“None of them vote,” the Senator said, “so they can all go to hell as far as I’m concerned. You can handle it any way you want.”
twenty-four
THE RIDE took her in slowly through Commerce City and north Denver, the attic of the West: square miles of warehouses, stacks of empty cargo pallets that must have consumed whole forests, entire blocks of businesses devoted to truck clutches. Eleanor had seen it too many times to count, but sitting on The Ride in her one and only decent dress, on her way to work—work—she saw it all from a new perspective, like a queen surveying her domain.
The sky was always sapphire blue when Eleanor looked straight up, but as she tracked it down toward the horizon it faded to a hot yellowish brown as if something had singed it around the edges. Eleanor was never sure if the stuff in the air was pollution or airborne topsoil, but it usually gave her a bad feeling about wherever she was going. She was tired of being able to see so far, and wanted to be hemmed in a little bit.
Downtown Denver fit that bill. It always looked clean because it was built-up, and so you couldn’t see far enough to notice how dirty the air was. Eleanor sat on a bench for a while, waiting for another Ride, and marveled at the place. When you were used to the dusty flatlands out by the arsenal, the smallest things—a freshly painted GODS drop box sitting on a street corner, a young woman wearing white stockings, a Volvo with water beaded up on its hood from the car wash—looked impossibly clean and new, like images from a Kodak or Polaroid advertisement.
This was the world where a lot of people lived their whole lives. A world where Eleanor had lived for many years but that now looked like an alien planet to her dusty bloodshot eyes, and where she had just been given the tiniest of handholds.
Tree-lined Pennsylvania Street ran north-south behind the state capitol. At some point in Denver’s early boom years it had been the fashionable place for barons to construct their mansions—not just homes, but seats of political and social influence. The architecture was diverse, and exuberant bordering on eccentric, including huge Victorian homes, plantation-style classical structures, arched-and-turreted Romanesques, and one especially large and bizarre structure, a red sandstone mission building that bore more than a passing resemblance to the Alamo.
Senator Caleb Roosevelt Marshall used that building as his home office, and he referred to it as the Alamo, which was not a popular joke among his Mexican-American constituents, but then he was not the type to care.
Like any big rambling eccentric old building, it had good offices and bad ones. The office assigned to Eleanor Richmond was especially bad, but that was a fact that wouldn’t even occur to her until she had been working there for a while. When she showed up for her first day as Health and Human Services Liaison, all she cared about was that she had a job. And a damn good job, as these things went.
She was wearing her interview dress. She wasn’t sure why. She had worn it to all of her job interviews in the past several years and it hadn’t done a thing for her. She had interviewed for her job with Senator Marshall in a Towson State University sweatshirt and nonmatching Army sweatpants. But this was the one dress that she had been at pains to take care of through all the turbulence in her life. She had somehow thought that she could never become a true bag lady if she owned one clean, decent dress. So now she was wearing it to work. When the paychecks started coming in, she could go back to the Boulevard Mall, this time as a paying customer, and cut a swath through Nordstrom, like General Sherman plowing through Dixie.
The first thing that anyone said to her was a sound effect: “Foop-foop-foop.”
She had been walking down a hallway in her interview dress, carrying a box full of photos and other personal effects in her arms, looking into each door as she went by, trying to find the one that belonged to her. And when she finally found it, walked into the small windowless room (later she learned it had been the walk-in closet of a railway baroness), and set her box down on the cratered and elbow-worn formica of the desktop, she heard it. She turned around. A man was standing in her office doorway. She didn’t like him.
He was in his mid-to-late twenties, or maybe he was an older guy who just looked young. He was wearing a pinstriped suit with cowboy boots. His comb had left visible, parallel grooves through his heavily gelled brown hair, like the tracks of fleeing dinosaurs in a fresh volcanic mudflow. He had sparkly gray eyes and high mischievous eyebrows that could have made him look wild and fun, if he could have ditched the suit and the gel for, say, a pair of shorts and a long outdoorsman’s mane. But instead he struck Eleanor as unnaturally pinned back.
When she first saw him, he was leaning into her office doorway, holding one index finger straight up in the air, rotating his hand around in a circle, saying, “Foop-foop-foop.”
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Somebody ought to put a revolving door on this office,” he said. “Seems like I get a new neighbor in here every week—Hello,” he said, segueing in midsentence like a game show host, and turning the rotating index finger into an outstretched right hand, “Shad Harper. You’d be Eleanor.”
Eleanor took half a step toward him and began to extend her right hand. He dove in, grabbed her hand too soon, seized the very tips of her fingers, squeezed them together hard, and pumped for a few seconds.
“Eleanor Richmond,” she said, but this hint was completely lost on him, as she knew it would be.
“Good to know you, Eleanor.”
“You have the next office, Mr. Harper ?”
“Yeah. Come on over any time you want to have a look at the courtyard,” he said, widening his eyes just a bit and staring significantly at the blank wall behind Eleanor’s desk. The office of Shad Harper was a big old master bedroom or something, and she could already see that he had lots of windows.
These were all things that would bother her later. At the moment, nothing could penetrate the endorphin buzz that she had from actually being on a payroll.
