Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [104]
The Senator was roused again. His fist shook in the air. The sound of applause—a single pairs of hands, slowly clapping—surprised Littlemore. It was Mrs. Cross.
“You cut that out,” Fall said to her, calming down. “She thinks I take myself too seriously. Maybe I do. Here’s the point. You want to get somewhere in this town? You got to hitch yourself to the right horse. Warren Harding’s going to be elected president in three weeks. Houston’s not going to be secretary of shee-it after that. I am. You want to do something for your country? Houston only cares about the gold. I care about freedom. I care about whether our citizens are going to be able to walk their streets in peace or get blown up by our enemies. That jackass Flynn with his Italian anarchists! It was the Russians, damn them, and if we can prove it, the country will go to war. That’s why I need you, Littlemore. If you show Houston evidence—hard evidence—proving the Russians did it, know what he’ll do? Nothing. He’ll bury it. Just let me in on at that evidence if you find it. That’s all I ask. Will you do that?”
Littlemore had not answered when they heard a knock at the main door to the Senator’s chamber. The door opened, revealing a harried secretary and a well-dressed man behind her, straining to get past her. The woman had managed only to say, “I’m sorry, Mr. Senator, I told him you were busy,” when the man, completely bald except for a tuft of hair behind each of his ears, pushed brazenly and clumsily past her.
It was Mr. Arnold Brighton, owner of factories, oil wells, and mines, who had contributed twenty-five thousand dollars to the Marie Curie Radium Fund.
“My people are being run out of Mexico,” declared Brighton without introduction. “They’re Americans, Fall. They’re in danger.”
“Day late, nickel short, Brighton,” said Fall. “Make an appointment. Get in line.”
“I tried to make an appointment,” complained Brighton, sounding genuinely aggrieved. “They said you were busy.”
“I am busy,” shouted Fall. “We’re electing a president here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I guess I’ll be leaving,” said Littlemore.
“Wait just a minute, Littlemore,” said Fall. “We didn’t finish.”
“Is that Detective Littlemore?” asked Brighton. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, Detective. Without your help, I—I—what was it again? Oh, my. I’ve forgotten. What was it I wanted to thank Detective Littlemore for?”
“How the hell would we know what you were going to thank him for?” roared Fall.
“Where’s Samuels?” asked Mr. Brighton plaintively. “Samuels is my assistant. He would remember. Does anyone know where Samuels is?”
Fall seemed to exercise a great power of self-restraint in order to lower his voice: “I’m in the middle of an important conversation, Brighton. Step outside and talk to my secretary.”
“But this Obregón fellow is taking over my mines in Mexico,” said Brighton. “The oil wells will be next. Everything. He’s sending in soldiers—with guns, for heaven’s sakes! These are American workingmen. There have been beatings and death threats. You’ve got to do something. I know I didn’t give money to Harding. It’s not my fault. Everyone told me the other man, Cox, was going to win. I’ll give now. Whatever amount you ask. Tell me where to send it. Just drop a few bombs on Mexico City—perhaps on their capitol and in the nicer parts of town—I’m sure they’ll see the