NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others.
This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.
About the Author
MLR Press Authors
THE TREVOR PROJECT
* * * *
"A gripping, fast-paced mystery."
Copyright 2011 by Richard Stevenson All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
MLR Press, LLC
3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.
Albion, NY 14411
Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet:
Cover Art by Deana C. Jamroz
Editing by Judith David
Also available in ebook format
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only.
Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment.
This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.
[Back to Table of Contents]
One for reinventing recent New York State political history for my own purposes; another for inventing a Motel 6 in Troy, New York, whose TV channel selections include Turner Classic Movies. Never happened, never will.
My thanks to the organization Democrats in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, where Joe Wheaton and I volunteered on the Kerry and Obama presidential campaigns.
Thanks especially to Kathy and Allen, Richard and Elin.
This estimable gang is more ethical than the Dems in this novel, and a lot more fun.
[Back to Table of Contents]
"Don, my man! Thanks so much for coming in. I'd've shlepped out to your office on Central—Christ, that's how important I think this is—but as you can see it's already pre-election shock 'n' awe around here, and I'm lucky if I can drag my sorry ass out of this madhouse before the bar shuts down at Jack's at ten. What can Beryl get you? Coffee? Green tea? A Cinnibon from downstairs? You're not vegan, are you?"
Loosening his damp grip, Dunphy chuckled at his meant-to-be mot, and I seated myself on the office chair nearest his commodious desk, which was about as orderly as mine.
"Albany tap water would be fine. I walked over here, and it's warm for June."
"What, water that comes out of a pipe? That's novel. I'm not sure we have any of that. We do have about forty crates of water that comes out of plastic bottles that might or might not cause liver cancer. In fact, every time I see the senator swig from a bottle of Dasani at an event, I think, fuck, some nasty tumor he picked up from all the plastic shit we all drink out of is metastasizing at that very moment, and just about the time Shy is elected governor he's going to get a diagnosis that says he has about six weeks to live." Dunphy yelled toward his open office door, "Beryl, can you get Don some H2O?"
"Okay, commander," a strained voice came back.
"Beryl's eleven years old and has a master's in political science from NYU. I depend on her for everything. Politically, 9
"Good for Beryl. But if she already knows where the bodies are buried, I'm not sure why you need me."
"We'll get to that," Dunphy said off-handedly as one of the multiethnic array of slender young women and men who sat punching things into laptops in the outer office trotted through the doorway with a foam cup and a bottle of Poland Spring water.
"Don here only drinks Albany tap water, but he'll just have to adjust down," Dunphy said as the young woman gave her boss a look.
"Shut the door, would you please, Beryl?"
Dunphy was as quick and alert as his young assistant, but his appearance wasn't nearly so fresh. In chinos, loafers, and a pale blue sports shirt, the director of State Senator Sylvester "Shy" McCloskey's gubernatorial campaign was one of those men who had probably looked fifty-five when he was twenty-five—paunchy, jowly, bright-eyed and cheerfully pink-faced—and would continue to appear to be about fifty-five until a heart attack killed him at seventy-one. The view out the ninth-floor window behind Dunphy looked up State Street at the New York State Capitol, gray and dungeonlike even in the late spring sunshine, a structure as inert on its foundations as its legislative inhabitants, now more than two months late, as usual, with the state budget.