“I’ll bet.” He paused. “I take it she thinks a black woman can rise through the Republican ranks pretty fast. As a … defier of stereotypes.” He could not bring himself to say token.
“I reckon she’s right. Up to a point.”
They gazed at each other in silence across the desk that had belonged to Seastrunk’s father, the sheriff and deputy separated by two generations but shouldering the same weight of history, a weight that seemed to Bobby would be visited upon the sons of that place until the end of time. He wanted nothing more than to throw it off, to flee to some modern anonymous city where history (in the form of maybe a few fine old buildings or a statue or commemorative marker here and there) served only to add texture but did not make itself a constant suffocating presence.
The deputy breathed. His boss broke his gaze at last. Bobby said, “How’s the Rev doing, anyway?”
“Not bad, considering. The bomb detonated outside and blew the window in. If that ignorant fool Monroe had had the sense or the strength or the presence of mind to rig up a decent explosive … well, as it is Mose Carter’s serious but stable. He’ll pull through. He’s a tough ol’ goat.” The sheriff’s eyes looked sad. Tired. The old man looked his age. “And Bobby?”
“Sir?”
“Reverend Carter can be prideful. He can even be mean. But he never would have achieved what he did for his people if he hadn’t been those things. He’s a good man. Real good.”
“Yessir.”
Seastrunk rubbed his hand through his hair and said, “Lord, I need some joe. We’re not done here yet.” He called to his receptionist and they talked about the weather (of all things, Bobby thought) while they waited and when she came with the steaming cups the sheriff settled back in his chair and said: “Now you listen to me. You think you can link all this to Duchamp somehow and like I said, the dots are there so I’m not saying you’re wrong. But I’m going to be just as ugly and honest with you as you were with me last week. You know Hargrave and Duchamp are thicker than flies on the Fourth of July.”
“But we don’t work for Hargrave. You and he were both elected by the people.”
“Son, I love you and I know you’re smart but right now you sound as ignorant as a new-born pup on Christmas morning.”
Maybe it was the coffee, or the air-clearing they had accomplished before it arrived, but the sheriff had returned to his full leonine form. Bobby felt relieved.
“I know I don’t work for Hargrave. But I don’t plan on giving up this post come election time. I’m just an old widower who’s kids have all moved off, and I don’t know what else I’d do. And hell, I’m good at it. I know every dirt farm, bayou, and gravel road in this county like I know my own prick, and that’s more than I can say for Duchamp and Hargrave and all them from town.”
Seastrunk pointed at Bobby across the desk, his coarse and swollen finger like stick taken from some ancient and powerful tree. Then he closed that hand into a fist and held it before him, not pounding or gesticulating but just holding it there like a totem meant to give his words power. He said, “I still remember when Duchamp’s daddy moved down here, during the war. Set up his rinky-dink drilling company with his family money and strutted around here with his New England ways like he ran the place. Daddy was already Sheriff by then, and he used to say that old Duchamp was such a fool he couldn’t have kept that business going for a New York minute without that blue blood Yankee lifeline. Then along comes little Robert W. And I’ll tell you, he’s built his political career on being a East Texas country boy. Man of the people. But his parents sent him back east to school from the time he was twelve years old. Same goddamn prep school as his daddy and granddaddy and Lord knows how far back, back to when them Yankee lunatics were burning headstrong women at the stake and calling them witches. And then he moves back to this county like it’s his mother’s milk, but he don’t know a cotton gin from a hole in the ground. When he was Speaker of the House and he’d come down here with the D.C. press corps for a photo op, out on the lake bass fishing at mid-afternoon in August like a goddamn moron. What kind idiot goes out in a boat in the middle of the day in August and expects to catch bass? A goddamn phony Yankee carpet-bagger, that’s who.”
Bobby had heard the diatribe in one form or another many times and knew there was no point joining in with the sheriff to agree or disagree. He knew that the sheriff was right but also that the old man underestimated the power a person has to remake himself in this country, that the wealthy and powerful families in the town appreciated the Duchamp wealth and prestige and the family’s presumed choice to adopt the manners and customs of this place.
