"Doesn't it bother you that this guy is just reading lines A. J. stuffs in him?"
"Fuck yes, it bothers me," he snapped. "But I'm a TV producer, not a political scientist."
"Last night I was sleeping in the back of the van and this piece of sour shit jumped on Susan Winter's bones in the barn. There they were grabbing each other's buns, pants down around their knees, huffing and woofing. And I kept saying to myself, 'This guy could be my next President.' " She turned and focused a withering gaze at him. "You know what really pisses me off, Ryan?"
He waited, knowing there was no way to stop her.
"What really pisses me off is I'm helping this asshole." He felt the same way but he was trapped.
They looked at each other in the very small room on the second floor of the J. Building. A winter wind was blowing outside and the bare branches of a deciduous tree tapped softly on the window, disrupting the heavy silence between them.
She shut off the editing machine.
"I'm outta here," she said softly. "You don't have to pay me because I didn't finish the job. Matter of fact, I don't want to be paid. I wouldn't be able to spend the money with a clear conscience." She picked up her purse. "Lemme ask you a question. . . . If Haze Richards doesn't do his own thinking, doesn't have any courage, and is morally corrupt, how can you make this documentary, how can you get up in the morning and look at yourself in the mirror?"
He had no answer for her.
"You're a good guy, Ryan, but if you stay on his campaign, you're going to regret it," she said, giving words to his exact thoughts. Then she walked out of the edit bay.
Ryan stood there thinking about what she said.
He had gone through his life with emotional blinders on. He had been a golden boy to whom everything had come easy athletic fame, career success. He had never looked directly at any hard reality, choosing instead to avoid the conflict. And now, at age thirty-five, with his son dead, his marriage and career shattered, it was all bubbling up, the molten residue of all of the ugliness in his life that he'd refused to deal with. He felt surrounded by his life's mistakes, picking up and examining each charred piece. What was this? Oh, yes, Christmas Eve. I realized I didn't love my wife but never dealt with it for five years. What was this? Oh, yes, that was my boyhood pal, Terry, floating at the bottom of the pool. And this . . . Mau was taken from me because I didn't deserve him. And this . . . this piece of emotional poison . . . Ryan Bolt is not about anything.
Ryan Bolt is not about anything. Ryan Bolt is about what other people think. And Mickey Alo, my old friend from prep school, is probably a Mafia hood. Ryan had always suspected it . . . He had even read an article in Newsweek on organized crime in which Joseph Alo had been mentioned. He'd brought it up to Mickey, when they were just out of college. Mickey had flown into a rage.
"My father owns restaurants. His family is from Sicily. Sometimes, mob guys eat in his places. That's not a crime. He's never been indicted. It's bullshit."
Ryan had let it drop. It was easier not to push it. What did it matter to him? But now he couldn't avoid it. Mickey got him this job. A. J. had been on the phone in Mickey's den talking about money from the Bahamas. Offshore cash. It didn't take a genius to figure out where it came from or where it was going. If organized crime was behind Haze Richards, if he was their handpicked puppet, then the implications could be devastating.
He sat down on the edit bay desk and listened to the gusting wind outside that brushed the tree limb against the window. Tap-tap-tap. He glanced out at the empty branches swaying in the wind and wondered if he could face these old emotional grenades--wondered if he could deal with his new suspicions--wondered if he was strong enough to try.
The bony-finger twig at the end of the branch hit the window, trying to get his attention. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-taptap.
Chapter 21.
DEFINING EVENT
THE IDEA WOKE HIM UP.
"Shit." A. J. struggled to a sitting position. "How could I have been so dumb." He was still half asleep, in his single room at the Des Moines Holiday Inn. He tried to clear his head. Then he swung his feet off the bed and went to the phone. "Alo, Alo," he said out loud, looking for Mickey's private number. He found it on a card stuffed in his wallet.
"Hello?" a voice growled through the receiver. "Need to talk to Mickey Alo."
"He's sleeping."
"Tell him A. J. Teagarden is on the phone."
"Just a minute." And he was on hold.
