failed, he figured he would entertain them with war stories from the Long campaign. That always worked like a charm.
Jay slid into the backseat of the black Mercedes sedan. The driver closed the door behind him and sped away. Jay flipped through a briefing book that had been assembled by his assistant that included basics on Italian demographics, election results, and news clips from newspapers and Web sites, all translated into English. There is no substitute for good staff work, he thought. Having slept only fitfully on the plane and still exhausted from the inaugural, he dozed off.
He woke thirty minutes later to the rattling sensation of the car flying across the cobblestone side streets of Rome. He marveled at the carâs tight suspension: his body felt almost glued into his seat. Jay saw the massive dome of St. Peterâs basilica to his left. The driver made a right, and they drove through what appeared to be a high-end shopping district. As the car moved through traffic, Jay made out the signs on the stores: Gucci, Versace, Ferragamo, La Perla, Armani, Prada. The display windows were works of art, some of them featuring live models. Glamorous, exquisitely clad Italian women with money glided by wearing high heels, designer sunglasses, and attitude. Jay felt very fortunate to be in Italy.
The car climbed up a steep hill and pulled up to the Hotel Hassler, at the top of the Spanish steps, which would be Jayâs home away from home during the campaign. He walked to the front desk, flashed his passport, and attempted to give the clerk a credit card.
âAll charges are taken care of, Mr. Noble,â the clerk said with a smile. He motioned over a bellman, who relieved Jay of his garment bag and accompanied him to the elevators. They rode to the top floor, where the bellman placed the electronic key in the latch and opened the door of his suite. Jay could hardly believe it. The apartment stretched across the entire front and side of the hotel. It included a spacious den with a wet bar, a large bedroom, a master bath with whirlpool, a study with a desk and book-lined shelves, and a wraparound balcony overlooking a garden terrace to the right and a breathtaking view of Rome in front. Jay walked out on the balcony and soaked in the view. A thought entered his mind: good Italian wine, great food, gorgeous women, and politics. What more could an aging political hack ask for?
After a hot shower and a power nap, the car picked up Jay and whisked him to a restaurant on a narrow street near the House of Deputies building. An eager and solicitous aide escorted Jay to a private room in the back of the restaurant, opening the door to reveal Lorenzo Brodi sitting in the semidarkness at a table surrounded by a clutch of aides, his beefy hand rubbing a piece of bread in a small dish of olive oil and peppercorn. Brodi bolted from his chair and hurried across the floor, greeting Jay with a wide grin and a vigorous hand pump.
The first thing Jay noticed about Brodi was how white his teeth gleamed against his dark skin. Brodi was not a tall man, but he presented a commanding presence with a compact, muscular body and a deep tan that bespoke health, wealth, and power. With his jet-black hair combed behind his ears, shoulders back and chest jutted, he exuded the charisma of a movie star.
âMr. Mayor, pleasure to meet you,â said Jay by way of greeting.
Brodi replied enthusiastically in rapid-fire Italian. An aide translated to English. âThe mayor says, âSo this is Bob Longâs brain that I have been hearing so much about.ââ
âNot the brains,â Jay corrected him. âThe muscle.â
As the translator began to speak, Brodi waved him off. He raised his right arm and made a show of flexing his bicep, saying, âThe muscle! Tough guy!â He pointed at his arm. They all laughed.
âThatâs right,â said Jay smoothly. âI take care of the presidentâs friends as
Jay slid into the backseat of the black Mercedes sedan. The driver closed the door behind him and sped away. Jay flipped through a briefing book that had been assembled by his assistant that included basics on Italian demographics, election results, and news clips from newspapers and Web sites, all translated into English. There is no substitute for good staff work, he thought. Having slept only fitfully on the plane and still exhausted from the inaugural, he dozed off.
He woke thirty minutes later to the rattling sensation of the car flying across the cobblestone side streets of Rome. He marveled at the carâs tight suspension: his body felt almost glued into his seat. Jay saw the massive dome of St. Peterâs basilica to his left. The driver made a right, and they drove through what appeared to be a high-end shopping district. As the car moved through traffic, Jay made out the signs on the stores: Gucci, Versace, Ferragamo, La Perla, Armani, Prada. The display windows were works of art, some of them featuring live models. Glamorous, exquisitely clad Italian women with money glided by wearing high heels, designer sunglasses, and attitude. Jay felt very fortunate to be in Italy.
The car climbed up a steep hill and pulled up to the Hotel Hassler, at the top of the Spanish steps, which would be Jayâs home away from home during the campaign. He walked to the front desk, flashed his passport, and attempted to give the clerk a credit card.
âAll charges are taken care of, Mr. Noble,â the clerk said with a smile. He motioned over a bellman, who relieved Jay of his garment bag and accompanied him to the elevators. They rode to the top floor, where the bellman placed the electronic key in the latch and opened the door of his suite. Jay could hardly believe it. The apartment stretched across the entire front and side of the hotel. It included a spacious den with a wet bar, a large bedroom, a master bath with whirlpool, a study with a desk and book-lined shelves, and a wraparound balcony overlooking a garden terrace to the right and a breathtaking view of Rome in front. Jay walked out on the balcony and soaked in the view. A thought entered his mind: good Italian wine, great food, gorgeous women, and politics. What more could an aging political hack ask for?
After a hot shower and a power nap, the car picked up Jay and whisked him to a restaurant on a narrow street near the House of Deputies building. An eager and solicitous aide escorted Jay to a private room in the back of the restaurant, opening the door to reveal Lorenzo Brodi sitting in the semidarkness at a table surrounded by a clutch of aides, his beefy hand rubbing a piece of bread in a small dish of olive oil and peppercorn. Brodi bolted from his chair and hurried across the floor, greeting Jay with a wide grin and a vigorous hand pump.
The first thing Jay noticed about Brodi was how white his teeth gleamed against his dark skin. Brodi was not a tall man, but he presented a commanding presence with a compact, muscular body and a deep tan that bespoke health, wealth, and power. With his jet-black hair combed behind his ears, shoulders back and chest jutted, he exuded the charisma of a movie star.
âMr. Mayor, pleasure to meet you,â said Jay by way of greeting.
Brodi replied enthusiastically in rapid-fire Italian. An aide translated to English. âThe mayor says, âSo this is Bob Longâs brain that I have been hearing so much about.ââ
âNot the brains,â Jay corrected him. âThe muscle.â
As the translator began to speak, Brodi waved him off. He raised his right arm and made a show of flexing his bicep, saying, âThe muscle! Tough guy!â He pointed at his arm. They all laughed.
âThatâs right,â said Jay smoothly. âI take care of the presidentâs friends as
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