“An issue of what?” asked Fitz.
“The fact that he’s got the Grand Canyon running smack through his life story.”
“In other words, make something from nothing?” answered Fitz rhetorically. “You see the dilemma? We can make a mountain out of a molehill. But when there’s nothing there…”
Rene added, “If his numbers were better. If he was closer, maybe. It’s an ad campaign. Who’s Shakespeare McCann? Until then, he’s nothing more than a double-digit demon in your rearview mirror and that’s it. You’re way ahead in the polls. You don’t want to look like you’re running scared.”
Unsatisfactory, thought Mitch. We can do better!
“If I’d said it, he’d have argued with me,” joked Fitz to the rest of them.
“And I may yet argue with it,” said Mitch.
“Well, while you’re planning your great debate, lemme say that Rene’s right. Your numbers speak for themselves and they don’t lie. You got better’n twenty points on the little shit. So don’t look back. Full speed ahead. Leave the paranoia for the professionals.”
“Thank you,” said Stu, accepting the second chance.
“Fine,” relented Mitch. “Full speed ahead. Let’s get out there and light some fires.” He slapped the table, bringing smiles to the crew. “I wanna move on the Prisons for Schools concept. I’m thinking we can get endorsements from state corrections commissioners and school superintendents. That and I think it’s time to frame an election finance reform platform. I have some ideas that’re gonna curl Sandy Mullin’s hair.”
Mitch could light all the fires he wanted, thought Fitz. But numbers—they were the intravenous prick strapped to his forearm and stuck deep in a pulsing vein. There were the weekly tracking, the midweek tracking, the nightly tracking, and the morning report.
By any informed account, Mitch had great Goddamn numbers, despite his own view of himself as nothing more than a boy with a sling and a pocket full of rocks. During the primary he’d been scoring just under forty percent in the category of likely voters for the general election, a practical guarantee to have given Hurricane a serious run for his money. And even after the old man’s untimely death, the digits were those Fitz could only dream of. Name recognition alone was at eighty-two percent for candidate Dutton. If the election had been held a week after Hammond’s death, the numbers revealed that Mitch would have closed with seventy-nine percent of the likely voters, taking into account that most of the Republicans would have stayed home in sheer protest.
FOUR
WANDA KENNEDY liked to tell interested folks that she had some distant relations in the Northeast, up Massachusetts way. But without a family tree, she couldn’t quite prove her theory that the famed Kennedy clan had left a piece of the family to root and prosper in South Texas. So important to her was the Kennedy kinship that when she married Jimmy Joe Huggins back in 1963, she’d declined to take his surname, thus causing an uproar between respective in-laws that lasted nearly a lifetime. Still, Wanda loved Jimmy Joe, and when he died in 1991, she secretly spread his ashes along the Cathedral Island postal route that he’d walked nearly twenty-five years.
A Dutton volunteer, and tireless worker, Wanda was the kind of woman to lend her hand to just about anything labeled Democrat. From voter registration drives to dressing in clown makeup on hundred-plus-degree days and gathering petition signatures door to door all up and down the Gulf Coast. And when called a political zealot, she’d always cite that all-important Kennedy coda:
“Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do…”
On the first Sunday in August, the 10:00 A.M. mass at Cathedral City’s St. Cecelia’s ended in a gorgeous, choirenhanced rendition of “Nearer My God to Thee.” As Wanda exited the church, dipping her hand into a marbled cistern of holy water and crossing herself, the good Father Philip Samuels put a kind hand on her shoulder. “Dearest Wanda. How are you today?” Then he leaned closer and whispered importantly, “Could I see you for just a moment? In my office?”
The good father’s office was small and stuffed with books, a fax machine, an old IBM Selectric typewriter, and the coatrack where he hung his robe. “Wanda, you’re going to have to explain this to me.”
Wanda was giggling. She knew exactly why she’d been called on the carpet. “What can I say, Father? Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”
On Father Samuel’s desk was a collection plate. And in it, amongst all the quarters and cash, were five “Dutton for Congress” buttons. “I also made a donation. There’s a twenty in there with my dearly departed husband’s name on it.”
