Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [46]
Rollins grappled for a reply, but Scraggs continued. “I’ll set the record straight about those rumors of me and that woman.” He shifted forward in his chair. “And I’ve got some pretty juicy tales to tell, Jerry Rollins.” He winked, and laughed.
Rollins put up with Scraggs for another half hour. Finally, after assuring Scraggs that he would read the pages and get back to him, Scraggs asked, “How much of a cut will you be taking?”
“I don’t take a cut, Karl. I’m not an agent. I charge my usual hourly legal fee. If the book generates considerable money, you’ll come out ahead that way.”
“And what’s your hourly fee, Jerry?”
“Five-fifty. But let’s not worry about that now. You’ll hear from me soon.”
Again alone in his office, Rollins sat back and sighed. He was sorry he’d agreed to represent Scraggs. Not only did he find the man’s politics and personality anathema, he held out little hope that he could interest a mainstream publisher in the book, at least not for the sort of money Scraggs was expecting. But maybe he was wrong, he reasoned as he turned to other matters before leaving for lunch. It never failed to amaze him the sort of books that were produced by Washington insiders, and the amount of money publishers were willing to throw at even a fairly recognizable name with a promise to tell tales out of school.
At noon, he informed his secretary that he’d be gone for a few hours.
“You have that one o’clock with Congressman Stamm,” she said.
“It’ll have to be rescheduled,” he told her. “Call his office and set up another date.”
“Where can you be reached?”
“I’ll have my cell on,” he said, slipping into his suit jacket and heading out the door, leaving her perplexed. Rarely had he left the office without providing a detailed schedule of his movements.
He drove from the garage and navigated traffic to I-95, careful to keep his speed below that which would attract police attention. He headed north into Maryland until the turnoff onto Route 32, toward Columbia. Fifteen minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of a Federal period mansion, once a stately home that had been rebuilt in 1890 after a fire, more recently a popular restaurant, the Kings Contrivance. He took note of other cars in the lot. One, he knew, belonged to Deborah Colgate. Another contained two young Secret Service agents, who’d been told to wait outside.
He entered the old house and told the hostess that he was meeting someone in the Columbia Room, one of several small, intimate spaces that could be reserved for private meetings. Deborah sat alone at a large, circular table set for two. Rollins nodded to the hostess, who smiled and closed the door behind him.
Seeing that the drapes were drawn over the room’s only window, he kissed her cheek.
“Thanks for coming,” she said.
He sat next to her. “You sounded… well, you sounded upset,” he said.
“I was. I am.”
Her hands were splayed on the crisp white linen tablecloth. He covered one with his own. “What’s going on, Deb? What’s the problem?”
She withdrew her hand and stiffened her spine against the chair’s back. “I can’t do this anymore, Jerry. That’s what’s going on.”
“The campaign,” he said flatly. “It’s getting to you.”
“It’s gotten to me ever since it started,” she said. “There comes a point when no one should have to be subjected to what I’ve had to endure.”
He drank from his water glass. “You aren’t considering dropping out, are you?”
A laugh burst from her. “Considering it? Come on, Jerry, you know I’ve been considering it from day one.”
“Considering is one thing, Deb. Acting upon it is another.” He wasn’t sure of the next thing to say, so he suggested they order lunch.
“Drink?” he asked.
“No.”
He summoned a waitress: he considered having a single malt scotch—the restaurant was noted for its collection of single malts—but thought better of it and seconded her iced tea order. Each opted