Point of Contact

“There you are,” he muttered to himself, his bleary eyes finally landing on a data cell he’d been searching for. He highlighted it, then pushed his mouse aside. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. It was only eight in the morning, but he’d come in three hours earlier in order to get a running start on today’s work. Technically he was three days ahead of schedule on his end and the project wasn’t due for another week. But he liked to get his work done ahead of time. His father, a beat cop in Chicago in the fifties and later in Des Moines, where he was killed, taught him as a kid: “Ten minutes early is on time.”

He was thinking about the salami-and-cheddar sandwich in his lunchbox when his intercom buzzed.

“It’s Mr. Hendley, for you,” his assistant said. “Line two.”

Paul hesitated. Why was the director of the firm calling him? He picked up. “Paul Brown here.”

“Paul, it’s Gerry Hendley. How are you?”

Paul smiled. The soft-spoken South Carolina accent sounded quaint in Paul’s midwestern ear. He and Hendley didn’t speak often, but Paul liked the man immensely. He hoped it was mutual.

“Fine, sir. And you?”

“I could use a favor, Paul. I don’t suppose you have a minute to come up to my office?”

Paul glanced at the unblinking computer screen, beckoning. Hours of work lay ahead of him. “Maybe later this afternoon? Say around two?”

“If it’s not too much of an imposition, how about right now?”

The gentility of the former senator’s voice didn’t fool Paul. That was a summons, pleasant as it was.

“I’m on my way.”

“I’m grateful. See you in a bit.” He rang off.

Paul cradled the receiver, saved his document, and shut his computer down as per the privacy and security protocols his department required. Protocols that he had written himself.

He pushed himself up with his arms and stood, hoping desperately that he hadn’t committed some heinous error in his work. He couldn’t bear the thought that he might have done something to hurt the firm’s stellar reputation or to have disappointed Gerry Hendley. He brushed the powdered-sugar dust off his gray polyester slacks and reached for the matching suit coat hanging on the door, trying to decide if he should be worried or not.

“Not,” he said out loud, pulling on his coat. If he’d done something wrong he’d fix it, no matter what it took.

* * *

Hendley’s secretary was on the phone when Paul appeared in front of her. She covered the receiver, smiled, and pointed him to the tall mahogany door on the far side of the spacious waiting room. “Head on in. He’s expecting you.” She returned to her phone call.

Paul limped over to the door but couldn’t bring himself to just barge in, so he knocked gently with a thick knuckle. He heard voices on the other side, and soft laughter, too. He recognized Hendley’s voice. The other seemed familiar. He felt stupid standing there and he hated to interrupt them, but he was practically eavesdropping at that point. Obviously they hadn’t heard him, so he knocked louder. A moment later the heavy door swung wide and Hendley’s beaming face greeted him.

“Paul! So glad you’re here. C’mon in! I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

Paul forced a jowly smile. In truth, he didn’t like surprises. Not even when he was a little kid, when surprises were usually more benign. As an adult, he found surprises usually meant trouble.

Hendley laid a guiding hand on Paul’s shoulder as he waved him in. A handsome middle-aged man in a fashionably tailored designer suit sat on the tufted black leather couch against the wall. He stood and flashed a bleach-white smile.

“Paul Brown, surely you remember Senator Weston Rhodes?” Hendley asked.

“Of course he does. We’re old friends,” Rhodes said. He stepped forward, extending his hand. He reminded Paul of a tennis star or a movie actor.

“Senator Rhodes, it’s good to see you again,” Paul said. They shook hands. Paul noted the athletic build and strong grip. Except for the immaculate silver hair, the senator had hardly aged. Unlike Paul, Rhodes seemed to have won the genetic Powerball. Twice.

Paul stood up a little straighter and squared his shoulders, but Rhodes was still two inches taller. The accountant didn’t bother trying to suck in his ample belly. That was a lost cause.

“Senator? Please. It’s ‘former senator’ now, anyway. You knew me when I was Wes. Hell, we were both just kids back then, weren’t we?”

“Yeah, we were.”

“It’s been, what, three years since we’ve seen each other?”

Five years, three months, and twenty-one days, to be exact, Paul thought. Carmen’s funeral. Rhodes came that day, unannounced. He was an important man back then, too. It was an unexpectedly thoughtful gesture that Paul never forgot. He didn’t blame the senator for not keeping in touch with an unimportant guy like him over the years. “Sounds about right.”

“Please, let’s sit down, shall we?” Hendley said, maneuvering Paul toward an empty chair. Rhodes resumed his seat on the couch.