The elder Tomlinson looked austere and dignified in his tuxedo, even though his bow tie was striped red, white, and blue. He held a cut-crystal glass of whiskey in one hand, while jabbing at the reporters with a forefinger of the other.

“I told him it’s going to be a tight race,” the elder Tomlinson was saying. “I’m not paying for a damned landslide!”

The reporters laughed dutifully. Jake remembered that old Joe Kennedy was supposed to have said something like that about his son’s election in 1960.

The woman reporter prompted, “Interesting that both parties are here in the Sheridan.” Even from five feet away Jake could hardly hear her over the babble of the crowd.

Tomlinson h’mmphed. “When they told me that Leeds had already booked the ballroom downstairs I just picked up the phone and talked to my old friend, Harry Hortenson.”

“He’s the owner of this hotel, isn’t he?” the reporter asked, her voice barely under a shout.

“He is indeed. He gave us this lovely rooftop facility. When the good senator concedes, he’ll have to ride the elevator up here to do it.”

The reporters laughed again. Alexander Tomlinson allowed himself a thin smile.

Jake glanced up at the mammoth TV screen over the old man’s head. FINAL RESULTS FROM CAPITAL CITY was printed along the bottom of the screen.

The auditorium suddenly went quiet. The whole crowd seemed to hold its breath. Jake watched the numbers from the tabulation adding up in a blurry whirl. Leeds was ahead … no, Tomlinson came from behind and edged him out!

The crowd roared. Even Tomlinson Senior broke into a pleased grin. Tomlinson’s lead was slim, but he had taken the city’s vote.

“That’s it,” the old man roared. “If the senator can’t hold the capital, he’s finished. My son will kick his butt out in the counties.”

Jake stared at the screen. It’s true, he told himself. We knew that Leeds’s main strength was here in the capital. If he’s lost here, he’s lost the state. Tomlinson’s going to be our new senator!

As if on cue, B. Franklin Tomlinson entered the auditorium, with Amy at his side. He looked dashing in a hand-tailored tux; Amy wore a floor-length ball gown of pale gold. She was glowing.

Everyone applauded. Tomlinson smiled brilliantly, a boyish, almost bashful grin. He held up both hands, then sprinted to the stage and jumped up onto it in a single bound.

Gripping the edges of the lectern that had been set up onstage, Tomlinson said into the microphone, “It ain’t over till it’s over, remember.”

A voice from the crowd roared, “It’s over! Look at the numbers!”

Glancing up at the nearest TV screen, Tomlinson broke into a laugh, then said, “I’ve got to admit, it looks damned good!”

Everyone cheered.