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breaking balls was still breaking balls.
    His cell phone started ringing as soon as he stepped into the elevator.
    “Jason Brill,” he said.
    “Brill, it’s Natalie Richards.”
    He couldn’t help smiling, speaking of ball breakers. “Hello, Natalie Richards.”
    “What’s this about changing the venue for the presummit reception?”
    “Well, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. And how are you?”
    “Cut the crap, Brill. I don’t have time for that cute-ass sense of humor of yours. And I don’t appreciate it when people start playing musical chairs and not bothering to let our office know.”
    “Come on, Ms. Richards. Your team’s in charge of the entire energy summit. This is just a reception, a personal reception that Senator Allen is throwing for a few of his friends and acquaintances who happen to be coming to the summit.” Though he was pretty sure Richards knew it wasn’t just a reception but a celebration. If all went well, Senator Allen’s hard work would be rewarded with EchoEnergy being the first American oil-producing company supplying all the vehicles of U.S. troops. It was worthy of a celebration even if it was a bit premature.
    “Friends and acquaintances,” Richards said, “who just happen to be all the heavy hitters.”
    “Not to worry. Your boss is going to be invited.” Despite trying to trip up this deal every step of the way. He wisely kept the last part to himself.
    “That’s not the goddamn point, Brill, and you know it.”
    “All I know is you’re making much ado about nothing.”
    “You can’t continue to—”
    Jason began tapping the cell phone against the elevator wall, then brought it back to his ear only to interrupt her again. “I think I’m losing you, Ms. Richards. I’m in Tallahassee. In an elevator and I—”
    He clicked the phone off and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He’d probably be sorry later on, but he had more important things to do right now than to suck up to the White House. More important things like stock a fucking minifridge.

3
    Tallahassee, Florida
    Jason Brill left the concierge’s desk shaking his head. It was ridiculous what this hotel considered a king-sized suite. The so-called manager didn’t even know enough to be embarrassed by it, his bush-garden eyebrows raised in surprise at every one of Jason’s questions like he couldn’t quite imagine why a noisy and empty minifridge wasn’t quite the same as a well-stocked minibar. Jason straightened his tie and gave his shirt cuffs a tug as if the altercation had included more than a tongue-lashing. He wanted to hit the guy. In the past he would have. He knew his boss would be okay with the room, but Jason wasn’t okay with it.
    He balled up his fist around the key card to the pathetic suite and jammed it into his back trouser pocket. His job was to ensure that the senator got only the best and that he would be well taken care of. A particularly difficult task this morning since none of the goddamn hotel staff—not a single one with English as a first language—even knew who Senator John Quincy Allen was. Okay, so it was one more good reason to support his boss’s stand on immigration, which pretty much supported sending the whole goddamn lot back and building a wall.
    Earlier Jason had considered pulling up stakes and going to a different hotel, but it probably wouldn’t make much difference. There wasn’t a decent four-star hotel in the entire city. Now he wished the senator hadn’t been hell-bent on staying overnight. Maybe he could convince him to take a flight back after the tour. If nothing else, he could at least save the senator from the head chef’s runny omelet. Jason could still taste the damn thing. The grits had been runny, too, not that Jason understood why every breakfast in the South had to include that stuff, anyway. Again, the omelet wouldn’t matter to the senator. The grits would, though the man wouldn’t complain. There’d be only that drop of the eyes and a