“Wanda,” said the priest, hands clasped patiently under his chin. “We can’t have you campaigning during the church service. Believe it or not, we’ve got Republicans in some of those pews.”
“Republicans always claim God is on their side. Can I help it if I believe God is on Mitch Dutton’s side?”
“Please…”
“By the way. I don’t see more than five badges in there, and I musta put at least a dozen in. That should say something to you.”
“Wanda. You can’t do it again. Now, I had planned to talk to you about last Sunday’s—”
“That wasn’t in church. That was after mass.”
“You were giving away bumper stickers on church property. The event was to collect donations for the children’s hospital and—”
“Mitch Dutton is for the hospital. And if you help elect him, I’ll bet he could get matching federal grant money so we can build a new wing.”
“The Mitch Dutton Wing, I’m sure.” Father Samuels smiled.
“Not while he’s in office. That wouldn’t be politically proper.”
“Listen to me, Wanda. Church is for God. We’re there to worship Him, not Mitch Dutton. Am I understood?”
Wanda shifted in her seat. She was no more than five feet, frizzy bleached hair, and stubborn as an old stain. But would she obey? “Just tell me who you’re voting for.”
The priest squirmed. “Probably Dutton. I don’t even know the guy he’s running against.”
“Shakespeare McCann. And I can personally guarantee you, Father, that Shakespeare McCann runs with the devil. I got personal knowledge.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, I’ve Sunday school classes.” Then as Father Samuels was showing Wanda to the door, she pinned onto his black tunic a “Mitch Dutton for Congress” button. After which she left with a winning smile. She’d gathered one more vote for the Democrat, Mitch Dutton—a man so good-looking, he may as well have been a Kennedy.
Shakespeare McCann runs with the devil.
About that, Wanda was absolutely certain. It was a solid-state fact she’d dutifully passed on to the volunteer coordinator, Murray Levy. And what she’d said was enough to send ears burning all the way to Dallas.
Wanda’s twenty-three-year-old daughter, Trudy, worked the reception desk in the Cathedral City Planned Parenthood office. The clinic, victim of countless antiabortion rallies, was otherwise known to be quiet and confidential. Trudy’s job was to check in the young women who’d made appointments for pregnancy terminations, assign them the various legal forms to fill out, and establish a method for payment. Planned Parenthood was not just a cash business.
On July 26 the clinic had what they called a “door-swinger”: a young girl, under eighteen, without an appointment. Typically a door-swinger would sit in the parking lot, either building up the gumption to get on with the deed or engaged in a fight with her boyfriend. Eventually she would burst through the doors and ask for an abortion on the spot. It was Trudy who had the unfortunate job of informing these poor girls that Planned Parenthood required an appointment. That and they might be better off thinking for twenty-four hours about the procedure. As the pregnant teen would invariably begin to sob and beg, the doors would still be swinging.
Jennifer O’Detts was a door-swinger.
The sixteen-year-old walked through the door, bruised and sans makeup—not even attemptin
g to hide the familiar red and blue marks of a beating. The teenager had demanded an abortion and uncrumpled her only three hundred dollars for the procedure. When she was informed that an appointment would be necessary, Trudy Kennedy kindly asked her to come back the following Tuesday.
“I want it out!” shrieked Jennifer, her pretty mouth swollen from a harsh blow. “Look what he did to me! All I wanted was the money for the abortion! Three hundred fucking dollars!”
“You can have the procedure,” continued Trudy. “Tuesday is only four days away.”
“This is all I have,” Jennifer said of the money. “Please. He’s an evil fuck and I don’t want his baby!”
“If he hurt you, you can file assault charges. I can give you a number—”
“File charges against Shakespeare McCann? Puhleease, sister. Do you know who he knows?”
