Read The Race for Free Online Page A

about to help us out—'Consumers for Internet Choice'?"
    Silent, Rohr scrutinized Corey as the lawyer-mortician whispered in his ear. "I hope you're not just finding out," Corey added with an air of solicitude. "It took
my
staff three weeks."
    From someone in the audience behind Rohr came a brief, nervous chuckle. At Corey's left, his friend and colleague Chuck Clancy shot him a sideways grin. "I'm informed," Rohr said grudgingly, "that some funding may have been provided by a subsidiary of Rohr Vision."
    "You're 'informed,'" Corey repeated with mild incredulity. "So you didn't know that Rohr Vision was funding this group until I asked about it?"
    With quiet pleasure, Corey watched his quarry weigh the risks and benefits of perjury. In a monotone, Rohr answered, "I don't recall knowing about my company's involvement."
    This time the laughter was mildly scornful. Though Rohr did not turn, his face was a frozen mask. "Well," Corey said dismissively, "you've been busy, what with acquiring Hook-Up and introducing our kids to God. A small matter like trying to mislead the United States Senate could easily slip your mind."
    As Rohr flushed, the decorum of the audience broke down in yet more laughter.
    Rohr, Corey was certain, understood that this moment of humiliation would make the evening news. And Corey knew two other things: that, for the moment, he had made Rohr's newest plans radioactive, and that Rohr's enmity would follow him far longer. For Alex Rohr, worse than being thwarted was being made to play the fool.
    "Thank you," Corey told Rohr politely. "That's really all I wanted."

3
    "IT's DONE," COREY TOLD BLAKE RUSTIN COOLLY.
    Restless after the hearing, Corey walked with Rustin along the Ellipse. Bespectacled and bald, his chief political adviser gave him a shrewd sideways glance and, as Corey intended, chose to drop the subject of Alex Rohr. Instead Rustin contented himself with matching Corey's brisk pace, waiting to prod his most important client on the subject that permeated their every conversation: whether Senator Corey Grace should run for president.
    "So why am I going to this thing tonight?" Corey inquired at last.
    "Good question," Rustin said tartly. "Seeing how you refused to speak. After all, it's only a chance for would-be presidential candidates to impress a thousand of the party's biggest donors."
    "That's the point," Corey rejoined. "Unless the current political dynamic changes entirely, I'm
not
running. So why put myself in a cattle call with Rob Marotta, an evangelist who thinks he's God's anointed, and three governors who, at most, are angling for America's traditionally most pathetic office, the vice presidency.
    "Besides, the donor classes are already lined up behind Marotta, hoping Rob will cut their taxes even if it drives America into bankruptcy. All I'd want to do tonight is say what they don't want to hear: that the tax cuts we already gave them are crippling the government, screwing seniors and the poor, and saddling our grandkids with debt—none of which they seem to care about. Be glad that I'm so bashful."
    Rustin stopped walking and stood, hands on hips, shaking his head in a pantomime of despair. "I've been doing this for twenty years, Corey, and I've helped all sorts of candidates win races they deserved to lose. But you know what working with you is like? It's like watching a fucking oil well spill oil all over the ground—a complete and pointless waste of resources. I just stare, helpless, and all I can do is cry."
    Corey grinned. "That's really touching, Blake."
    "So can't you at least get married? Preferably to a war widow with two wholesome and adoring kids. Most normal men would find thirteen years of romantic conquests sufficient."
    Corey felt his good humor slowly fading. "When it comes to my love life, people give me too much credit. Anyhow, I didn't plan that part. It just happened, a day at a time."
    As they resumed walking, Rustin fell silent. Corey watched the