Sweat by Mark Gilleo

Jake in the back seat.
    â€œYour father expects me to show up on time and drive him wherever he wants to go, without spilling his coffee on him or his newspaper. That is my official answer.”
    â€œWhat is your unofficial answer, off the record?”
    â€œPersistent, aren’t you?” the driver said with a smile.
    â€œI’m just looking for some clues. I’m getting the idea of who my father is when I am around him, but you never know.”
    â€œOkay, Jake. Off the record, your father is the moodiest person I have ever driven. You know, these days they have all these medical terms—bipolar, manic-depressive, chemically unbalanced, whatever. Some people are just mean and nasty until they need something, and then they are sweet as pie. Now, mind you, I’m just the driver, so our relationship consists of him sitting in the back seat and me driving. But I hear him on the phone, and drive him with his business acquaintances. This isn’t a limo, there’s no privacy window, so I hear it all. He can be nasty or sweet. And I know most of the time which it’s going to be before he even gets in the car.”
    â€œThanks for saying so.”
    â€œI didn’t say anything, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œI hear you.”
    The car pulled up to the front of Jake’s mother’s house. The light from the kitchen cast a faint yellow hue into the living room.
    â€œI’ll see you around, Shawn.”
    â€œTake my card, Jake. If you ever need a ride, give me a ring.”
    â€œOnly if I can charge it to my Dad’s account.”
    â€œHey, he’s your father. That’s between you and him. I just drive the car.”
***
    The Presidential Club was the place for Washington’s elite to quench their thirst. Groups of large leather chairs huddled around small marble-top tables, the thick burgundy carpet reaching up to grasp the bottom of the table legs. Cigars and glasses of brandy kept each other company on the tables as the power circles drew and redrew their political lines in the sand.
    Senator Day made his way through the room, nodding at colleagues, acknowledging familiar faces through the dim light and thick cigar smoke. The Presidential Club was Washington’s version of Las Vegas. What happened in the expensive lounge stayed in the lounge. It wasn’t called a club by accident. Wives of members were permitted but frowned upon. Lovers were a different story. Call girls made the occasional guest appearance.
    Senator Day directed Peter to a table near the rear of the club, and a waiter with a small humidor appeared as the two sunk into their respective leather chairs. Peter selected two Dominican cigars wrapped with tobacco grown from the finest Cuban seeds and handed one to the senator. The waiter placed a cigar cutter and a box of oversized matches on the table before disappearing in search of the senator’s favorite brandy, stored on the private shelf behind the full bar.
    â€œHow is business, Peter?” the senator asked. Peter understood that dinner with Jake and the senator’s blonde aide was merely a preamble to the discussion at the club. A meal for the sake of a meal before real conversation could take place.
    â€œVery well, Senator. Thank you for asking. If all goes well, I may have some upcoming business in Brazil.”
    â€œBrazil?”
    â€œYes. Have you been?”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid not.”
    â€œThe women are beautiful.”
    â€œI’m sure they are.” Inside, the senator cringed at the thought of another international tryst.
    Peter continued. “The Brazilians understand the balance between work and life’s other pleasures. They don’t let one interfere with the other.”
    â€œAn admirable quality.”
    â€œIndeed.”
    The senator inhaled as he ran his nose along the length of the cigar. He reached for the cutter on the table, snipped off half an inch, and put the unlit