The Undertaker

The Senator was sitting behind a huge mahogany desk in a tall, tilt-back leather chair. It was Hardin all right; I recognized him from TV. He was talking on the telephone, but he was one of those men who always looked 6:00 News sound-bite ready, smiling and posing, even when he was alone and on the telephone. Practice makes perfect, and his image was obviously something the Senator took great pains to cultivate, thanks to capped teeth, a tanning bed, and the occasional Botox shot.

He had his back to the window and we could see what the guards meant by ‘the view.’ His office looked out on the floodlit U. S. Capitol. That scenic backdrop made a nice touch when the Chamber of Commerce boys from back home came calling. He could bask in its reflected power and glory while acting as if none of that stuff really mattered to a “regular” guy like him. It only took one look for me to know I hated him and the white horse he rode in on, but I had to be fair. Hardin was exactly what this place attracted and he was probably no better or worse than the rest of them. I glanced over at Sandy. She looked like she was eating it up, which made me detest this Bozo even more. In fact, I would bet the farm he got most of his votes from women. If this Senate “thing” didn't work out for him, he could always try the soaps or host one of those late-afternoon TV talk shows where the biker moms have a meaningful dialogue with their lesbian daughters and the audience gets to pick sides and guess who the real father was of the six possibilities.

But Hardin was beautiful. Without missing a beat, he motioned for us to take the two chairs opposite him, as if we were more important than the person on the phone, and he would be with us the second he got rid of the jerk on the other end. We sat down as he droned on, “I know, John, I know,” he reassured the guy. “Of course it's important to Dade County, just like that new court house is important to Peoria... Chicago? Oh, fuck Chicago.” He winked at us. “They're just a bunch of Democrats anyway... That's right, you want a little, you gotta to give a little... Hey, some constituents came in and I gotta go. I'll call you in the morning, after you've had a chance to think it over again... Oh, I'm certain you will.”

Finally, Hardin hung up and sat forward as he looked across the desk at us. “Sandy! My God, it's good to see you again, girl,” he said, still trying to place her. “You worked in the Chicago office last year, right? Hey, we really missed you after the election. And this must be Pete, right -– may I call you Pete? Great!” He rose to his feet and extended a firm, meaty hand in my direction, but he never took his eyes off her.

“So, Sandy...” He seemed to be undressing her from head to foot until I thought he might drool on his desk. “What is it? You look... different?” he asked, cocking his head to the right. “The hair? Is that it? The makeup? Help me out here, girl. It's a little more... How do I say this? Quiet?”

That was one way of putting it, I thought, but Sandy was more diplomatic. “Yeah, well, we've had to make a few adjustments the past few days, Tim.”

“I'll bet you have.” His head nodded up and down like a bobble head on a dashboard. “My aides got me the stories and I finally caught up.” He patted a small stack of newspaper clippings in the center of his desk. “My God, I know you Sandy, it all sounds so incredible.”

“You haven't heard the half of it,” I interrupted.

Finally, he remembered I was there and took his eyes off her. “Pete, Pete, so you were there when they shot at Billingham, huh? Incredible! And you did bring those computer files with you? I am absolutely dying to hear the whole story, but where are they? We need to lock them up or something.”

It was obvious that Hardin wanted the flash drives, not our story, but Sandy leaned forward and kept talking anyway, telling him all about it for the next twenty minutes. The Senator sat there nodding, looking like he was listening intently, but you could never tell with a guy like that. He would frown and sometimes look curious or troubled, sometimes bored or shocked, throwing in a random question now and then, but for the most part, he let her talk, probably hoping she'd talk herself out. She told him about Chicago, Tinkerton, the witness Protection Program, Columbus, the obituaries, Boston, and the people who kept disappearing and managed to get most of the important stuff in.

“That is absolutely incredible.” Hardin leaned back, wide-eyed, staring at me. “And you say there's a conspiracy inside Justice and this fellow Tinkerton is running some kind of a rogue operation killing off our own government witnesses? With doctors, a funeral home, and even a county sheriff? Unbelievable!”

“You do believe us?” Sandy asked.

“Of course I believe you, Sandy,” Hardin leaned forward, empathizing with us all the way. “But you gotta know, in this town, with the kind of people you're dealing with, it isn't a matter of believing, it's a matter of proving.”