One False Move
Page 26
Arthur Bradford put down his Wedgwood cup and saucer. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, his hands in a quiet clasp. “First, let me tell you how thrilled I am to have you both here. Your support means a great deal to me.”
Bradford turned toward Win. Win’s face was totally neutral, patient.
“I understand Lock-Horne Securities wants to expand its Florham Park office and open a new one in Bergen County,” Bradford went on. “If I can be of any help at all, Windsor, please let me know.”
Win gave a noncommittal nod.
“And if there are any state bonds Lock-Horne has any interest in underwriting, well, again I would be at your disposal.”
Arthur Bradford sat up on his haunches now, as though waiting for a scratch behind the ears. Win rewarded him with another noncommittal nod. Good doggie. Hadn’t taken Bradford long to start with the graft, had it? Bradford cleared his throat and turned his attention to Myron.
“I understand, Myron, that you own a sports representation company.”
He tried to imitate the Win nod, but he went too far. Not subtle enough. Must be something in the genes.
“If there is anything I can do to help, please do not hesitate to ask.”
“Can I sleep in the Lincoln bedroom?” Myron asked.
The brothers froze for a moment, looked at each other, then exploded into laughter. The laughs were about as genuine as a televangelist’s hair. Win looked over at Myron. The look said, go ahead.
“Actually, Mr. Bradford—”
Through his laugh he stuck up a hand the size of a throw pillow and said, “Please, Myron, call me Arthur.”
“Arthur, right. There is something you can do for us.”
Arthur and Chance’s laughter segued into chuckles before fading away like a song on the radio. Their faces grew harder now. Game time. They both leaned into the strike zone a bit, signaling to one and all that they were going to listen to Myron’s problem with four of the most sympathetic ears in existence.
“Do you remember a woman named Anita Slaughter?” Myron asked.
They were good, both of them thoroughbred politicians, but their bodies still jolted as if they’d been zapped with a stun gun. They recovered fast enough, busying themselves with the pretense of scouring for a recollection, but there was no doubt. A nerve had been jangled big time.
“I can’t place the name,” Arthur said, his face twisted as though he’d given this thought process an effort equal to childbirth. “Chance?”
“The name is not unfamiliar,” Chance said, “but …” He shook his head.
Not unfamiliar. You gotta love it when they speak politicianese.
“Anita Slaughter worked here,” Myron said. “Twenty years ago. She was a maid or house servant of some kind.”
Again the deep, probing thought. If Rodin were here, he’d break out the good bronze for these guys. Chance kept his eyes on his brother, waiting for his stage cue. Arthur Bradford held the pose for a few more seconds before he suddenly snapped his fingers.
“Of course,” he said. “Anita. Chance, you remember Anita.”
“Yes, of course,” Chance chimed in. “I guess I never knew her last name.”
They were both smiling now like morning anchors during a sweeps week.
“How long did she work for you?” Myron asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Arthur said. “A year or two, I guess. I really don’t remember. Chance and I weren’t responsible for household help, of course. That was more Mother’s doing.”
Already with the “plausible deniability.” Interesting. “Do you remember why she left your family’s employ?”
Arthur Bradford’s smile stayed frozen, but something was happening to his eyes. His pupils were expanding, and for a moment it looked like he was having trouble focusing. He turned to Chance. They both looked uncertain now, not sure how to handle this sudden frontal assault, not wanting to answer but not wanting to lose the potentially massive Lock-Horne Securities support either.
Arthur took the lead. “No, I don’t remember.” When in doubt, evade. “Do you, Chance?”
Chance spread his hands and gave them the boyish smile. “So many people in and out.” He looked to Win as if to say, You know how it is. But Win’s eyes, as usual, offered no solace.
“Did she quit or was she fired?”
“Oh, I doubt she was fired,” Arthur said quickly. “My mother was very good to the help. She rarely, if ever, fired anyone. Not in her nature.”
The man was pure politician. The answer might be true or not—that was pretty much irrelevant to Arthur Bradford—but under any circumstances, a poor black woman fired as a servant by a wealthy family would not play well in the press. A politician innately sees this and calculates his response in a matter of seconds; reality and truth must always take a backseat to the gods of sound bite and perception.
Myron pressed on. “According to her family, Anita Slaughter worked here until the day she disappeared.”
They both were too smart to bite and say, “Disappeared?,” but Myron decided to wait them out anyway. People hate silence and often jump in just to break it. This was an old cop trick: Say nothing and let them dig their own graves with explanations. With politicians the results were always interesting: They were smart enough to know they should keep their mouths shut, yet genetically incapable of doing so.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur Bradford said at last. “As I explained earlier, Mother handled these matters.”
“Then maybe I should talk to her,” Myron said.
“Mother is not well, I’m afraid. She’s in her eighties, poor dear.”
“I’d still like to try.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
There was just a hint of steel in his voice now.
“I see,” Myron said. “Do you know who Horace Slaughter is?”
“No,” Arthur said. “I assume he’s a relative of Anita’s?”
“Her husband.” Myron looked over at Chance. “You know him?”
“Not that I recall,” Chance said. Not that I recall. Like he was on a witness stand, needing to leave himself the out.
“According to his phone records, he’s been calling your campaign headquarters a lot lately.”
