Dark Horse

by Doug Richardson

  “Dewar’s rocks,” he ordered, forgoing his patented Perrier on the rocks. He found Connie’s hand once again in his. It squeezed him back and felt soft, comfortable. Easy. Mitch was back in control as they both tracked Vidor across the foredeck of the 150-plus-foot vessel. By the time they reached the outer bar, the drinks had already been prepped, served up by a white-suited black gentleman with graying temples. Mitch made a mental note. Vidor Kingman was old-world Texas, not unlike the old families from Cathedral Island, Connie’s family included.

  “Would it be too much to ask for a tour?” asked Connie.

  “Hell no.” Vidor stuck out his ever-charming arm. Mitch thought to follow, but then Rene was conveniently there at his ear.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a clue,” she whispered.

  His instinct was to keep his back to her and chase on after his wife and Kingman. Proximity to her might hint of impropriety. But Shakespeare had returned to his perch at the far railing to gaze out upon the water and sparkling lights of the Island.

  “We can always just say our good-nights and go,” she went on to say. “We didn’t need Kingman from the start. Who says we need him now?”

  “And leave him to the Good Humor Man over there?” he quipped in hushed tones. “No, thank you. I think I’ll bury the creep right here. Tonight. If Kingman’s as smart as he’s supposed to be, he’ll see through McCann’s charade before the main course is served.”

  “Well, if it’s not the renewed Mitch Dutton. Touché,” she said, impressed. “And by the way, Shakespeare’s right. Your wife is beautiful.”

  “Yes…she is, isn’t she?” He’d meant it to hurt Rene, and for the record, it did. She’d fucked up on the evening and maybe compromised his position with Kingman. Maybe this little dart would put some distance between them so he could get on with being Mitchell Dutton, candidate for Congress and ever-faithful husband.

  Dinner was served on the top deck of the yacht, with even more black servants in white shirts and ties attending. A carved teak table with inlays of ivory and ebony had been assembled under a canopy, leaving all guests, no matter where they sat, a spectacular, unrestricted view of the harbor and all the accompanying boats. The table, arranged for five, left Vidor at the head, flanked by Mitch and Rene. Connie was to Mitchell’s left. And Shakespeare to Rene’s right. The scene was magically lit with a string of white Christmas lights looped lazily about the canopy. Citronella candles burned around the perimeter.

  Vidor insisted on pouring the wine himself. “A toast to the winner,” he boomed. His eyes swept left and right to catch the reactions from Mitch and Shakespeare.

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Mitch with little hesitation.

  “Hear hear,” added Shakespeare. “And record turnout at the polls.” He nudged Rene, his touch making her skin crawl. Then she glanced across at Mitch, who made sure to clink glasses with Connie first.

  The conversation remained light and airy through the first course of foie gras and into the second course of baked scallops in cream sauce. Vidor was polite enough to entertain Connie, being sure to keep her at the center of attention before the conversation eventually left her in the political dust. Such was the bane of political wives. Valued only until the real discussion began.

  Meanwhile, Mitch kept a close eye on Shakespeare, curious about his seemingly untamed interest in Connie’s affairs.

  “Now, lemme get this straight,” Shakespeare would ask as he followed Vidor’s lead into Connie’s academic history. “You say at Southern Methodist U, by most educated accounts, Texas’s answer to the Ivy Leagues, you spent most of your time goin’ to fraternity and sorority parties insteada stickin’ your head in a book?”

  “Well, I still got A’s,” answered Connie, a bit flustered.

  “Of course you did,” he continued. “Ain’t a good ol’ boy west of Arkansas that don’t know that Texas women got both the beauty and the brains.”

  Connie blushed from the oh-so-obvious bullshit flattery, tugging at Mitchell’s hand all the time just underneath the tablecloth.

  “Hows about you, Counselor?” asked Shakespeare. “Where’d you do your contriculations?”

  “Junior college in Cathedral City,” said Mitch. “UT after that. Then I did my law at Stanford.”

  “Out there in California? Well, that answers it,” Shakespeare declared.

  Mitch knew better than to bite on such an obvious baited hook. But unfortunately, Connie didn’t. “Answers what?” she asked.

