"You're quite welcome. You have a good ride home, and a good semester."
Inside the gift shop, Stephanie was behind the counter and looked up from a sheaf of invoices that she had been examining.
"Morning, Lewis. What can I do for you?"
I said, "This is my friend Julia. She'd like a Greyhound ticket to Boston, and a ticket to the shuttle uptown."
"Oh, I think we can do that," she said, pulling a ledger and ticket book from underneath the counter. "You're in luck. The next shuttle leaves in about five minutes."
Julia started going through her purse and she and Stephanie started with their business arrangement, and I waited, looking out the gift shop window, as the women worked and information was recorded and currency was exchanged. My Explorer was in view and then James, probably realizing at last that something was amiss, got out of my Ford and started up the short walkway. I moved around and as Julia and Stephanie finished their transaction, James strode in.
"Hey, what's up?" he said.
I smiled at him. "Julia's heading home."
“You're joking."
"Nope."
He tried to get past me, and I moved in front of him. "Tell you what," I said. "We'll stay here for a minute or two, and then I'll give you a ride to the Redbird Motel to meet up with your campaign guy. How's that?"
He said something with lots of syllables that probably wouldn't endear him to the League of Women Voters, and he called out, "Julia! What the hell is going on here? C'mon, don't you care anymore?"
She kept quiet and grabbed her tickets, and walked by, heading toward the lobby and the outdoors, and James stuck a hand out to stop her and I moved it back, saying, "Let's be polite, all right?"
Two words, one being "you," and the other not being "you," and he tried to follow Julia out of the gift shop. He said, "Julia, don't you leave me! Damn it, don't you leave me! I'm not going to let you ---"
Then he shut up, real quick, since as he went by, I grabbed his right hand, tightening my grip on his thumb, and then pulled it around and tucked his arm up toward his back. My friend Detective Sergeant Diane Woods had taught me this move --- called a come-along --- some years ago, and rarely have I ever felt such pain.
"Oooh," James said, stopping, his legs getting weak. I leaned in, whispering in his ear, "Don't move, don't say a word, or your thumb gets shattered. If I have your attention, say yes."
"Yes," he whispered back.
"Good," I said. "Now. You and I are going to stay in this lovely little gift shop, and we're going to admire their sweatshirt collection, and you're going to be a good boy. All right? Say yes again if you understand."
"Yes," he murmured.
"Nicely done," I said. Stephanie stood behind the gift counter, taking it all in, and her face had no expression. She was letting me be, which made me quite happy, for I wasn't sure what she would do about what was going on here, despite our casual friendship. And the lack of customers to see what was happening made me even happier.
Outside I saw Julia, standing by herself, and she stood there and I stood in the gift shop, holding the hand of a male college student from Massachusetts, and I thought that was a pretty odd way to start one's morning, no matter how you looked at it.
Then a white passenger van pulled up, and Julia quickly walked into an open door. I waited for a moment, to see if she was going to wave good-bye or look back or somehow acknowledge that I was there, which would have been sweet, but no, the door to the van was shut by the driver and it drove away. So much for sweetness.
I let James go. "There. Feel better?"
He turned, rubbing his hand, face red, and he said, "You son of a bitch, I'll have you arrested! Right now! See how that makes your day!"
I shrugged. "Give it a go. You're young, a college student, and a college student from Massachusetts. I live here, I know all the cops and most of the lawyers. We'll see who'll have the better day."
Another rub of his hand and another string of curses, and I felt disappointed in the caliber of today's college youth, since I had known all of those curses years ago when I was his age.
When he was finished with his latest outburst, I said, "Come on, let's go."
"What the hell do you mean, let's go?"
"You need a ride to the Redbird Motel. I said I'd give you a ride. Ready?"
Another two-word exclamation and he said, "No way in hell I'm getting a ride from you! Asshole ... I'd rather walk!"
"Fine," I said. "Have a good day canvassing."
"Sure! And another thing ... I made a half dozen phone calls last night from your phone. Long distance. Take that, sucker!"
He charged out of the gift shop, and I called after him --- though I doubted he heard me --- "Not to worry, I've got unlimited long distance. For just thirty bucks a month."
Stephanie finally said something, but started off with a loud laugh. "Oh, that's a good one."
I turned to face her. "Enjoy the show?"
"In a way, yes," she said, pulling together my morning newspapers. "You did well."
"Glad I could provide you with entertainment."
"Better than none. Here's your papers."
"Thanks," I said, pulling out my wallet, but Stephanie laughed. "Nope. On the house. You go along and read your papers, Lewis. Have a good one."
I put the papers under my arm. "I'm going to try, if the gods let me."
But the gods must have been otherwise occupied, for once again, in the lobby of the Lafayette House, I met up with Chuck Bittner, the rep from the Tucker Grayson campaign, who stood there, arms crossed, his pudgy face glowing.
"Mr. Cole," he said.
"Mr. Bittner," I said. "What, you live here?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. For the duration of the campaign."
"I hope the Lafayette House is charging you full freight."
"I'm sure they are," he said. "Last time, you gave me three hundred seconds. May I request half of that this morning?"