“Thank you,” she said, “you’re very kind.”
“Saw you on TV. That was quite a little tantrum you threw in front of Earl Strong there.”
“And what do you do for the Senator?” she said.
“Oh,” he said, as if he were surprised that she didn’t already know, “I’m the BLM liaison.”
“BLM?”
“Bureau of Land Management,” he recited, with calculated nonchalance.
Looking over his shoulder across the hallway, Eleanor could see a bleached longhorn skull hanging on one of the rare parts of Harper’s office wall that did not consist of windows. That, and the cowboy boots, told the story of Shad Harper.
Bureau of Land Management. Colorado had a lot of land that needed to be managed. A lot of voters lived on or near that land. When the land did get managed, it was through federal programs. Shad Harper must be keeping tabs on a lot of money.
He was very young. Which was not a problem in and of itself; Eleanor had known a lot of bright young things who were a pleasure to be around. But Shad Harper didn’t seem to realize that he was still a young man. He ought to be out riding a mountain bike around Boulder. Any man of his age who was not out goofing off was difficult to trust.
He raised his eyebrows, showing exaggerated concern, and puckered his lips into a silent O shape. “I think your phone’s ringing, Eleanor,” he said.
Eleanor turned around and looked at her phone, an elaborate, high-tech, multiline model with lots of tiny little buttons on it. Each button had tiny little red and green lights next to it. Some buttons had red lights going. Some had green lights going. Some had both. Some of the lights were blinking, others were not. It looked like a Christmas decoration.
“Well, thank you,” she said, “but I don’t hear anything.”
“I took the liberty of turning the ringer off while this office was vacant,” he said. “It was driving me crazy. I gotta get back. I’ll see you later, Eleanor.”
He dodged out the door and across the hallway and made a diving grab at h
is own telephone, then burst into a good-natured, booming, masculine welcome. Whomever Shad Harper was talking to, if he had been there in person, Shad would have been pounding him on the back and possibly even giving him noogies.
Eleanor set her box of stuff down on her desk, went around behind it, and looked at the silently ringing telephone. She wanted to sit down, but there was no chair in the office, just a desk.
She knew the deal here. Shad Harper, being a boy, had figured out how to turn off the telephone’s ringer. And she, being a girl, was supposed to sit helplessly for a while, and then go across the hallway and meekly ask him to turn it back on for her. Ten minutes into her job, she would already owe him one.
She already knew that she would rather shove a freshly sharpened pencil into her eye than ask Shad Harper for a favor. So she picked up the telephone, clamping the handset down into its cradle with her thumb, and rotated it around, looking at all the tiny little switches and jacks and plugs and connectors. It took some looking and some experimenting, but eventually she found it. She flicked a switch. The phone rang.
She picked it up. But before it even reached her ear she could hear a conversation, already in progress. It was Shad Harper listening to a crusty old rancher somewhere complaining about the cultural and genetic deficiencies of the Mexican race. He was doing this by listing all of the ways that, in his view, they were similar to “niggers.” After the man made each point, Shad Harper would say, “Uh-huh,” in a chuckling and indulgent tone of voice.
Her phone was still ringing. She pushed another button.
It was Senator Marshall himself, now in D.C., talking to someone about polls. Her phone was still ringing; she pushed another button.
It was a young black woman who apparently worked here in this office, talking trash with another young black woman who apparently worked in someone else’s office. Her phone was still ringing; she pushed another button.
“Hello?” a voice said. White female. Screaming kids in background.
“Hello, Senator Marshall’s office,” Eleanor said.
“I know I already reached the Senator’s goddamn office,” the woman said, “but who am I talking to?”
“Mrs. Richmond. Health and Human Services Liaison.”
“Finally. Jeezus, I been on hold for a quarter of an hour and my kids are going nuts here. Kin you hear ’em?”
The sound of the kids got louder for a few moments and Eleanor realized that this woman must be holding the phone out toward them, waving it around a motel room or trailer full of screeching and fighting rug rats like a rock star pointing his microphone at the crowd. Another Commerce City resident, no doubt.
“Yes, I believe I can, ma’am,” Eleanor said. “How may I help you?”
A brief moment of stunned silence on the other end of the line. “Well, didn’t I already just explain that about three times?” Then, her voice farther away: “Brittany! Ashley! You stay away from your goddamn brother or I’ll tan your hides!”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Eleanor said, “you never explained it to me.”
“Well, I explained it to the other gal.”
“Well, ma’am, I’m not quite sure who the other gal is. But I’d be happy to listen if you’d care to explain it again.”
Another silence. Eleanor couldn’t figure out why this woman was being so quiet until her voice came back on again, and it was obvious that she had begun to cry. “Well, I ain’t going through the whole goddamn thing again! But let me tell you, bitch, that if it don’t get taken care of today, I’ll—”
“You’ll what, ma’am?”
“I’ll go out and find wherever it is that I’m s’posed to register and get myself registered to vote and go out and vote against that old fuck that you work for next time he comes up for reelection! Bitch!” Then the woman slammed the phone down.