As a rule, Trudy didn’t give much of a damn about politics the way her mother did. Trudy thought the whole game was a sham played by crooks and rich businessmen. She was a registered Democrat because her mother had seen fit that an absentee ballot had been filled out in her name in time for the last primary. She’d barely heard about Shakespeare McCann. The name rung a very small bell.
“Let me make you an appointment,” urged Trudy.
“Don’t think I can’t do this myself! I know some girls who did it themselves. Or went to Mexico to have it done.”
“That would be extremely dangerous. We’re only talking four days.”
“If you knew him, you’d understand. You’d understand everything!” sobbed Jennifer, before rushing away from the reception counter and plowing back through those swinging doors.
In a passing remark while waiting in line for a dollar-ninety-nine movie, Trudy told her mother. And when Wanda pressed for details, the most Trudy could do was give her the patient’s name, easily remembered as Jennifer O’Detts, who, like most door-swingers, never appeared for her Tuesday appointment. Odds were that she’d driven up to Houston where there were more clinics and, for a few dollars more, abortion on demand was a thriving business.
When Wanda approached Murray, his first inclination was to sit on the information for a few days. He’d scribbled the name—Jennifer O’Detts—upon a desktop notepad and sent Wanda back to the volunteer pool with a pat on the back and the promise to keep the name to herself. Murray would handle it. What made him wait two days before telling Fitz was his allegiance to Mitch. A clean campaign was the candidate’s first and foremost marching order. From the start, that’s what Mitch had commanded. And Murray, still wearing his idealistic youth like a badge of political courage, had become a true believer, even though he’d heard loose talk of striking back at McCann over the Jamal La Croix hoax. Fight fire with fire.
If Jennifer O’Detts was real—if she’d come forward—it would be all over for Shakespeare.
Jennifer O’Detts was hot.
So hot that Mitch might have no alternative but to turn her out against McCann. And once done, corrupt the campaign and corrupt himself in the process. Even worse, he might blame Murray, destroying the young staffer’s chances at a postelectoral position in D.C.
The dilemma was resolved when the man who’d hired him, Fitz, asked Murray, “So what have you done for the campaign this week?”
“Jennifer O’Detts,” said Murray, finally shaking loose the monkey.
“Jennifer who?”
“Jennifer O’Detts. And she’s hot.”
“Hot how? Hot like you wanna jump her?”
“No. Not like that,” corrected Murray. “She’s sixteen. And she was raped.”
It took Stu Jackson less than an hour to find the girl. O’Detts, it turned out, was a local name, easily found in the Greater Cathedral registry. The family was spread throughout South County, and most hadn’t moved in a hundred years. Jennifer was described as sixteen, and at first, didn’t appear on DMV records, voter lists, or tax rolls. Most likely, he thought, she’d still be in school. From another case, he had the number and password for the Cathedral School District. Ten minutes later it was a certified bingo. Jennifer O’Detts. Oakdale High School, Cathedral City. Residence: 458 Lake View Terrace.
The plan wasn’t easy. But since the rewards might be so great, Fitz decided to risk it Mitch was not to know about the initial query. Nor was Rene. She might slip the name to him. Or even disagree with Fitz. She was too close to the candidate…how close, Fitz didn’t want to know.
Stu’s fax relayed that Jennifer O’Detts was living with her parents and two younger brothers in a middle-class section in neighboring Acre Lakes, a planned community in the Cathedral City outskirts. Even better, a search using her Social Security number came up with an IRS W-2, listing her as an employee of Carol’s Sunny Nails Salon.
“I’m looking to speak with Miss O’Detts,” said a very polite Murray Levy, trying his best to conceal the nervous shaking in his chest. Fitz had picked Murray to make the introduction. After all, she was his idea. The salon owner was smiling right off the mark. Carol’s heavy makeup cracked at the creases as she looked Murray up and down the way a mother would survey the potential father of her grandchildren. His navy sport jacket and button-down collar were decided signs of an educated man. The kind she would want to meet her little Jenny. Not the usual boys with the buckled boots, nose rings, and tattoos she’d seen so many times before.
“She’s in the back. I’ll go get her,” offered Carol. “She’s expecting you?”