He used the moments to collect his thoughts. He started tapping his foot, nervous energy burning like battery acid. He had been looking for a defining event, one that would score with the electorate at large. A defining event was any event that instantly told the public who the candidate was. Jesse Jackson bringing the Middle East hostages home or Clinton getting his hair cut on the L. A . runway. Both were defining events. People instantly got it. The debate had set Haze up. He would be in the national ey e i n the morning. While he had the nation's attention, A . J. needed something tangible to show that Haze's message was true. He'd come up with it while sound asleep. After a moment, Mickey came on the line, his voice choked with sleep.
,,yeah . . ."
"It's Teagarden." "yeah..."
"This Teamster problem, this strike, are you involved with that?" he asked, knowing that the Teamsters and the mob were generally in bed together.
"Not on the phone."
"I need to talk first thing in the morning. You won't regret it."
"Where you staying?"
"Des Moines Holiday Inn, room four seventy-six." And the line went dead. A. J. Teagarden lay back on his bed.
Shit, he thought, it was perfect. , At seven A. M., New York Tony knocked on his door. A. J. got up and opened it, looking at the hatchet-faced bodyguard through the chain lock.
"Get dressed. Mickey is in a car downstairs," he ordered.
A. J. threw on his clothes, combed his hair with his fingers, and followed New York Tony down the hall and out into the cold Iowa morning.
New York Tony led A. J. around the side of the hotel and into an overflow parking lot where two large men in black overcoats were standing in front of a white windowless van. Their eyes metronomed the parking lot, like wary tank commanders in a fire zone. The bodyguard swung open the van door and A . J. was suddenly looking at Mickey Alo. Mickey had a box of Winchell's doughnuts on his knees and a cup of coffee in a paper cup.
"Seen this?" Mickey asked as he handed the Des Moines Register-Guard to A. J. The headline was in thirtysix-point sans serif boldface type and screamed: RHODE ISLAND GOVERNOR
TURNS PRIMARY RACE HAZEY
Under that, the subhead read:
RICHARDS SCORES DEBATE KO
A. J. already knew this would be the reaction. He'd stayed up for the late newscasts, and all four networks had called it for Haze. All of them had shown Brenton Spencer walking off the stage and Haze's brilliant move to the mike, followed by his take-back-America closing while the other candidates sat behind him like a bunch of back-up singers.
"You were right," Mickey said. "He did great."
"We're on our way. We're going to be the story in Iowa for a few days, but it will fizzle if we don't build on it. We have to keep parlaying, trading up. I've got a great defining event, but you're gonna have to pull it off for me."
"Whatta you need?" Mickey asked.
"Before he walked off the stage, Brenton Spencer challenged Haze to bring management and labor together in the Teamster strike."
"Yeah? So . . . ?"
"I don't know what the sticking points are in the negotiations, but wouldn't it be nice if tonight or tomorrow the Teamsters could invite Haze to come to New York." The wonk started to grin in nervous excitement. "Haz gets on the train. I want it to be the train because it's the commuter's vehicle, the way the common man gets to work. Then he rides into New York . . . like fucking Caesar into Rome. While the world watches on TV, he walks into some room with labor and management, and the doors close.
Everybody thinks he can't pull this off . . . He's dust. Then--voila!--the door opens and he walks out tw o h ours later with the head of the union--that fat guy, Bud Rennick--on one arm and the head of the Truckers Association on the other."
"Tom Bartel," Mickey said.
"Right. And there's a deal. They've buried the hatchet. Everybody is smiling. The Peterbilts are going to roll; there's joy in Mudville. If we time it right, I can ride that pony right on through New Hampshire, into Super Tuesday two weeks from now."
Mickey looked over at Teagarden.
"There's a lot of money at stake. These guys are locked up over mileage and hourly rates. They're way apart."
"I'm sure there's problems, but you told me you wanted Haze in the White House. You didn't care what it cost. I need this."
Mickey looked at his watch, then studied the wonk. "Okay, lemme make some calls. I'll get back to you."
"You gotta do this. I don't care what you have to promise the Teamsters, we'll take care of them on the other end once we get Haze in the White House. Listen, this is made for us. This defines Haze as a doer. This is Haze making America work again. It's right on the message. Make it happen."
"Anything else you want? How 'bout I arrange for Haze to be elected pope?"
"He won't take a job where he can't fuck the secretaries." The wonk smiled. "But I got another idea."
"Let's hear."
