eldest Baxter gestured to his nightstand. “There’s a bottle in the drawer. Get it.”
George did as he was told, pulling a fifth of Woodford Reserve from the drawer. There was a highball glass on the table, and George decanted a generous amount and handed the glass to his father. The old man took it, and although slight tremors ran along his arm, not a drop of bourbon spilled as he brought it to his lips. A third of the drink disappeared before Sal was satisfied.
Once the dying man had settled back against a pillow and had regarded them all silently for a minute, he fixed his gaze on Graham. “Less than two months left, right?” he asked.
The question caught Graham off guard because, over the last year or two, Sal’s awareness had been an open question. No one knew how much he’d picked up on. But Sal’s mind seemed clear in this moment, lucidity likely granted by the nearness of death.
“About that . . .” Graham said.
Sal nodded, but then noticed Daniel. “Who’s he?”
“He’s the boy’s campaign manager,” George answered, aiming a withering look at his son—one designed to let him know that while he understood the benefits gained from having someone like Daniel around, even during a family crisis, he thought it bad form to have invited the man into Sal’s room.
Graham, who at forty-one found it irritating that his father still referred to him as “the boy,” pursed his lips and decided to look suitably chagrined. Daniel, who had never suffered a moment’s remorse over anything he’d ever done—and that character trait had been tested by some particularly sordid episodes during and immediately following law school—appeared not to have picked up on the fact that the conversation concerned him. He was busy studying his recently manicured nails. Graham, who knew better, was confident that his friend had heard every word, and was cataloging all of it for future use.
“His name’s Daniel, Gramps. Daniel Wolfowitz.”
Unlike his son, Sal Sr. did not seem upset by Daniel’s presence. Instead he offered the man a thin smile. “So you’re the hotshot leading the final charge, eh?”
Daniel looked up from his nails and smiled at the dying man. “I’m doing my best, sir.”
Sal didn’t answer right away but gave Daniel a once-over, which the man endured with a studied lack of self-awareness.
Finally, Sal said, “It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”
Daniel consulted his cell phone. “It is,” he confirmed.
Sal digested that with a grunt, then asked, “So why are you working?”
Among the other Baxter men circling the bed, the growing consensus was that Sal had lost his hold on the reason he’d reclaimed for these few brief moments. Graham was about to offer Daniel an apologetic smile when he saw a light come on in his friend’s eyes, replacing an expression that had been as equally perplexed as everyone else’s.
“I’m not devout, Mr. Baxter,” Daniel said. “In fact, I don’t practice at all.”
At that admission, Sal gave a single laugh that sounded almost like a bark. “So a member of God’s chosen people is in charge of my grandson’s campaign, and yet you’re deliberately ticking off the Almighty.” He laughed again.
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Baxter,” Daniel said. “My father’s a rabbi, and I’m pretty certain there’s something in the contract that says God can’t smite the wayward son of a rabbi.” He paused, then added, “Or his gentile friend.”
Daniel took Sal’s laughter in good humor, flashing Graham a grin.
Sal’s grandson, and the uncles who stood alongside him, however, failed to share in Daniel’s amusement. Although, as with most things related to the ascension of a Baxter to any position of power, the dying man’s laughter should have been considered in its proper defeatist context, rather than as the feeble-minded mirth for which they took it. If the history passed down with a religious fervor through the generations had taught them anything, they should have recognized the fatalistic element in the sound—an understanding, only granted through the perspective of someone old enough to have experienced the history firsthand, as well as to have that experience supported by an oral tradition embraced like a litany—that the Divine himself seemed intent on keeping a Baxter from connecting on any swing for the political fences.
For all intents and purposes, the family civic record was one of marginal influence, almost entirely a local affair. True, over the city’s long history, the Adelia populace had elected six Baxter men to the mayoral post, with most serving more than one term,