Big Ugly - Hardcover

Weld, William F.

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0684853477 ISBN 13: 9780684853475

Publisher: Simon & Schuster, 1999

Synopsis

That night I dreamed of Detective Lieutenant Rudy Solano, my deer-hunting buddy, my fellow crime-fighter, who got me my job as an assistant U.S. attorney in Brooklyn. My dead buddy.... Then I saw the money on the bed, I saw the cheap metal bedpost, the bare lightbulb. My one-room apartment....That was the first time I took too much money, money that didn't belong to me. Thanks, Rudy. Then, still in his police uniform, Rudy Solano was a judge, pointing at me, lecturing me: How could you do this? I was a prisoner in the dock, I was on trial.... Solano's face began to sweat and shake, as I had seen it do in life. He fell from the judge's bench, landing in the snow, in hunting clothes covered with blood, as I had found him when Sergeant Gatto drove me up to Jaffrey that Saturday night. I was there, in the snow, in my dream. The yellow tape from the police barrier stuck to my clothes. It was still there the next day when I walked into my office in the Hart Senate Office Building. Everyone was staring at it. How am I going to explain this snow, this tape? Fresh from the scary world of international organized crime in Weld's bestselling and hilarious Mackerel by Moonlight, ex-prosecutor and newly elected senator Terry Mullally, one of the most charming, handsome, and fickle rogues to hit the fiction pages in recent memory, finds that his old enemies may still have murder on their minds and that new ones are laying traps for him. In his first novel, which Kirkus described as "Primary Colors meets George V. Higgins," and People magazine called "a blisteringly funny suspense tale," we followed Mullally's rise from assistant U.S. attorney in Brooklyn to district attorney in Massachusetts to the U.S. Senate. Now he has married and is madly in love with the gorgeous widow of a shady murdered businessman, trying to shed the mobsters and cops who know his secrets and find his way through a new minefield. With good reason, Mullally sees danger everywhere. Does his wife know what he has done to get where he is? Does the new head of the criminal division of the Justice Department? Will the whole world? Mullally is quickly drawn into the schemes of loose money and political vendettas. Two of his fellow Democratic senators are vying for his support in the primaries of 2000, but Mullally admires the maverick Republican vice president, Martha Holloway, who also wants to be president. He has a lot of balls to keep in the air. Fast-paced, funny, sexy, Big Ugly follows the insouciant Mullally as he pulls off another surprise ending to save his precious skin.

About this title

About the Author:

William F. Weld is the author of Mackerel by Moonlight. A former two-term governor of Massachusetts, he served as U.S. attorney for Massachusetts and as head of the Justice Department's criminal division in Washington during the Reagan administration. He lives in Boston and New York.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Part One

The first sinkhole was dug for me by Happy Gilliam, the chairman of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee.

I never should have laughed at what Happy said. He didn't intend it as a joke, but it was so politically incorrect, it just tickled my funny bone.

"I live for the fund-raising, frankly," was what he said. "It's my favorite part of the job. In fact, it's the only part of the job I like."

I was the only member of the caucus who laughed. Maybe that should have told me something.

Gilliam had to know if these words were repeated to the media by any of the dozen senators present, they could have a major negative impact on his presidential campaign. Yet he was not worried about leaks, and he was right. The necessity for constant fund-raising made every member of the Senate kith and kin. We were all, every one of us, Democrat and Republican, parties to a vast conspiracy against the laity, more particularly against donors, and most particularly of all against donors who were also lobbyists.

So Happy Gilliam, part Sioux and part millionaire, one-time national trapshooting champion, now the people's champion from the Texas panhandle, spoke freely: "When I was in private practice, I got to have truck with smart, rich, well-educated folk all day long. Now -- whew!" He mopped his huge, handsome eyebrows. "Now I can't wait for the fund-raisers. Come on six o'clock, bye-bye Girl Scouts, hello smoked salmon and bubbly, and hello there, Miss Becky, that's sure a lovely name tag you have on there! Right there."

My laughter echoed off the walls of the caucus room. I looked up at the paintings of two former chairmen of the Campaign Committee. They were stern, disapproving. I looked around the big oak table at the Democratic members, all veterans except for me and "Binky" Brownswall from Nebraska. Two or three thin smiles. No one else laughed.

I couldn't figure out why. Gilliam had a point, and it was funny. There are never any frowny faces at fund-raising events, not at breakfast, not at lunch, and not at cocktails. Everyone there is highly paid, except for the elected officials. These events are our taste of flying first class. We can't take it in salary, so we take it in kind. The press is rigorously excluded; all the stars are in alignment for a full, free, and frank exchange of views.

Except, that's what never happens. What does happen is the lobbyists present their views, and the senators listen. And eat. Thoughtfully. And nod. It doesn't matter if your mouth is full of smoked salmon and caviar, because the last thing anyone wants or expects is for you to say anything. Or, worse, ask a question. If there's one thing you don't ask at fund-raisers, Gilliam told me early on, it's questions.

