the Plan (1995)

by Stephen Cannell

  Solomon Kazorowski got into his old, gray Chevy Nova and drove slowly back to the Lazy Daze Hotel. It was a flophouse and cost him ten dollars a night. He climbed the stairs to his second-floor apartment and stuck his key in the door and opened it. There was a note from what was loosely called the Management. He was a week behind on his rent. The note was a warning shot. He didn't know how he was going to pay it unless he sold the Chevy. He wadded up the note and dropped down on the bed. The springs creaked with age but Kaz was smiling.

  How can I get these flickers with this? he thought. And his new roommate, a black and white tabby named Jo, jumped up on the bed and looked at him.

  "I wonder if Pauly gave it to Penny? That would be something worth knowing," he said aloud. "I wonder if Joseph found out and had Pauly killed?" The black and white cat sat on the bed, licked his paws, and purred. "What if that shark attack was bullshit?" The unanswered questions tumbled in his mind like criminal laundry.

  Chapter 7.

  SEARCH FOR INTREPID FARMS

  DAWN BROKE LIKE A CHEAP WINE COOLER SPREADING AN ugly red stain on the gray ocean. A sadistic construction crew was working a jackhammer in Ryan's head. Hi s s tomach was on an E ticket ride. By eight o'clock whe n h e had started to feel like he might live till noon, his agen t c alled. Jerry Upshaw was raging.

  "Look Ryan, I don't know what you expect from me, but I can't represent a guy who's calling the head of Drama Development a Jew faggot and threatening to knock his teeth out. Jeez, what the fuck is that?" Jerry had been Ryan's agent since his hit television show The Mechanic.

  "Jerry, this is really pissing me off. I never called him a Jew faggot. I just said it was his fault the picture turned out bad."

  "The bottom line is I can't represent you any longer." "Jerry, look . . ."

  "Hey, no looks, bunky. I've got other people I have to try and sell to Marty Lanier. If I keep you on my list, it's like I'm saying I don't care that you threatened his life and called him a Jew faggot. It's like I'm in tacit agreement. End of story. I'll send your other material back to you. Good luck, Ryan." And the line went dead.

  End of story, Ryan thought.

  He looked out at the beach. A man on horseback was coming toward him, riding the horse carefully in the dry sand. It reminded him of the day that Matt had died. Ryan and Linda had been up in Santa Barbara having a weekend together while Matt had been sent off to stay with friends in northern California. It had been Ryan's idea. He'd insisted on it.

  He'd sent Matt away to die.

  He and Linda had driven up to the Biltmore in Santa Barbara for the weekend.

  Linda wanted to take a walk on the beach and they had ended up almost a mile down the strand sitting on the sand, looking at the water. A man on a beautiful Appaloosa had ridden up the beach. Linda was on her feet, talking to him.

  "He's beautiful," she said, rubbing his shiny coat. "Where'd you get him?"

  "Intrepid Farms," the man said. "They raise the best Appies on the Coast."

  Linda ran her hand down his flanks and withers, looking in the horse's eyes, smiling and cooing at him, giving him affection.

  It was two o'clock and they hadn't eaten so they walked back up the beach to a restaurant on the pier that overlooked Santa Barbara Bay. They sat out on the sundeck and ordered beer and sandwiches. Then Linda started to obsess about the horse.

  "I really want a horse like that. Did you see him? He was gorgeous." Linda was becoming nervous.

  "Yeah, really great," Ryan said, seeing tension around her eyes, stripping beauty from her.

  "Intrepid Farms. I'm gonna call." She bolted and Ryan, startled, followed. Linda was already talking on the wall phone in the bar.

  "Operator. . . . It's got to be there . . . Intrepid, I-N-T-RE-P-I-D."

  Finally, she slammed down the receiver. There were tears in her eyes.

  And then she was grabbing the phone book, tearing at the Yellow Pages under "Breeding Farms." Nothing.

  "It's gotta be there. It's gotta be there!" Her frenzy was building and it was scary.

  He finally got her back to the sundeck and they sat looking out over the sparkling bay. She drank her beer but silent tears were coming down her face.

