calls.
The appropriations bill was put back together in fine fashion.
A month later she filed for divorce, a raucous contest that would eventually cost him over three million bucks.
And she was his favorite of the three. They were all gone now, all scattered forever. The first, the mother of two of his children, had remarried twice since Joel, and her current husband had gotten rich selling liquid fertilizer in third world countries. She had actually written him in prison, a cruel little note in which she praised the judicial system for finally dealing with one of its biggest crooks.
He couldn’t blame her. She packed up after catching him with a secretary, the bimbo that became wife number two.
Wife number three had jumped ship soon after his indictment.
What a sloppy life. Fifty-two years, and what’s to show for a career of bilking clients, chasing secretaries around the office, putting the squeeze on slimy little politicians, working seven days a week, ignoring three surprisingly stable children, crafting the public image, building the boundless ego, pursuing money money money? What are the rewards for the reckless pursuit of the great American dream?
Six years in prison. And now a fake name because the old one is so dangerous. And about a hundred dollars in his pocket.
Marco? How could he look himself in the mirror every morning and say, “Buon giorno, Marco”?
Sure beat the hell out of “Good morning, Mr. Felon.”
Stennett didn’t as much read the newspaper as he wrestled with it. Under his perusal, it jerked and popped and wrinkled, and at times the driver glanced over in frustration.
A sign said Venice was sixty kilometers to the south, and Joel decided to break the monotony. “I’d like to live in Venice, if that’s all right with the White House.”
The driver flinched and Stennett’s newspaper dropped six inches. The air in the small car was tense for a moment until Stennett managed a grunt and a shrug. “Sorry,” he said.
“I really need to pee,” Joel said. “Can you get authorization to stop for a potty break?”
They stopped north of the town of Conegliano, at a modern roadside servizio. Stennett bought a round ofcorporate espressos. Joel took his to the front window where he watched the traffic speed by while he listened to a young couple snipe at each other in Italian. He heard none of the two hundred words he’d tried to memorize. It seemed an impossible task.
Stennett appeared by his side and watched the traffic. “Have you spent much time in Italy?” he asked.
“A month once, in Tuscany.”
“Really? A whole month? Must’ve been nice.”
“Four days actually, but my wife stayed for a month. She met some friends. How about you? Is this one of your hangouts?”
“I move around.” His face was as vague as his answer. He sipped from the tiny cup and said, “Conegliano, known for its Prosecco.”
“The Italian answer to champagne,” Joel said.
“Yes. You’re a drinking man?”
“Haven’t touched a drop in six years.”
“They didn’t serve it in prison?”
“Nope.”
“And now?”
“I’ll ease back into it. It was a bad habit once.”
“We’d better go.”
“How much longer?”
“Not far.”
Stennett headed for the door, but Joel stopped him. “Hey, look, I’m really hungry. Could I get a sandwich for the road?”
Stennett looked at rack of ready-made panini. “Sure.”
“How about two?”
“No problem.”
A27 led south to Treviso, and when it became apparent they would not bypass the city, Joel began to assume the ride was about to end. The driver slowed, made two exits, and they were soon bouncing through the narrow streets of the city.
“What’s the population of Treviso?” Joel asked.
“Eighty-five thousand,” Stennett answered.
“What do you know about the city?”
“It’s a prosperous little city that hasn’t changed much in five hundred years. It was once a staunch ally of Venice back when these towns all fought
The appropriations bill was put back together in fine fashion.
A month later she filed for divorce, a raucous contest that would eventually cost him over three million bucks.
And she was his favorite of the three. They were all gone now, all scattered forever. The first, the mother of two of his children, had remarried twice since Joel, and her current husband had gotten rich selling liquid fertilizer in third world countries. She had actually written him in prison, a cruel little note in which she praised the judicial system for finally dealing with one of its biggest crooks.
He couldn’t blame her. She packed up after catching him with a secretary, the bimbo that became wife number two.
Wife number three had jumped ship soon after his indictment.
What a sloppy life. Fifty-two years, and what’s to show for a career of bilking clients, chasing secretaries around the office, putting the squeeze on slimy little politicians, working seven days a week, ignoring three surprisingly stable children, crafting the public image, building the boundless ego, pursuing money money money? What are the rewards for the reckless pursuit of the great American dream?
Six years in prison. And now a fake name because the old one is so dangerous. And about a hundred dollars in his pocket.
Marco? How could he look himself in the mirror every morning and say, “Buon giorno, Marco”?
Sure beat the hell out of “Good morning, Mr. Felon.”
Stennett didn’t as much read the newspaper as he wrestled with it. Under his perusal, it jerked and popped and wrinkled, and at times the driver glanced over in frustration.
A sign said Venice was sixty kilometers to the south, and Joel decided to break the monotony. “I’d like to live in Venice, if that’s all right with the White House.”
The driver flinched and Stennett’s newspaper dropped six inches. The air in the small car was tense for a moment until Stennett managed a grunt and a shrug. “Sorry,” he said.
“I really need to pee,” Joel said. “Can you get authorization to stop for a potty break?”
They stopped north of the town of Conegliano, at a modern roadside servizio. Stennett bought a round ofcorporate espressos. Joel took his to the front window where he watched the traffic speed by while he listened to a young couple snipe at each other in Italian. He heard none of the two hundred words he’d tried to memorize. It seemed an impossible task.
Stennett appeared by his side and watched the traffic. “Have you spent much time in Italy?” he asked.
“A month once, in Tuscany.”
“Really? A whole month? Must’ve been nice.”
“Four days actually, but my wife stayed for a month. She met some friends. How about you? Is this one of your hangouts?”
“I move around.” His face was as vague as his answer. He sipped from the tiny cup and said, “Conegliano, known for its Prosecco.”
“The Italian answer to champagne,” Joel said.
“Yes. You’re a drinking man?”
“Haven’t touched a drop in six years.”
“They didn’t serve it in prison?”
“Nope.”
“And now?”
“I’ll ease back into it. It was a bad habit once.”
“We’d better go.”
“How much longer?”
“Not far.”
Stennett headed for the door, but Joel stopped him. “Hey, look, I’m really hungry. Could I get a sandwich for the road?”
Stennett looked at rack of ready-made panini. “Sure.”
“How about two?”
“No problem.”
A27 led south to Treviso, and when it became apparent they would not bypass the city, Joel began to assume the ride was about to end. The driver slowed, made two exits, and they were soon bouncing through the narrow streets of the city.
“What’s the population of Treviso?” Joel asked.
“Eighty-five thousand,” Stennett answered.
“What do you know about the city?”
“It’s a prosperous little city that hasn’t changed much in five hundred years. It was once a staunch ally of Venice back when these towns all fought
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