32.

Personal Affairs

The City Club occupies the entire top floor of a fifteen-story office building in downtown Fort Myers. I ride the elevator up and am greeted by an older man in a suit standing behind a podium which guards the entrance to the club. There is no pass-through security portal; he’s less worried about weapons than about exposing the members to the uninitiated lest their lack of couth is infectious.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asks.

I tell him that I’m a guest of Mr. Porter. He says that “Representative Porter” is waiting for me in the barroom. How rude of me to not use my host’s highfalutin title.

I pass through the main dining room. A window wall provides an impressive view of the city, including the Caloosahatchee River, Pine Island, and the sparkling blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico. I enter an oak-paneled barroom and see Porter sitting on a stool, chatting up a young female bartender.

He stands, offers a firm handshake, and says, “It’s good to see you, Jack. I hope you brought your checkbook.”

Just a little joke between us political insiders, wink wink.

“No, but I do have a debit card,” I answer.

He smiles.

“That’ll work. Let’s go to our table and have some lunch.”

There seems to be something different about Lance Porter since I last saw him not long ago. I realize that his tailoring, always good, now looks impeccable instead of off-the-rack; his loafers seem made of softer leather, Gucci by the look of the iconic gold horse bits. Maybe he hit the Powerball, but I think the explanation lies elsewhere.

I follow him into the dining room to a table beside one of the windows. A waiter wearing a white shirt, black bow tie, and black tuxedo pants brings a menu to me. He must know that my host doesn’t need one, just like at the Capital City Country Club. Menus are for newbies.

True to form, Porter orders a Cobb salad. I find a BLT on the menu and ask for the bacon to be extra crisp, gourmand that I am.

As we wait for our food, I begin by saying, “So I take it you like the job, if you’re running for a new term.”

“Florida is facing many important and difficult issues. I like to think I can make a difference.”

He’s giving me his stump speech. Time to change the subject: “How will you spend your time when the legislature isn’t in session?”

“I’ve been assisting Vivian Tolliver, she’s Russell’s widow, managing her personal affairs, including her ownership of four car dealerships. Unfortunately, Russell’s son, Ross, has no head for business. He’s living off his trust fund in Los Angeles while trying to become an actor.”

Is Porter one of Vivian’s “personal affairs”?

“Can you get me a deal on a Chevy Silverado, Lance?”

“Afraid not. Vivian’s brands are Lexus, Toyota, Honda, and Acura.”

“Thanks, but I’m strictly a made-in-America kind of guy.”

“You’re out of date, Jack. All of the car brands I mentioned have US factories, while, at this point, thirteen American brands are made almost entirely outside this country.”

“My Corvette was made in Bowling Green, Kentucky. I’ve been to the Corvette museum there. What’re you driving these days?”

“I’ve got a Lexus LS 460. Very nice ride.”

I wonder if he got a lover’s discount. We are halfway through our lunch when I ask, “What’s the maximum amount I can contribute to your campaign?”

“Three K.”

I do have my checkbook. I take it out of my inside blazer pocket and write out a check in that amount, made out to Porter for the State House, as he instructed.

With luck, he’ll be in prison before my check clears. If he’s innocent and gets elected, he’ll owe me a favor. Being a judge might be fun.