CHAPTER 1
President Wilhelm Hickory Richter sat on the gold-plated toilet, listening half-heartedly while Ray’s assistant—Maria, god what a Bomb!—frantically described the murders.
Richter put the phone on speaker, set it on the sink while he finished, and buckled up his pants.
“Ray AND his wife? Now that’s a damned shame.”
Richter pictured Janet in a coffin, staring at the ceiling of the church. Still gorgeous--those pouty lips!--but, ugh, dead. He pushed the thought out of his mind. Instead, he stared at himself in the mirror and poked an unwashed finger into the fatty mass dangling below his chin. Not so bad, he reflected. Still a stud. That little shit who called him “wattles” was long gone. If you’re going to shoot at the king, you better have clean taxes.
“What?”
Maria was speaking so fast he could barely comprehend.
“Police were everywhere. Thirty stab wounds. Blood everywhere.”
“And Ray?”
Maria’s voice quivered: “They tortured him, Mr. President.”
“‘Hick,’ darlin’; jes call me ‘Hick’.”
“Yessir. There were cigarette burns, Mr. President. No fingernails...they…they ripped out an eye!”
“Damn!”
“What killed him though—they sliced off his head with a machete.”
Oh, hell. Ray was Richter’s personal lawyer. Ray knew all of his secrets—every last dirty little one of them. But if the attackers wanted something on Richter, Ray wouldn’t have talked. He never talked, about Richter, about any of his clients. Kept his mouth shut to the end, it sounded like.
Richter thought of the fingernails, and the eye. Ray had the bluest eyes.
“Police say maybe it was a botched robbery. They stole his computer. The safe was banged up….”
Shit.
“Okay, darlin’. Thanks for letting me know.”
It was disturbing, for sure. Who would want to kill Ray? Why? Whatever. Richter put it out of his mind. First, time for his burger, two big, fat hunks of beef, dripping in ketchup and grease, encased in a puffy potato bun. Some Kentucky-fried on the side. And a super-sized soda. Nothing fancy. Good ole ’Merican food, as his Hick Brigades would say. Dependable. Nixon liked cottage cheese and ketchup for lunch. For Richter, a daily burger was the spice of life. Some days he had diet soda with the burger. Some days a glass of bourbon.
“Mr. President!” Michaela, his secretary, called after him. “Boris wants to see you. He says it’s urgent.”
“What’s it about?” Had the Russian ambassador already heard about Ray?
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Stick him in after lunch.” Richter paused before a mirror, brushing the wispy dyed black hair of his comb-over off his slick forehead. “How’s Baby Richter?”
“Still got a fever, sir. You ought to check with Savanna.”
Richter scowled at the mention of his wife. He moved toward the door, perking up as his mind shifted back to burgers. He could see the patties, charred beef with blood and fat running out, one on top of the other. The feverish baby: Gone. The decomposing bodies of Janet and Ray: Gone. He could damn near taste the bloody burgers.
What the hell! Richter stumbled, and the squeal of a dog ricocheted around the walls of the Oval Office. A howling milk-chocolate poodle fled for his life.
“What’s the damned dog doing in here?”
“We have the photo op this afternoon, Sir. The people from the Hamilton Dog Show….”
“Oh hell. I can’t stand those snooty New Yorkers. Or their damned dogs.”
He hurried out the door.
Pierre, the poodle, cowered behind a potted plant. When Richter was safely out of sight, the dog panted happily, lifting his leg towards the vegetation and letting loose.
President Wilhelm Hickory Richter sat on the gold-plated toilet, listening half-heartedly while Ray’s assistant—Maria, god what a Bomb!—frantically described the murders.
Richter put the phone on speaker, set it on the sink while he finished, and buckled up his pants.
“Ray AND his wife? Now that’s a damned shame.”
Richter pictured Janet in a coffin, staring at the ceiling of the church. Still gorgeous--those pouty lips!--but, ugh, dead. He pushed the thought out of his mind. Instead, he stared at himself in the mirror and poked an unwashed finger into the fatty mass dangling below his chin. Not so bad, he reflected. Still a stud. That little shit who called him “wattles” was long gone. If you’re going to shoot at the king, you better have clean taxes.
“What?”
Maria was speaking so fast he could barely comprehend.
“Police were everywhere. Thirty stab wounds. Blood everywhere.”
“And Ray?”
Maria’s voice quivered: “They tortured him, Mr. President.”
“‘Hick,’ darlin’; jes call me ‘Hick’.”
“Yessir. There were cigarette burns, Mr. President. No fingernails...they…they ripped out an eye!”
“Damn!”
“What killed him though—they sliced off his head with a machete.”
Oh, hell. Ray was Richter’s personal lawyer. Ray knew all of his secrets—every last dirty little one of them. But if the attackers wanted something on Richter, Ray wouldn’t have talked. He never talked, about Richter, about any of his clients. Kept his mouth shut to the end, it sounded like.
Richter thought of the fingernails, and the eye. Ray had the bluest eyes.
“Police say maybe it was a botched robbery. They stole his computer. The safe was banged up….”
Shit.
“Okay, darlin’. Thanks for letting me know.”
It was disturbing, for sure. Who would want to kill Ray? Why? Whatever. Richter put it out of his mind. First, time for his burger, two big, fat hunks of beef, dripping in ketchup and grease, encased in a puffy potato bun. Some Kentucky-fried on the side. And a super-sized soda. Nothing fancy. Good ole ’Merican food, as his Hick Brigades would say. Dependable. Nixon liked cottage cheese and ketchup for lunch. For Richter, a daily burger was the spice of life. Some days he had diet soda with the burger. Some days a glass of bourbon.
“Mr. President!” Michaela, his secretary, called after him. “Boris wants to see you. He says it’s urgent.”
“What’s it about?” Had the Russian ambassador already heard about Ray?
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Stick him in after lunch.” Richter paused before a mirror, brushing the wispy dyed black hair of his comb-over off his slick forehead. “How’s Baby Richter?”
“Still got a fever, sir. You ought to check with Savanna.”
Richter scowled at the mention of his wife. He moved toward the door, perking up as his mind shifted back to burgers. He could see the patties, charred beef with blood and fat running out, one on top of the other. The feverish baby: Gone. The decomposing bodies of Janet and Ray: Gone. He could damn near taste the bloody burgers.
What the hell! Richter stumbled, and the squeal of a dog ricocheted around the walls of the Oval Office. A howling milk-chocolate poodle fled for his life.
“What’s the damned dog doing in here?”
“We have the photo op this afternoon, Sir. The people from the Hamilton Dog Show….”
“Oh hell. I can’t stand those snooty New Yorkers. Or their damned dogs.”
He hurried out the door.
Pierre, the poodle, cowered behind a potted plant. When Richter was safely out of sight, the dog panted happily, lifting his leg towards the vegetation and letting loose.