by Jim Lynch
“What you lookin’ for?”
“Whaddaya got?”
The cabbie laughs, pulling away from the curb. “Had this fat guy climb in here a week ago and ask me where the flagellants are. That’s right, flagellants. I couldn’t help him, but I can probably get you what you need. Something for your head? That’s easy. If it’s girls, let me know if you want young or old. It gets pricier the higher you go up the hill. The best of the eight houses I know of is near Broadway and Harrison. Actually got red carpet in there—New Orleans–style. Business is great all over, though. And no discounts during the fair. No, sir. Boys? Men? Cards? Small stakes, high stakes, punchboards, pinball, bingo—we’ve got a dozen parlors. Porno, slots?”
“Cards,” Roger says, feeling an exhilarating loss of control. “The biggest card game that’s close by.”
“Well, take your pick. They’re all close, and I’m not sure which is the biggest. The New Caledonia, the Turf, the J&M, the Seaport …”
“Seaport.”
The taxi coasts down Denny to First, then descends into Pioneer Square. Drop a bag of marbles almost anywhere in Seattle and they’ll end up down here. It’s been years since Roger has seen this part of town after midnight, and back then it’d been just a smattering of honky-tonks and hobos. But there’s a rich mix of people now, in rags and suits, even some dresses. He feels as if he’s dropped into a different city altogether or slipped through the wall from West into East Berlin.
He tips the cabbie and steps out into curb trash—an empty pint, a crushed Rainier can, a soiled T-shirt. Up the street, a uniformed cop jokes with a leggy, booted blonde while Roger ducks into a dimly lit, windowless bar shuddering with the crash, rattle and bells of too many games. The far-right wall, he slowly realizes, is covered with pinball machines and the men lined up to use them. Following the cabbie’s advice on what to mumble to the bartender, and how generously to tip her, he’s directed into the card room.
Surprisingly, it’s bigger and smellier than the bar out front, reeking of cigars, armpits and something vaguely tidal, with eleven octagonal felt tables, each surrounded by as many as seven silent men. The card-room manager signals him over.
“Three or five?” he asks without looking up, as the cabbie said he would.
“Let’s start with five,” Roger mumbles.
The manager takes the money, hands him the chips and points to an empty seat at a game with bids up to five dollars.
Half the men at his table look like they’ve been sleeping outside. The others are clean-shaven, two of them wearing suits. He wishes he had a hat and avoids everyone’s eyes until he notices they’re already ducking his. It’s five-card stud, and they take turns dealing. He orders another drink, mimics the prevailing slouch and watches his chips get raked away, not minding the loss, feeling only a flickering thrill.
When he finally stands up, his head spinning slightly, he veers toward the manager. “Know a man named Robert Dawkins?” he asks, and something flashes in the man’s bored eyes. “I’m his nephew,” Roger lies. “Might not’ve been around for quite a while. Played lots of cards, though.”
The manager looks past him to the tables, shaking his bearded head.
“What about Charlie McDaniel, that bar owner who complained about the police when he shut down? Know where I’d find him?”
“You a cop or a snitch?”
Roger laughs. “Neither, sir.”
“Then why you askin’?”
“So you do know them.”
“Beat it.”
To the left of the exit, there’s a filthy aquarium. He gets close enough to see a dozen giant goldfish floating on the surface, with another dozen desperately sucking the air above the foul water. He wants to tell someone the fish are suffocating, but it’s all he can do to wobble into the reviving air of the cooling night.
He passes a crowd of men in suits he doesn’t recognize and relishes the anonymity, feeling like a double agent, a drunken one, yes, but a man fully capable of indulging multiple lives. He lifts his head and strides up First Avenue, half-expecting his father to step out from an awning and say, in an uplifting tone, “Helluva fair you’re runnin’ here, sport.”
Chapter Six
APRIL 2001
“WHAT DO WE really know about him? Is he a serious candidate? Isn’t he too old?” The managing editor, Charles Birnbaum, paced in front of the packed conference room cradling his Stanford mug with both hands while Helen Gulanos and a dozen editors and columnists waited for his questions to end. “Is this a pipe dream or a stunt? What do we truly know except that he’s a seventy-year-old legend who ran our World’s Fair?”
