Harry had already debated with himself whether or not to reveal to Hank his plan to infiltrate the Bradfield organization, and had decided against it. He and Hank were good buddies, but you don’t even tell your best friend something so secret. You shouldn’t even tell it to yourself, for godsakes. “I’m meeting Slade and Drew and Oates this afternoon,” Harry said.
“And you’re saying what? ‘Please give Lydia back to us’?”
“I’m making them an offer they can’t refuse,” Harry said with a smile.
“Damn you, Harry, don’t keep me in the dark. If I haven’t heard from you again by sundown, I’m calling the police.”
Harry assured Hank Endicott that he would report back to him, he hoped before sundown. Then he spent the rest of the morning at the Little Rock Public Library, not that there was anything he needed to research, but just to touch bases with librarian Bob Razer, who had become his good friend since their first meeting months earlier. Razer had helped him research the dossiers on the five former chiefs of staff who had worked for Governor Bradfield, not one of them for longer than six months, and had permitted him access to some arcane databases not open to the public. Razer made no secret of his own contempt for Shoat Bradfield and was only too happy to help Harry “dethrone” him (Razer’s word). Now Harry just wanted to chat. He said nothing about Lydia’s kidnapping, nor his own plan to infiltrate the Bradfield organization. The only reference to the campaign was indirect: he told Bob Razer that he had stopped en route to the Northwest Arkansas Airport yesterday to visit with Professor Daniel Levine at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville, and had picked up a copy of his translation of De Architectura Antiqua Arcadiae, which Harry had mentioned to Razer before, and the existence of which Razer knew about because of his familiarity with The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks (though he was suspicious about the book because he had stopped believing in fairy tales in the fourth grade).
Harry patted his Compaq laptop. “I’ve scanned it right into my hard drive. I read most of it last night. And it does indeed reveal everything that would happen to Vernealos Anqualdou for the rest of his life. Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Maybe you’d better not tell me,” Razer said. “It would take all the fun out of watching Ingledew rising up against Bradfield.”
Harry laughed. “I know. And I sort of wish I hadn’t already learned the outcome of the election myself.”
Harry did not tell him, because he couldn’t divulge Lydia’s kidnapping, that there was no mention in the ancient Roman text of any female on Anqualdou’s staff who was abducted by the opposition. This had slightly disappointed Harry, just as he’d been disappointed that there was no mention that Anqualdou had a crafty henchman whose job was to uncover all the secrets of the opposition, and to rescue that female assistant. The trouble with prophetic stories is that they can’t always bother themselves with every little detail of the future.
Before he could go off for his showdown with the Bradfield thugs, Harry had one more visit to make. For lunch at Cuzins, a sports café, his companion was Garth Rucker. Garth was flabbergasted that Harry didn’t order a drink, and Harry had to fabricate an excuse.
“My stomach’s been bothering me,” Harry said, which wasn’t entirely a fib. Out of consideration perhaps, Garth ordered simply a beer instead of his usual Scotch-and-soda. In their close association, Harry had gradually developed a tolerance if not a liking for the fiendish and ratfaced little fellow in tweeds and spectacles who was now officially his Deputy Director of Opposition Research, and who indeed had been earning his salary. Harry had decided that he didn’t want Garth involved in the plot to rescue Lydia, and he wasn’t even going to tell Garth that Lydia was missing, but he did explain the motive of his own trip to Little Rock: he told Garth about the scheme of killing off the negative campaign by making it too intrusive and unpalatable. Garth was incredulous at first, but the more Harry told him about the idea, and the more examples Harry offered of “Vernon’s Vices,” the more Garth began to understand and appreciate the maneuver. Garth wasn’t simple-minded, his tongue to the contrary. It had been Garth’s clever observations and hunches which had led to the discovery in Portland, Oregon, of the Reverend Dixon’s former child-mistress, the hymn-singer, and it had also been Garth’s powers of persuasion, slicker than Harry could have mustered, which persuaded the young lady to return to Arkansas.
“So very shortly you’ll be the Chief Director of Opposition Research for the Ingledew campaign,” Harry informed him.
“I will? Where are you going?” Garth wondered.
“I’m joining the Bradfield campaign,” Harry said with a smile.
