Tom tried to remain calm as he dodged in and out of the traffic while crossing Main Street before jogging up the steps to City Hall. He kept having to wait for Julia, who explained it wasn’t easy to keep up with him in high heels. When they reentered the building, Tom was relieved to find Mr. Cooke was still seated behind his desk at the far end of the hall. The chief executive rose when he saw them heading toward him.
“Hand over the check to the thin man with the bald head,” said Tom, “and smile.”
Julia carried out Tom’s instructions to the letter, and received a warm smile in return. Mr. Cooke studied the check carefully. “This seems to be in order, Mrs. Kirkbridge, if I could just see some form of identification.”
“Certainly,” said Julia, and took a driver’s license out of her handbag.
Mr. Cooke studied the photo and the signature. “It’s not a flattering picture of you,” he said. Julia smiled. “Good, now all that is left for you to do is sign all the necessary documents on behalf of your company.”
Julia signed the council agreement in triplicate and handed a copy over to Tom. “I think you’d better hold on to this until the money is safely transferred,” she whispered.
Mr. Cooke looked at his watch. “I shall be presenting this check first thing on Monday morning, Mr. Russell,” he said, “and I would be obliged if it were cleared as quickly as is convenient. I don’t want to give Mrs. Hunter any more ammunition than is necessary only days before the election.”
“It will be cleared on the same day it’s presented,” Tom assured him.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Cooke to a man he regularly had a round of golf with at their local club.
Tom wanted to give Julia a hug, but restrained himself. “I’ll just run back to the bank and let them know that it all went smoothly, then we can go home.”
“Do you really have to?” asked Julia. “After all, they won’t be presenting the check until Monday morning.”
“I guess that’s right,” said Tom.
“Damn,” said Julia, bending down to take off one of her shoes, “I’ve broken the heel running up those steps.”
“Sorry,” said Tom, “that was my fault, I shouldn’t have made you rush back from the bank. As it turned out we had more than enough time.”
“It’s not a problem,” said Julia, smiling, “but if you could fetch the car, I’ll join you at the bottom of the steps.”
“Yes, of course,” said Tom. He jogged back down and across to the parking lot.
He was back outside Cit
y Hall a few minutes later, but Julia was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she had slipped back inside? He waited a few moments, but she still didn’t appear. He cursed, leaped out of the illegally parked car and ran up the steps and into the building to find Julia in one of the phone booths. The moment she saw him, she hung up.
“I’ve just been telling New York about your coup, darling, and they’ve instructed our bank to transfer the three million one hundred thousand before close of business.”
“That’s good to hear,” said Tom, as they strolled back to the car together. “So shall we have supper in town?”
“No, I’d rather go back to your place and have a quiet meal on our own,” said Julia.
When Tom pulled up in his driveway, Julia had already removed her coat, and by the time they reached the bedroom on the second floor, she had left a trail of clothes in her wake. Tom was down to his underwear and Julia was peeling off a stocking when the phone rang.
“Leave it,” Julia said as she fell to her knees and pulled down his boxer shorts.
“There’s no reply,” said Nat, “they must have gone out for dinner.”
“Can’t it wait until we get back on Monday?” asked Su Ling.
“I suppose so,” admitted Nat reluctantly, “but I’d like to have known if Tom managed to close the Cedar Wood deal, and if so, at what price.”
33
“Too Close to Call” ran the banner headline in the Washington Post on election morning. “NECK AND NECK” was the opinion of the Hartford Courant. The first referred to the national race between Ford and Carter for the White House, the second to the local battle between Hunter and Davenport for the State Senate Chamber. It annoyed Fletcher that they always put her name first, like Harvard before Yale.
“All that matters now,” said Harry as he chaired the final campaign meeting at six that morning, “is getting our supporters to the polls.” No longer was there any need to discuss tactics, press statements, or policy. Once the first vote had been cast, everyone seated around the table had a new responsibility.
A team of forty would be in charge of the car pool, armed with a list of voters who required a lift to their nearest polling place, the old, the infirm, the downright lazy and even some who took a vicarious pleasure in being taken to the poll just so they could vote for the other side.