Dark Horse

by Doug Richardson

  “That’s the curse of the contact lens wearer. All it takes is one gust of Texas dirt and you’re a blind man.” The stranger offered his hand. “Shakespeare McCann. But you can call me Shakes. Everybody does.”

  “Mitchell Dutton.” He blindly stretched his hand out to grab hold of a firm handshake.

  “I know,” said McCann. “I seen your picture in the newspaper.” He swung around to point across the highway. “You know? There’s a five-and-dime just across the street here. Maybe we can find you some lens juice.”

  “It’s no good. What I need are some glasses.” Mitch stood up and, with his one good eye, tried to get his bearings again.

  “What you need is a spare pair.”

  “It’s my wife’s car. My spare’s in mine.”

  “Happens to the best of us. Right across the street there. Getcha good and fixed up.” Shakespeare was right there at Mitchell’s elbow, like the good Boy Scout leading the old gal across the dangerous boulevard.

  Mitch was practically blind. Crossing the street, he heard the roar of a truck nearing. For all he knew, it was upon him. Headed for him. Shakespeare would only need to let go, forgetting the Boy Scout oath. Yet the truck blew past right behind him in a roar that chilled him. Why? He didn’t know.

  The five-and-dime had a prescription counter, upon which there was one of those revolving displays featuring various corrective glasses. Mitch tried on five pairs of the geeky glasses before he found one that slightly resembled his own prescription. And though they were a far cry less flattering than the designer frames that he’d left in the Volvo, for an afternoon in the little town of Benton, they’d most certainly do.

  “You look like Buddy Holly,” said Shakespeare.

  “Or a high school shop teacher.”

  Seated in a back booth in the Mairzy Doats Café, Mitch finally gathered his first real look at his host. Barely five seven. Wiry, with an acne-scarred face perched atop a sinewy neck, tucked not so neatly into an off-the-rack suit. Wisps for eyebrows. Square chin. The package was topped off by a balding pate with short, tufted, salt-and-pepper hair. Modest wire-rimmed glasses, behind which Mitch found a pair of strangely incandescent eyes. Cobalt blue, but somehow otherworldly. The kind of color rarely found in nature and more likely purchased from his local optometrist, he decided. It was amusing. Contact lenses magnified behind a pair of glasses. A little showmanship, maybe.

  The fact was, Mitch found it damn hard to look away.

  “Shakes!” blurted out the café’s owner.

  “ ’Scuse me,” Shakespeare apologized before leaping to his feet and crossing die room in quick steps to pump the owner’s hand and trade a whisper of a private joke. At the punch line Shakespeare’s face spread into a practiced megawatt smile—a miraculous salesman’s grin that all at once expunged any imperfection that nature had inflicted upon the rest of his face. The scars disappeared and his forehead creased to create a genuine eyebrow, arching over a becoming face. The iridescent smile was followed by a hearty, well-intended laugh that tickled the owner into a free round of iced teas. A waitress brought them over along with lunch.

  “So that’s what your friends call you?” asked Mitch. “Shakes?”

  “You, too,” offered the other candidate. “If it gets my attention, you must be callin’ my name.”

  “Fine,” Mitch answered politely.

  McCann was easily into his forties. But muscled under his button-down collar and poly-blend jacket. Before him lay a luncheon of chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes and a side order of bacon.

  “Sure you don’t want nothin’ more than the coffee?” Shakes offered.

  “I’m fine,” answered Mitch. “I guess you don’t have a problem with cholesterol in your family tree.”

  “Not that I know of.” Shakespeare sawed off another piece of steak. “How about your tree?”

  “My mother’s side. Heart attacks as far back as I can remember.”

  “Your old man?”

  “Knock wood. He can chase tennis balls with the best of ‘em.”

  “Good livestock on one side. Defective on the other. Where’s that put you?”

  “I watch what I eat. Caffeine is my one addiction,” mused Mitch, surprised to find himself engaged in a conversation of family health and heart attacks with such a stranger. A mystery figure. But with a manner that made talking go down as easy as chocolate milk. A natural politician. No wonder all those old ladies bought the pictures along with the pitch. That smile alone was probably worth fifteen percent of the vote.