I shifted the papers from one arm to another. "All right. One hundred fifty seconds. Go ahead."
He looked at his watch. "At this time tomorrow, if you haven't agreed to make a statement on behalf of the Grayson campaign, we're going to publicize your Pentagon background and something new as well, something that has just come to our attention."
"And what's that? My unpaid parking tickets from the city of Boston?"
"No," he said, his voice triumphant. "A revelation about your background with Barbara Hale. Your choice. Either the word comes out and it comes from you, or it comes from us. And you get some very nasty news media attention. You come out in support of General Grayson, and you don't have to say anything about Mrs. Hale. Just your support of the Grayson campaign would be enough."
I thought about that, thought about what it might do to the Hale campaign, how Barbara would feel, God, how Annie would feel ...
Remembered Annie's plea. No more bad news, please, she had said. No more bad news about you and Hale.
"No," I said. "No, what?"
"No, I'm not going to say anything tomorrow, and no, neither will you."
He laughed, unfolded his arms. "Or what?"
"Or you'll regret it."
A smile was still on his face, and he reached over and grabbed my upper arm, squeezing it hard. "Mr. Cole, I may be retired navy, but I'm still in shape. Much better shape than you, I would guess. If anyone's going to be hurt, it's going to be you. And if you think you can threaten me, prevent me, stop me from doing what's right for General Grayson's campaign, then I just have three words for you. Bring it on."
I pulled my arm free, nodded, and walked past him. "Consider it brought."
Outside the sun was still shining and it looked like the day might improve, when I got to my Ford Explorer and saw that some thoughtful person had keyed both sides of my vehicle. On the passenger's side it was just a series of scratches, but on the driver's side, inspiration must have set in, for scratched in the paint was PIG.
Not very imaginat
ive, but the point had been made. I got in and went home.
At home I went through the papers and made two phone calls to Felix Tinios, but he wasn't home or reachable through his cell phone. I got his to-the-point message twice: "Leave your name and number," which I did. An attempt to reach Annie was also equally unsuccessful.
Usually I like to take my time going through the morning papers, contrasting and comparing the different coverage and editorials, but this morning, well, there was too much going on. I had a late breakfast and even later shower, and as I was putting on a pair of socks, the phone rang.
"Lewis?"
"Hey, it's the soon-to-be-famous Paula Quinn," I replied. The expected laugh didn't come from the Tyler Chronicle's best reporter, but what she said next made me close my eyes in embarrassment. "Not famous enough, if you forgot our lunch date today. I'm all by myself at the Harborview Restaurant."
I said something that James had said just that morning, and then said, "Ten minutes," and I finished dressing and got the hell out.
By the time the check arrived and I had passed along my credit card to the waitress, overruling Paula's earlier promise to pay, Paula's mood had improved. Some time ago we had shared a brief romance that hadn't panned out, and after some rough patches, we were doing well. Odd, but I didn't have that vaguely uncomfortable and queasy feeling with her that I had with Barbara Scott Hale. Maybe it was because Barbara was married and Paula wasn't, or that there was still a sense of unfinished business with Barbara and me and none with Paula, but I didn't want to think too much about it. Instead, I just sat and enjoyed lunch with her, admiring her little upturned nose, her smile, and the cute way her ears would sometimes poke through her blond hair.
Despite its name, the Harborview was in the center of Tyler proper, and only by standing on the roof and holding on to the fake cupola could anyone see a view of Tyler Harbor. Still, it's a popular place with the locals and tourists, and today, even in January, it was fairly busy. We sat in a booth that overlooked a mound of plowed, dirty snow in the parking lot, the cars and SUVs out there lightened by a faint white sheen that comes from the salt dumped on the roads to keep them clear.
I looked around and said, "I get the feeling most of these people won't be here come the day after Primary Day."
"So true," she said, sipping at her second iced tea. "You know the musical and movie Brigadoon?"
"Sure. About a mythical Scottish village that only appears to the rest of the world every hundred years or so."
"That's right. And this little state of ours is like Brigadoon. For three years in a row, we're just a little backwater, the prickly state north of Massachusetts that is mostly ignored by the rest of the world. Then ... in that fourth year, something magical happens. This little state of just over a million people becomes power central. Pretty funny, isn't it. This little state of tax avoiders and sensible-shoe wearers and independent cusses plays a prominent role in who the quote leader of the free world unquote is going to be. If anyone had a question of whether God had a sense of humor, our little state and how we pick the president should settle it."
"And how are you doing?"
She smiled. "I love it. Honest to God I do. You know why?"
"Access," I said.
She stuck her tongue out at me. "Show-off. Yes, absolutely, access. The candidates need to get their message out to the locals, and the locals don't trust the big media, even the not-so-big media from Boston. So us little folks get all the attention from the candidates and their campaigns. When most times some local police chiefs enjoy their power trips by not calling us back in a day or so, it's wonderful to have media reps calling from Washington or Manhattan, wanting to know if we'd like to have a private, one-on-one lunch with the candidate that day. It's delightful"
The waitress came back with the check, and when she left I said, "So. Primary Day next Tuesday. Who's going to win?"