  "Ryan, we've got to find it." She was begging. He'd never seen her like that and he'd known her for fifteen years.

  He paid the bill quickly and they left the deck.

  "It's got to be someplace nearby," she said without logic, almost running to the car.

  Ryan drove his red Mustang down random streets looking for a sign. They asked at half a dozen gas stations. It was a silly exercise, but he didn't know what else to do. She was wild with anxiety.

  "Intrepid Farms," she said over and over to herself, her desperation growing. Ryan looked at his watch. It was three-fifteen. And then, suddenly, Linda got very still. She sat looking at her hands in her lap.

  "We can go home now," she said, her voice limp. "We can keep looking."

  "No, it's okay."

  The phone was ringing when they arrived at the Bel Air house.

  "Is this Matthew Bolt's father?" a woman's voice asked.

  "Yes," he said. "What is it?"

  "This is the Montecito Hospital. Hold on for Dr. Mar-pies."

  And then he was on. A voice Ryan didn't know. "You have a son, Matthew Bolt?"

  "What's going on? What's happening?"

  "I'm sorry, sir, but your son was swimming in the surf and he got swept out to sea. . . . By the time the lifeguards got to him, he'd been under for almost five minutes. We tried to revive him. He died at three-fifteen this afternoon. I'm very sorry."

  Ryan let the receiver fall and looked at Linda. "Is he dead?" she asked softly.

  Ryan could only nod. She sank to the floor and put her head on her knees. He stood there, unable to get his mind to accept it, unable to see his life without his son.

  That had been the end of Ryan and Linda. What little cord was binding them had been severed by Matt's death. But one thought never left him. She knew Matt was going to die and she knew when he was dead. At three-fifteen she had stopped struggling against it.

  What let her know he was dying while Ryan had no inkling?

  Why had he been left out of the cosmic conversation? It was as if he didn't deserve to know.

  Chapter 8.

  WONK

  ALBERT JAMES TEAGARDEN WAS STILL A BACHELOR AT fifty-five. His belly was beginning to hang over his trousers. He had a permanent stage-three dandruff storm that f ell on his dark suits like Idaho snow. His personal habit s w ere sometimes gross, and he was often seen wearin g f lecks of his breakfast in a bushy beard that was turnin g g ray. It was also rumored that he was hung like a fire hose.

  All of this acted as camouflage for the laser weapon that was poised inside his head. A. J. Teagarden had the political instincts of a German field marshal. He understoo d t he system and its players. He was fascinated by powe r a nd the people that wielded it.

  He had created a big stir when he charged into the national Democratic party's office in Washington and accused Ron Brown of corrupting the primary system. Ron Brown had just changed the timetable of the southern primaries. The South had always been a fire wall for Democratic politics. The Democrats controlled the South with money and strong precinct organizations . . . that is, until Jimmy Carter. The obscure Georgia governor had managed to come out of nowhere usurping the Democratic National Committee's official choice, Walter Mondale. Carter ha d c arried state after state in the South, riding the wave of free publicity created by the network anchors, or "big feet," and had swept into the White House without the sanction of the party.

  In order to keep this from happening again, the Democrats had created Super Tuesday, when fifteen states all had primaries on the same day, eliminating the chance of a Carter-type sweep in the future.

  A. J. Teagarden felt that they had made the system vulnerable to a hijacking, and he charged into their offices and told them so. Security had been called to remove him. H
e'd been blackballed from national politics ever since.

  He now languished in his law offices in Providence, handling real estate zoning problems and dreaming of a comeback. He was what was known as a wonk, a political insider, someone who knew the system and the game--a behind-the-scenes player who would rather die than run for office himself. He hid his weaknesses and fears behind a biting sense of humor.

  He was a priest of the process. He was also, deep in his soul, a patriot.

  He had received a call from a local mobster named Robert Pelico. "The Pelican" had demanded a meeting in a motel ten miles east of Providence. He figured that Pelico wanted him to talk to the governor about some legislative changes in the Rhode Island off-track pari-mutuel system that his crime family had been getting fat off of for years.