With a couple of campaigns behind me, I had internalized that the fund-raising operation never sleeps, not even between elections that are six years apart. But even I, big-city cosmopolitan Terrence Mullally, was not prepared for the pace. I had almost six years to go before my reelect, and I was doing eight events a week.

In April 1999, I had been in Washington three months. I was perched on the arm of a chintz chair in my inner office in the Hart Senate Office Building, talking alone with Lanny Green, my brilliant boy wonder chief of staff.

"Make hay while the sun shines," Lanny advised me. Lanny is a twenty-six-year-old veteran. Notice: not a twenty-six-year veteran. He seems to know Washington cold. He's actually from the District, born here, but Southeast, not Northwest. His father was a hardworking Mexican, had a lousy job with the railroad, raised Lanny attentively. His mother drifted away early -- drugs -- but Lanny's dad stuck his mother's name on him on the theory it was more "acceptable." Father's surname was "Analfabetismo," or something. Guy was a saint. Lanny never talks about him. Or his mother.

"How come the sun is shining? I'm on lousy committees with no influence, and I'm the most junior member of the club."

Lanny took this in stride. His expression didn't change. Maybe his eyes narrowed a bit. Lanny's a good-looking guy, though he has no size to him. Light brown hair cut short -- stops at the top of the ears, no sideburns. He wears tweed herringbone jackets, though he's the least tweedy person I know. Pays no attention to grooming. Ridiculous floppy Hush Puppies that he never takes off. Lanny would never be accepted as a principal in any profession, just as an aide. He doesn't care. He lives inside his head. Hazel eyes, not distinguished. He makes them dull, no intelligence showing. Protective coloration, not unknown in the animal kingdom.

"Point taken as to Ethics and Judiciary, Boss, but while you may think Agriculture is a jerkwater committee because your stupid state -- excuse me, our stupid state -- doesn't have any plant life, the rest of this glorious rich-soil country we live in views it as the goddamn hot corner. You think the soybean and sugar people are knocking down our doors to raise money for you because they want to talk about the Massachusetts soybean industry? Not in Worcester, not in New Bedford, not in Ripton, trust me. Or maybe your views about desirable qualifications for federal judges? Better pack a lunch."

"I thought they wanted to ask me what I really think about ethics. I could give them an earful of Aristotle..."

"That would go over big. You'll get your chance, anyway, at the event at the Humphrey Center on Thursday. It's all for you, and you alone."

"Who's coming?"

"Soybeans, corn, wheat, sugar -- cane and beet -- some garden veggies. Those last actually do care about immigration, and they're on the right side of the issue -- namely, liberal -- for the wrong reason -- namely, exploitation of migrant labor. I love it." Lanny and I shared a well-developed sense of the absurd.

"Any human beings?"

"Depends what you call Happy Gilliam."

"Why the hell is he coming?" I shouldn't tell this, but I had been rather enjoying the idea of my very own party, where I would be the only object of flattery and attention, and wouldn't even have to perform.

Lanny put his face close to mine. "Only one reason, Boss," he whispered. "Nobody else will come without him."

"Oh. Why didn't you say so? So." I shrugged to show I didn't care.

Most of the lobbyists in attendance at the Hubert Horatio Humphrey Center on Thursday, April 8, had one thing in common. Can you guess?

They had breathtaking legs.

Happy Gilliam, known to be a ladies' man, had arrived early and was not making much of an effort to look anyone in the eye.

I drew Lanny to the far side of the gigantic ice sculpture depicting dolphins, mermaids, and a big man with horns and a trident. "I forget," I said. "Is this about money or sex? I thought it was about money."

"It is, Boss, the micros are just to get your attention. Think of it as a mnemonic aid."

"Funny, vegetables are not what I think of when -- "

"Vegetables? Who said anything about vegetables? 'Hush yoah mouf,' " he hissed in imitation of Happy Gilliam. "'Weah talkin' prass spoats, son, prass spoats puren' simple.'"

I lowered my head. "What?"

"Price supports. Republican orthodoxy hates them. These people are not displeased to see the Dems back on top. You're against Republican orthodoxy, remember? That stick-in-the-mud Harold Dellenbach. You hated him, remember? And you did the country and these people a favor by beating him, don't ever forget. Hsst, here they come."

A row of legs advanced on us, precision-marching. Why how dee-lighted I was to see each and every one of them, I understood they had already been most generous and I was highly appreciative, no I'd not yet had an opportunity to review in detail the administration's proposal to do away with price supports entirely, it had not in point of fact come u

About this edition

• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Publication date: 1999
• ISBN 10: 0684853477
• ISBN 13: 9780684853475
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 240