Paula said, "Well, of course, that depends on who you talk to, or who's going to spin what. The easiest prediction is that the junior senator from our southern neighbor, Nash Pomeroy, should win it in a walk. Favorite son and all that. And that's what his campaign is pumping ... then there's Senator Hale. A Southern boy who one wouldn't think would do well in New Hampshire, but he just won in Iowa, and people love a winner. So it depends on whether, one, the voters want to vote for a winner, or two, vote for somebody else to shake things up so that New Hampshire isn't taken for granted."
"You hear anything about the Hale campaign?"
She made a face. "Considering who you're spending time with, I'd think you'd have an inside track on that."
"Maybe yes, maybe no. What do you hear?"
"Me? Usual stuff. Campaign in chaos, moving forward on momentum, need a win here in New Hampshire to bring in more big bucks for the Southern primaries. But even if he comes in second-or third, which I doubt-he'll stay in it for a while. He's from the South. Lots of primaries coming up in the South."
"That's it? No other gossip or dark tales or rumors?"
"If there is, I haven't heard it."
"How about General Grayson? Or Congressman Wallace?
How are they going to do next Tuesday?"
She finished off her iced tea. "In a purely logical, mathematical sense, they will lose. But I'll predict here and now, my friend, each will declare himself a winner, no matter the outcome. They'll play the expectations game. Each side will tell pollsters and columnists and reporters that their internal polls only have them winning five percent of the vote, so when they actually win ten percent of the vote, all these sober-minded reporters can write inspiring stories of how they did better than expected, and how this has breathed new life in the struggling campaign of blah, blah, blah."
I reached behind me for my coat. "So. Who do you think's going to win?"
Paula made me laugh by lowering her voice, pretending to be some sort of television anchorman, and announcing, "Well, Lewis, the American people will win next Tuesday, of course .... "
Outside there was no breeze and the thin January sunlight felt good on my face. I walked Paula to her car and she said, "You and Annie ... how's it going?"
"Goes well, between campaign meetings and appearances." She grabbed my hand. "Good. You make it work, or I'll hurt you. Understand? She's good people, and I like what she's done to your mood."
"Thanks for the advice. And how's the town counsel, Mr. Spencer, treating you?"
She looked embarrassed and suddenly ten years younger.
"He's ... he's fine ... and you know what?"
"What?"
She touched her left ear, just for a moment. "He ... thinks I should get my ears done. Flatten them so they don't poke out like they do. What do you think?"
I kissed her cheek. "I think he's a bonehead, that's what I think."
At home I tried to spend some productive time in front of the computer, to come up again with a snappy column idea for June, and after a half hour or so of false starts, it just wasn't happening. Then I logged on to the Internet, to see what nonsense was being written about the primary and my home state, and after some time slogging through stories written by reporters who think it's charming as all hell that most of the small towns here still have white clapboard churches around grassy town commons, I spent some time searching for something about Barbara Hale and her famous husband.
I didn't find much. Through the magical powers of the Internet, I found some old file stories written when Hale was first elected senator, and a nice profile in the Washington Post's Style section, written after Hale had announced his candidacy, but not much else. It was odd to call up a search system on the Internet, and see dozens and dozens of photos of a woman who you once were intimate with, knowing that your mind's eye had clearer and better photos than what existed in the digital universe.
I also viewed some video clips as well, Barbara appearing with her husband, almost stuck to his side, as he appeared at campaign rallies in Iowa and Michigan and, yes, of course, New Hampshire. And in
those clips, I saw her smile, saw her enthusiasm, and saw her devotion to her spouse, and something just didn't seem right.
Why would anyone want to kill her? What would be the point? Was she overreacting, and the real attempt had been against her husband, like everyone else thought?
And for God's sake, what in hell was Spenser Harris's role in all of this, and who had killed him and dumped him in my yard?
I looked at the clips, again and again, and there was a little tickling at the back of my skull, just the barest hint that something was wrong, and whatever it was, it was gone, the minute the phone rang.
Yes?" I answered.
"You rang?"
It was Felix Tinios, and I spun around in my chair and put my feet up on the nearest windowsill and said, "Thanks for calling me back. Sounds like you're at a hog-calling festival or something equally charming."
He sighed. "I wish. Days like this, you get a better class of people at a hog-calling festival. Nope, I'm at O'Hare, ready to come home in an hour."
"Chicago? What in hell are you doing there?"
"My new job, son. Oppo for the Pomeroy campaign."
"A Massachusetts senator, and you're in Illinois?"
"The world of the oppo researcher travels far and wide. Especially when your subject has some interesting hobbies, none of which I'm going to mention over an open line. What's up with you?"
"You going to be tired when you get home?"
"Probably."
"Feel like a job?"
"A job? From you?"
"Yep."
Felix said cautiously, "It's ... it's not a moving job, is it?"
"God, no," I said. "I've had enough of those to last a lifetime. Nope, something else. Tell me, ever see the movie All the President's Men?"
"Sure. Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford. You got a newspaper job lined up for me?"
"Nope. Something else."
"Oh ... okay, I got it. What time suits you?" "Flying into Boston or Manchester?"
Primary Storm Page 15