"After we do good in this state, we're gonna start getting sniped at by Skatina. He's gonna look over his shoulder and see Haze coming up in the polls and he's gonna start playing rough . . . He'll go after Haze's uninspired legislative record in Rhode Island. He's gonna maybe dig up a woman who had a nice weekend with the gov and now wants to be on the cover of People magazine. We gotta keep that from happening."
"How we gonna do that?"
"We got a guy here named Skatina. That's a wop name. . . no offense . . . a wop from New York. Might be nice if maybe the world begins to wonder if maybe Leo has some mob ties. That gets Skatina on the defensive for two weeks while the press paws through his garbage looking for ravioli sauce."
"Really?" Mickey said, beginning to have serious respect for the unkempt man sitting beside him.
"Yeah, really, like if maybe somebody you know wants to come clean, make a public confession."
"How 'bout somebody who's already on trial for bribing a public official? Maybe he confesses the Skatina connection from the stand, under oath . . . ?" Mickey was thinking of an ongoing New York trial where he had good contacts with the defense.
"Sounds promising," A. J. said, grinning.
Chapter 22.
CONFRONTATION
THE TWELVE O'CLOCK PRESS CONFERENCE WAS A VIDEO rodeo. Power cables spaghettied around the crowded hotel ballroom.
Vidal Brown was on the stage in front of a microphone podium as correspondents screamed for hard news on Haze Richards.
Ryan was watching from the back of the ballroom thinking somebody has to stop this! And then A. J. Teagarden's voice was in his ear.
"I need the documentary. I got a deal with ABC. They're gonna run it on Nightline unedited."
A. J. had slipped up beside him in the milling crowd of blow-dries. "Come outside," Ryan finally said.
He led the wonk out of the ballroom and they found a small alcove in the hotel where the din was manageable.
"I'm not sure I like what's happening here," Ryan said.
"What's happening is Haze Richards. Where's the tape?" The wonk leaned in and pushed his bushy face toward Ryan. "Gimme the tape, Ryan. I need footage on Haze. I'm cutting deals on that tape. We've got networks fighting for it. They can't just run clips of the debate; they wanna know who he is . . . the man from Providence, the Prairie Fire. Where is it?"
"This guy is just hype. He doesn't stand for anything." "That's the system. Reagan wasn't overwhelmed with original thought, either. Now give it to me."
"Why is the underworld backing Haze?"
A. J. had been leaning forward, trying to get in Ryan's face. The question froze him.
"The underworld isn't involved with this candidate. It's horseshit."
"The Alo family is supporting Haze. I overheard you tell Mickey on the phone that cash was coming in from the Bahamas. If the mob is backing all this, what does Haze Richards have to give back once he gets in the White House?"
. A. J.'s face turned to stone. His expression told Ryan he had scored a bull's-eye.
A. J. Teagarden spun away, leaving Ryan in the little alcove, alone.
Ryan moved to the elevator and pushed "7." . . . He rode up alone while "Sons of the Pioneers" warbled through the Muzak. He got out, went down the hall, and opened his room. The edited master tape was on the desk. He grabbed it, along with three other tapes of raw footage it had been cut from and one duplicate master he'd made. He put them away in his suitcase, locked the case, and moved quickly out of his room: He took the stairway down to the mezzanine and handed the overnight bag to the concierge. "Could you put this in your lockup for me?"
While Ryan was locking up the tape, A. J. Teagarden was across the street from the hotel on a pay phone talking to Mickey Alo. Mickey had flown back to Manhattan and was in a restaurant where he was having lunch with Bud Rennick, president of the local Teamsters.
"It's A. J."
"Can this wait? I'll call you back on a hard line."
"You better hear it now. I gotta get back inside. We're having a feeding frenzy. I got press crawling up my ass, and I got nothing to chum the water with. And this old friend of yours, this Ryan guy--he'sgot the tape but he won't give it over."
"I'll look into it," Mickey said slowly.
"Another thing . . . I thought you told me nobody but me, Haze, and Malcolm were gonna know you were involved in this."
"Nobody else does."
"Ten minutes ago, Ryan Bolt told me that the Alo family was financing Haze. This guy could scuttle the whole deal. You gotta wave him off."
