Runner-up 3

Evelyn waved cheerfully to Bonner as he climbed out of the cab. She could have been another of those tacky garden gnomes for all of the plastic sincerity in her bright smile. There was venom just behind that smile, but it was well disguised. She was, after all, the wife of a politician.

Bonner didn’t even bother with a nod. He was in a foul mood and doing Falco a favor just being here; no need to waste time on pointless niceties. The bright Los Angeles sun hovered warm and vaguely insulting in the air. It glittered blindingly off the leaded-glass windows like cheap paste jewels. Bonner cranked the handle on one of the French doors and let himself into Falco’s house.

“Honey, I’m home,” he called, stepping inside and kicking the door unceremoniously shut behind him. “Falco, this had better be good.”

“In the kitchen.”

The voice was faint, but Bonner followed it easily to its source. Congressman Falco was a thick slab of a man busily sweating his expensive navy silk suit to ruin. He leaned over the counter, nursing a glass of some vile concoction that smelled mostly of whiskey. Bonner moved to snatch the drink away, but Falco pulled it close and sucked down another long drink. Maybe the fat idiot was imagining it was Carmen.

“Christ, Falco, it’s not even noon.”

“I need it.”

For all Falco’s failings and sins, Bonner had to admit to a crumb of respect. The glass clutched in the politician’s sweaty hand was no more than a quarter full now, but Falco still sounded steady, confident even in those needy three words. He was a good politician, and Bonner had no intention of letting the man lose the job that had been so profitable to them both.

“Talk to me, Falco,” he said, a little more gently this time. “What’s she got on you?”

“Everything. All of it.”

“You told her? I warned you, Falco.” Bonner leaned against the cool granite. The gaudy yellow sunlight was blissfully filtered through the slightly dusky polarized windows. “We’re not screwed just yet. It’ll never hold up in court, not on her word.”

Falco slammed the glass down on the counter. The cut crystal rang and an ice cube popped over the lip, skidding and bumping against Bonner’s elbow. “I tried to get it back but it all went to hell! She’s got it all recorded, Bonner! Every . . . word.”

“Recorded?” Bonner snapped. “How the hell did she get that?”

” . . . never met an elected official with bigger appetites or a smaller brain . . . “

Falco was blushing. Bonner was amazed that a man in his position could still do that. The congressman lifted his glass again and muttered something into the ice. Bonner flicked the fallen cube back at its proper owner.

“What was that?” he asked. “Talk, Falco!”

“Carmen said she wanted to make some movies, all right?”

“Movies? You’re killing me, Falco. Did you tell her your name? Christ, did you tell her mine?”

Falco was quiet. Now it was Bonner’s turn to sweat. Not now! They were so close.

“No,” Falco answered at last. “I don’t think I ever told her my name. She just called me James. And I never mentioned you. I mean, I did, but not by name.”

Bonner smoothed his hair, feeling the unflattering amount of skin up there. Carmen didn’t know their names. They could still save this. And then there would be all the money in the world for hair transplants, dye jobs and less troublesome strippers.

“It’s not over yet, Falco,” he said.