  “Where your husband got all them crazy ideas of his,” answered Shakespeare. “Pardon me, Mrs. Dutton. But have you been reading his campaign literature? Because I have.”

  With that, the conversation turned.

  “Well, I haven’t. But I don’t think I need to,” Connie said. “After all, I live with him.”

  Rene laughed unguardedly, cueing Vidor. It was tantamount to her shoving a sharp elbow between the old man’s ribs.

  “Forgive me for talking over the meal, Mr. Kingman. But this stuff is just bubblin’ up for me,” Shakespeare went on. “I guess I’m just a horse stuck in the gate.”

  “And I’m the gatekeeper. I thought we could wait until dessert,” said Vidor. “Leave the ladies to themselves.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Kingman,” said Mitch, his juices primed for a debate, “but we gave women the vote back in 1920 with the Nineteenth Amendment. I think it’s about time they participated.” With those two Dewar’s in him, he was ready to drive a stake through McCann’s heart. “Go on, Shakes. Speak your mind.”

  “Thank you, Counselor.” Shakespeare nodded. “Now, like I was sayin’, I’ve been readin’ all this stuff from your mostly unopposed primary campaign. Direct mailers and the like, the kind you send out to the local populations lookin’ for a vote. And frankly, it just don’t swing with me.”

  “Exactly what?” prompted Mitch. “Let’s be specific.”

  “For example. How you figure to go marrying the business folk with all them environmental crazies we got runnin’ around? I mean it this way. The business fellah’s got it tough already. He’s got all kinds of government restrictions to put up with, and his competition’s goin’ south of the border cuzza NAFTA, or overseas and up a Chinaman’s kazoo. Now, you wanna go puttin’ these hurtin’ folk with the same ones that’ve been puttin’ them under?”

  Vidor sat back. The curtain was raised and the actors were onstage.

  “Okay. You want an example? How’s this?” asked Mitch, turning away from Shakespeare, ready to deliver the rest of the answer to Kingman, the only audience that mattered. “You all know Pete Peterman, don’t you?”

  “Sure I do,” answered Kingman. “Played in a four-man scramble with him last week.”

  “Out at The Links, I’ll bet,” said Mitch.

  “Hell of a golf course,” Kingman added.

  “I’m sure it is. But I’m afraid I don’t play,” said Mitch. “Anyway, about three years ago, Pete came to me with a problem. He’d purchased the old landfill down off of Lucas Landing, with plans to build a championship golf course and country club.”

  “That’s probably because he’d screwed over so many of the old boys on bad investment advice at Cathedral Country Club.”

  “I’d heard that,” said Mitch, unfazed. “The logjam on the progress of the golf course was a small environmental group I’d worked with called The Earth in the Balance Campaign. They were blocking the construction with some rather tart legal maneuvers. It seems since the city had stopped using the property as landfill, some rare local waterfowl had begun to flourish there in sinkholes caused by the natural settling of the site.”

  “I’ll tell you right now, Mitch. I believe in the environment, but I’m not big on environmentalism,” said Kingman. “Or a buncha ducks, for that matter.”

  “Fair enough,” said Mitch. “And for the record, I’m not on the side of any group that takes the extreme. But I knew these parties to be reasonable. So I offered a solution.”

&
nbsp; “Which was?” cued Rene.

  “One. I suggested they hire a golf-course architect with the experience to incorporate the existing wetland into the design. Secondly, to help Pete with some of the severe overages that such a huge change would incur, I hooked him up with an offshore financial group looking to invest in Gulf Coast resort properties. The hotel was added to the plan, and if I remember, it should open by the first of the new year.”

  Kingman was impressed. “Created some local employment in the process, I take it.”

  “Four hundred new jobs,” said Mitch proudly. “Proof it can happen. It just takes someone willing to do the hard work.”

  Both Connie and Rene applauded. It was biased support, but it drew smiles from both Mitch and Vidor Kingman.

  Mitch settled into his chair more comfortably. “You see, my theory is that politics is nothing but other people’s agendas. Everybody’s walking around, carrying their own soapbox. Quick to get up and tell everybody else how they should live their lives. What I propose is to ask them to share the platform. Suddenly human nature takes over. Things get worked out.”

