by Wells, Tobin
“I hate this background music,” Jack said.
“What is it?” asked Porter.
“Some new age, jazz-infused, baroque-impressed, avante garde, and whatever other pretentious bullshit term Mr. Holland could come up with.”
“Oh, so you met with him?” asked Porter.
“Biggest pain in my ass, and I don’t mean that because he’s gay,” said Jack, displaying a wide smile. “That dude had me go through every last detail of the night. He chose the music, wrote the copy for both his speech and the guy who will introduce him, decided on the background to display between each event, and told me the exact moment when the lights are to be dimmed. I know I’ve never met a control freak like him before. Plus, he wouldn't let me hear any of it. That prick made me wait outside as he rehearsed for over two hours. He knows the media will carry this as the lead story on their 11 o’clock news and he wants to bask in his own glory.”
“No kidding,” said a smiling Porter, anxious for the night to unfold.
*****
"T-minus one minute," said Jack as he watched Holland and a few others assemble on the stage. "Let's light the candle."
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began Darin Haddad, Holland’s campaign chairman, “I want to formally welcome you as we celebrate what I think most of you already know. And what is it that you already know?” Haddad waited for someone in the audience to say, “Holland for Governor,” because the teleprompter instructed him to do so. “That’s partially it,” Haddad continued. “No, the reason we are here tonight is because Attorney General James Holland is a power-hungry narcissist who sees his coronation to the Governor’s mansion as his birth right.” This time, Haddad paused on his own. He gave a quick glance behind him where Holland was seated, unsure why Holland had chosen those words as a way to lighten the mood. Holland returned his gaze with a quizzical expression; not wanting to alarm the crowd that anything was unplanned, but wholly befuddled as to why his campaign chief would disparage his character, especially in the introduction.
Haddad turned back to the audience and continued, “No, seriously, folks. We’re here to celebrate Attorney General Holland’s desire to advance our state to its true potential. And the most effective way for him to achieve that is to be our chief executive officer.” The crowd needed no prompting for applause. As it dinned, Haddad said, “So please, put your hands together for the first openly gay candidate seeking the highest office in the state; our future Governor of the great state of West Virginia, James Holland.” The background music playing a selection from the big band era screeched to a halt and Queen’s “Killer Queen” blared as Holland made his way to the podium. Porter and Jack howled with laughter in the control room.
Seething on the inside from the introduction, Holland did not register the irony of the song welcoming him to the podium as he greeted Haddad in the standard political embrace. To the audience, the two were all hugs and smiles as the they faced the crowd. Away from the pick-up of the microphone, Holland breathed fire through his smile. “What the hell were you doing?”
“Just reading the prompter,” said Haddad defensively.
“The hell you were,” barked Holland quietly. “That ad-lib shit just cost you your chairmanship. And gay? That’s just a rumor.”
As the crowd continued their applause while Freddie Mercury serenaded the would-be governor, Haddad ended his discussion with Holland in protest, “I didn’t ad-lib one word. I read it just as you wrote it.”
Holland stood at the podium waiting for the applause to fade. “Thank you, Darin. Everyone, let’s give a big round of applause for the state’s best campaign manager, Darin Haddad.” On cue, the crowd responded. Porter sat in his cocoon waiting for the next line. “And thank you for the wonderful welcome you showed me; and I don’t mean just tonight. For the past 18 years you have welcomed me as one of your trusted leaders, and for that I will never be able to fully express my gratitude. Who would have believed that an assistant pastor from a small church, with no money and no connections could ever get elected as a state representative? And then as a state senator, and then as attorney general for these last eight years. How is that possible? Well, all of you know. Don’t you?” His supporters offered scattered yes’s, uh-huh’s, and yeah’s. “Of course you do. It’s because I took bribes and extorted many of you.” Holland stared at the teleprompter in disbelief. He had read the words like a newscaster reads the copy; without regard for the meaning. The crowd offered some nervous laughter thinking this was a continuation of Haddad’s unconventional introduction. Holland’s brow moistened as he decided how to proceed. If he waited too long to continue, the crowd would sense something amiss. But to speak off the cuff would risk an inconsistent delivery of the most important political speech of his career and worse…terrible media coverage. He chose to forge ahead and catch the words inserted by the only other person who had access to the speech. Holland smirked a bit as he thought of the pain he would inflict on Jack.