The morning meeting was hijacked by the Times article, which didn’t actually break new ground, but its then-and-now photos of Morgan in the exact same pose, pointing with his left forefinger as if shooting the photographer, were provocative enough to spread consternation that, God forbid, they were getting beat here.
Birnbaum stared at Lundberg, a multichinned walrus who’d been ruminating over city and state politics both in and out of his column for twenty-three years now. “So, who is this guy, really?”
Lundberg didn’t burn a calorie summoning a reply before Webster, a blue-blazered editorial writer who’d been here even longer, blurted, “He was the most important guy to have on your side if you wanted to get any civic project off the ground for two or three decades after the fair. Led the defense of the Market, helped turn Gas Works into a park, played a role in saving farmlands and got the Kingdome built, among other things. Then, I guess, he helped establish height limits on skyscrapers in the mid-eighties and … I don’t know what else.” Webster scanned the room, palms up. “Guess you’d have to call him a political consultant, too, though he’s never publicly endorsed anyone I know of.” He glanced at Lundberg, who was preoccupied with balancing a loafer on his toes. “Also been told he’s advised all sorts of companies,” Webster added, less confidently now, “on how to deal with the city, state and feds, though I don’t know that he’s ever registered as a lobbyist. Lundy?”
The columnist let his shoe fall and nudged his glasses higher on his nose. “Hell no,” he said in a breathy falsetto. “He’s a handshake guy. Never signs contracts. Won’t find his name on anything since the fair.” He sat up, though his voice remained a smug whisper, forcing everyone to lean in. “He’s got no staff, no real political base, yet he’s probably advised the last five governors and mayors, including the one he now wants to unseat. If Rooney wasn’t worried about him, he wouldn’t have bothered to hint that he might be a Republican.”
“Yes, yes!” Birnbaum said, knocking everyone back with his volume. “So he’s an old-money, behind-the-scenes guy who’s also one of the best public speakers the city’s ever seen, right? That’s unusual in itself, isn’t it? Granted, most of those speeches were a long time ago, but he was known to light up crowds—wasn’t he, Lundy?”
“I’ve only heard him on a few occasions,” Lundberg reluctantly admitted, “but he’s as good as anyone I’ve seen without notes. He’s got an incredible memory. Names, faces, conversations. People’ve seen him take a blank map of the state and pencil in all forty-nine legislative districts. And he knows the story behind every building in this city—who built it, who owns it, who leases it. He doesn’t grant many interviews, but when he does, he’s a straight shooter. Best time to talk to him is on one of his downtown walks. He’s a Mariners fanatic. Polite as a prince, too, and dresses like he’s heading to a funeral, which he often is, seeing how he’s the youngster of his crowd. Not a name-dropper, but a real storyteller. And he’s got something going for him that very few politicians ever have—even his opponents love him.” Helen watched everyone suck on this nugget. “He’s a straight shooter,” Lundberg repeated, louder this time.
As hard as she tried to play it calm and neutral, her tone got away from her. “Is there such a thing as a straight shooter who’s been involved in politics at every level for the past forty years?”
> Everybody stared at her, taking her in as if for the first time. She was still the new girl to them, more than half of whom were elderly mutes who exhibited all the side effects of spending decades in this brevity mill. From what she could tell, they’d been snipping color and humor and emotion out of stories for so long, they had inadvertently started pruning their personalities as well. One got so drowsy during a planning session several years ago that he tipped his chair over backward and crashed through the floor-to-ceiling window. As newsroom lore had it, he didn’t cuss or even mention it to his wife until she noticed the tiny cuts in his hairline.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, Helen?” Webster said now. “But you gotta remember this isn’t Chicago or D.C. This is a consensus city, a compromise city, perhaps to a fault, but not a corrupt”—his fingers formed quote marks in the air—“machine.”
Shrontz nodded, his grin saying, See what she’s like?