  A. J. had been told, on the phone, to go to room 15, and just walk in. He'd receive further instructions once he got there.

  The phone was ringing when he entered the empty room.

  "This Teagarden?" an unfamiliar voice said.

  "The one and only."

  "Car is pulling into the parking lot. Go." And the line went dead.

  The man driving the car was a bull-necked suitcase with fruity cologne that dulled A. J.'s thought.

  New York Tony put the car in gear and pulled out, without speaking. They drove down the road and into a field where there was a bend in a raging river. Most of the snow had melted and the sun was shining. A. J. got out and moved toward a man he had never seen before, who was leaning against a picnic table, his breath fogging the air around his head.

  "I'm Mickey Alo," the unattractive man said.

  They stood looking at one another, sizing each other up. A. J. knew a lot about Mickey Alo. He'd heard stories about his ruthlessness. The man in front of him was short and fat, but radiated danger.

  Teagarden had been in rooms with some of the most powerful men in the world and had never felt a moment's hesitation speaking his mind, yet something about this pudgy man made him feel awkward.

  "What can I do for you?" He was off guard.

  "I understand that you have some connections with the governor of Rhode Island."

  "We're friends."

  "How close?"

  "Close. Lived on the same street. Took baths together when we were six. Want to see our high school yearbook pictures?" A. J. struggled to regain his confidence.

  "We are about to have a conversation that never took place. Are we clear?"

  A. J. nodded.

  "We're interested in how you feel about running Haze Richards for President of the United States."

  "You gotta be kidding."

  .. Whyr, "He's got no national base, no name identification, no campaign financing, no state organizations, no staff, no voting record, and no time. The Iowa primary is in three weeks. You guys may be able to move local politicians around like pawns on a board, but the national game is played differently."

  "Let's say we can influence good national news coverage from a major network. Let's say we can guarantee all the campaign money you need. Let's say we can assist you in creating good name recognition. Let's say all of that can be accomplished in three weeks. . . . What kind of candidate is he?"

  "The best." "why?"

  " 'Cause he does exactly what you tell him. Correct that, he does exactly what I tell him."

  "You can control him?"

  "Like he runs on batteries." They looked at each other, the rushing river the only sound.

  "We want you to talk to him about running," Mickey said.

  "Iowa is in twenty days. Skatina and the others have been working the state for months."

  "I guess you're the wrong guy." Mickey pushed away from the park bench and started toward his car, which was a short distance away.

  "Hold it. I didn't say it couldn't be done. It's just . . ."

  "I just told you we had powerful resources. Name identification? You gotta be shittin' me. . . . David Koresh became a national figure in two days. It's simply a matter of how hard you want to push and how big the issue is."

  "Where's the money gonna come from?"

  "It'll be there. . . ."

  "You gonna be sending cash to mail drops in manila envelopes with no return addresses?"

  Mickey didn't answer for a long moment, while his eyes did a survey of the unkempt man before him.

  "You know who I am. You know what I do. I sell entertainment products that give me certain cash problems. We stack up dough in warehouses in Caribbean tax havens. Two-foot-long rats come out of the jungle and eat the money before we can ship it. Instead of feeding rats hundred-dollar bills, we're gonna send it your way. You set up a finance chairman and sound bank accounts and get ready to stack the money, 'cause it's gonna be coming a t y ou fast in five-hundred-dollar brown envelopes. A campaign is a perfect cash laundry--no way to trace the money. You tell me how much you need and I'll get it to you as quick as the mail gets there."

  A. J. Teagarden's mind was reeling.

  "I've got to talk to Haze. He might not want to run." Then, brushing past that detail, his mind rushed on. "I'm going to need to put an organization together, set up offices, get advance people on the plane to Iowa."

  "I've got some people working on this project now. You can keep them or throw them out. I don't care," Mickey said.

  "Who are they?"

  "Malcolm Rasher."

  "He was working on Paul Arquette's campaign," A. J. said.

  "Now he's working for me. You want him?" "He's good. A great strategist."