“I’m only kidding, folks,” Holland said, thankful the text offered him a recovery line. “My success is the result of your unwavering trust in me and my judgment to do that which is in the best interest of the greatest state in the Union.” Holland relaxed a bit as he recognized the text as his own. “Tonight, I ask you to trust my judgment once more. It is my firm belief that West Virginia is on the precipice of greatness. For far too long we have been the butt of the nation’s joke.” The crowd roared in spontaneous agreement. “Are your parents siblings?” “No!” the crowd shouted. “Did we invent the tooth brush because we only had one tooth to clean?” “No!” they responded even louder. “Do we speak unintelligibly, live in trailer parks, and smoke meth?” “No!” answered most. “Of course we do,” said Holland, forcing a smile in the hopes the crowd would see this last comment as a joke. Damn you Jack, he thought.
“No, my friends, we are a strong people; the strongest in the nation. Do we have our challenges? Sure. But, I’ll take a hillbilly against a Buckeye, a California hippie, or a damn Yankee any day of the week.” The supporters roared once again. Holland knew he had drawn them back in…even if that last line was not his. “Who needs the busy streets of New York to be a success? Who needs the glamour of Hollywood to affirm who they are? We don’t need the concrete jungle of Chicago or the godless streets of Las Vegas to complete us. No, we are made whole by the dirt under our feet, the family around our tables, and the genuine concern we have for our fellow Mountaineer.” A raucous celebration came from the guests. Holland inhaled the power he drew from them, certain his speech was now his own. “I say let them have their plastic surgery, their $5,000 suits and vacations to Aspen and Hawaii. All I need to be complete is for someone to take me home down those country roads.” His reference to John Denver’s “Country Roads”, the unofficial state song, was understood by all and an impromptu singing of its chorus broke out.
As the chorus died down and the crowd in firm agreement with his ethnocentric diatribe, Holland continued. “We know how to do the hard and important things in life. Didn’t a small group of fearless men create our state by abandoning the horrific principles of slavery? Think about that. Our ancestors created a state out of whole cloth because of an idea. We chose to allow all to live free and pursue that foundational aspect of our nation’s declaration…the pursuit of happiness. Are we pursuing that today? Are you, the powerful class of West Virginia pursuing happiness? Are your inbred relatives pursuing happiness?” Shit, thought Holland. Without hesitation Holland continued, “I say we are not. We have let others dictate what we think about ourselves for decades and it is time we stopped and became our own people. And as Governor, I will lead us into becoming our own once again."
The crowd roared with thunderous applause. Sensing a crescendo building, Holland cut short their affirmation and continued. "As I was preparing for tonight, I came across a word that I believe exemplifies what my future administration will do to afford all Mountaineers their pursuit of happiness. That word…” Hollan
d abruptly halted his speech as he paused to stare at the teleprompter. That can’t be, he thought.
His trance was broken by an audience member shouting, “What’s the word?”
Holland regained his composure and looked back out over the crowd. Then said slowly, “Porter.”
His hands gripped the sides of the podium so tightly his knuckles went white. “You see, that word has multiple meanings,” Holland said, carefully following the prepared text. “So what kind of porter can I be for our great state? Am I a dark beer? Obviously not. However, I do tend to drink to excess quite frequently.” Holland forced a laugh to join with those in the audience. “Am I a porter who carries the burdens of the citizenry? Or maybe a porter who carries the baggage left by so many of our past and present political leaders…and yes, I am speaking directly to our chief carpet bagger Senator Rockefeller.” This caught many by surprise as they stifled their laughter. His philosophical generalizations were now specific, and overtly hostile to their senior Senator; the one who drove truckloads of money from Washington back to the hills. But the low rumble of laughs confirmed what Holland knew, that most still considered the Senator a rich outsider who only moved to the state to advance his political career.