  “Not what you expected, is it?” asked Shakespeare. It was as if he’d read Mitchell’s mind.

  “I’m not quite sure…”

  “I mean I know I ain’t pretty, like y’all, but looks don’t make the man.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that at all.”

  “Look at us. You an’ me talkin’ about hearts and attacks and the what-have-ya’ll. Sure ain’t what I expected. And I’m glad for it, I’ll tell you that.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “Bigger ‘n life, maybe,” said Shakespeare. “I saw your speech at the Hilton.”

  “You were there?” asked Mitch.

  “Naw,” laughed the little man. “Taped it on the Toshiba. My VCR.”

  “So how’d I do?”

  “Okay. Whipped up the crowd. They were lovin’ you like it was Christmas. And that’s what it’s about, as far as I can tell. People gotta love ya.”

  “Believe in you,” corrected Mitch.

  “Love you,” Shakespeare admonished. “Believin’ is for God and the Easter Bunny.”

  “Bigger than life,” deflected Mitch. “That’s what I always said about ol’ Hurricane. Takes a braver man than me to go up against an incumbent in his own primary.”

  “Aw, hell. Bravery’s for the Alamo and there’s a thousand screamin’ Mexicans in front of you and no back door.” And there it was again. That easy, glowing smile. Well timed behind the old Texas homilette. Mitch was surely charmed. But he still wanted to know why the contact lenses.

  “Me?” continued Shakespeare. “I got my print ‘n’ picture business to fall back on. Just like you got your lawyer business, I reckon.”

  “That I do.”

  “You know what else I think?” Shakespeare leaned closer. “ ‘Cept in the looks department, I think you an’ me are pretty much alike. Two peas in a pod, you know what I mean?”

  From charmed to unnerving, observed Mitch. A strangeness the other man possessed, a way to which Mitch was completely unaccustomed. Enchanting off the mark, then suddenly familiar to the point of being impolite. And then leaning in so damn close, he was invading Mitch’s personal space. Violating the comfort zone.

  “See, I look at it this way,” Shakes went on to say. “I didn’t toss my hat into ol’ Hurricane’s bullring cuz I figured to take his place in the Washington Big House. There was just some things I reckoned he oughta be thinkin’ about down thisaway. I mean, you ‘n’ I both know the old boy hadn’t come down Cathedral way lookin’ for nothin’ but votes for some twelve years now. Hell, he wasn’t even in the damn state for his own election last week. Sure, he done take care of some of the local population on the Island, but like thereabouts where I’m from, down South County and all, we got our problems, too.”

  “Of course you do. Hurricane had done his duty. Now I think it’s time for some fresh ideas. For a new debate.”

  “Now, there you go. Talkin’ like an old-time political hack. When we both know that neither of us has the experience. We owe it to the folks to talk straight at ‘em. Give ‘em the real stuff, you know? Just like you ‘n’ me are doing right here. The real stuff.” That smile again, then he continued, “Aw hell, listen to me go on. Like I ever thought I’d make it past my own front porch, let alone be my party’s nominee for Congress.” He held up his iced tea. “Here’s to luck and the horse he rode in on.”

  “Luck,” answered Mitch with his own cup.

  “Believe in
chance, Counselor?”

  “Sure I do,” Mitch lied, trying not to sound patronizing.

  “Then again, my daddy used to tell me something. He’d say, ‘Son, the world and all its wonders are afforded the man who sees his chance and takes it.’ ” Shakespeare punctuated his words by stabbing the steak with his fork.

  “I might argue about any wonders associated with public service,” Mitch ventured.

  “Would you, then?” queried Shakes. Suddenly he was sizing Mitch up again. “You tellin’ me you don’t wonder what it’d be like to be called Congressman?”

  “I won’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind, but that’s not the point—”

  “What is the point? Really. I’m curious,” shot Shakespeare. “Cuz I thought it was about power and manifest destiny and all that literary gook. I mean, it’s just you and me talkin’ here. We can at least get some sincerity goin’.”

  Shakespeare’s folksy manner had turned clammy, more crackpot than diligent community man. The smile was gone. Those facial imperfections abounding.