“Hold on.” Birnbaum made a steeple with his fingers. “Why hasn’t he run before? The two theories I’ve always heard are: it’d be a demotion, and he’s got skeletons. Just listen to what we’ve heard here already: We’ve got a de facto mayor—at least he used to be—and an aging political consultant who’s somehow never bothered to register to lobby. And so now we’ve got a guy who’s always been effective, partly because he had no political ambitions, suddenly, finally, wanting to be mayor?”
Postures stiffened and throats cleared. Marguerite, the deputy managing editor and the only other woman in the room, nodded emphatically. She’d been Helen’s advocate since she arrived, though seemingly lobbied for everyone. Still, when her effusion was aimed at you, it was hard not to feel the lift. “Helen?” she said. “Go on. What’re you suggesting?”
“I’m not saying he has to be a crook,” Helen began gently, “but it’s hard to do all he’s done and not get dirty, no matter what city you’re in, isn’t it? And from what I can tell, nobody’s ever taken a real close look at him, probably because he’s never run for anything before,” she added diplomatically before turning toward Birnbaum. “If there are skeletons to be found, I think we’d all rather assess them before the Times does it for us.”
Chins and foreheads were rocking fiercely now. Even Lundberg and Webster brightened at the prospect of exhuming corpses.
But now that she had their attention, what should she say next? That she’d heard about some old guy who calls Morgan the false prince? Omar’s latest update was that his gadfly wouldn’t come forward until he was convinced Morgan actually had a chance. She half-suspected he didn’t even exist.
“So what do you think we should look at?” Marguerite prodded her.
“Everything,” Helen said, “starting with his childhood. His mother’s still alive, I believe, but apparently hasn’t been interviewed since the fair. His investments and consultant work—over and under the table. And his divorce papers, assuming he’s been married.”
“Last I checked,” Webster observed, “there’s no crime in getting divorced.”
“Good,” Birnbaum offered. “Otherwise I’m a two-time offender.”
“He never got married,” Lundberg said after the obligatory chortling. “Got close several times, though.”
“Maybe,” Helen dared to suggest, “even his role in the fair needs to be looked at in a different way.”
Webster’s groan was followed by Lundberg’s snicker, before Birnbaum silenced them with, “Good, good, I like it.”
“Terrific!” Marguerite chimed.
Discussions erupted over divisions of labor for interviewing friends and foes as well as checking lobbying and court records.
“Never trusted the guy,” muttered a sullen copy editor. “I think he probably made a bundle for himself as our pseudo-mayor. Always heard he was a BS-er and a gambler.”
“A gambler?” Birnbaum chirped. “Perfect. Love it! How soon can we get a sit-down with him?”
“We already requested one, right?” a perspiring Shrontz asked Helen.
“Several times. He’s hard to get ahold of. His campaign staff, so far, consists of an answering machine and his old—and I mean very old—sidekick from his fair days who—”
“Severson,” Lundberg said. “Teddy Severson. Corporate lawyer. Ran for governor in ’sixty-four as a Republican and bailed early, as I recall. I’ll make some calls and see who Morgan advised over the years. Maybe I can piece together his de facto public record so he can’t run as a blank slate.”
“Good!” Birnbaum shouted. “Brilliant!”
An editor who helped oversee cops and courts timidly poked her head into the meeting.
“What is it?” Birnbaum demanded.
“Seattle PD just confirmed an officer shot and killed an intoxicated—and apparently unarmed—African-American driver in the Central District early this morning.”
“Driving while black,” Marguerite whispered.
“And Starbucks,” the mousy editor added, “just got its windows smashed on Twenty-third.”
Reporters drifted toward Helen’s desk after the meeting to ask how the clusterfuck went, and to offer their assessments of Roger Morgan, assuring her either that he was a straight shooter or as corrupt as they come though confessing not even secondhand knowledge of any of it. Once the crowd thinned out, Bill Steele strolled up.
The paper’s oldest reporter, Steele still wore a suit every day and wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone until he’d unlocked his files, drunk his thermos of coffee and read the morning papers. His phone rang, he didn’t answer. People approached, he wouldn’t look up. After he finished refolding his papers, he’d whisper “Uh-huh, uh-huh” into his phone, as if the newsroom was bugged.