“Uh…not exactly. My name’s Murray.”
Jennifer didn’t know Murray from Michael Bolton. She first peered at him through the plastic shower curtain that divided the salon from the back room where the girls would smoke and hang their smocks.
“Never seen him before,” she said. “What’s he want?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” said Carol.
“But I don’t know him.”
“I didn’t know my Pauly before he walked into The Blue Tattoo.”
“I thought you said that was a strip place.”
“So what if he was a customer? Get a look at the boy, hon. He’s cute. He’s wearing a jacket.”
Jennifer deposited her smock and applied a fresh coat of lipstick in the mirror tacked over the sink before making her entrance. The bruises on her face were all but gone. Only a chapped split on her lower lip was still visible. The lipstick covered that just fine.
Murray and Jennifer walked around the corner to a Taco Bell and sat outside at the concrete-formed picnic tables. An afternoon sea breeze was kicking up. Her long strawberry blonde hair was the kind that took well to the wind. It kicked up attractively and he was instantly struck. Sixteen and a real humdinger. Any man would be attracted. He wondered if she had a brother.
“You’re not here to ask me out, are you?” Jenny cut to the heart of it. She was good at sizing up both boys and men. And Murray showed a different kind of nerves.
“I want to talk to you about Shakespeare McCann.”
“Fuck you.” She was on her feet and headed back to the salon.
He tried to save it. “We know he hurt you…I mean, I know he hurt you!”
That stopped her. “Are you like a reporter? Cuz if you are, I don’t wanna talk to nobody.”
“I want to help you.”
She was still standing as if at any moment she’d bolt and be gone for good. “Like how can you help me? I already got the abortion if that’s what you want to know. It cost me seven hundred and that was everything I’d saved. That was my ticket to New York.”
She’d given him the opening. He saw it and took his chance. “Ever been to New York?”
“No. I’m barely seventeen,” she lied.
“I have. Went to college there. Columbia University.”
“Really? I want to go to NYU. But I know I don’t have the grades.” She sat down again. “My parents, they definitely can’t afford it. Least that’s what they say. I know they got money. They just don’t want me to get outta Texas, that’s what I think.”
His nerves briefly intact, Murray talked up New York City for about as long as she would listen. The subways. The culture. The colleges and museums. He didn’t forget the arts, either. Jennifer was a budding actress and New York was her calling, or so her high school drama teacher had told Stu Jackson. She had dreams. And Murray understood dreams. His was a career on the Hill. With Mitch Dutton to tie his wagon to, he was almost there. The conversation finally returned to home.
“So you wanna get Shakespeare, huh? You work for that other guy, don’t you?”
“He’s a good man, Mitch. You’d like him. He’s fair with people our age. I mean, sure I’m a little older than you. But look at me,” said Murray. “Guy like me wouldn’t have a chance at working on a major campaign. But Mitch said yes.”
“I seen him. He’s cute and all that. But my dad, his boss is like a Republican. They had a barbecue at the plant for Shakespeare. A party, you know? To raise donations, I guess.”
“I know.”
“That’s where I met him. I mean, it was either go to the party or watch my little brothers. And I hate my little brothers. They’re shits.”
“So what happened at the party?” He tried to sound as benign as possible. The nerves were back. He was still afraid she might up and run.
“Nothing much. There was some beer. My dad lets me have beer sometimes. I mean, I’m almost eighteen, right?
“Right,” said Murray.
“So that’s where I met him. And he was really funny, you know? Nice smile. It’s not that he’s really ugly, either, he’s just older and knows a lot. Talks good. Like you. About New York. Acting and stuff. He said he knew folks who could help me once I got there. He said once he became a senator—”
“You mean congressman?”
“Yeah, sure. Congressman. He said he’d be able to help a lot. But like he got more busy as the party got kinda late and we didn’t talk no more. At least, not till we were leaving and he asked me to stay and like help as a volunteer.”
“And your dad, he let you?”
Dark Horse Page 17