By now Seastrunk had dropped his hands back to the desk but he breathed a little heavy, and the pinkness of his face accentuated his graying hair.
Bobby said, “Yessir.”
“Here’s our dilemma, Bobby. And what I’m saying won’t leave this room. The other day, you said I can’t win without the black vote—”
“Sir, I was out of line.”
The sheriff held up a hand. “You were right. But I can’t win without a nice hunk of the white vote, either. I figure I need about thirty percent, give or take, depending on turnout. And every year—as the old folks who remember how FDR saved their hides die off—there’s fewer whites willing to vote for a Democrat in this county, even for local elections. And if Duchamp and Hargrave and the rest of the country club set wanted to bad enough, they could run me out of office quicker than a date with a ten-dollar Matamoros whore.”
“Come on, Sheriff. You’re a legend. You won with ninety percent of the vote last time.”
“Because they didn’t run nobody against me. But against a moneyed candidate? A well funded whisper campaign? Some clever race-baiting? They could string me up. So what would you have me do? Go after Duchamp straight on? Ask a judge for an arrest warrant? An elected judge in this county? Lord, he’d be liable to lock me up as an endangerment. Subpoena the bastard in the Tatum twins’ case? Well, Hargrave would never go for it. I’ve explained all that.”
The old man sipped his coffee and Bobby watched him across the desk and waited. Then the sheriff said, “So here’s my bit of wisdom, then I’m through with the whole mess till you’ve come in here with some hard evidence. If there really is a link to Duchamp, and the trail leads all the way to that murder in New Orleans, there’s one ‘ol boy that’s already itching to figure it all out: Geoff Waltz, a good fella seemed to me, and his P.I. And I’ll tell you what—you ought to call that fella right now.”
Chapter 28
Robert Duchamp sat on the edge of a plush leather ottoman in his study, elbows on his knees, hands clasped before him as if in prayer, watching the little television set mounted into an alcove above the wet bar. He chewed his lower lip.
The images played in an endless loop—the burned out house, a still shot of the Reverend taken at least twenty years ago, Texas Rangers trying to keep order on a courthouse lawn teeming with protestors, a stock photo of a Confederate flag decal on the back of a pickup truck that could have been taken at any time in any town.
“It’s time to get dressed, dear.”
He turned and saw his wife standing in the doorway, unconcerned but serious, already in her gown and pearls, hair coifed and teased like that of an Italian film star of another era. She wore the look well.
He said, “All right, Kathleen.”
“Still watching the news? Honestly, I understand your worry, but you need to let go. It’s not your district anymore.”
He turned back to the television. “Yeah, I know.”
“And you divested yourself of your … interests down there, years ago. Right?”
Duchamp felt feverish. He turned back to his wife with wide eyes. She stood firm and lovely like pink granite. He wanted to run to her, to weep into her bosom and beg her forgiveness and the forgiveness of the world.
Instead, he said, “Of course. That was the deal.”
Her voice remained steely cold. “And you
haven’t been in touch with that woman since you since your last round of fundraising. Right?”
That woman. Esther Tamaulipa O’Brien. Hard and mean. Kathleen’s own aunt by marriage.
Also known as the Dame.
“Of course I haven’t,” Duchamp said without hesitation, rubbing his temples.
That woman. Widow of her father’s younger brother—an unscrupulous, hard-drinking, womanizing old-time Texas wildcatter. To Kathleen, her Aunt Esther (whom she hardly acknowledged as a relation, and who likewise had hardly acknowledged Kathleen, who had seen Kathleen as a soft daddy’s girl useful only as marrying stock) represented all the corruption and cynicism that her father had fought against. A noble fight, doomed to failure.
Duchamp knew that his wife saw Esther’s connections as a necessary evil to further his own political career. But Kathleen could not know of the depth of his involvement with her aunt; she knew nothing of the Group, of the great Doctor’s grand designs. She could not know of the web that tied him to the Dame and the rest, the web his own father and Kathleen’s uncle had helped to weave together and from which he could not so easily extricate himself.