“But seriously,” Holland continued. “When was the last time any of you saw me do manual labor?” More laughter. “No, the definition I hope characterizes my administration’s dedication to our state is the porter who cleans up the messes made by others. To right the wrongs that those in power have refused to address. And to make those who would abuse their power to pay the highest price.” At this phrase, Holland turned from the teleprompter and looked directly into the darkened glass behind which Porter sat.
Jack turned to Porter and with some glee said, “He’s looking right at us, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is," said Porter facing the man he had manipulated. "Listen Jack, things are going to get really nasty for you after tonight.”
“What are you talking about, Phil?” asked Jack who was making mocking faces at an unknowing Holland.
“I mean Holland knows somebody changed the text of his speech and he is naturally going to think it was you.”
Jack stopped his playfulness and looked at Porter. “Wait. What? Those weren't his words? But I didn’t touch it. I just plugged and played.”
“I know that," said Porter. "But Holland won’t believe you and then he'll get creative in how he extracts the information he wants from you."
“Information? What the hell? I don’t have any information,” said an anxious Jack.
“Oh, but you do. You’ve seen me and even worse, allowed me to be alone with his property. He’ll trump up some charge on you and call it tampering with campaign material or something…anything. He won’t care. Legal or not, Holland will find a way to imprison you.”
“Dude, you fucked with his speech?” asked Jack incredulously. “Are you serious? And now you’ve drawn me into your mess? Hell no! I’m going straight to the cops.”
“To tell them what?” asked Porter. “That a guy named Phil, who doesn’t exist, changed the copy of Holland’s speech? I doubt they’ll buy that story and they sure won’t be able to protect you because Holland is their boss." Pausing to emphasis his final statement, Porter said, "You know in your bones that you need to get away from Holland.”
Jack considered this and agreed, “Shit, man. What am I gonna do?”
“You’re going to run,” said Porter. “Get in your vehicle now. Don’t tell anyone where you are going. Don’t contact anyone by any method, and never use your credit card. Holland will be on you in a minute if you do any of that. And park your car in a parking garage so he can’t track your plates.”
“But, I…” started Jack when Porter interrupted.
“You have maybe five minutes before Holland finishes his speech. Then he's going to send his security in here and once they have you, it will be a long time before you see the sun again.” Reaching into his pocket, Porter took out a thick wad of cash and offered it to Jack. “This is $20,000.” Jack’s eyes grew as wide as coffee saucers. “Use this for whatever you need but make it last for at least three months. It may take that long for this to blow over. If you get into a pinch, use a pay phone and call this number,” Porter said as he handed Jack the number to his answering service. “It notifies me what number you are calling from. Unless I’m dead, I’ll call you back within five minutes.”
Porter sensed his hesitation and said, “Jack, I’m sorry I had to lie to you. But Holland cannot be allowed to stay in his position of power, much less become Governor. You know this. Hell, the whole state knows this. So trust me and get out of here.”
Jack nodded his head and said, “You’re right.” After a second’s more consideration Jack asked, “You’re not going to kill him, are you? I can’t be an accomplice to any of that.”
“You have my word, Jack,” said Porter. “I won’t pull the trigger. I’ll just load the chamber.” With that assurance, Jack disappeared out the door.
Holland had turned back to face his audience but this time completely ignored the teleprompter. “My friends, in closing, I would like to ask you for your support, your vote, and most importantly your trust. I need your trust because our state is like a dove, or as our Spanish speaking friends say, a paloma.” Holland glanced at the darkened glass once again. Porter felt his adrenaline begin to course through his veins. “Isn’t that a beautiful word, paloma,” Holland gestured. “And our state, just like all delicate birds, needs handled with the greatest of care." Porter fought the urge to call Mario so as not to miss the message Holland was conveying.
