Washington, D.C.

Brad Silver—republican senator from the State of Florida—scanned the Miami Herald’s front page headline as he stood at the window of his national office.

“United Sugar Buyout Talks Continue,” he read aloud.

He pitched the daily south Florida paper onto his desk. A familiar acidic burn radiated mid-chest. Anytime the sugar industry made the headlines, he felt the ripples. In the nation’s capital, it wasn’t so much who he was, but who loomed over his shoulder.

Privilege. Power. Tradeoffs. Everyone around him wanted a sliver. A sliver of Silver, he often remarked. Somewhere—between keeping all parties in a shaky stasis—Senator Brad Silver managed to fulfill a few of the promises he had made to constituents.

For a few moments, Brad admired the clear view of the Capitol from the third floor of the modern Philip Hart Senate Office Building. Part of him still marveled at how far he had come. Twelve assistants stood at his beck and call in Washington, with an extended staff of twenty in the district offices in Miami, Orlando, Jacksonville, and Tallahassee. And, as the ranking member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, he had an additional ten staffers who provided an on-going analysis of current issues related to the committee’s concerns and afforded the minority Republican perspective.

The suite of rooms suited a man of his political stature. In the reception area, two assistants—both attractive young females, one black and one white—guarded the inner sanctum with courteous efficiency. An expansive wall mural of a space launch from Cape Kennedy filled one wall. In the middle of the rug, a large depiction of the Florida State seal. At his Chief of Staff Gwendolyn Reynolds’ suggestion, a self-serve dispenser filled with Florida orange and grapefruit juice stood in one corner. Well-maintained tropical plants and several wind and surf paintings from renowned south Florida artists added to the Sunshine State theme.

Behind the double wooden doors, the senator’s private office spread out; tastefully decorated with rich dark wood, a scattering of antiques, and light blue wallpaper highlighted by the white trim. A plush leather sofa and two upholstered high-back chairs surrounded a hand-carved, marble-topped coffee table. Centered on the table stood a breath-taking brass sculpture of a Seminole Indian in a canoe. On the walls, pictures of the senator with various dignitaries and celebrities attested to years in the limelight of national politics; enough to impress, yet not enough to convey an overblown ego.

A scrabble of voices broke his contemplation. The doors from the reception room swung open. Mike Belan strode inside with the two assistants caught in his slipstream.

“Sorry, Senator Silver,” Ashleigh, the blond, said. “We tried—”

The second assistant, Twyla, stood with her hands on her hips.

“That’s okay, ladies,” Brad said. “I’m just finishing up here before going to session.”

The assistants exchanged glances and left the room.

No use trying to shrug Mike Belan aside. The man was responsible for most of the senator’s success since college; starting out with Brad’s representation of big sugar thanks to a referral from Mike. From there, the budding politician moved on to make a living off his wife Eleana’s family’s lucrative sugar business and Mike Belan’s connections. Because of his over-the-top support of devil sugar—root of all evil and nemesis of children’s well-being—Silver constantly dodged the barbs of public health advocates. Brad Silver: public enemy number one.

Mike Belan clamped a meaty paw on Brad’s shoulder. “Thought I’d drop by and take my old frat buddy to an early dinner.”

Brad glanced at his watch. “No can do. I’ve got another committee meeting in a half-hour, then I’m speaking in session.”

“Ah, yes. Latest in the line of schmooze-the-Senate speeches. Can’t miss that, now can we?”
“Check my schedule with one of the assistants. I’m sure we can pencil in something for end of the week.”

“Damn, Silver. You sound more and more important every time I see you. Don’t forget what side your bread is buttered on.”

As with most of Belan’s humor, the comment held undertones. Mike Belan had changed little since their college fraternity days. Same boyish, football-jock good looks topped off with an air of roguish infallibility. Dead-on partier and past-midnight reveler. The kind of guy most parents hated. Then and now, Mike Belan might not throw a man under the bus, but he’d certainly hire someone to do it and watch from a safe distance.

Brad felt a certain camaraderie with his old fraternity brother; born of shared memories. Having him as a friend was not unlike keeping a wolf for a pet. No matter how tame, the wild beast lurked within. Best to be vigilant. Mike Belan had a bevy of hidden agendas. Always.

The lobbyist helped himself to a shot of bourbon from a crystal decanter purposely hidden in a discreet cabinet. “Join me? Surely you can’t face that bunch stone cold sober.”

“Later, maybe.”

“Jesus, Silver. What’s happened to you, son? You get any more milky-white, and we can petition you for sainthood.” He took a sip of bourbon. “Where’s your hot pit-bull Chief of Staff? Usually, she’s up your ass twenty-four seven.”

Silver stuffed his irritation. “Gwen—Miss Reynolds—is in Miami visiting family for a few days.”

Belan ran his tongue across his lips. “You really should be more watchful of how much late-night time you spend with her, my friend. Just add fuel to the rumor mill that you’re sexing up your staff. Though why you’d do that with the likes of Eleana waiting in your bed in Miami, I couldn’t say.”

“What are you implying?”

Belan took a noisy swill of bourbon. “Just one too many intimate late dinners with you two huddled together in the low candlelight. This town has eyes that can see through walls.”