And so he repeated, taking Kathleen’s hands but not meeting her gaze: “Of course I haven’t had any more dealings with her. That phase in my life is over. All that matters now is you and the children and our home here. And that we give back.” He looked up at her at last. “These charity deals you throw mean a lot to me. Really.”
Kathleen’s eye’s softened. “Okay.” She squeezed his hands, and after a pause and a sigh she said, “How’s the preacher doing, by the way?”
“They don’t know. Or they aren’t saying. He was hurt pretty bad. The bomb exploded right outside his window, and I guess he was standing right there.”
“I know we had our political differences with the Carters, but really.” She shook her head. “That poor town. I don’t miss it. Aside from everything else, I’m glad you’re out of office. There can be no good from this. It will destroy everyone it touches.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, anyway, they probably won’t announce anything new tonight. Please, swim a few laps to clear your head, have a stiff drink and a hot shower. The guests will start arriving in about an hour.”
He turned back toward the television but kept his head down. He rubbed his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now I’ve got the caterers to deal with.” She turned off the television and left.
•
The partygoers fell into three camps: the old Dallas money (a relative term)—the scions of the wildcat oilmen of the 1920’s and ‘30’s who had built the modern city; the young bucks, flamboyant members of the creative class who owned sports franchises and swank new nightclubs that could sometimes attract top d.j. talent from L.A. and Miami; and, finally, the men Geoff called the European rogues of Dallas—hidden men from ancient families who had set up shop in the city with the sole goal of trading the democratic socialist tendencies of their homelands for the hyper-capitalism of New Texas.
So had Geoff and Tony explained, to give Marisol a sense of what to expect. Tony represented these people. Geoff had gone to school with them. Together, the two lawyers had educated her.
Marisol told them, sitting in the bar: “This isn’t my scene.”
“Sure, doll. But when it comes down to it, these North Dallas swells aren’t any different than the gangbangers and narcos who make up your client base. You’ll watch and listen and make the connections to who’s in dirty with who just like always.”
“And you’ll get those papers,” Geoff said.
“Right, Waltz. Piece of cake.”
Marisol hoped Geoff caught her sarcasm. The next night, she dressed and came up town. She arrived through the service entrance in the van with the rest of them. She had to brush off her Norteño Spanish.
Carrying a tray loaded with champagne, she pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen into the vast living room. The recessed lighting and vaulted ceilings cast shadows among the billionaires and wannabes huddled in small groups amid the faux French baroque furniture. Many of the men looked twice as old as their wives, skinny blondes in stiletto heels and designer cocktail dresses, but plenty of grand dames also stood around sipping martinis or scotch, peering about the room through botoxed eyes. Their dresses were less revealing but no less costly than those of the trophy wives.
She served them drinks and smiled and stayed silent. As she worked the room, she heard bits of conversation, none of them interesting, at least not to her on that night. “…we plateau at fifteen a BtU, and they’ll be drilling that shale, mark my words…” “…in Taos all summer with her damn pottery…” “…went back east, but their girl’s happy right here at Hockaday…”
A figure caught her eye—the Prince. He approached and he took a glass, but he gave Marisol no indication that he recognized her.
A harpist played in the corner. After a while, a woman called attention with the ringing of silver on crystal. To Marisol, she looked familiar, and she supposed it was Duchamp’s wife. She introduced a small man who wore a frumpy but expensive suit, like eccentric English gentry. He stepped forward and nodded to brief applause and spoke, thanking the hostess and the guests and extolling the generosity and the vision of the city. This was a fete in his honor—of late an assistant curator at an august New York museum, hired now at great cost to head this shimmering and insecure prairie city’s premier institution.