“What?” Garth cried. “You couldn’t!”
“But I am. Tell me, do you think they’ll let me replace Rafferty Oates? Or just become his assistant, or what? Do you personally know Rafferty?”
“Oh, hell yes, Raff and I go way back. And he’s not going to give up his job to you, even if you are Harry Wolfe. They’ll probably have to fire him! Which they could easily do. After all, what has he done for them? Except for enhancing some of those albatrosses which he never discovered in the first place. No, I think that they’ll give him the bum’s rush as soon as you show up. But I can’t believe you’ll do it.”
“Thanks, Garth. That’s all I need to know, that Rafferty Oates is dispensable.” When lunch was over, he got Garth to give him a ride over to Republican Headquarters in its swank location on Chenal Parkway.
As they were shaking hands, Harry said, “Be sure to watch the ten o’clock news tonight. You might see me. You might see me and Lydia too.”
“Oh? Is she in town?”
“I believe she is,” Harry said, and then got out of the car and entered the site of his showdown. He was impressed with Republican Headquarters: the place looked ultra festive and ultra patriotic and ultra upper-class. If Lydia was being held hostage in Republican Headquarters, she was living in style. It lacked the homey touches that Monica had imparted to Democratic Headquarters in Fayetteville. The contrast between the two pointed up a central difference in the candidates’ support: anybody who was well off and comfortable and satisfied with life and the status quo was going to vote for Bradfield; Ingledew would pick up only the less wealthy and the discontented and people who thought too much for their own good.
His appointment was for two o’clock and he was fifteen minutes early, but they were waiting for him. “Welcome to Li’l Rawk,” Billy Joe Slade said, pumping his hand. “I ’spect it aint your first visit, though, is it? Ah moan make ya comfy.”
“Good to see you again, Harry,” Carleton Drew said. “Make me happy when I guess why you’re here.”
Did Carleton know that he’d come to get Lydia? “Guess away, Carleton,” Harry said.
Rafferty Oates’ handshake was only half-hearted and he wasn’t smiling. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Mr. Wolfe. And I wish I could call it a pleasure, but I can’t.”
“I doubt if anything pleases you,” Harry observed.
Billy Joe Slade asked, “Y’et yet?”
Harry had a bit of difficulty understanding him. “Excuse me?” he said.
“Y’et yet?” Slade said again, and when Harry continued his failure to grasp it, Slade pantomimed the forking of food into his mouth, and Harry realized he was asking him if he had yet eaten.
“Oh, yes, I had lunch with Garth Rucker at a place called Cuzins,” Harry declared.
They ushered him into an inner sanctum with comfortable chairs. Billy Joe closed the door and said, “Ah moan fix ya a drink. Whatja like?”
It was the second time Slade had uttered Ah moan and Harry was beginning to realize that it was short for I am going to. He shook his head. “Thanks, but I haven’t had a drop for a week. Doctor’s orders. My stomach.”
“Well, then, I reckon none us boys gonna drink nothing neither,” Billy Joe said. “But they’s sody pop ove are if ya git thirsty.” He gestured and Harry unders
tood that ove are meant over there. Billy Joe sat down and clapped his hands together as if summoning a servant. “So. Well now yessireebob. Let’s us hear what all goodies you’ve brung us.”
“You made me an offer,” Harry said. “Remember?”
“What kind of a offer?” Slade said. “Oh. Yeah. Back when we tried to give you a job?”
“Yes. In fact, you said that if I’d tell you how much Ingledew was paying me, you’d double it.” He turned to Carleton Drew. “Did they double your salary?”
Carleton grinned. “Pretty much,” he said.
“We figured you must have got an offer you couldn’t refuse,” Harry said to him. “But we also figured you must have had other reasons for leaving us.”
“Like the leopard, I couldn’t change my spots,” Drew said. And when nobody laughed at his wit, he took the trouble to explain, “My TV spots. I’m proud of my spots, and Ingledew wouldn’t let me make them.”
“So you had an ulterior motive besides the money,” Harry said. “Likewise, I’m not just looking for money. But let’s start with that. I’m making seven a month. Will you pay me fourteen a month?”
