Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [18]
“Florida’s looking better every day,” he said.
“I spoke with Christina today,” Mae said, pleased that the topic had come up. “I told her that you might retire and that we’d move to the house in Florida and—” He was frowning. “That’s okay, isn’t it, that I told her?”
“What? Yeah, sure. I stopped at Charlie Palmer Steak House on my way here, had to ask about some lobbyist who had dinner there last night. You know what they get for a steak there, a porterhouse? A zillion bucks, Mae. A lot of fat-cats eat there, dropping a bill or two on a meal.” He shook his head. “I got in the wrong business.”
She was sorry that the conversation had now veered in this direction without provocation. It was something he tended to dwell on when his spirits were low, the disparity in pay between people like cops and firemen, who actually did something good for the community, and those who became rich by simply pushing money around, or using it to buy influence.
She placed her hand on his. “I think you got into the right business, Walter. It’s something you always wanted to be, a detective helping people, putting the bad guys away so they can’t hurt anyone else. As for money, you’ve been a wonderful provider for me and our three children. The mortgage is paid off on both houses, the kids all graduated from college, and we can go out for dinner like this anytime we want. What more could we ask for?”
A grin crossed Hatcher’s broad face. “You always see the bright side, don’t you, Mae?”
“Only because—”
“No, I mean that as a compliment. For you, the glass is always half-full, and that’s a good thing. Maybe if I turn in the badge and soak up some of that Florida sun, I’ll see things the way you do.”
“That would be great,” she said, beaming. “Are you having the usual, osso buco?”
“Yeah. You, shrimp scampi?”
“Yes. We know each other pretty well, don’t we, Walt?”
“After all these years, we’d better,” he said, not stating his second thought, that he was lucky to have her as his wife.
EIGHT
Like every other step in the campaign, the announcement of Colgate’s endorsement by the nation’s teachers was smoothly choreographed. It was held on the steps of an inner-city public school, in a predominately black neighborhood. The school had recently been cited for the excellence of its teaching staff, and many of them were on hand at eleven o’clock that morning, along with a select group of students turned out in their Sunday best. With a half-dozen American flags flapping in the background, the association’s president took to a portable podium and welcomed the assembled. Bob and Deborah Colgate stood to the side, the kids grouped in front of them, allowing Colgate to banter with them and to occasionally run a hand over a head, all of which was dutifully captured by video and still photographers. Deborah wore a stunning beige suit, white blouse, and an equally stunning perpetual smile.
“Where’s Jerry?” Colgate whispered to his wife. “I thought he was supposed to be here.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she replied.
The association president was winding up his comments.
“…and so, my friends, after four years of neglect of our crucially important education system, it is with considerable pleasure that I am able to deliver to the next president of the United States the enthusiastic endorsement of more than three million dedicated men and women in whose classrooms the future leaders of this great nation are taught and nurtured.” His voice rose to a shout. “Robert Colgate!”
A Dixieland band broke into a spirited tune as Colgate and his wife came to the podium. He raised his hands high, his campaign smile ensuring that all was well and that there would be happy times ahead for the nation’s education system. After allowing the applause to ebb and the music to trail off, he launched into a fifteen-minute speech that sounded off-the-cuff, but that had been carefully crafted well in advance. He was good at sounding spontaneous. He ended by thanking the teacher’s union for its faith in him and the vision he had for the nation, particularly