The curator stopped speaking and took a humble bow. The music and the laughter and the clinking of glasses resumed. Then Duchamp emerged scurrying and timid through a doorway, as if this were not his home, as if he had just arrived from a great distance and he did not speak the language. Marisol watched him approach another man, a man of equal age but who exuded, even from across the room, more dignity and gravitas than Duchamp ever managed to muster even at the height of his Congressional career. Eschewing grace or civility, Duchamp pulled the man away from the couple with whom he conversed. Then they stood before an overwhelming wall of glass panes overlooking the patio with its illuminated pool. Duchamp’s captive wore a tailored gray suit with a yellow tie and matching pocket square and looked annoyed. Sparing a passing thought to Geoff Waltz, Marisol headed over, beginning almost to enjoy herself and the adrenalized high going incognito gave her.
•
Preoccupied with his knowledge of Marisol’s undercover job unfolding at that very moment, Geoff tried to relax with a single beer and an umpteenth viewing of Casablanca. His phone rang.
A computerized voice: “This is a message from the Prince.” Instructions to a nearby intersection followed. A car arrived, he got in without comment. Its driver frisked him and took his phone, assuring him he would get it back at the conclusion of his meeting. Heading out Northwest Highway and up Harry Hines past strip clubs and all night diners, Geoff felt no trepidation, only an angry determination to get to the truth.
•
His oldest friend, his brother for life from their days in the most secret of their Ivy League alma mater’s secret societies, looked sick upon Duchamp’s approach. Smiling through clenched teeth, he said, “You’re breaking protocol, Robert.”
Duchamp glanced at but barely noticed the Mexican woman in the caterer’s outfit standing beside them. Leaning in close to his friend (the Patrician), he said, “Please, things are ugly down there. You’ve got to help me.”
“Well, was the product recovered?”
“Yes.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about.”
The Patrician waved at someone across the room (a fake wave at a nonexistent person, Duchamp did not doubt) and made as if to walk off. Duchamp took his arm.
“I’m afraid they’ll somehow trace that white trash Monroe to me.”
“And well they may. None of my concern.”
Duchamp rubbed his eyes. Two laughing women walked by and took glasses of champagne from the catering girl’s tray.
“None of your
concern? What would our father’s—”
“Our fathers are dead, Robert.”
Duchamp felt close to tears, like a young adolescent wounded and tortured by some careless act of his own doing.
“It’s that goddamn Prince. He’s cutting me out. If I could just get face-to-face with the Doctor, to explain … I know you can help. You’ve still got pull.”
“I’m afraid not, old chum.” And now his last friend did start to walk away. “Excuse me.”
“You know I could blow the lid off the whole thing.”
His smile never faltering, the Patrician rounded on his erstwhile confidant placed his arm across Duchamp’s neck, pulling him close. An embrace not of affection, but of domination.
“Now, now. Nobody likes a snitch. Besides, the Doctor has decided: we’re shutting the facility down. The Group ratified his decision. So you have nothing to worry about.”
Duchamp’s voice quavered. “I know all the players.”
“Do you now? It’s not polite to brag.”
•
Marisol could see the man beside her, Duchamp’s interlocutor, nod and smile across the room as if acknowledging an old acquaintance, but she followed his gaze and there was no one there to meet it. They spoke softly, but Marisol could sense the tension. And before the gentleman pulled Duchamp close and spoke into his ear, cutting off her eavesdropping, she did make out one phrase from the congressman’s lips that confirmed her and Waltz’s suspicions.
I’m afraid they’ll somehow trace that white trash Monroe to me.
Now to get the written proof.
The gentleman walked away and Duchamp looked so ashen and afflicted that Marisol feared he would faint or vomit. He bit his lip and turned and seemed to notice her for the first time. She met his wounded gaze and then diverted her eyes downward. He did not speak but grabbed a flute from her tray and downed the champagne in a gulp. Then he slid open the sliding glass door, crossed the patio, and re-entered the house through a French door opening onto a wing set at right angle to the room in which Marisol stood. Marisol worked the crowd and kept an eye on patio. When Duchamp emerged, he did not return to the party but walked straight to the vast garage, entering through a side door, as if making a shameful retreat.
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