Page 24 of Empire State Enemies

I grab another whiskey, having lost count somewhere between the mayor’s speech and the wasted socialite inviting me back for the best head of my life—her words, not mine. My drinking hand clearly missed the moderation memo tonight.

Can’t really fault it, though, not with who’s up ahead.

Senator Madison, in all his artificially tanned, bleached-teeth glory. The guy thinks he’s the best thing to happen to this state, a self-righteous blowhard with his head jammed firmly up his own asshole.

Killian gives me a low-key nod, both of usthrilledabout having to suck up to this guy. So I plaster on my most convincing fake smile.

“Senator, it’s an honor to have you here,” I say, barging into his little circle. “I hope we’re giving you the five-star treatment. Anything you need, you come straight to me, all right?”

Our PR squad, the smooth operators they are, gently herds his entourage away. Not a difficult task—the man’s a sedative.

“Well, the cuisine is rather lacking,” Madison booms, loud enough for everyone to hear over the music. “What’s all this fancy French cuisine? Where’s the real American food that fills you up? I’ve seen bigger portions at a kid’s party!”

I muster up a laugh, though inside, I’m fantasizing about smothering him under a mountain of foie gras and truffle oil poutine bites. But hey, business is business.

Rule number one when handling political windbags: Keep smiling, keep nodding, and make them believe they’re the center of the universe.

“I’ll make sure our Michelin-starred chef gets the memo for next time, sir,” I reply, my easy smile not faltering for a second. “In the meantime, let me send out a nice rib eye cooked rare enough to remind you that you’re still alive and kicking. Sound good?”

Madison’s eyes narrow, scanning for sarcasm, before he lets out a hearty laugh. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Forget the fancy stuff; give me good, straightforward American beef.”

I subtly nod to one of our team members who overheard the exchange but has mastered the art of blending into the background.

“We’ve been following your bold policies closely, Senator,” Killian chimes in smoothly. “What you’re doing for this state is nothing short of extraordinary. Your leadership is ushering in a new era.”

Ah, the second rule when dealing with these types: Lay on the flattery thick and fast.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Madison puffs out his suit, preening. “Yes, well, shaking things up is never easy.”

“And it hasn’t gone unnoticed,” I assure, pouring verbal honey despite my irritation. “Your vision for development is groundbreaking. It’s what this city’s been crying out for. Quinn & Wolfe stands ready to back your initiatives, Senator.”

His eyes gleam as he grabs another glass from a passing server. “And perhaps there are other matters you gentlemen wish to discuss.”

Translation: show me the money, boys.

“Of course, we’d love to steal some of your valuable time,” Killian says smoothly.

Translation: My wallet’s open, just slide over a juicy bribe to grease those wheels for our upcoming projects.

Madison gives us a long once-over, then heaves a dramatic sigh. “I’m extraordinarily busy. My secretaries are run ragged trying to keep pace with my schedule.”

Busy with bribery appointments, tanning beds, Viagra refills and, if the rumors hold any truth, a squishing mistress in Long Island. It’s not something I’ve tried myself.

The third rule when stroking egos bigger than my own: Appeal to the universal currency of bribery.

“We understand. No one works harder for this state than you.” Killian shovels more shit. “You just say the word how we can help. And please, take unlimited worldwide access to all our hotels—a small token of our immense gratitude.”

Madison’s eyes gleam as he flashes those veneers. “That’s mighty kind,” he booms. “I suppose I could squeeze you boys in briefly next week. Over steak at your Broadway spot.”

His tone makes it clear we’ll grovel and thank him for the “honor.”

I hightail it before Madison can spew any more of his brand of charm. The guy’s a prime example of money swapped for beauty—looking more like a wax figure that’s seen too many hours under a UVA light.

But his daughter, now that one hit the jackpot in the genetics department.

Willow Madison gazes at an ice sculpture across the room, looking like she’d rather dive into it headfirst than socialize. Can’t say I blame her.