Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [116]
“You said on the phone that you wanted my counsel,” Rotondi said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“That’s right, Phil. You’re here as my friend. You’ve always been there when I needed you.” He raised his glass: “Here’s to friendship, Philip. Nothing more fulfilling than having good friends.”
Rotondi had seldom seen Simmons drunk. Lyle always enjoyed his drinks, and there were a few times over the years that the alcohol’s effect became apparent, but never to the point of inebriation. Rotondi wondered whether this night was about to become an exception.
Still standing at the bar, Simmons said, “Are you satisfied, Phil, now that I’ve admitted to you my failures and weaknesses?”
Rotondi started to say that he took no pleasure from hearing it, but Simmons cut him off. “It’s good for a man to come clean once in a while,” he said. “But once you have, there’s no sense in dwelling on your failures. You know what I find interesting about you, Phil? You’ve never reached very high, which means you’ve had less to lose, not as far to fall.” The senator resumed his seat. He leaned forward, an elbow on his knee, and extended the glass of whiskey as though it were a finger. “I haven’t gotten to where I have without taking chances and cutting deals. That’s what politics is, risk and deals. You wouldn’t know about that because Philip Rotondi doesn’t cut deals. Philip Rotondi doesn’t negotiate.”
“I’ve done plenty of negotiating, Lyle,” Rotondi said, not especially pleased at his need to defend himself.
Simmons drank. “Let’s get down to it, Phil,” he said. “I’ve known about that garbage from Chicago for a while now. Has it caused me to sweat, to lie awake nights? It hasn’t, because I know that nothing will ever come of it. Neil told me that Jeannette became aware of it and threatened to do something stupid, like give it to someone who could use it against me.” He forced a guffaw. “Naturally, I wanted her to give me the copies she’d received. She wouldn’t. I searched the house for them, Phil, looked in every place I could think of. Nothing. I wondered whether she was just blowing smoke, trying to use it as leverage against me. She wanted a divorce.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do. The farther Jeannette and I drifted apart, the closer she got to you. You know what I should have done, Phil?”
“Tell me.”
“The day Jeannette and I decided to get married back at good old U of Illinois, I should have dropped you for the loser you are. But I didn’t because I figured I owed you for the way things worked out with Jeannette and me. I’m loyal to my friends, Phil. I’ve always had a soft spot for you, which was a mistake, a big one. You don’t get to where I’ve gotten by being soft. You get soft and they take you down and chew you up, spit you out like a piece of rotting meat.”
Rotondi’s stomach growled. He thought of Emma and the party she was catering for the Marshalk Group, wondering idly what was being served, food and otherwise.
Simmons read his mind. “Hungry, Phil?” he asked, “or have you lost your appetite for breaking bread with your old college chum?”
“Did you have Jeannette killed, Lyle, because she knew about you and your Chicago connections?”
Rotondi’s directness had an impact on Simmons. He looked quizzically at his old friend.
“Did you?” Rotondi said again. “She was killed by someone who had a lot to lose if she’d ever gone public with the information. You had plenty to lose, Lyle.”
Simmons took a deep breath, stood, and came around behind Rotondi. He placed his hands on Rotondi’s shoulders and dug in with his fingers. “You think I killed Jeannette, Phil?”
Rotondi didn’t move. “I asked whether you had, Lyle.”
“You’re right, pal. I did have plenty to lose—and still do.” He removed his hands and walked to the bar, where he picked up the menu. “Steaks?” he asked. “Or maybe you’d prefer quiche.”
Rotondi was poised to get up and leave. He’d found the exchange deeply distasteful. Simmons’s demeaning