by Jim Lynch
“As many of you may know,” the director announced, “we received a request today from a new mayoral candidate to address this group. Given our unsuccessful efforts to get the mayor and the police chief here today, the board swiftly agreed to let Mr. Roger Morgan speak. Mr. Morgan?”
There was no applause but rapt attention as he strolled up to the microphone, adjusted it patiently, licked his lips once and finally looked slowly around the auditorium. Body language, Helen knew, was more important than words at times like these.
“I’m not looking for votes today,” he began with a somber ease that struck her as pitch perfect. “I’m looking for answers. I’m looking for help in understanding not only this morning’s tragedy, but the daily travesties that go on around here.”
Helen watched the expressions in the crowd, some insolent or distrustful—just another politician, blah, blah, blah—and others sensing something different.
“I don’t understand, for example, how so many landlords in this area are allowed to raise their rents while they let their properties go to hell.” He paused, meeting eye contact from one side of the room then the other. “How is that okay?”
“I heard that!” a man yelled.
“Problem is, they pay less taxes, you see, when their houses and apartments drop in value. So what’s the incentive to keep them up? Not a lot we can do about that except to enforce the codes, right? So why don’t we? From what I can tell, too many of our building inspectors are either incompetent or unethical. I prefer to assume the former. What I know for sure is that this goes on and on and on, and no mayor or city councilman has ever tried very hard to stop it. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”
Several gasps punctuated the rising buzz of agreement before a man hollered, “What about the shooting?”
“I’m getting to that.” Morgan blew out his cheeks, as if limbering his mouth for what needed to be said, then softly asked, “You think this is easy?”
The room quit fidgeting, and Helen was transfixed. He’d walked into a volatile scene without any rehearsal time, a scenario most politicians duck at all costs, and he somehow was making it appear personal.
“The oldest among you probably remember—and I’m sure some of you’ve been told—that the police have a shaky history when it comes to your neighborhoods.”
Hadn’t Morgan’s voice, Helen suddenly wondered, subtly adopted the reverend’s inflections?
“Graft was rampant at one time. A whole lot of cops were taking bribes. That’s a fact, not an accusation. And during the sixties, vice cops working this area got caught confiscating drugs and reselling them through the dealers of their choice. Look it up. Several did time. And I believe there’s been ample evidence of an ongoing lack of leadership and restraint, such as this seemingly unnecessary shooting last night.” He paused, waiting out the murmurs.
“Don’t get me wrong. Most of the force is made up of brave and honorable officers protecting us as I speak. And Mr. Shelton was apparently driving erratically before he was pulled over, and he did have an outstanding warrant on a weapons charge.”
He quieted the grumbles by raising a hand. “Regardless of what actually happened, I think it’s fair to ask, if he’d been a white man driving erratically in Laurelhurst or Broadmoor, do you think he would’ve been shot?” He was talking over a chorus of unh-uhhs now. “I don’t think so either, and that’s not right.”
The grunts and sighs subsided as he started up again. Nobody wanted to miss whatever he’d say next, no matter how full of it they thought he was. Helen had seen crafty politicians come off as truth-telling outsiders many times before, but she’d never witnessed anything so seemingly genuine and spontaneous.
“Some of you are still thinking,” he said, voice rising, “ ‘See, I knew he was here for votes.’ But you know what? You’re still wrong. Think about it. There are TV cameras and all sorts of reporters here. What I’ve already said will cost me far more than it’ll help me. But see, when I decided to finally run, I vowed to do it the only way I know how, which is to be as honest as I can and not worry about what anybody—including all of you—thinks of what I’m saying. Today, I simply wanted to see you people and tell you that I’m very, very sorry about what happened this morning, and that you’ve got good reasons to be suspicious and even angry, but that I hope you’ll take some deep breaths and act peacefully and constructively.”
He dropped his head in an abbreviated, Japanese-like bow and stepped aside. The response was more astonishment than applause, but there was some of that too as he pumped the director’s hand and bounded toward the door with long youthful strides, his whole body rising and falling, his silver hair flopping, just ahead of the media scrum that abandoned the rest of the meeting to follow him into the narcotic rain.
