ahead.”
“How will this affect the proposed new gasoline tax? Will the administration back the House’s legislation calling for a majority of the tax to be used for cleaning up the environment?”
He pegged her: tough reporter type, arrogant and driven, looking for the big story. Willing to do just about anything for it—and he bet his Louisiana homegrown hot link would satisfy her. “I don’t see how the President could refuse to sign the bill, especially now, with this mess right in America’s lap.”
“But do you anticipate a fight? Could this be a big test of your abilities as Speaker?”
Mayeaux put on his “grave and understanding” expression to mask his utter scorn for testing his abilities. He was in this for the ride and the perks, and by next year he could say goodbye to all the bullshit.
“We all try to work within the system, Ma’am. I’ve been in close contact with Vice President Wolani, who is making time in his busy schedule to personally view this disaster.” Mayeaux squelched a smile before it could form on his face. “I’m sure when he returns to Washington, he’ll convince the President of the necessity for this legislation. If not, then I’ll have to twist a few more arms.” He flashed the brunette a warm smile and turned to answer other questions.
Before long, he glanced at the clock at the back of the press room . He had been talking for ten minutes. Good enough. Short and sweet. The reporters would remember the “zingers” more than the message; he’d have to personally thank that cute new speech writer who’d come up with the lines on the jet up from Acapulco.
Excusing himself, Mayeaux smiled one last time at the brunette, then answered a final question over his shoulder as he was led into the anteroom. Weathersee, a stable but joy-killing anchor through Mayeaux’s entire career, bent closer and spoke quietly. “Emma Branson is waiting upstairs in a private suite.”
“You make a good den mother, Franklin,” he said.
The Chief of Staff ignored the comment. “She needs to speak with you.”
Mayeaux glanced around and saw no one dangerous in view; the media was gone and with no one listening, let his annoyance show. “That old bitch? I can’t afford to be seen with her, especially now. Oilstar connections are going to be extremely bad for my reputation right now.”
“I thought you were planning to work for her,” Weathersee said calmly.
“That’s after I retire, and you know it, Franklin!”
“She came in through the back entrance. No one saw her. She says it’s urgent,” Weathersee said. “She’s in a hurry and is calling in a few favors.”
Mayeaux allowed himself to be guided toward the elevators. “Yeah, yeah.” He knew who had spearheaded the donations that bankrolled his campaign. Even though other big oil companies had stayed away from direct contributions, Emma Branson and Oilstar had played too important a role to ignore.
They emerged from the elevator. Weathersee waited outside the penthouse door as Mayeaux entered, somehow managing to stand without fidgeting for impossibly long periods.
Mayeaux smiled broadly at Branson as he padded across the beige-carpeted floor to kiss the lizard-faced woman on both cheeks. He thought he might get frostbite on his lips—God, he knew she had once been married, but Mayeaux couldn’t imagine anyone willingly fucking the old hag.
He flashed her his warmest grin. “This is like old home week, cher , defending the environment, running into old friends.” He stroked his hand up and down her arm. She looked so much like a mummy. “How’ve you been? Damn tragic about that tanker!”
Emma Branson smiled, but her eyes looked as hard as a diamond-tipped oildrill. She wore a necklace of small pearls over a throat that was wattled like an iguana’s. A television set in the back of the suite recapped Mayeaux’s live interview; she did not seem pleased about it. Branson picked up a decanter of scotch
“How will this affect the proposed new gasoline tax? Will the administration back the House’s legislation calling for a majority of the tax to be used for cleaning up the environment?”
He pegged her: tough reporter type, arrogant and driven, looking for the big story. Willing to do just about anything for it—and he bet his Louisiana homegrown hot link would satisfy her. “I don’t see how the President could refuse to sign the bill, especially now, with this mess right in America’s lap.”
“But do you anticipate a fight? Could this be a big test of your abilities as Speaker?”
Mayeaux put on his “grave and understanding” expression to mask his utter scorn for testing his abilities. He was in this for the ride and the perks, and by next year he could say goodbye to all the bullshit.
“We all try to work within the system, Ma’am. I’ve been in close contact with Vice President Wolani, who is making time in his busy schedule to personally view this disaster.” Mayeaux squelched a smile before it could form on his face. “I’m sure when he returns to Washington, he’ll convince the President of the necessity for this legislation. If not, then I’ll have to twist a few more arms.” He flashed the brunette a warm smile and turned to answer other questions.
Before long, he glanced at the clock at the back of the press room . He had been talking for ten minutes. Good enough. Short and sweet. The reporters would remember the “zingers” more than the message; he’d have to personally thank that cute new speech writer who’d come up with the lines on the jet up from Acapulco.
Excusing himself, Mayeaux smiled one last time at the brunette, then answered a final question over his shoulder as he was led into the anteroom. Weathersee, a stable but joy-killing anchor through Mayeaux’s entire career, bent closer and spoke quietly. “Emma Branson is waiting upstairs in a private suite.”
“You make a good den mother, Franklin,” he said.
The Chief of Staff ignored the comment. “She needs to speak with you.”
Mayeaux glanced around and saw no one dangerous in view; the media was gone and with no one listening, let his annoyance show. “That old bitch? I can’t afford to be seen with her, especially now. Oilstar connections are going to be extremely bad for my reputation right now.”
“I thought you were planning to work for her,” Weathersee said calmly.
“That’s after I retire, and you know it, Franklin!”
“She came in through the back entrance. No one saw her. She says it’s urgent,” Weathersee said. “She’s in a hurry and is calling in a few favors.”
Mayeaux allowed himself to be guided toward the elevators. “Yeah, yeah.” He knew who had spearheaded the donations that bankrolled his campaign. Even though other big oil companies had stayed away from direct contributions, Emma Branson and Oilstar had played too important a role to ignore.
They emerged from the elevator. Weathersee waited outside the penthouse door as Mayeaux entered, somehow managing to stand without fidgeting for impossibly long periods.
Mayeaux smiled broadly at Branson as he padded across the beige-carpeted floor to kiss the lizard-faced woman on both cheeks. He thought he might get frostbite on his lips—God, he knew she had once been married, but Mayeaux couldn’t imagine anyone willingly fucking the old hag.
He flashed her his warmest grin. “This is like old home week, cher , defending the environment, running into old friends.” He stroked his hand up and down her arm. She looked so much like a mummy. “How’ve you been? Damn tragic about that tanker!”
Emma Branson smiled, but her eyes looked as hard as a diamond-tipped oildrill. She wore a necklace of small pearls over a throat that was wattled like an iguana’s. A television set in the back of the suite recapped Mayeaux’s live interview; she did not seem pleased about it. Branson picked up a decanter of scotch
Similar Books
