and poured two fingers’ worth into a pair of glasses; she thrust one at him.
“This is no time for bullshit—my corporate board is waiting for me. This spill will hurt the economy a great deal more than it will hurt the environment, Jeffrey. We’ll get this mess cleaned up well enough in a few months, but the oil business will be paying forever. We’re going to be in court over this one for the next half century.”
Branson placed her glass on the counter without sipping from it. Mayeaux didn’t say a word; whatever the old iron maiden wanted from him, it wouldn’t involve small talk. Branson came straight to the point. “I’d hoped to speak with you before the press conference. You sounded rather enthusiastic about this new tax of yours—how hard are you going to push it?”
Mayeaux took a measured sip of scotch. It had a smokey, peat-like flavor, and very pure. It had to be a single malt—everything about Emma Branson was first class. He paused long enough to make her think his answer wasn’t spring-loaded.
“It’s scary, Emma. This spill provides the catalyst for the new tax, and there’s nothing I, or the back-room boys, can do to prevent it. There’s too much momentum behind the bill. Every TV in the country is flooded with Zoroaster images, and people are demanding a scapegoat—they want to string somebody up by the balls, and they don’t care who . The tax will be a way to ensure ‘it doesn’t happen again.’ You know, like ‘the war to end all wars.’ Propaganda bullshit, but there you have it.”
“Do you really think you could use that money to buy more efficient equipment or make better tankers? Do you think even triple hulls would be safer? Smaller tankers means more tankers, more traffic means more accidents. Simple statistics. You don’t gain anything.” Branson shook her head.
Mayeaux swirled his drink and took a final sip. He might as well have been wrestling with an alligator. Emma Branson was personally responsible for bringing in over five million in contributions, and even at that, he had been lucky to get re-elected this time. If every other state besides Louisiana hadn’t had term limitations, Mayeaux would never have gained enough seniority to be elected Speaker this year. Pure unadulterated serendipity, a fait accompli before the new selection rules could grind their way through the system. With his track record he would never rise higher—but with Branson’s backing, he’d make a fine lobbyist for the oil industry. Damn fine, with his connections.
He sighed and placed his drink on the counter next to Branson’s still-untouched glass. A shame to waste good scotch. He looked her in the eye.
“Emma, as always you have a point. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in politicking that I forget my roots, not to mention my friends. Tell you what—when I get back to Washington, I’ll bury this legislation in subcommittee. I’ll throw my staff into patching together a compromise solution.” He reached out and squeezed her hands.
Branson pulled her hands away, but she did not argue with him. As he reached the door, Branson’s raspy voice said, “I’ll be paying close attention to the Congressional Record, Jeffrey. Just remember those future plans of yours. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” She paused, then smiled. “Or I’ll be the one to string you up by the balls.”
Mayeaux forced a chuckle, keeping a grin plastered to his face. “I’m heading back to D.C. right now to work on it.”
Outside the door, Weathersee steered him to the elevator. “The V.P.’s plane is due in another hour. Did you want to join the welcoming party?”
Mayeaux’s grin melted as soon as he was away from the penthouse door. “Hell, no! I’ve already upstaged the bastard. I don’t want to be seen fawning over him. It’s bad enough I promised Emma Branson I’d look for an alternative to the energy tax bill.” He raced through the options—there had to be a way to not piss
“This is no time for bullshit—my corporate board is waiting for me. This spill will hurt the economy a great deal more than it will hurt the environment, Jeffrey. We’ll get this mess cleaned up well enough in a few months, but the oil business will be paying forever. We’re going to be in court over this one for the next half century.”
Branson placed her glass on the counter without sipping from it. Mayeaux didn’t say a word; whatever the old iron maiden wanted from him, it wouldn’t involve small talk. Branson came straight to the point. “I’d hoped to speak with you before the press conference. You sounded rather enthusiastic about this new tax of yours—how hard are you going to push it?”
Mayeaux took a measured sip of scotch. It had a smokey, peat-like flavor, and very pure. It had to be a single malt—everything about Emma Branson was first class. He paused long enough to make her think his answer wasn’t spring-loaded.
“It’s scary, Emma. This spill provides the catalyst for the new tax, and there’s nothing I, or the back-room boys, can do to prevent it. There’s too much momentum behind the bill. Every TV in the country is flooded with Zoroaster images, and people are demanding a scapegoat—they want to string somebody up by the balls, and they don’t care who . The tax will be a way to ensure ‘it doesn’t happen again.’ You know, like ‘the war to end all wars.’ Propaganda bullshit, but there you have it.”
“Do you really think you could use that money to buy more efficient equipment or make better tankers? Do you think even triple hulls would be safer? Smaller tankers means more tankers, more traffic means more accidents. Simple statistics. You don’t gain anything.” Branson shook her head.
Mayeaux swirled his drink and took a final sip. He might as well have been wrestling with an alligator. Emma Branson was personally responsible for bringing in over five million in contributions, and even at that, he had been lucky to get re-elected this time. If every other state besides Louisiana hadn’t had term limitations, Mayeaux would never have gained enough seniority to be elected Speaker this year. Pure unadulterated serendipity, a fait accompli before the new selection rules could grind their way through the system. With his track record he would never rise higher—but with Branson’s backing, he’d make a fine lobbyist for the oil industry. Damn fine, with his connections.
He sighed and placed his drink on the counter next to Branson’s still-untouched glass. A shame to waste good scotch. He looked her in the eye.
“Emma, as always you have a point. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in politicking that I forget my roots, not to mention my friends. Tell you what—when I get back to Washington, I’ll bury this legislation in subcommittee. I’ll throw my staff into patching together a compromise solution.” He reached out and squeezed her hands.
Branson pulled her hands away, but she did not argue with him. As he reached the door, Branson’s raspy voice said, “I’ll be paying close attention to the Congressional Record, Jeffrey. Just remember those future plans of yours. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” She paused, then smiled. “Or I’ll be the one to string you up by the balls.”
Mayeaux forced a chuckle, keeping a grin plastered to his face. “I’m heading back to D.C. right now to work on it.”
Outside the door, Weathersee steered him to the elevator. “The V.P.’s plane is due in another hour. Did you want to join the welcoming party?”
Mayeaux’s grin melted as soon as he was away from the penthouse door. “Hell, no! I’ve already upstaged the bastard. I don’t want to be seen fawning over him. It’s bad enough I promised Emma Branson I’d look for an alternative to the energy tax bill.” He raced through the options—there had to be a way to not piss
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