Billy Joe Slade coughed and said, “Well heck now that’s a whole lot and I’d have to clear it with the Big Boss. But a man of your talents, shit, you’d be worth every bit of that. Why don’t you just hang on a second, and I’ll put in a quick call to the top.” Slade reached for the phone, punched one button, and said, “Martha. Billy Joe. Is he in? Let me talk to ’im.” A few moments later, he said, “Boss, yeah, just like you figured, he’s ready to talk turkey. But this is one humongous turkey. He wants fourteen a month. Yeah, that’s right. What? Well, hang on and I’ll ask him.” Slade redirected his attention to Harry. “He wants to know what you’ve got on Ingledew that we don’t already know.”
“I don’t know where to begin,” Harry said, picturing all of Vernon’s Vices in his mind. “For starters, how about this? He’s been ingesting peyote with a redskin chick who would knock your eyes out.”
“Huh? What’s pay oatie?”
“It’s a cactus that produces tubercles which have narcotic properties. It’s also called mescal.”
“Aw yeah,” Billy Joe said. “Hang on.” And he relayed this information into the phone. Then he reported back, “He wants to know how come Raff never found out nothing about that. Huh, Raff?”
“I think Wolfe is making this up,” Rafferty Oates said. “Ingledew doesn’t know any redskin chicks.”
“Have you seen his little black book?” Harry asked Oates.
“What book?” Oates wanted to know.
“He keeps this black book,” Harry said. “Only it isn’t so little. I’ve not only seen it but I’ve scanned it into my computer.” He patted his Compaq laptop. “It’s pretty damned extensive. Did you know that he has in it the names and phone numbers of hundreds of women in Newton County and all over Northwest Arkansas?”
“You’re making that up!” Raff Oates protested petulantly, but Billy Joe was back on the phone excitedly relaying this information to the Governor. The conversation continued a while longer, and then Billy Joe said, “Will do, Boss! Let the good times roll!” and he hung up and said to Raff Oates, “Boss said for you to take a walk.”
“Take a walk where?” Oates wanted to know.
“Go to N’Orleans and have a good time. Whatever. We don’t need you no more.”
“Well, screw that!” Raff recommended, snapping shut his briefcase and preparing to leave.
“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass, Raff,” Billy Joe said.
Actually, Harry was pleased to notice, the door did strike Rafferty Oates on his hip as he slammed it behind him. Harry conjectured that a man like Oates, seeking revenge for his dismissal, would promptly offer his services to the Ingledew campaign and would tell them all he knew about Bradfield’s sins. Here was a situation, now, Harry hadn’t bargained for but was potentially very useful, because in order for the anti-defamation scheme to succeed through over-saturation, the Ingledew campaign had to be able to match the Bradfield campaign’s imputations, slander for slander. That would not only give the public indigestion that much sooner, but also, just in case anybody believed any of the shit about Ingledew, it would give them plenty of fresh shit about Bradfield.
But one thing was beginning to bother Harry. Didn’t Rafferty Oates know about the kidnapping of Lydia? Why hadn’t he threatened to expose them, if he did? Or maybe only Slade and the Governor himself knew about it. Maybe they’d kept it secret even from Carleton Drew.
“Fourteen a month,” Billy Joe said to Harry. “Jesus, I don’t make that much myself! But welcome aboard. You need a office or anything? A car maybe?”
“There’s one little catch,” Harry said.
“Aw-aw!” Billy Joe exclaimed. “I was afraid of this. What is it?”
“I suppose I should have mentioned it before you told Oates to take a hike. You might want him back if you’re not willing to make this deal with me. I will make the switch and accept the fourteen a month, but like Carleton I’ve got an ulterior motive too, besides the money. I want you to let Lydia go.”
Billy Joe looked genuinely puzzled, a great job of acting. “Lydia who?” he said. “Go where?”
“Lydia Caple!” Harry snapped. “What other Lydia is there?”
Billy Joe exchanged looks with Carleton Drew, and Carleton looked as puzzled, if not more so. “Let her go?” Carleton said.
“Okay,” Harry said. “Maybe she voluntarily joined up with you people, just like I’m doing. If so, I want to know that. If you’ve forcibly taken her, I want to know that. My services for Bradfield do not begin until she appears, one way or the other, is that clear? Where is she?”
