Game Over. Fern MichaelsЧитать онлайн книгу.
I get back to the mountain, I’ll fax you my medical report. Like I said, they’re perfect, which leads me to believe yours are not.”
Jellicoe flinched. “You always were a show-off, Charlie. Well, here’s our pie. It’s my turn to show off. Eat hearty, my friend.”
Charles did eat hearty and savored every bite of the delectable flaky pastry. “Almost as good as mine, Hank.”
Jellicoe threw his head back and laughed. “I guess we could have a bake off if you hang around here long enough. So, what’s the secret ingredient?”
Charles snorted. “Pomegranate. Did you really think I couldn’t taste it? Maybe, I’m thinking, a quarter cup of the pulp.”
“Son of a bitch! How did you figure it out?”
“I tasted it, you son of a bitch!”
Jellicoe was still pretending to be outraged when he said, “Coffee and brandy in my study and a really good Cuban cigar.”
“I’m your man,” Charles said, pushing back his chair.
Settled in front of the fireplace, which rose all the way to the ceiling and held half an oak tree, which sent sparks shooting up the chimney, Hank Jellicoe poured hundred-year-old brandy into a snifter and handed it to Charles. “To the best of the best,” Jellicoe said, clinking his glass against Charles’s snifter.
In spite of himself, Charles was flattered. “At pie baking,” he quipped.
Jellicoe roared with laughter. “That, too! So, talk to me, Charlie.”
“It’s about Lizzie Fox. Lizzie Fox Cricket these days.”
Jellicoe roared again with laughter. “Now, who in the world would ever think old Kick could get himself a filly like Miz Lizzie? Sure as hell not me. I have to tell you, I was dumbfounded. I sent a smashing present to the newlyweds. Got a sweet handwritten note from the new Mrs. Cricket. I love that little lady like she was my own daughter. You know that, Charlie, and I think of Kick as a son. But then you know that, too. Articulate and fill in all the little ifs, ands, and buts. I’ll take it from there.”
Charles talked. For an hour. With no interruptions. The 140-proof, hundred-year-old brandy bottle was down to the quarter mark. The oak log was still burning as brightly as both men’s eyes.
Jellicoe reached for a second cigar, clipped the end, and handed it to Charles. He did the same for his own. Both men puffed contentedly. “The big question, Charlie, is this. Does Lizzie want to go to the Supreme Court? If she does, we have the power to put her there. If she doesn’t, this is all moot.”
“Lizzie never puts herself first. She’s worried about the vigilantes. She’s worried about Cricket. There’s the commute from Vegas to here. She might want it so bad she can taste it, but she won’t lift a finger to help herself if she thinks it will cause one iota of trouble for the vigilantes or her new husband. That’s why Lizzie is Lizzie. Ten years ago, when you needed her, she pulled it together for you and didn’t take a fee. At least that’s the story I heard at the time. She said—correct me if I’m wrong—‘I might need a favor someday, and I expect you to come through for me.’ We both know she’d never ask, so it’s up to you to honor that favor, don’t you think?”
“You son of a bitch! Where do you get off telling me I would even think about not honoring the favor, and I know she’d never ask? Do you hear me? I know that, Charlie.”
“No need to get your knickers in a twist, Hank. I’m just saying. Do you still walk in and out of the White House like it’s your summer home?”
“Well, yeah, when I’m in town,” Jellicoe drawled. “I like the new president. We get along just fine. She told me to call her Marti. I’m Henry to her. She likes biblical names for some reason. But she did say Hank suits me. Yep, we get along just fine.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me, you old reprobate?”
Jellicoe grinned from ear to ear. “Back to business. But first off, did you ever sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom? I did, and it sucked. But the company more than made up for it.”
“That’s more than I needed to know, Hank.”
“No. You needed to know that.” Jellicoe was all business now. “Game over, Charlie. You want Lizzie on the Supreme Court, she’s there. Anything else?”
“Well, I think I might want to know what the fallout is going to be.”
Jellicoe pretended horror at the statement. “And what makes you think there will be fallout? Have you ever heard of any fallout from anything I’ve ever done over the years?” Not bothering to wait for a reply, Jellicoe said, “No, you have not, and there will be none this time, either.”
It was a guarantee, pure and simple. Charles accepted it.
“No sense in letting this fine brandy sit in the bottle. We might as well finish it and head for bed. Tomorrow is another day. Actually,” Jellicoe said so quietly, Charles had to strain to hear the words, “there is one other thing, Charlie. I personally saw the pardons on the president’s desk. I just wanted you to know that. Now, when and how she’s going to handle it, I don’t know. Let me clarify that. At this precise moment I do not know how she’s going to handle it. Tomorrow or the day after might be a different story.”
Charles nodded and got up. He tossed his cigar into the fireplace. “Cosmo will come out of this intact?”
“Better than ever. He’ll be a household name. What? You doubt me, Sir Malcolm?”
“Not for a minute.”
Both men slapped each other on the back as they made their way out to the hall, where there was a moving sidewalk that would take them to the west wing, which housed the bedrooms.
“Were you drunk when you designed this house, Hank?”
“In a manner of speaking. I was thinking more of my declining years and bad knees and the like. Got four elevators, three moving sidewalks. Works for me.”
Two moving sidewalks and one elevator ride later, Jellicoe opened the door to a massive suite of rooms. “When I had this room designed, I had Myra in mind. I always hoped she would come to visit someday.”
“All you have to do is invite her, Hank, and she’ll find a way to make the trip. This is just a wild guess on my part, Hank, but Myra is the one you should talk to about—”
“Good night, Charlie.”
“Good night, Hank.”
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