  “I’ve entered politics because I think I can do some real good,” Mitch said. “I happen to believe in public service. Just like I believe in the draft. And that’s not a popular political opinion.”

  “Yeah, sure. You can save that crap for your campaign.” Shakespeare grinned, sticking his fork in Mitchell’s direction. “And don’t you worry. I got myself plenty of my own crap to dish out. Sure you don’t want anything else? How about a refill on that coffee cup?”

  “Actually, I should go. Gotta go dish out some crap,” joked Mitch, dripping sarcasm. Shakespeare laughed at that one. Meanwhile, Mitch reached into his pocket for his money clip.

  “Oh, no. This one’s on me,” said Shakes, shoving the check into his shirt pocket. “Oughta get out and gear up my own campaign, don’tcha think? You’ve laid some long yardage for me to make up.”

  “Best to you, then.” Mitch stood up and stuck out his hand. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  “Shake hands and come out fighting,” said Shakespeare as he shook Mitch’s hand.

  “Something else your daddy used to say?” It sounded demeaning. He regretted the comment the instant it left his lips.

  “Naw. Just some more bullshit I picked up along the way.”

  “Well, good luck to you,” said Mitch in earnest. Or so he thought.

  He turned to exit, but no sooner was he heading for the front door than he saw Hollice Waters rolling up in a cloud of dust, his Buick idling in front of the diner. Mitch stalled.

  “Who’s that?” asked Shakespeare.

  “Cathedral Daily Mirror.”

  “And I’ll betcha think I called him.”

  “The thought just crossed my mind.”

  “I gave my solemn word this was supposed to be a private howdy and hello with you ‘n’ me. Hell, if I’d even know what to say to a newspaper fellah.”

  “Well, you’re about to find out,” shot back Mitch.

  “Show you I’m a man of my word, I’ll getcha out through the kitchen. Back door way, through the alley and right into your wife’s little car,” offered Shakespeare.

  Mitch looked at him, trying to find something to trust. He was a good five inches shorter than Mitch. But his hand was out, ready to guide the way. Hand to Mitchell’s elbow just the way he’d guided him across the street to the five-and-dime.

  “Let’s go,” said Shakespeare. “Out the back.”

  It was all very hard for Mitch to put a finger on. First the invitation. Then the actual lunch itself. It was more than a howdy and hello as Shakespeare had sold it. It was a testing ground. For what, he couldn’t figure.

  Once into the alley, he could find his own way. “Thanks for everything,” he was polite to add.

  He found his feet moving quicker, as if something had repelled him from the little man in the button-down collar and poly-blend coat—something Mitch might be able to figure out once he hit the highway and got some wind in his face. He took a hard right turn out the rear door of the diner, instantly trying to put distance between them. His hand up in a thankful wave that said so long, good-bye, and never look back. A thought flashed through his head.

  He has everything to gain.

  “Oh yeah. Just one more thing,” said Shakespeare, his voice still close to Mitch. Right there behind him, shadowing his steps.

  Automatically Mitch stopped and turned without thinking, only to find a hammering fist swung overhand and into his forehead, snapping the cheap glasses at the frame. He careened backward into a cinder-block wall, the back of his head cracking against the concrete with a thud. The first thing he thought was that he’d been struck by an object, like a rock kicked up the road by a passing truck. But he was in the alley. There were no trucks. Only the voice. Shakespeare’s voice.

  Slumped against the cinder-block wall, Mitchell felt a knee brought up into his groin, sending a pain from his abdomen that rolled up through his torso and crashed into his brain. He blacked out. He didn’t remember falling to the dirt. Only the boot that swung into his belly time and time again. He couldn’t breathe. And when he sucked for air, the dust choked him. In his only defensive move, he rolled over. But the kicking continued as Shakespeare’s hard-soled boot dropped into Mitchell’s kidney, followed by another shot across his right ear. The tip of the boot bit and stung.

  Above him, the alley spun.

  The beating was virtually silent. He didn’t have wind in his diaphragm long enough to choke out a call for help while Shakespeare McCann relentlessly delivered calculated blows to his victim—blows not of a screaming, shouting, angry motherfucker who’s given to violent outbursts, but of someone practiced in serving up that kind of punishment.

  Shake hands and come out fighting.