  "I think he's a yuppie shine with an attitude."

  "What could be better than having a black campaign manager? It sends a politically correct message. I mean, Haze looks good with a black running the show, especially since I'll be behind him calling the shots. Who else?"

  "I've got two pollsters--Ken Venable and Guy Vandergot."

  "They're okay. We can keep them." His mind was racing. "I'll have to oversee them. I have some thoughts on polling and stature strategy. We'll need an issues staff and a press secretary. Maybe I can get Vidal Brown."

  Mickey looked surprised. Teagarden had snapped up the offer so fast it was almost frightening.

  "One other thing," Mickey continued. "Haze Richards has to know who's behind this. You gotta get him to talk to me at least once before we start. If I'm gonna buy this guy a seat in the Big Chair, I want him to know he's gonna have to do a few things once he gets elected." He handed A . J. a telephone number. "Somebody there can get in touch with me twenty-four hours a day."

  Mickey nodded at New York Tony, who walked over to the car and opened the door.

  "I'll be in touch in a few hours," A. J. said. He got in the car and New York Tony pulled out, leaving Mickey standing next to the river.

  These wonks ... they're a breed, Mickey thought. The Democratic party had put Teagarden on the beach, and Mickey just threw him back in the water. He was already swimming. "This guy is perfect," Mickey said to the raging river.

  All the way back to the motel, A. J.' s mind was in full advance. It was the offer of a lifetime. Paul Arquette had obviously been a mob candidate. He'd died in the Bahamas and now they wanted Haze. He didn't need anybody to point out the possibilities to him. The underworld had the cash. If they controlled a TV network, like Mickey hinted, it could make a huge difference. A . J. knew that once the campaign got rolling, it could fund itself on national momentum. Mafia money would just prime the pump and get them started. He knew he could get Haze to run. They'd talked about the possibility for hours on end over the years. A . J. already had an election plan. He knew that by front loading the system, the DNC had made itself vulnerable to just the kind of highly financed attack that Mickey had described. He could hijack the nomination with just a little bit of luck. His idea hinged on the fact that there were only thirty days between the Iowa caucus and Super Tuesday.

  He'd worked it all out in his head a thousand times. All he'd lacked was the money to pull it off. The Mafia was such an
obvious answer it made him laugh. He was about to show those fucks at the DNC. The wonks had put the system up for sale and now Albert James Teagarden, the black sheep of the fraternity, was going to steal it from them.

  Chapter 9.

  THE MAN FROM PROVIDENCE

  HAZE RICHARDS DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO WEAR TO THE meeting. He was standing in his closet looking at the array of custom-made suits and finally chose a charcoal-gray that looked great with a dark maroon silk tie.

  After dressing, Haze stood in front of a three-way mirror and patted his rock-hard stomach. At fifty-five, he was still square-jawed and broad-shouldered, with dimples in each cheek . . . pale blue eyes that contact lenses enhanced to the color of tropical water. He loved the way he looked.

  He flashed his capped teeth and wondered if A. J. really had something. He'd soon see for himself.

  He met A. J. Teagarden in the entry foyer of the governor's mansion. They moved past the velvet ropes that separated the public area from the First Family's living quarters.

  Despite the length and duration of their friendship, he and A. J. had very little in common, except for a love of the political system. They'd grown up living next door to each other. Haze had been the star athlete, lettering in football, basketball, and track. Albert J. Teagarden was president of the debating society, and Haze's campaign manager when he ran for class president. A . J. came u p w ith the strategy and Haze made the speeches, and they always won. But Haze never understood how A . J. could work so tirelessly for Haze's goals.

  As they walked out of the governor's mansion, Haze thought, as usual, that A. J. looked as if he'd slept in his clothes, but Teagarden was brilliant. They moved into the parking lot and got into a white Chevy, a state plainclothes car with "G" plates. A . J. drove the car erratically, never watching the road, looking over at Haze as he talked.

  "Jesus, watch where you're going. We're gonna end up as hood ornaments on a bus," Haze exclaimed.