"Palomas, like the citizens of West Virginia, deserve total freedom. But,” Holland continued, “both also need protection. What I will do as governor, just as I have done with law enforcement, is to have an inside guy. What do I mean by that? I mean that at every level we need to be in the inner circle of people’s problems to know exactly where to help. Be it education, commerce, welfare, wherever. We need to be as close to the problem as possible. As Attorney General, I have authorized numerous covert operations which have placed our people on the inside to root out the criminals. On more than one occasion, I have placed my men on the security teams of known drug cartels. One or more even to guard the family members of the cartel leaders regardless of where they traveled, be it Istanbul or Indianapolis." Porter went cold. "At any time, I can place a call and my men will take action. What action you might ask? The right action,” Holland snarled, as he again looked back at Porter. The crowd showed their approval but seemed less interested in the idea of moles inside criminal enterprises than the red meat Holland was feeding them about West Virginia being the best state in the Union. Porter was numb.
“So thank you again for your trust and your vote,” said Holland. “We can and will make our state the envy of the world. May God bless you and the great state of West Virginia. Good night.” Holland stepped to the side of the podium and offered the typical politician wave. He then turned to face Porter and stared.
Porter understood Holland’s message perfectly. Contacting Paloma now would tip off the mole he had next to her and be her death. Killing or kidnapping Holland was not an option as the mole likely had a daily check in time with Holland. If Holland didn’t answer, Paloma would die. He could be bluffing, Porter thought. No, he said Indianapolis. Shit!
Holland stepped from the stage and into the crowd. He greeted them with the clichés typical of every politician. “We’ve got great things planned,” and, “I couldn’t have gotten this far without you,” and, “I’m counting on your vote.” After thirty minutes of mingling, Holland said his goodbyes and made his way to the black stretched Hummer which awaited him at the Marriott's entrance.
*****
"He's in the car now," Connie said hurriedly into her earpiece, as she sat in the back of her rented black Tahoe. "He's leaving the hotel onto Lee Street; probably headed home. Wait, not home. He just cut through the Embassy Suites parking lot
and is turning onto Washington Street . He's going to the interstate," concern evident in her voice. "Is anybody near Holland's house? No? All right, get them coming my way."
*****
Inside the vehicle and a block from the hotel, Holland loosened his tie and said to his driver, “Holy Hell, I hate the public. Especially all those kiss-ass social climbers. Take me to the Black Curtain. I need a drink and a man in the worst way.”
“First, give me your phone,” came the driver's demand.
“What?” said a confused Holland.
“Your phone. Toss it up here.”
“Paul, are you out of your fu…” and then Holland saw Porter’s face. Holland dove for the door, but Porter had them locked as he accelerated to 65 miles per hour.
“You jump now and you’re in a coma at best. Give me your phone, and I’ll let you live.”
“Go to Hell!” said Holland.
“I’m sure I will, but I’d rather you get there first,” retorted Porter as he violently rocked the car, tossing Holland against both sides of the limo.
*****
"Something's happening," Connie reported. "Can you see him from the sky? Shit! Why the hell not?" she barked as the panic began to consume her thoughts. "Okay, well the limo just swerved hard. It was probably just Porter getting Holland's attention. Listen, if this goes bad, it'll happen fast. How far is the other team from downtown? Come on!" she yelled. "That's not going to be fast enough. You gotta get them here now!"
*****
“Give me your phone Holland!” shouted Porter as he pushed on the unconscious Paul whose limp body had slid next to him when he rocked the vehicle. Holland did not respond but stared at Porter through the rear view mirror.
“Oh, I see," started Holland. "You think you can find the mole through my call log. Very clever, Porter. Well, I will die or break this bitch before you get it.” Without regard for the other drivers, Porter slammed the brakes, throwing Holland against the rear-facing seats and Paul onto the floor. Porter released the steering wheel, leaned over the divide, unsheathed his knife, and drove it deep into Holland’s thigh as his fist met Holland’s nose and left cheek bone several times until both crunched like the shell of a hard-boiled egg.