Ted Severson attempted to wave off the reporters, claiming they were already late for another appointment, but Roger fielded questions anyway while a young aide propped an umbrella over his head.
When Helen introduced herself to Severson, he stared past her at Roger, still yakking just out of earshot, the rain pelting everyone. “He’s booked.”
“I understand,” she said. “But could I ride with you guys to your next appointment?”
He looked like he was about to spit, glanced down and then away, either weighing things or ignoring her. He cupped his hands around a cigarette, lit it and exhaled. “Wait next to the black SUV,” he grumbled, pointing his long, thin nose at it. “Backseat, driver’s side. Don’t be obvious. We can’t play favorites.”
She called Shrontz to get the editor on her side as Morgan, Severson and the young assistant strode toward the rig in what was now a downpour. When the aide clicked the locks open, Helen couldn’t resist exchanging glares with the retreating journalists before climbing into the backseat.
“Did you just pick a fight with the police, Mr. Morgan?” she asked casually as the car slalomed through puddles.
“Not at all,” he said just as calmly. “I have great respect for the police, but they screw up too, Ms. Gulanos.” He even pronounced it correctly, Gu-lawn-ose. “And somebody needed to say to those folks, ‘You’re not being crazy.’ ” He glanced out the window, then turned back to her. “How’s Elias?”
“Fine,” she said, startled and annoyed by his presumption they’d already bonded over her son. And she was suddenly keenly aware of the importance of her demeanor with men his age. If she looked too casual, she was dizzy. Too stiff, a bitch.
He handed his cell phone to Severson, who fumbled it onto the floor mats, and then started expressing his deep appreciation of good police work. She took notes, though not on what he was saying. Up front, Severson was talking on the cell. “Huh? Right. Right. He’ll call you.”
“Same with the building inspectors?” she prodded gently. “You admire them too?”
“Of course. That’s hard work, but I won’t take back anything I said, if that’s what you’re asking. In fact, write this down: I would gladly debate the head of that department any time, any place.”
She didn’t write that down and instead asked questions about his past that he gracefully dodged. He told her verbatim what she’d already read, as if all he knew about himself was what he saw in the papers.
It struck her as odd that Severson was staring at the driver until she realized he was actually aiming his good ear at their conversation, eavesdropping, waiting for an opening to say, “Larry can do it at three-fifteen if—”
“We’ll meet him at his place,” Morgan said.
Helen listened to their back-and-forth on several cryptic scheduling matters, finishing each other’s sentences like an old couple. He apologized, then returned to his tell-nothing autobiography before interrupting himself to educate her about Yesler Way, which they’d turned onto and were now descending toward the bay in the slackening rain.
“This was the first divot in the forest where they slid all these big ol’ firs down to the mill. We had as much timber as San Fran could possibly w
ant just waiting to be felled.” Without pause or transition, he pointed at the bone-white Smith Tower. “Built in nineteen fourteen. Think about it. Forty-two stories and horses still on the street. Must’ve looked like some New York skyscraper lost in the Wild West, huh?”
Helen’s efforts to interrupt were no match for this straight shooter’s ability to explain things to death so there was no time to talk about anything that mattered. Most people will eventually talk their way into the meat of what you need, but skilled politicians—much less this guy—have got enough slogans and asides and stories to fill whatever time you’ve been allotted with meaningless jabber.
“And this street,” Roger continued gaily, “for some time divided good from bad Seattle. The brothels and shanties clustered south of Yesler, the businesses and better neighborhoods to the north. Who knows how long it would’ve taken for the city to get a toehold if Henry Yesler hadn’t built his mill at the bottom of this chute, proving once again that history often hinges on the decisions of a few greedy bastards.” Teddy cleared his throat now, a phlegmy three-step procedure. Roger glanced up warily, then carried on. “But that didn’t stop us from putting a plaque up on the courthouse ‘in recognition of his public spirit and helpful generosity.’ ”
“Seems to be a recurring theme,” Helen interjected firmly. “No offense, but the history of the fair feels a bit glorified too.”
