CHAPTER SIX
STATE HOUSE
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
SAME DAY
CHUCK GRAHAM WAS AS MAD AS THE OTHERS. He walked up Beacon Hill to the Massachusetts State House, went over to the side steps and into the building, a briefcase under one arm and the Globe under the other. His navy blue pinstriped suit was slightly rumpled, and his straw-colored hair was parted in the middle and slicked behind his ears. He was short, squat, and flat-footed. I’ve got to do something about this woman, he said to himself as he headed for his Senate office. The lobbyist I’m seeing this afternoon isn’t going to be happy about her attack on our company. Question is how to handle her. That’s going to require some thinking. I’m certainly not going to take this lying down. I can’t afford to forego the funds I’ll need for my next campaign.
The farthest thing on his mind was the fact Charles Bulfinch designed the building and that it was considered a masterpiece of Federal architecture, or that it was a National Historic Landmark. Damn floors in this building are so hard they kill your feet, he muttered, his poor flat feet in particular. Must be made of marble. What the hell am I going to do? He found himself facing the grand staircase with its magnificent stained glass Palladian window at the top of a dozen stairs and more stairs fanning off on both sides. How did I get here, he wondered. I must be losing it. He turned around, focused, and took a better route to his office, mumbling to himself the whole way. I’ll fix her, damn it. That’s certain.