“Many people call our campaign headquarters,” Arthur said. Then he added with a small chuckle, “At least I hope they do.”
Bradford turned toward Win. Win’s face was totally neutral, patient.
“I understand Lock-Horne Securities wants to expand its Florham Park office and open a new one in Bergen County,” Bradford went on. “If I can be of any help at all, Windsor, please let me know.”
Win gave a noncommittal nod.
“And if there are any state bonds Lock-Horne has any interest in underwriting, well, again I would be at your disposal.”
Arthur Bradford sat up on his haunches now, as though waiting for a scratch behind the ears. Win rewarded him with another noncommittal nod. Good doggie. Hadn’t taken Bradford long to start with the graft, had it? Bradford cleared his throat and turned his attention to Myron.
“I understand, Myron, that you own a sports representation company.”
He tried to imitate the Win nod, but he went too far. Not subtle enough. Must be something in the genes.
“If there is anything I can do to help, please do not hesitate to ask.”
“Can I sleep in the Lincoln bedroom?” Myron asked.
The brothers froze for a moment, looked at each other, then exploded into laughter. The laughs were about as genuine as a televangelist’s hair. Win looked over at Myron. The look said, go ahead.
“Actually, Mr. Bradford—”
Through his laugh he stuck up a hand the size of a throw pillow and said, “Please, Myron, call me Arthur.”
“Arthur, right. There is something you can do for us.”
Arthur and Chance’s laughter segued into chuckles before fading away like a song on the radio. Their faces grew harder now. Game time. They both leaned into the strike zone a bit, signaling to one and all that they were going to listen to Myron’s problem with four of the most sympathetic ears in existence.
“Do you remember a woman named Anita Slaughter?” Myron asked.
They were good, both of them thoroughbred politicians, but their bodies still jolted as if they’d been zapped with a stun gun. They recovered fast enough, busying themselves with the pretense of scouring for a recollection, but there was no doubt. A nerve had been jangled big time.
“I can’t place the name,” Arthur said, his face twisted as though he’d given this thought process an effort equal to childbirth. “Chance?”
“The name is not unfamiliar,” Chance said, “but …” He shook his head.
Not unfamiliar. You gotta love it when they speak politicianese.
“Anita Slaughter worked here,” Myron said. “Twenty years ago. She was a maid or house servant of some kind.”
Again the deep, probing thought. If Rodin were here, he’d break out the good bronze for these guys. Chance kept his eyes on his brother, waiting for his stage cue. Arthur Bradford held the pose for a few more seconds before he suddenly snapped his fingers.
“Of course,” he said. “Anita. Chance, you remember Anita.”
“Yes, of course,” Chance chimed in. “I guess I never knew her last name.”
They were both smiling now like morning anchors during a sweeps week.
“How long did she work for you?” Myron asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Arthur said. “A year or two, I guess. I really don’t remember. Chance and I weren’t responsible for household help, of course. That was more Mother’s doing.”
Already with the “plausible deniability.” Interesting. “Do you remember why she left your family’s employ?”
Arthur Bradford’s smile stayed frozen, but something was happening to his eyes. His pupils were expanding, and for a moment it looked like he was having trouble focusing. He turned to Chance. They both looked uncertain now, not sure how to handle this sudden frontal assault, not wanting to answer but not wanting to lose the potentially massive Lock-Horne Securities support either.
Arthur took the lead. “No, I don’t remember.” When in doubt, evade. “Do you, Chance?”
Chance spread his hands and gave them the boyish smile. “So many people in and out.” He looked to Win as if to say, You know how it is. But Win’s eyes, as usual, offered no solace.
“Did she quit or was she fired?”
“Oh, I doubt she was fired,” Arthur said quickly. “My mother was very good to the help. She rarely, if ever, fired anyone. Not in her nature.”
The man was pure politician. The answer might be true or not—that was pretty much irrelevant to Arthur Bradford—but under any circumstances, a poor black woman fired as a servant by a wealthy family would not play well in the press. A politician innately sees this and calculates his response in a matter of seconds; reality and truth must always take a backseat to the gods of sound bite and perception.
Myron pressed on. “According to her family, Anita Slaughter worked here until the day she disappeared.”
They both were too smart to bite and say, “Disappeared?,” but Myron decided to wait them out anyway. People hate silence and often jump in just to break it. This was an old cop trick: Say nothing and let them dig their own graves with explanations. With politicians the results were always interesting: They were smart enough to know they should keep their mouths shut, yet genetically incapable of doing so.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur Bradford said at last. “As I explained earlier, Mother handled these matters.”
“Then maybe I should talk to her,” Myron said.
“Mother is not well, I’m afraid. She’s in her eighties, poor dear.”
“I’d still like to try.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
There was just a hint of steel in his voice now.
“I see,” Myron said. “Do you know who Horace Slaughter is?”
“No,” Arthur said. “I assume he’s a relative of Anita’s?”
“Her husband.” Myron looked over at Chance. “You know him?”
“Not that I recall,” Chance said. Not that I recall. Like he was on a witness stand, needing to leave himself the out.
“According to his phone records, he’s been calling your campaign headquarters a lot lately.”
“Many people call our campaign headquarters,” Arthur said. Then he added with a small chuckle, “At least I hope they do.”