He measured her, then laughed abruptly. “Touché! This city lacks honest introspection. Always has. Still a booster town in many ways.”
Does he really believe this, she wondered, or is he just playing me too? “So how do you win this thing, Mr. Morgan?”
He laughed again. “Doesn’t pencil out, huh? Well, basically five legislative districts decide the mayoral race—thirty-six, forty-six, forty-three, thirty-seven and eleven. And the district chairs work like ward bosses, see. Not supposed to say that out loud, but that’s what they are. The chairs shepherd the votes through loyal precinct captains who do the doorbelling and mailings. We’re off to see three chairs today, right?”
Severson nodded grimly, his neck still twisted for eavesdropping.
“And then there’s the city’s often-underestimated voting blocs—twenty percent Asians, ten percent blacks, ten percent gays, and so on,” he continued. “And you gotta keep in mind that the city’s made up of neighborhoods that operate like small towns—Queen Anne, Magnolia, Capitol Hill, Seward Park, and so on, each with its own diners, funeral parlors, taverns, churches and—”
“But how do you win?”
He chuckled. “You’ve gotta remember there are times when voters prefer change and unpredictability, and I’m offering plenty of both.”
He pointed vaguely out the window. “We’re in the old brick soul of this city now, which for me is like looking at the stump rings on a big old tree.” She looked outside and saw an old neon sign: State Rooms 75 cents.
“What do you look for in a city?” he asked.
“Humility,” she said.
“Ha! Hear that, Teddy? Spoken like a true Midwesterner. It can be so much more, Ms. Gulanos. A city can be downright magical.”
Helen felt simultaneously charmed, flustered and conned as the SUV slowed near the ferry dock. In this short ride, he’d guessed her roots, indulged her with his mock candor and colorful history lessons and listened to her questions so intensely his ears seemed to bend toward her. Yet she knew this was all part of his subliminal goodwill campaign, and the expected reciprocity that went along with it.
“When can I talk to you again, Mr. Morgan?”
“Just ring Annie here and get on the schedule.”
“I’d also like to talk to people about you.” She tried to hide her urgency. “People who know you well,” she added, as Annie deftly parked the large vehicle.
“Nobody knows me much better than Teddy, though you’re not much of a talker, old man, are you?”
Severson gave no sign of hearing any of this.
“I’d like to talk to other friends—your mother, your relatives, former fiancées.”
Roger smiled. “What could they possibly know about me?”
“We’ll get you some names and numbers,” Annie said coolly, “but we’re running behind now.”
Helen glanced around, wondering where, exactly, they were running, then thanked Morgan and shook his surprisingly large hand. “Could I have your cell number, sir?”
“Call me Roger,” he said, then gave her the number.
HE WATCHED her brisk walk, which had a slight swing and strut to it that belied her respectful manner. Her voice was the same way, and her questions too, all hinting at a confidence and ambition beneath her cool, shy facade.
“You don’t give out your cell to the press, for God’s sake,” Teddy muttered. “That’s all you’ll be giving her anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“Got a rundown on her this morning.”
“Yeah?”
“Not good.”
“Then why’d you invite her along?”
“So she can’t claim we shut her out. But that’s it for one-on-ones. Went too far with the police today, Roger. Way too far. This is a campaign not a vendetta.”
“Thought we agreed I wasn’t gonna censor myself.” He wished he had more people to talk to right now than just Teddy and Annie. He was surging, invigorated, bursting. Let’s go! he wanted to shout.
“Thought we agreed you were gonna try to win,” Teddy said. “Nobody wins anything picking fights with cops. Felons can’t vote.”
Roger watched the reporter mosey toward the waterfront. “What did your pal at the P-I say about her?”
