Runner-up 1

Falco led Bonner through the foyer and up the marble staircase toward the den at the end of the second-story hallway.

“How’s the wife?” Bonner asked flatly when they entered the den.

“Rosy,” Falco said, stopping at the small bar near the window and pouring himself a gin and tonic. “Want one?”

“No thanks, already got one.”

“Huh?”

“Genie,” Bonner explained, glancing around the congressman’s den. The guy was dense as driftwood. How he ever got elected was a mystery to Bonner. Falco was just like the other politicians Bonner had greased over the years: shallow-minded, short-sighted and arrogant. In some ways it was a compliment to Bonner’s profession. Elections were productions, the candidates second-rate actors directed by scriptwriters. Hell, with a little background music and the right camera angle, even Hillary had had a chance -- for a while.

“Here’s the thing, Chuck,” Falco was saying. “I can’t keep doing this. I just . . . “

“Can’t or won’t?” Bonner interrupted, eyeing the congressman’s row of photo ops lining the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The one of Schwarzenegger, his big arm draped across Falco’s weak shoulders, was especially poignant to the current situation. “Cause if it’s won’t, I think we can work something out.”

Falco wiped the sweat from his forehead and downed his drink. “Mr. Palmieri called. He’s not happy with you missing the flight.”

Bonner’s head jerked away from the photo. How would Palmieri already know about that, he thought. The flight hadn’t even arrived in Cabo yet.

“Yeah, well,” Bonner brushed back his oddly reddish hair. “Palmieri needs the Birds. That means he needs me. He’ll get over a missed flight.”

“I need to see it again.” Falco’s hands were shaking as he refilled his glass.

“I can’t do that, Tony.”

“Then I’m out.” He drained the gin without adding any tonic and poured another.

Bonner stepped forward. “You’re not if I increase your fee.” He took the glass of gin from Falco and set it on the mahogany desk beside the bar. “Say, double our agreement.” Bonner fingered the rim of the glass. “I missed that flight on purpose. To gives us some leverage with Palmieri. A guy like that gets too much control and the trouble starts to flow upstream. You’re upstream, Tony, so don’t forget who’s looking out for you.”

“Double?” Falco asked, his tone expectant. He reached for his drink with a steadier hand.

“Double,” Bonner stated and downed the gin in a single swallow.

Falco blinked, his eyes vacant as a clown’s.

Bonner handed him the empty glass. “I need a favor, though.”

Falco’s eyes came into focus. “A what?”

“I need to borrow one of your cars. Not the PC one, either. That little fast one you got in the garage.”

“I, I . . . “

“Think, Tony. I’m offering you a win-win here. I keep you in the game, you let me borrow your car . . . and throw that vote next week, of course. In the end, you’ll get the money and the glory. Palmieri gets his Birds approved, and I get to take my wife to Cabo like I promised.”

Bonner wasn’t about to mention the connecting flight to Colombia or the plans he had for Genie.

Falco’s eyes glazed over once again. “Yeah, sure,” he said, resigned. “Keys are in the ignition.”

“Smart man,” Bonner said, and patted the congressman on the back.

Falco flinched. As Bonner disappeared down the hall, Falco slumped into the chair behind the desk. He could feel the wire taped to his skin. He hoped to God that Bonner hadn’t felt it.