“Howard, honestly, I’m sure, even if she heard every word I said, she never heard anything that would—”
“Enough,” he says. “Enough.” He shakes his head slowly, thinking. He points a finger at her and says, “Not one word to Morris. Not one single word.”
Then, abruptly, he leaves her there, striding out of the lobby to the sidewalk and heading east.
Bridget braces herself against the wall, tries to regain her composure. Howard doesn’t have to worry that she’ll tell Morris. He scares her far more than her husband does.
NINETEEN
“THE FBI sent some people to talk to me, Mr. President.”
“Yes, of course, that makes sense.”
“Did you send them?”
“It’s standard procedure.”
“Okay. Because they weren’t friendly. They asked if I’d ever been in trouble.”
“What did you say?”
“They knew about the time that I saw Mrs. Hitchens naked. But they didn’t know about the other thing.”
“And you didn’t tell them.”
“No. And I think they meant the kind of trouble where I was the one who did the bad thing. But it wasn’t my fault. I don’t like to talk about it. Dad wanted to talk about it just before he died, wanted me to talk about it. It was very confusing, because for years and years he wouldn’t let me talk about it, to anyone. And I never did. Not even Dr. Grigorin knows.”
“I know.”
“It’s safe, telling you.”
“What about your brother? Should you tell him?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
TWENTY
DRIVING home, Michael Lambton wants some.
He can go home and get it—just shake Vera so that she wakes up enough to roll onto her back—but that’s not really what he has in mind. This is a celebration, after all. If you’re going to celebrate, do you really want the same piece of ass you can get any day of the week?
And this is definitely a cause for celebration. He’s pulled it off. At least, it sure as hell looks as though he’s pulled it off. The vote’s this coming Sunday, and all indications are the dumb bastards are going to approve it. Narrowly, probably, but they’re going to ratify a contract that gives them a zero pay increase, a clawback in benefits, and no job security clauses. But they still have jobs, and they don’t want them moving to Mexico or China or Taiwan or any of those goddamn places.
They want to keep making automotive parts—door panels and dashboards and steering wheel assemblies—and shipping them off to GM and Toyota and Honda and Ford plants, not just here in the good ol’ USA but overseas, too. They’ve seen what’s been happening across this country, for years now, where the jobs are going. And when these jobs leave, are they ever coming back? Not fucking likely.
That is what Lambton tells them when he presents the company’s offer. He calls it “piss poor.” He calls it “a motherfucking insult.” He calls it “a punch to the gut of each and every hardworking man and woman in this plant.”
He calls it all those things. He also calls it “our best hope of keeping our jobs.”
“Let’s face it, folks. These sons of bitches can close up shop and be set up in Asswipe, South Korea, before you’ve even gotten home from the evening shift, cracked open a beer, and put on Leno. Do I like this contract? I hate this contract. And I’m here to tell you tonight, as your union leader, that on Sunday I am going to be voting for this piece of shit contract. You know why? Because I’m a realist. Because I got mouths to feed, and I know you do, too. Because I got a mortgage to pay, and I know you do, too. Because I got kids to send to school, and I know you do, too. Because I got people who depend on me, each and every day, and I know you do, too.”
There’s grumbling in the union hall, but it isn’t as bad as Lambton fears it will be. There was a time when they’d have been throwing chairs at him. But that was then, when there was still a Pontiac and an Oldsmobile division. Before Hummer and Saturn got sold off. Before Chrysler nearly went tits up. This is now. It’s a whole new ball game. And even though there are signs things are coming back, that the big car companies are going to be buying parts from this particular manufacturing plant for the foreseeable future, people are still nervous. They don’t want to derail this recovery. They want to keep their homes.
They know, in their hearts, that Michael Lambton is right. They don’t like hearing what he has to say, but they know he’s a no-bullshit kind of guy. They know Michael Lambton is looking out for them. They know Michael Lambton is a straight shooter.
They know shit.