  And then the beating stopped. Mitch lay bloodied on the ground. Fetal. Shuddering in primal fear. Then Shakespeare spoke, his face contorting from that charmer’s facade into a visage so suddenly malevolent, were there a witness, he might not have recognized the attacker as the sweet fellow he’d just seen exit the cafe. All that was left of the man was his telltale twang.

  “You may got yourself a fancy campaign machine down there on the Island. But lemme tell you, Counselor, this fight ain’t over. It’s just a beginning. Like young David who slew Goliath, I have faith in my Destiny.”

  How long Mitch lay in the alley was anybody’s guess. Shakespeare had vanished, presumably walking the other way and disappearing down the alley. Mitch remembered him whistling “Dixie,” the sound receding until another passing truck drowned it out. All he could remember was that after some time—after nobody had called a 911 dispatcher or come to his rescue—his wits finally gathered between the pulse-poundings in his head. He gained his feet, his fingertips finding the mortared grooves in the cinder-block wall until he was vertical and leaning. His diaphragm released and he sucked in a lungful of air, swelling his head with oxygen and pain.

  Eventually he got hold of those busted dime-store glasses and affixed them to his face. Through the cracked plastic he could finally see his way out of the alley to where he’d parked Connie’s Mustang.

  He slid his body into die driver’s seat, found the ignition, and turned the key. As he reached for the gearshift, fully prepared to barrel the Mustang backward onto the interstate, he caught a brief glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. Mitch twisted the mirror to frame his face. Without contacts or working glasses, the image was dull, yet still frightening in the damage it revealed. Cut and swelling with a gravel tattoo across the left cheek, the face in the mirror was a mess. Vanity, he thought. He was vain and never knew it until that very moment when another voice called out. It was Hollice Waters.

  “Mitch!” shouted Hollice, exiting the diner with his hand held high. “Mitch Dutton!”

  He found the reverse gear on the Mustang. He touched the pedal, pretending all along not to hear the continued calls as the wheels spun backward against the dirt.

  “Mitch, sto
p! It’s me, Hollice!” bellowed the reporter. But his shouting was to no avail as Mitch spun the steering wheel and roared out onto the interstate. Hollice was left with nothing more than a mouthful of dust. He spat at die ground, “Asshole!”

  Mitch drove blindly back to Cathedral Island. Without the proper optics, most of the interstate was an alcoholic’s haze. Still, he knew the highway. At a pay phone well south of Benton, he stopped to call Fitz. His cellular battery was dead. Timing. The swelling of his lips and jaw were so severe that he could barely pronounce words, yet he was articulate enough to get Fitz to meet him at an outpatient clinic near the campaign office.

  “Goddammit, I want him arrested!” mouthed Mitchell from his swollen face, his ire rising with every pained syllable. “I want you to call the county sheriffs office, have them come down here, and I’ll swear out the complaint.”

  “Just relax and let the painkillers do their business,” said Fitz, trying the calm and reasonable approach.

  In a private back room in the Sanders Street Clinic, an outpatient practice catering to walk-ins and drug addicts, Mitch and Fitz were posted between shelves stuffed with emergency supplies and a crash cart. All that was missing was the brass plaque that should have read: The Mitchell Dutton Outpatient OR. For it was his crusading that kept the mini clinic open twenty-four hours a day to the homeless and dope addicts. He had willingly charmed and steered his wealthy corporate clients into throwing open the check books. And it was for just that reason that he chose the clinic for his own medical care. That way the conditions of his visit would remain within his control.

  Fitz requested the attending doctor and nurse step outside for a moment while he got Mitchell’s full story. “Okay. Let’s say you make that complaint,” he reasoned. “You got a witness?”

  “I’m the witness!” Mitch’s face stung as the skin was once again splitting at the corners of his mouth. “Ow. Sonofabitch.”

  “Hear me out, Mitch,” Fitz went on to say. And this was where he was good. Real good. He drew the road Mitch wanted to travel both clearly and concisely. “Let’s say we go ahead and have the Republican nominee arrested for battery. What’s the press gonna say when they get ahold of this? There’s gonna be your side and his side. Right? And without a witness, these voters are gonna make up their own minds.”