The phone began ringing immediately. Eleanor was starting to get the hang of this now; she pushed the button with the blinking light next to it.
“Hello, Senator Marshall’s office,” she said.
“Finally!” someone said. Black female. Then, away from the phone: “Hey, I finally got through!” Then, back into the phone: “You have any idea how long I been waiting on the line?”
“A quarter of an hour or so?”
“Shit, I been waiting all day.”
“It’s only 9:13—but I’m sorry for the delay, ma’am. How can I assist you?”
“I took my little daughters to a unlicensed day care at my neighbor’s house down the street and when I come home from work, her boyfriend had come in during the day and molested ’em, and I want to know if I can force him to take an AIDS test.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Shit no. Why would I want to call them?”
“Because a very serious crime has been committed.”
“Shit. I called you for serious advice, girl.”
“I’m giving it to you. Call the cops. Tell them what happened. Send the bastard to jail.”
“This G done already told me if I call the cops he come kill me.”
“Ma’am, how could being killed possibly be any worse than having your daughters raped?”
Stunned silence. “What kind of an attitude is that?”
“It’s a reasonable attitude. It’s the kind of attitude that any parent should have.”
“Well, who are you to be telling me this?”
“I’m a woman who was raised right by her parents and who’s been trying to raise her two kids right.”
“What are you saying, that I ain’t been raised right?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, if you care so little for those two precious daughters of yours that you won’t even seek justice for them. If anyone in my family ever got raped, nobody would rest until the perpetrator was dead or behind bars.”
“Well, I didn’t call you up so you could give me abuse.”
“Girlfriend,” Eleanor said, “I’m gonna tell you something real important right now and you better listen.”
“I’m listening,” the woman said. She sounded cowed and meek now.
“This that I am saying to you is not abuse. It’s the truth. It’s just that sometimes the truth is so harsh that when people hear it spoken, it sounds like abuse. And one of the problems we got in this country, not just among black people but with everyone, is that everyone is so easy to offend nowadays that no one is willing to say the things that are true. Now, I just told you what to do. You go and do it. And if you have to go out and get a gun to protect you from that son of a bitch that raped your daughters, you damn well better do it, because that’s your responsibility, and if you can’t handle it, then you don’t deserve to have those two little angels that are a precious gift from God.”
Eleanor slammed the phone down. It started ringing.
“Senator Marshall’s office.”
The creaky voice of a very old man said, “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”
“Good morning, Senator Marshall, how are you?”
“Wide awake and full of inspiration, after that!”
“After what?”
“Your motivational talk to that young woman. Well done!”
“You were listening to that?”
“I always listen in on my liaison staff,” Senator Marshall said. “It’s an essential part of the job. And if I had managed to get through to you before you actually swung into action, I would have given you fair warning. But now you know.”
“Well, I don’t normally shoot my mouth off this early in the morning, but—”
“You weren’t shooting your mouth off. You were doing just fine. All those people out there are crying for more welfare checks when what they really need is to have someone like you pound some common sense into their heads.”
“I don’t necessarily agree with that,” Eleanor said, mortified.
“Anyway, nice to see you changed your position on gun control. You’re going to fit right in at the Alamo!”
“You did,” Senator Marshall said. “You were pro-gun control, weren’t you?”
“In theory, yes,” Eleanor said, “but I have a gun, and I know how to use it.”
“Well, tell me something. If that woman you were just talking to had to fill out a bunch of forms and get permission from the government to have a gun, she wouldn’t be able to take the advice you just gave her, would she?”
Eleanor shook her head in exasperation. “You are just full of piss and vinegar, aren’t you?”
“No, I just like a good discussion, is all.”
“I have important people to talk to,” Eleanor said, and hung up on him. Her phone rang immediately.
twenty-five
AARON GREEN put his feet up on his desk at Green Biophysical Systems in Lexington, Massachusetts, enjoying the first lull in the action since his big conversation with Cy Ogle back in January. They had ironed out all of the problems that they could think of having to do with the PIPER miniaturization project. Responsibility had been transferred to the shoulders of the Pacific Netware people. Aaron had brought in a New York Times and a Boston Globe, and was reading some astonishing results from the Illinois primary, which had taken place the day before.
Several members of the party in power had challenged the incumbent President. Usually such efforts were purely symbolic, but the President’s policy on the national debt had provided fodder for a more serious challenge this time around, and these candidates had racked up some surprisingly high numbers.
The situation in the other party was even more interesting. There were two announced candidates—three, if you counted the Reverend William Joseph Sweigel, which almost no one did. Everyone knew, and had known since Super Tuesday, that the real race was between Tip McLane and Norman Fowler, Jr., the boy billionaire of Grosse Pointe.
But apparently in the last week before the Illinois primary, unspecified persons had initiated a write-in campaign for William A. Cozzano, the Governor of Illinois, who was in the hospital recovering from a stroke. It seemed to be a genuine, spontaneous ground swell. People had begun showing up in T-shirt stores and asking to have COZZANO printed on shirts and hats. Crudely fashioned, xeroxed COZZANO posters had begun showing up on mailboxes and in car windows.
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