“Well, holy shit, Harry,” Billy Joe said, spreading his hands. “Fuck a duck and crying out loud. This is total news to me. Let me check with the Boss.” And he punched his phone again and said “Martha, git him quick.” And then, “Hey Boss, Harry Wolfe thinks we’ve got Lydia Caple. Look under your desk and see if she’s hiding anywheres. No kidding, Boss. Okay, here.” He handed the phone to Harry. “Boss wants a word with ya.”
Harry Wolfe spoke for the first time with his former arch nemesis, the object of all his snooping, Governor Patrick Thomas “Shoat” Bradfield, who said, “Hey, Mr. Wolfe, let me say how thrilled I am to have you as part of my team, and I sure do hope we’ll make beautiful music together. But what’s this about Lydia Caple missing? I haven’t heard a word. How come it’s not on the news?”
Harry tried to determine the degree of sincerity in the man’s words, and had to admit to himself that there was no tinge of dissembling. “She’s apparently been kidnapped,” he said. “She just disappeared. Naturally suspicion has fallen upon you.”
“Well, goddamn it, why would we kidnap her? Do they think that we’d do something like that without giving a thought to being the Number One Suspect? Of course we wouldn’t! I’m not that dumb. Here, I’m on another line to the head of the State Police, and we’ll have every available man out looking for her. Hell, we’ll call in every available man from his sleep or his fucking or his fishing spot!”
Harry was obliged to explain to the governor the agreement with the Newton County Sheriff’s Department to keep Lydia’s disappearance a secret for forty-eight hours, but he realized he was talking to a vacant line. The Governor was on another line, talking to someone else, and when he came back and Harry had to repeat himself, the Governor said, “Too late, I’ve already mobilized the entire state police. Naturally the FBI will come in too, and if they want to grill me, or grill any of my men, they’re welcome to do it. But believe me, Harry, I didn’t have anything to do with it. Now let me talk to Billy Joe again.”
And Harry passed the phone back to Billy Joe and Harry listened intently to catch any note of complicity or duplicity in Billy Joe’s voice, but Billy Joe sounded genuinely alarmed by the news. Harry’s lovely dream of the Hollywood movie disintegrated, and he realized it wouldn’
t have done him any good if he’d had a pistol. Now all he could do was turn his attention to the big question: If the Bradfield people hadn’t abducted Lydia, who had?
“My God, this is just awful,” Billy Joe said to Harry when he hung up. “You might just have to hold back a little on all that juicy stuff you’ve got on Ingledew, until this is over. Boss says he’s going to call a moratorium on the whole fucking campaign until Lydia has been found.” Billy Joe turned to Carleton Drew. “He wants to go on the evening news to make an announcement to that effect. Tonight.”
When Governor Bradfield appeared on the ten o-clock news, Harry was already drunk in his room at the Capital Hotel, and had just enough sentience to make out what the governor was saying. From the moment that Lydia had first been discovered missing, Harry had denied himself the sustenance of his liquor, because he needed to remain absolutely clear-headed throughout his plot to rescue her, but now that he was convinced Bradfield hadn’t perpetrated the deed, there was nothing holding him back, and he killed off a quart between supper and the ten o’clock news. He tried to call Garth Rucker, but got no answer and could only leave a drunken message on his message machine. He succeeded in calling Hank Endicott, and Hank offered to come and help him get drunk, but he had passed the point of social drinking. He managed to slur to Hank the basic facts: it did not appear that Bradfield had anything to do with Lydia’s disappearance. Goddamn it. Watch what the fucking governor has to say on the news and then finish your fucking column and stick it in tomorrow’s paper.
The next morning’s issue of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, when Harry retrieved it from beside his door sometime in the late afternoon, did indeed have a whole column of Hank Endicott’s devoted to the disappearance of Lydia Caple, but it was overshadowed by a front page article on the subject, with lesser articles on the reactions of Shoat Bradfield and Vernon Ingledew, and even an editorial decrying the disappearance of a woman who had once been a dear colleague of the paper’s editorialists. Harry phoned room service for a turkey sandwich and another quart of bourbon, and he stayed in bed.
The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 2 Page 134