"I'll take care of it. Thanks." And Mickey hung up. "Everything okay?" Bud asked.
"Yep." Mickey made two quick decisions and then he turned his full attention back to Bud. "You invite Governor Richards to New York, let him solve it, but you gotta cave on your hourly wage demand."
"You guarantee you'll give it back to me somehow later, I'll sell it to my board."
Outside the restaurant, Solomon Kazorowski had heard the call from A. J. to Mickey Alo. He had borrowed an ICOM scanner that could intercept cell phone calls from a friend. When Mickey's phone had rung, he eavesdropped on the call. After A . J. hung up, Kaz picked up the picture of the blond man who had come to the Alo house with Lucinda. He pulled a Magic Marker out of his pocket and wrote the name "Ryan Bolt" under the picture. And then, after a moment of thought, he put a question mark next to it.
The first Iowa post-debate poll came in at six P. M. A. J., Ven, and Van were in Malcolm's suite, which was on the tenth floor of the Savoy. A . J. was in the bedroom getting results over the phone. He hung up and came through the door, grinning.
"That was my guy at UBC. Haze is on the map. We're polling ten percent. From zero to ten percent in one day. Fucking unbelievable."
Malcolm got to his feet. "Let's hear the rest."
A. J. looked down at the slip of paper. "Okay, this thing in Iowa is gonna be between us and Skatina. Forget the other three. They're already dust. People aren't quite ready to say they'll vote for Haze yet, 'cause they just heard about him yesterday, but the internals are amazing. Haze is leading Skatina three-to-two on integrity. Skatina has a three-to-one edge on 'Qualified.' We'll have to build on that. Haze scored big on the farm program. That was fucking brilliant if I do say so myself." He bowed at the waist before going on. "The question, 'Does the candidate care?' we're solid winners. Leadership'--we're ahead. `Trust in a crisis' they don't know Haze, so Skatina is still the guy they'd trust with the bomb, but I'll figure out a way to overcome that. Get this . . . When asked, 'Which candidate excited and inspired you?'--it was Haze by
fifty-two percent." He dropped the paper on the table.
"We need to follow this up with that documentary. Where the hell is it?" Malcolm asked.
A. J. wondered what Mickey had in store for Ryan Bolt.
Chapter 23.
THIRTEEN WEEKS
JOHNNY FURZE WAS HIS GIVEN NAME, BUT ON THE PIER IN Atlantic City, they called him Thirteen Weeks. He worked as a collector for Charlie "Six Fingers" Romano. If you failed to pay the greedy little Sicilian loan shark the vig, or worse still, if you tried to take off, then Johnny Furie was called into action. His specialty was nonfatal injuries which would leave you hospitalized for specific amounts of time--thirteen weeks in County Hospital being the sentence Charlie Six Fingers deemed right for a seriously delinquent account.
Thirteen Weeks prided himself on his ability to dole out the exact number of hospital days he was aiming for. He worked with a cut-down, wood Louisville Slugger and had actually audited some medical courses at City College to help him refine his skills. He had learned, for example, to stay away from the kidneys, because they could cause complications that would leave a delinquent account in a wheelchair. He avoided the head and focused on appendages because they were hospital-time reliable. Knees were almost always good for two weeks; feet were favored targets if the sentence was longer. Foot injuries could leave a "no pay" on his back with his leg in a pulley sling fo r m onths. Johnny Furie rarely missed by much.
His boss, Charlie Romano, operated a loan shark business on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, funding bars and restaurants as well as casino losers. His operation was on Alo turf, so he gave the Alo "buttons" a taste of his action in exchange for protection from range wars with freelance operators.
Mickey Alo called Charlie. He explained the situation and Charlie picked Thirteen Weeks for the job. The sixfoot-two, two-hundred-sixty-pound collection consultant boarded a plane to Cedar Rapids, rented a car there, and drove over to Des Moines. He stopped at a sporting goods store in a small town on the way and picked up an eighteen-ounce Louisville Slugger. Then he stopped at a hardware store and bought a drill, a hacksaw, and two feet of nylon rope. He shortened the bat in the front seat of his car while eating a McDonald's Double-Double burger, drilling a hole through the handle and tying a loop in the cord so he could hang the bat under his armpit beneath his overcoat.
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