Teddy rattled off what he’d heard. Daughter of a laid-off steel-worker. Won a Mencken award at the Youngstown Vindicator for exposing a contracting scandal. Then worked in D.C. for Roll Call, an aggressive rag where she specialized in embarrassing congressmen. “Then she got hired to dig up dirt out here. Lundy says she’s only been here seven months, mostly writing tech stuff, but has a nose for big stories. And she’s hungry. She’s a muckraker, Roger. A moralist.”
“C’mon. She’s too young and—”
“She’s the perfect age,” Teddy scolded him. “Old enough to know how to make you look like hell, young enough to think she’s justified. She plays with sharp knives.”
Roger paused. “I kind of like her.”
“Get over it,” Teddy grumbled. “You’re playing with dynamite here.”
“Pick a metaphor and stick with it, Teddy. Knives or dynamite, not both.” He unlatched his door. “I think she likes me.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes.” When they piled out of the SUV, Teddy glared at the little Turkish restaurant. “Why’d you pick this place? No room in there for a private conversation.”
“No, but there’s plenty of baba ghanoush, old man.” Roger strode toward the door, feeling like far more than a candidate, with his springy steps, nimble mind, the effortless pulse of his heart. He felt—he mouthed the four syllables—unbeatable.
Teddy hobbled pigeon-toed, trying to catch up, until Annie offered her elbow, which he waved off, then snapped at Roger, “Quit your goddamn smiling.”
HELEN STOOD in the shadows of the roaring double-decker highway stacked near the seawall, watching Roger Morgan strut across Seattle’s oldest street toward one of its oldest buildings, bounding toward the Café Paloma. She watched him yank open the door for his sidekicks and heard him shout what sounded like “Baba ghanoush!”
Chapter Seven
JUNE 1962
THE RELENTLESS SCHEDULE rescues him from his guilt. There’s no time to wallow amid this daily onslaught of business recruitment, needy VIPs and astonishing acts. Last week it was the Benny Goodman Orchestra and the Ukrainian dancers. Next week it’s Roy Rogers, Edward R. Murrow and Billy Graham.
Today it’s Prince Philip, and the spectacle is ten times what Roger expects as people swarm Boeing field to glimpse British royalty in person for the first time. The prince doesn’t disappoi
nt, dropping out of the infinite blue at the helm of a flamingo-pink Royal Air Force ten-seater. Women swoon as he steps onto the tarmac with slicked-back hair and a jaunty smile. Even his tweedy bodyguard, grim-faced and inscrutable, is perfectly cast, lighting a curve-stemmed pipe as they pile into a brand-new powder-blue Oldsmobile and roll off to the fair with a hungover Roger Morgan at the wheel.
The prince is all wit and manners as he cheerfully disregards the itineraries, which suits Roger just fine since he feels a comforting sense of order and predictability no matter where he is on the grounds. Kids darting and shrieking in and out of the fountain. Men watching women inspect their stockings. Decent people waiting patiently in hourlong lines.
“No Soviet exhibit?” the prince says. “Good! The bastards murdered half my family.” Roger nods, as if they’d slaughtered half of his too. They’re running behind by the time he coaxes Philip up in the Needle, where the governor, the senator, the mayor, Teddy, Roger’s mother and a dozen others are fidgeting in anticipation, making sure the napkins and silverware are laid out properly, unsure of what to say or drink.
Once the prince is seated, Roger’s hand-picked maître d’ approaches with the opening line he’d scripted: “Your Majesty, would you like something before lunch?”
He feigns dismay. “A gin and tonic, of course!”
Laughter cracks like gunfire, and Roger detonates as well. God, he’s sick of himself today.
Everyone defers to the prince, who shares anecdotes from his navy days, his hunting and fishing exploits, with cocksure delivery. “Let cats and lizards rejoice in basking in everlasting sunshine,” he says of London’s and Seattle’s similar weather, “but mists and drizzles and even occasional light rains make sunshine all the more welcome and constitute the proper environment of man, wouldn’t you say?” Or, after sampling the crab: “Worth crossing the pond just for this food. Unfortunately, our problem is genetic: British women can’t cook.”