“Harry, you know as well as I do that the Representative needs this money or he will not be able to compete on the television market.”

The Tune Inn was a staple in Southeast Capital Hill. Harry had been coming here since his law school days, wandering home drunk and alone to his basement apartment on A Street, just down the hill from the Library of Congress. On the walls of the bar were dusty hunting trophies, signs requesting that patrons pay…