Matt looked at Pat and Gilbert. They returned his look with twin glares. “What’s his problem?” he asked.
“What do you think, Einstein?” Pat said. “The same problem we all have.”
Matt felt a little like he was twelve again, summoned into his father’s office for some mis deed. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and strolled back to Tom’s office. As he entered, Tom rolled in his chair, lifted his leg to kick the door shut, and rolled back. “You’ve really fucked this up, you know it?” he asked, his voice cold as ice as he glared at Matt over tented fingers.
“What?”
“You couldn’t keep your hands off her ass until after November, could you? You just had to go and run her off!”
Okay, the picture was getting a little clearer. “Shut up, Tom. What’s the problem, anyway?”
“You want to know the problem? I’ll tell you the problem. Since she quit, the whole goddamn campaign is going in the toilet!”
“Oh, God—Tom,” Matt said, straining for patience, “you’ve got three people completely committed to you. Are you going to try and tell me that we can’t do what needs to be done along with the public relations firm and the party folks? You think Rebecca was your key to the election?”
Tom laughed derisively and shook his head. “You think campaign contributions just fall from the sky? I’m not talking about the campaign anyway. I am talking about the bunker buster fund-raiser we were planning. Do you have even the slightest idea how much I stand to lose? How much in dollars? Hell, her father alone could have brought in fifty grand! She was lining up every major player in this state, and you had to go and ruin all that with your dick.”
“Watch it, Tom,” Matt said hotly.
“You watch it, Parrish. Rebecca is worth bucks to me. Big bucks. And now people are calling here, wanting to talk to Rebecca, and she’s not here. Know what else? She won’t take the calls at her house. I am about to lose the biggest infusion of cash this campaign has seen yet, and if you think for one minute that we don’t need it, think again. We’re going negative, and that, my friend, requires some serious scratch!”
“You’re not serious,” Matt said angrily. “You’re going to put attack ads out? Why can’t you let your record speak for itself? Why do you need to drag Harbaugh through the mud? You’ve got enough of a track record and you’ve been touting that damn superhighway as the answer to everyone’s prayers!”
“Get real. Do you think anyone gives a shit about my track record? The only thing they care about is who I’ve fucked, which is why I kept my hands off Rebecca!”
The thought of Tom’s hands anywhere on Rebecca made Matt sick with revulsion, and Matt felt one step away from putting a fist down Tom’s throat.
“Now look, I need this gala deal. I need Rebecca. Once it’s over, you can have her, but right now, I need her and her dad!”
Matt’s revulsion was growing. “She’s not a thing, Tom.”
“Until November third, you’re all things to me,” he retorted, sweeping his arm in the general direction of the offices. “And before you get on your soapbox, just remember—you’re gonna be thinking the same damn thing when you run for DA. Think you can do it better? Well try doing it without money! And if you think anyone in the party is going to give you one red cent, then you better think of a way to fix this crap. So are you going to fix it?”
“I don’t know if I can,” Matt answered truthfully.
“You damn sure better try.”
Matt had to get out of there or kill the next Lt. Governor. He turned around and yanked the door open.
“Where are you going?” Tom barked.
“Where the hell do you think? To talk to Rebecca!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-Five
If I’ve done anything I’m sorry for, I’m willing to be forgiven . . .
EDWARD N WESTCOTT
Thursday morning, Matt called the office and asked Harold to reschedule his appointments, as something personal and pressing had come up.
“But, Mr. Parrish,” Harold said urgently. “You have that motion to compel in front of Gambofini on the Rosenberg case. If you miss that—”