson’s deeds in office so perfectly fit with Adams’ own. Why they patched things up shortly after Thomas left office.” T.J. smiled a little. “Read that in a book too?” “I admit to nothing, as always,” Jack said, as he smiled out at the night. “Come on, let’s get going. I’m starving. And yes, I promise, no restaurants with friendly mascots.” A few months later Lee poured their champagne flutes full again. Jack picked his up from the table and handed the other glass to T.J., who leaned against him on the sofa. Lee lifted his glass to the two men. “My dear friends, thank you for a blessed distraction from election night. And special thanks to Jack for enabling a weekend I thought I would never see, namely the occasion of your blessed union with Thomas. May you have a long and happy life together. And may you always get my own beloved and me as nice an anniversary gift as the wedding gift we got for you. And no, I’m not telling you what it is until you open it tomorrow, but it’s big.”

“Thanks, Lee, we’ll be sure to have it price checked at FriendlyMart,” Jack said, tasting the champagne and smiling favorably. “You bitch,” Lee said, nudging Jack’s leg with his shoe. “Oh, and speaking of bitches, has anyone checked the election results lately?” “No, why?” Jack said. “T.J.’s not running.” “No, silly, but you are,” Lee replied. Jack drank from his champagne again. “Yeah, which was my point.” T.J.’s phone rang. He looked at it. “It’s Ham.” “I shut my phone off,” Jack replied. “He probably wants to convince me to be nice in my concession speech. As if. Tell him I’m asleep or something.” “Very well,” T.J. said, answering it. “Yes, hello, Ham. No, he’s sleeping, I’m afraid. Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say. I know we’ll be very happy. Oh, really? Yes, I will certainly extend to him your congratulations when he wakes up. You too. Good night.” T.J. hung up the line. “Lee, would you hand me that purple-wrapped package over there on the table?” T.J.’s secretary conveyed the gift to him. He handed the wrapped package to Jack. “Here is a little wedding gift.” “We agreed on not exchanging gifts,” Jack said. “Yes, well, I lied. But this one is special.” Jack shook it next to his ear. “Uh-oh, it’s ticking, should I be concerned?” he asked, pulling open the ribbon which automatically released the wrapping paper. “This is some magic trick the high end stores do. It must be expensive.” “It was. And no, in this case, you should be concerned if it doesn’t tick.” Jack opened the box. In it was a wristwatch. A gold one. “It’s meant to replace the one you broke that night,” T.J. said gently. “Turn it over.” Across the back it had been inscribed, ‘this time gold can stay.’ Jack smiled like he might never stop. He lifted the watch and slyly swiped away an escape tear. “This is an amazing gift. Thank you.” “You’re most welcome, my love. That dispatched with, Ham wanted me to extend his congratulations to you.” Jack smirked. “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to tell anyone about our marriage but Lee and Taneesha for the time being.” T.J. sipped champagne through his small mischievous smile. “Oh, he wasn’t congratulating you

on our marriage. He was congratulating you on your reelection.” Jack’s eyes grew dark and angry. “Ham should be ashamed. What kind of sick practical joke is that?” “Not a joke,” T.J. said, trying to repress a grin. “I’m afraid it’s true. I heard Jill Hardesty’s concession speech in the background.” “But it’s impossible.” “Evidently not.” “I demand a recount!” Jack said. “You can’t demand a recount, love, unless you lose,” T.J. said, losing his war with the giggles. “I’m afraid you must just resign yourself to your destiny. You’ve won. It would seem the majority of your voting constituents don’t hate you after all.” “But I did everything wrong,” Jack said, as if condemned to a tragic plight. “Perhaps they found it refreshing?” “It’s just not fair.” “I understand,” T.J. said, reaching over to pat his hand and then enclose it in his. “You just must learn to live with it. We all have these little unfortunate successes in life.”

The End Chapter Last: ABOUT THE AUTHOR Melody Clark has been writing professionally since the age of 18. She has authored numerous novels, two non-fiction titles, The Dark Shadows Companion from Pomegranate Press, Ltd and Guide to the Green Hornet by Toltec Press. She lives in southern California with her husband as well as two furbabies popularly known as dogs.