A two-time Pulitzer finalist, Steele was seen by most of the reporters as a dated action hero of sorts. Not everyone enjoyed hearing him shout information-access laws into the phone, but Helen did. Most of his recent tussles had been with bankruptcy court clerks, ever since a prominent builder blindsided a couple hundred “investor friends” by filing Chapter 11. Regardless, it was Malcolm Turner this and Malcolm Turner that every day, all day. Early on, when Turner refused to speak to him, Steele had staked out his Eastside mansion for three days, hoping an ambush might provoke a response from the man who’d built four of the city’s ten tallest skyscrapers. She’d never seen Steele more delighted than when the developer filed a restraining order. “Let me guess,” he began now, “they took turns kissing Morgan’s ass until one of them got mildly tough—maybe you—and then they all got fired up to do some public service journalism, by God. Then somebody suggested putting me on the story with you, and half the room groaned.”
“Not too far off, but your name didn’t come up.”
“Yet.” He noticed Marguerite was closing in on them. “Look out, here comes Mary Poppins.”
The newsroom’s second-in-command crouched close enough for Helen to smell her shampoo. “You were awesome in there,” she purred. “This story is so overdue. Let’s kick some booty!”
Adrenaline spiking, Helen started calling people she wasn’t even ready to interview just so her coworkers would leave her alone. Another call to Morgan’s office got the answering machine yet again. She noticed Shrontz hovering, waiting for her to hang up.
“The MLK Center’s holding a community meeting in an hour,” he said, excitement twitching in his face. “Roger Morgan has asked to speak. Birnbaum wants you there.”
“I’ll be damned,” Steele interjected from behind. “That crafty old dog’s running for real.”
Helen grabbed a notebook, two pens, her phone and a tape recorder, then loped toward the elevator, trying not to break into a noticeable jog.
THE DIAGONAL RAIN made it hard to see the freshly boarded-up Starbucks as she drove down Twenty-third toward a three-story brick fortress that looked more like a detention facility than a community center. She parked in the gravel lot next to the netless basketball hoop among older American cars that reminded her of Ohio and watched families shuffle tow
ard the entrance, their necks bowed against the rain. A KIRO-7 news van pulled up, followed by one from KING-5.
She could hear clanking metal chairs and sharp voices as she entered the old, wood-floored auditorium, asking people why they came. The responses ranged from confusion and hostility to thoughtful or flip commentaries about the police. Finally, a stout woman mentioned that she came to hear what this Roger Morgan had to say. As others chimed in, Helen turned on her recorder.
“He’s just pandering,” another woman said.
“Patronizing,” her friend corrected her. “Patronizing, not pandering.”
“Least he wants to talk,” a third added. “Doesn’t want to think about it and get back to us with some statement. He wants to talk. And I wanna listen.”
“Fishin’ for votes like the rest of ’em.”
“Yeah, least his ass will be here. Where’s the mayor? Where’s Rooney’s big butt? Seen the size of that man lately?”
By now Helen sensed the crowd growing around her and, looking up, saw other recorders and microphones and a shoulder-held TV camera.
“Try to find a seat,” shouted the director, a tall, reedy-voiced woman.
“Hope nobody’s here from the fire department,” a man muttered as damp faces lined the walls.
The director welcomed everyone, through a microphone now, extending her condolences to the family and friends of Michael Alan Shelton. She talked vaguely about tragedies and injustices, then suggested, “But I hope we can all agree there needs to be a more thoughtful response than the vandalizing of businesses that bring jobs to our community.”
A man shouted, “Starbucks ain’t run by us or for us!”
“Three businesses had their windows broken this morning,” she replied forcefully, “which ones aren’t the point.” When she recommended writing letters to the police oversight board, people started murmuring and eyeing the door.
Next up was a reverend, short and loud and off subject. People fanned themselves and monitored the entrance until Roger Morgan stepped through it dressed like the father of the bride in a charcoal suit and champagne tie, followed by a blushing young woman in a dark pantsuit and by a gimpy Ted Severson. The rev gabbled on about how hard times can bring out the best in us, but everyone’s eyes were on Roger. When the whispering grew louder, the preacher got the hint and closed with a generic prayer.