"It's nothing," Allison said as Nicole leaned in to hear. "I'm just glad that we're all okay."
Fifteen years earlier, the three of them had graduated from Catlin Gabel, one of Portland's elite private schools. Then they had barely known each other, although they had known of each other. Nicole had stood out by virtue of being one of the fewer than a half-dozen African American students. Cassidy had been a cheerleader. And Allison had been a fixture on the honor roll and captain of the debate team.
At their high school reunion, their common interest in crimeCassidy's in covering it, Nicole's in fighting it, and Allison's in prosecuting it--had drawn them together. When Nicole was transferred to the Portland office, Allison had suggested they meet for dinner, and a friendship began over a shared dessert called Triple Threat Chocolate Cake. In its honor, the three women had christened themselves the Triple Threat Club. And whenever they got together to talk about their jobs and their private lives, they made it a point to share the most decadent dessert on the menu.
"To the Triple Threat Club!" Cassidy said, raising her gin and tonic.
Nicole echoed her words, bumping their glasses with hers of red wine.
"Long may it reign!" added Allison as she tapped her glass of orange juice against her friends' glasses. When she tipped her glass back, Allison caught a glimpse of the TV screen over the bar. "I can't believe they haven't taken that commercial off the air," she said, pointing. The other two women turned to look.
The political ad began with a video, shot at an angle, of Quentin Glover talking with his mouth full, a half-eaten hot dog in his hand. Slumped and slovenly, he obviously had no idea he was being filmed. As he gestured to an unseen listener, a piece of food fell from his mouth.
But it wasn't that image that had made Allison think they would have pulled the ad by now. It was the voice-over, which she had heard so often in recent weeks that she could have recited it from memory. The announcer was saying,"Radio talk show host Jim Fate was Quentin Glover's best man. Now even Fate says we shouldn't reelect Quentin Glover."
The noisy bar quieted as Jim Fate's own voice, recorded from his show and laced with indignation, came on. "Quentin Glover has now been indicted on charges that he lied about receiving hundreds of thousands of dollars in gifts from a manufacturing firm. Some of the goodies he allegedly received include a car and a second home at Sunriver. Now, people, you know I find it hard to believe that the guy who was cheating on his wife was 100 percent honest."
On the screen, the words THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS IN GIFTS, GOODIES, and CHEATING ON HIS WIFE appeared.
"I'm not saying our congresspeople have to be perfect," the voice of a dead man continued, "because I myself have weaknesses. But our standard is that just because you are popular doesn't mean you can get away with committing felonies. And if this week it's perjury, and next week it's theft, and the week after that it's having somebody beaten up, then one day America may well end up a sleazy country like Iraq, where the corruption is unending."
An angry man appeared on the screen. He wore traditional Middle Eastern clothing: a long, white robe; a white kaffiyeh head covering;
and a black circlet to hold it in place. With one hand he hoisted a machine gun. In the other was a stack of money.
Only two days earlier the commercial, paid for by a group called Clean Up Oregon Politics, had been annoying or amusing, depending on your political leanings and how many times you had already seen it. Now people muttered and shook their heads at the sound of Jim's voice. The three women looked at each other, and Allison knew they were sharing the same thought: exactly how angry had that commercial made Quentin Glover?
Just then the hostess came up with a smile. "Sorry for the delay, ladies. Your table is ready now."
"This was worth the wait," Allison said as she settled in next to the window overlooking the river. The tables, set in tiers, all offered a view, but the ones next to the window were the best.
After they ordered, the three women took out notebooks and pens. Normally when they met, it was as friends, with work being just one topic of conversation. But this was work, taking place over dinner.
"Let's start at the beginning." Nicole turned to Cassidy. "Allison and I need to know everything you know about Jim Fate. Leif got this photo of him at the radio station. We'll be using it for the canvas. Is this a current likeness?" She set a photo on the table. Usually they dealt with candid snapshots, not eight-by-ten glossies.