It’s the White House calling,” Landon Meyer’s secretary announced over the intercom.
“I’ll take it.” He punched the flashing button. “This is Landon Meyer.”
A female voice spoke, “Please stand by for the president.”
Landon pulled up his sleeve, then watched the second hand on the 1958 Elgin Durabalance his father had left him. He could gauge the importance of the call by how long the president kept him waiting.
“Good afternoon, Landon.”
Five seconds. The president was desperate.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President.”
“Three weeks.”
“I know, Mr. President.”
“And New Hampshire is three and a half months away. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I know what you’re saying.”
“Let’s get out there and kick those last two butts in line.”
B randon picked up on the first ring. Landon heard a crash in the background.
“What’s that?”
“A waiter dropped a tray. I’m at Tadich Grill with Anston.”
“Where do we stand with my colleagues from Ohio and Massachusetts?”
“Hold on. Let me step outside.”
Landon heard shuffling as Brandon rose, then footsteps, then street traffic.
“They each wanted a million,” Brandon said, standing next to a parking meter in front of the restaurant. “Part for them, and part for PACs and 527s.”
“Can we cover it?”
“Sure. We’ve got more than that from the Silicon Valley group. But the problem is how to explain a huge influx of money so far in advance of their primaries. They’re afraid it’ll seem like a payoff coming this close to the vote.”
“It’s not a damn payoff.” Landon’s voice rose. “They want to vote our way, they just don’t want to pay the political cost.”
“And what if Starsky and Hutch don’t get confirmed? Then every dime will get reported.”
“There’s no turning back now. Get it done.”
T he big man sitting in the Yukon a block away punched off the recorder as Brandon slipped back inside the restaurant.
Half a conversation was better than none.