  It was at that moment Shakespeare applauded, all by himself, his hands clapping together inches above his cooling entree. He kept it up until he was certain he owned the floor.

  “You know, it’s funny about applause. Folks do it wherever they go. Hell, they even do it at weddings. Right after the bride and groom kiss. The whole congregation gets all excited and puts their hands together. And over what? A kiss? The couple ain’t been married ten seconds and folks are ready to say, ‘Congratulations. Y’all done a good job.’ ” Shakespeare zeroed in on Mitch, then panned his gaze left and over to Connie. “How long you been married?”

  “Ten years,” answered Connie.

  “Kids?”

  “Not yet.” She was squeezing Mitchell’s hand again.

  “Six outta ten marriages in Texas don’t last past twelve years, Mrs. Dutton,” continued Shakespeare. “And the few that do last, who’s around to applaud that?”

  “What’s your point?” prompted Vidor.

  “His point is,” Mitch interrupted, “that a marriage of any kind, be it between people or competing political interests, shouldn’t be expected to last.”

  “You got that right!” finished Shakespeare. “Intentions make for a pretty package. Time is the only true judge of a man.”

  “You’ll forgive my opponent, Mr. Kingman,” said Mitch. “He doesn’t offer a very hopeful picture of the future. Yours. Mine. Anybody’s, save for his own, I might venture.”

  “I second that motion,” piped in Rene.

  Shakespeare just smiled proudly for a moment. “Look. All I’m sayin’ is that good ideas are like dog food. Until the dog eats it, you ain’t sure.”

  Enough time for Rene to sharpen her Mississippi tongue. “Cute, Mr. McCann. But when you’re talking, I don’t know what you’re selling. All I know is that I’ve already got a used car.”

  “Girl’s got some bite, don’t she?” Shakespeare winked at Mitch. “Looks like you got the woman’s vote, Counselor.”

  “Hell. And I thought we were going to get to talk about that TV cable bill back in Washington,” said Vidor. His little dinner debate was dangerously close to turning nasty, so he tried to save it. “Whaddayou think, Ms. Craven? Shall we dance before dessert?”

  “Love to,” Rene answered, taking his hand and rising from the table.

  Vidor gestured to his lead servant. “André? Hows about a waltz on the aft deck?”

  “Yessir,” said the servant, snapping his fingers for his small staff to attend to the chairs of the other dinner guests. Mitch, Connie, and Shakespeare rose from the table and followed Vidor’s lead down a brass-railed stairwell to the aft deck, adorned with Japanese paper lanterns illuminating a parquet dance floor. A Strauss waltz was already drifting off hidden speakers like the ocean breeze through those cherry-blossom lanterns.

  Much to the cook’s dismay, the chocolate-crème brûlée that Vidor planned for dessert would never be served that particular evening. The host wisely chose not to antagonize either candidate by seating one across from the other for the remainder of the evening, choosing his dance partner instead of his candidate. The old Texas son of a gun swung Rene around the dance floor with his large, generous steps, making the waltz about as intimidating as a Texas two-step.

  Mitch and Connie took up the invitation to join in the party, leaving Shakespeare to a lone barstool and a snifter of cognac. From that comfortable seat, the sharp-eyed man kept a watchful eye upon the spinning twosomes, keener still on the subtleties of his opponent: the practiced dance steps from Stanford days, when Mitch had dated San Francisco ballerina Holly Madigan, the easy smile he showed Connie when their eyes met—and the way his eyes would wander when he pulled her close, catching Rene’s passing glance at almost every turn. Shakespeare studied those awkward glances, looking for the giveaway.

  Then he found it.

  The tell, as it was called in those days. Con men and thieves, waiting for that point when the mark gives away his cards. The inside track to a man’s soul was never through his eyes, but in what they were lookin’ at. And Mitch was looking at Rene.

  Mitch felt a tap-tapping on his shoulder. He turned to find Shakespeare behind him, asking in a gentle voice, “May I have one dance with the most beautiful lady?”

