The Thirteen-Day Telephone
While the world watched the missiles, he was in a hotel lobby passing notes between two men who were never supposed to meet. The back channel that cooled the room had a name. It was his.
A Memoir · Coming Soon
He was never in the room.He was the room.
From the 1960s onward, America’s most powerful decisions needed someone to make the call, carry the message, and fix what couldn’t be said out loud. For the first time, the fixer is telling everything.
About the Book
Every historic decision has a name in the footnotes. His was never written down.
He started as a young man who could get anyone on the phone. By the 1960s, senators, generals, union bosses, and presidents’ men knew him as the person you called when a deal was about to fall apart.
Fixer Confessions is his account of the handshakes, the hotel rooms, the favors traded, and the messages delivered — the quiet connections that shaped America from the Cold War to today.
Inside the Book
Six decades on the record
A few of the moments he finally puts on the record — told by the one person who was there for all of them.
Counting the Votes Twice
A landmark bill stalled one senator short. He found out what the senator needed — and who could quietly deliver it before the roll was called.
The Convention Floor
Riots outside, chaos inside. He spent four nights making sure the right delegates were in the right rooms when the doors closed.
The Resignation Draft
He didn’t write it. But he knew who needed to read it first, and he drove the envelope across town himself.
Hostages, Handshakes & Hush Money
A decade of arms, envoys, and men with no titles. He learned the most valuable thing in Washington is a favor no one can trace.
The Last Call
From the end of the Cold War to the age of cable news, the faces changed. The phone calls didn’t. He kept picking up — until now.
From Chapter One — “The Man at the End of the Hall”
The first thing you learn is that nobody important ever asks for a favor. They describe a problem, and then they wait to see if you understand.
In the fall of ’62, a man from the State Department described a problem to me in the bar of the Mayflower Hotel. By midnight I had a phone number nobody in Washington was supposed to have. By morning, two men who officially weren’t speaking were reading the same piece of paper.
They never thanked me. That’s how I knew it worked.
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