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want you to do your
best to relax and listen to everything we say. You've known me for years. You
know I don't want anything but good things for you, so trust me when I tell you—do
not get upset, do not get defensive. Just listen and pay attention. If you
listen to the positive in this, you'll see that everyone here is going to help
you, that we already have helped you, and that was just the beginning."
    Austin
held his eye contact the entire time, just as he was told to. He's a good
looking guy; nice body, pretty blue eyes, cleft chin, more rugged than you
would expect in a political jockey. He had sat himself right in front of Lewis,
leaning in toward him the way Justin wanted.
    "What
did you help me with?" Lewis asks even though his tone suggests that he
suspects what Austin is referring to.
    "Scott,
you know no one gets to where you are without certain backing. It's just not
possible to go up against fortified politicians, without being fortified
yourself," Austin said.
    "You
got me the Senator position, is that what you're telling me?" Everyone can
hear the defensiveness and subtle posturing in his voice.
    "Not
us entirely. You earned it, we're not taking that away from you. We would have
been ineffective and powerless if you weren't worthy," Austin replied.
That was honest and true.
    The hint
of insult Lewis displayed quickly settled, trying to check his emotions as his
friend had asked him to do. "But you helped?"
    "We
cleared the path," Austin said. "We made you the only reliable,
believable candidate, so the choice was easy. We wanted you in as much as you
wanted to be in."
    He'll
ask what they want, according to Justin's script. Not why. He will know the
"why" is because they want him to do things for them, so he'll want
to know what . And it shouldn't be Austin to answer. They need to keep
Austin pure to Lewis.
    "What
is it you want me to do?"
    Right
on fucking cue!
    Lena
sees me smile.
    John
Roberts, an older, leathery, "oil" man sits right behind Austin.
Lewis doesn't know him, but knows exactly who he is. "It's nothing so
particular, Mr. Lewis. We want you in and we'll keep you in. That favor, and
the others we've done for you, it's only right you be willing to do the same
for us."
    "So
you want me in your pocket?"
    "Yes,"
John says. "No reason to lie, that's exactly what we want, but you will have
us in your pocket as well. We fix things for you, you fix things for us. It's
fair."
    Lewis
is still ringing his hands, but they have his attention.
    "What
do I need fixed," Lewis started, "now that I'm already Senator?"
    Now it
was time for someone Lewis doesn't know at all, because what had to be said
next is going to unnerve him. It needs to be someone Lewis won’t know how to
read, someone he might be a little afraid of.
    "We
know about the gambling."
    That
was Franco Cecere, a gigantic Italian man whose voice rolls like deep thunder
over a calm lake. His hands look like massive sausages clad in diamond rings.
Not only does Lewis not know who he is at all, but Franco is so imposing
looking that Lewis is too scared to reply.
    "We
know where you've been getting the money for your habit," he adds.
    Lewis
is silent.
    "We've
taken care of that, though, every bit of it. Everything missing from your
political funds, your personal accounts, it's all back again—erased," Cattie
Atwood, a popular PR specialist, reassures him. He knows her; not well, but
they've spoken on several occasions, sat together at several functions with
their spouses.
    Mixing
with Lewis' frustration, there's hope. It blows into his eyes like smoke. It's
an answer to a problem he had no way to solve himself, one that was going to
take away everything he'd worked for. "It c-can't be," he stutters.
    I know
what he’s thinking, that it was too much money, too big a debt years in the
making to be gone so quickly.
    "It
is," she promises. "It's all gone. And if you can work with us, it
will stay that way."
    "What
does that mean, exactly?"
    This
whole