  The hair on Mitchell’s neck stood on end. Bristling, like a dog’s. Always from behind, he thought. It was like the mongoose that patterned all its attacks from the rear, always lying in wait for the prey’s attention to wander. First it was the beating in the alley. Then Hammond’s funeral parade. Tonight and the impromptu dinner debate. In his mind he could see himself mowing over the twisted man on the spot, lifting Shakes by the throat and hurling him over the railing, only to toss him a life jacket when it appeared the SOB might actually be drowning.

  But that charismatic, folksy manner was hard to deny. Shakespeare continued, “I feel like a fifth wheel. Hell, I am the fifth wheel. Then again, I figure it’s a social event. Correct me, Counselor, if I’m out of line.”

  “No. Of course, you’re not,” answered Connie, giving Mitch’s hand a reassuring squeeze as she left for her new partner.

  “I’m not a dancer,” said Shakespeare. “So would the pretty gal be so kind as to show me the way?”

  And off they turned, Shakespeare and Connie, spinning away from Mitch and his jilted posture.

  “Here, son. Take on your Media Mistress,” coined Vidor, ignorant of the implication of his words. “I’m afraid she’s fired her arrow and punctured a lung.” It was obvious that Kingman had hit on Rene and, by the wounded look on his face, been shot down on the spot. “All yours, partner,” he offered.

  Mitch let his eyes meet Rene’s. And for the first time that evening, he looked at her in the way he was accustomed. Pleasingly. Clearly she knew better than to offer herself in a near-public dance. So instead, Mitch offered a rocky salvo. “I think Ms. Craven likes tequila. And I’ll have another Dewar’s.”

  “That I can do,” said Vidor, who gestured to the bartender. From there, the evening withered. The waltz ended at precisely the moment the compact disc ran out of music—and Mitch found an excuse to leave early. The return to the Island by shore craft was quiet. Yet the evening had turned remarkably chilly and Connie cuddled close to her husband with her hands inside his jacket. Rene stayed clear on the other side of the shore craft, keeping her eyes to the Island lights and her thoughts to herself. That left Shakespeare. Without room for four on the cigarette boat, he stayed on the yacht with Vidor and his multitude of servants.

  “I don’t want to guess what the two of them are talking about,” were Rene’s only words from the bow. She was in business mode.

  Mitch’s response was plain. “I don’t care.” And the subject was closed until Mitch and Connie crawled into bed.

  “His wife and kids are dead. Did you know that?” Connie volunteered.

  “I didn�
��t,” said Mitch, stripping naked and reaching for a pair of pajama shorts.

  “Drunk driver killed them. The children weren’t even five yet.”

  “He told you that? In one dance?”

  “Why not?”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Why would he lie?” she asked. A question he couldn’t quite answer offhand.

  He crawled into bed. “Why would he tell you?”

  Connie rolled up close to Mitch, her arms stroking his back. “Maybe it was the touch of my hand,” she giggled. “It’s a kinda truth serum.”

  “You want the truth?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Don’t trust him. He’s a bad guy.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Mitch. He gave me the creeps with all that divorce stuff at dinner,” she reasoned. “I just thought he deserved our sympathy.”

  “Because of his dead wife and kids, right?” His cynicism was thick.

  “Everybody’s got a past. Why not him?”

  He turned to her. “Sweetheart. In two months’ time the Texas State Supreme Court will review my appeal for a change of venue for a convicted killer. This guy had a past. He had a motive. But he still chased his wife and lover across a state line and blew their brains out in some sleazy beach motel. My doing the writ doesn’t make him any less a bad guy. And if he asked you to dance, I might wanna kill him, too.”

  “You wanted to kill that charming man? Shakespeare McCann?” she laughed.

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  With that she kissed him, still giggling, but appreciating the sick sentiment.

  “He’s harmless. And you’ll beat him in the election,” offered Connie, words of encouragement that were rare from her lips. At such a moment, the boy in Mitch clung to her as if she were salvation itself.

  Still, the man in him wondered aloud, “That’s what worries me…I’m going to beat him and he knows it!”

  PART TWO

  ONE

  “I’VE GOT somebody I want you to meet.” Pete Peterman had his arm around Mitch, weaving him through the several hundred party guests who’d braved the dough-baking temperatures and ankle-biting grass chiggers to ogle the financier’s spanking new estate. “Somebody who can make a big difference for y’all.”