how I like it,” Hershey said, tipping his drink toward his benefactor as he introduced me.
“Jack Sterling,” the man said with a nod. “Why the hell you hanging around this pervert?”
“I’m paying him to,” Hershey said. “Just like your ‘friends’ pay you to be nice to them. What’s the latest?”
“First off, screw you. My clients are not my friends. Secondly, not much, as if I’d ever tell you.”
“I’m hearing Thursday now, for school-funding amendments.”
“Couldn’t say.”
“Are your people along for the ride?”
“Like I said, wouldn’t tell you if they were.”
“Are the revenue percentages going down?”
“No comment.”
“What’s got you so chatty tonight?”
Sterling shrugged. “Barometric pressure’s low or something.”
“All right then,” Hershey said, taking a drink. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“No stranger than you,” Sterling said.
“And that was . . . ?” I said to Hershey a moment later, back at the bar.
“You know that old expression, ‘Don’t tell my mother I’m a lobbyist, she thinks I’m a piano player in a whorehouse?’”
“Who’s he lobby for?”
“He has what they call a diverse portfolio.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning most of what he does is legal.”
“Very funny. He’s involved in school funding?”
“In a manner of speaking. He represents casinos.”
“What do casinos have to do with schools?”
“Damn good question. So right now, a chunk of casino revenue goes to schools. ‘Craps for tots,’ I like to call it, but it’s got an actual name of some kind.”
“All right.”
“Triple F opens the door for all kinds of shenanigans. In this case, it’s Sterling’s job to see if he can negotiate down the schools’ percentage.”
“Why’d he buy you a drink?”
“To put me in his debt, and/or to remind me to slip him something in return down the road. Tit for tat, you know.”
“Possible he was just being nice?”
“Around here? Nothing changes hands at the Statehouse without an IOU attached. Don’t ever forget that.”
Hershey appeared to have run out of people to introduce me to, and so we sat for a few minutes, drinking and watching the room. At last he stood up, nodded at me, threw some bills on the bar, and started to go. The door opened just as we reached it, and Hershey paused to allow a man to step inside. The newcomer stopped short when he saw the reporter.
“What the hell are you doing here?” the man said.
6
“WELL, HELLO, SENATOR,” HERSHEY SAID. “Were your ears burning? We were just speechifying about you.”
“Yeah? What about?”
“The usual—your district, your taste in suits, your contributions from Midwest Testing. You know my colleague?” Hershey pulled me to his side. “Andy Hayes, meet Senator Ed Tillman.”
“You’re blocking my way,” Tillman said.
“Since we were just leaving, I could say the same about you,” Hershey replied. “But as long as we’re having a moment, any comment on the ethics board ruling on the Vegas trip?” A smart phone had magically appeared in the reporter’s right hand, and I could see it was already recording.
“I told you once, no comment.” He had short, brushed-back sandy hair in transition from blond to white, a full face that hinted at too many chicken dinners and not enough time on the treadmill, and a look of controlled anger in his eyes.
“Technically, that was your spokeswoman. What about you?”
“You heard me.”
“Seems like you got a pass from the board,” Hershey persisted. “They gave you spirit of the law, but not letter.”
“I said, no comment—”
“I mean, it would be good to know, good for the people of Ohio to know, whether you’re going to repay Midwest for that little jaunt.”
The space around us had gone quiet, like that funny pause in conversations at parties that folklore says is supposed to come at twenty minutes after the hour.
“I could have your pass to the Senate floor revoked,” Tillman said. “Harassing me like this.”
“Whoop-de-doo,” Hershey said, holding up his right forefinger and moving it in a circle. “Whole thing’s online now. I can watch you on my phone while I’m taking a dump. That is, if I want to bother.”
“How dare you.”
“I’m just trying to do my job.”
“Better enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you,” Hershey said, pushing the phone a little closer. “I’m just not sure I understood.”
“What I mean,” the senator said, lowering his voice, “is you should enjoy your job. Because if you write one more word about Midwest Testing, one single word more, you’re going to be sorry.”
“That’s your comment?”
“No. That was a threat. This is my comment: Go to hell. Put that on your goddamned website.”
The restaurant was now so quiet I could hear the clink of dishes and the chatter of conversation back in the kitchen.
“Go . . . to . . . hell,” Hershey said slowly. “OK, got it. Anything else, Senator?”
Tillman’s left eye twitched, and for just a moment I thought he was going to lose it. I braced myself, hoping to God I wasn’t going to earn my paycheck by restraining a state senator.
Instead, Tillman shouldered past us. “Out of my way,” he said.
“Good night,” Hershey
