Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [42]
“When are we ever not doing that, Topper?”
His laugh brought on more coughing, deeper this time. “Bruce, I haven’t made any secret of my fervent desire to see some of the money redistributed in the military budget. Seems to me—and it’s seemed to me for a long time—that the air force keeps gettin’ more and more money because of the way the damned media plays up all their smart bombs and fancy-lookin’ aircraft and the like. The media doesn’t like to show the dirty side of war, down in the trenches, crawlin’ on bellies, and getting shot up close. Now, don’t get me wrong, Bruce. Far as I’m concerned, the flyboys should get everything they need. No question about that. Desert Storm and Afghanistan made that point loud ’n’ clear. But we’ve got to keep our ground forces up to date, too, damn it.”
“I agree,” said Lerner.
“You saw that presentation Accell Industries gave on its new all-terrain vehicle. That particular vehicle is one potent military machine, Bruce, and I just wonder at the sanity of some of those generals over at the Pentagon dismissin’ that vehicle like it wouldn’t end up savin’ plenty of our boys’ lives and maybe helpin’ bring down scum like Hussein, and all those terrorists who’re out to kill every damn one of us. Now, I know you’re a reasonable man. And a smart man. You prove that every day, Bruce. And I would be very much obliged if you could use some of your influence at the Pentagon to get them to see why some money ought to rightly be shifted from the air force over to Accell to develop its military vehicle.”
Lerner was well aware that Accell Industries, with headquarters in Alabama, had always been Topper Sybers’s most generous campaign contributor. Accell’s lobbyists seemed to be everywhere, working the halls of Congress, dropping in “just to say hello,” hinting that a vote for funding its products could result in hefty campaign contributions for those senators and House members who agreed with what they were selling.
“I must say I was impressed with Accell’s presentation, Topper,” Lerner said. “Accurately bombing targets from thirty thousand feet is good. But you don’t win wars from the air alone.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll be meeting with the secretary and the Joint Chiefs within the next week. I’ll talk to them.”
“I knew you would, Bruce.”
Lerner was suddenly aware of the smell of stale cigar smoke, and wiggled his nose against it. Had it infused his suit?
He stood and reached across the desk, shook his fellow senator’s hand. “Keep looking as good as you do, Topper. I’ll be back in touch.”
“You do that, Bruce. And give my best to that lovely lady who used to be Mrs. Lerner.”
“I certainly will.”
Sybers watched the long, lean Lerner open the door and disappear from view. He pushed a button on the phone, which brought an aide into the room.
“How about a cigarette, honey,” he said, smiling. “Why not bring in a couple. And then leave me alone for an hour. I’ve got some phone calls to make and some thinkin’ to do.”
She kept her smile to herself as she went to her desk and retrieved two king-size Tarryton cigarettes. Serious thinking to do? she mused. Nap time was more like it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
KLAYMAN AND JOHNSON spent the hours of late afternoon writing reports. At a few minutes before five, they climbed into Klayman’s unmarked car and drove the few blocks from headquarters to the Millennium Arts Center (MAC) at 651 I (Eye) Street, SW. The 150,000-square-foot redbrick building had been built in 1910 as Randall Junior High School, and functioned in that capacity until sold by the city in 2000 to a nonprofit group led by Washington arts impresario Bill Wooby, who began the daunting, expensive job of turning it into a true national arts center. In addition to artists’ studios and large exhibition spaces, MAC was used by a variety