IR
AFTER DR. JAZZ LEFT, COLE HARRIS WENT ACROSS THE street and got a cup of coffee at a truck stop. Cole had had a few words with the rumpled, cigar-chewing man whom Ryan called Kaz. His journalistic instincts told him he was onto a big story.
For most of his life, chasing stories had been Cole's only passion. He valued it over everything else in his fifty-six compulsive nit-picking years. At his core he was an investigative reporter, an IR.
He had started doing journalism as a corporal in Vietnam, filing personal action stories with Stars and Stripes. Cole had eventually taken small-arms fire in his foot when an airfield in the Delta had been overrun by VC in '63, and he'd come Stateside and mustered out.
Shortly after, he had found a job on his hometown rag, The Detroit Free Press, where he worked the crime beat.
Because of his dogged pursuit of minutiae, Harris had been extremely successful. In the early 1970s, he'd been hired by UBC to try broadcast journalism. He covered everything from the Cold War to Meyer Lansky's failed attempt to get into Israel.
His career had flourished until he'd tried to do a crime series on the mob's secret ownership of Atlantic City's gambling casinos. Cole had found enough hard evidence to call several casino gaming licenses into question. The news desk at UBC had killed the series for unexplained reasons. Cole had refused to drop it, despite a direct order to do so by the senior vice president of news, Steve Israel. Two weeks later, he'd been called into Israel's office.
"Your work is not up to the caliber this news division demands," the bald, young VP of the nightly news had said.
"You kidding me? I got two Pulitzers. . . ."
"Sorry. We had a discussion in the morning meeting yesterday and the executive producers agree."
"This isn't about my professionalism; this is about the fact that I don't want to drop the Atlantic City story," he'd said, his natural newsman's paranoia going ballistic.
"Just clear out your desk. Give your press pass and badge to Security."
Cole had left Israel's office and had gone to his office on the edge of the Rim and sat there, thinking about it. He suddenly felt so completely frustrated and outraged that he exploded up to his feet and charged back across the Rim to the conference room where the "morning meetings" were held each day at ten A . M.
The huge conference room, as usual, was jammed. Seated around the large table were the vice presidents of news practice, news coverage, as well as the VPs of business affairs and finance.
Steve Israel, senior VP of news, ran the meeting. Also attending were the senior broadcast segment producers, the director of the political unit, the anchors for the two news mags, as well as Brenton Spencer of the nightly news, the political analysts, and all senior political correspondents.
Cole burst into the room. "You guys oughta be ashamed of yourselves," he said to the startled "big feet."
"Cole, this isn't the time" Steve Israel snapped.
"The Alo family has a silent ownership in two Atlantic City casinos. I've got good proof . . . witnesses who've seen meetings between Mickey and his father Joseph and members of the Murphy Hotel syndicate. I've gone back and looked at tax records of the Murphy family. These guys owned furniture stores in the eighties. How the hell did they get the money to do a leveraged buyout on two hotels and a casino carpet joint?"
"The decision has been made."
He'd been escorted by Security to his office, where his badges and network press pass were removed from his desk before he could even hand them over. A news staffer was sent to get a box and Cole loaded his stuff inside.
"You guys are working for a bunch of assholes," he'd said as he loaded his desk into the cardboard box. "A free press is the cornerstone of democracy," he lectured the uninterested security men, who were watching him closely, making sure he didn't remove any company property. "If this news division won't run valid stories, exposing power brokers and criminal conspiracies, then it's lower than whale shit," he'd said, half shouting, as he slammed notebooks and leather folders into the box. The last things to go in were his two Pulitzer citations and a pen and pencil set given to him last Christmas by C. Wallace Litman , engraved TO COLE HARRIS, THE BEST OF THE BEST. C. WALLACE LITMAN. He grabbed the box and, with one security guard holding each arm, they escorted him out of the building.
He'd tried to get employment at other networks, but Steve Israel had scorched the ground around him. Nobody would touch him.
Cole had run out of money and for two months had been living in the back of his van in the driveway of Carson's house, eating his meals with his brother and sister-in-law in the cramped dining room, wondering whether he should end it all. He had bought a gun and twice found himself holding the weapon in a shaking hand, wondering if he could put it in his mouth and pull the trigger. But something had stopped him. As he sat in the diner, the reason reached up and grabbed him. . . . If he killed himself, the y w ould have won. They would have beaten him. His compulsion to win had somehow saved him.
Cole's ex-wife had told him when she was divorcing him that his strongest link was attached to his weakest and that was why she couldn't stand to live with him. It was the one thing she'd said among all the hurled insults and invectives that had made any sense. Cole was humorless and he was driven. His strong link was his compulsion to be right. That compulsion had made him a tireless researcher and had won him two Pulitzers. His weak link, he had come to find out, was that same compulsion. He drove people crazy. Systematically, he had driven away all the soft, nourishing contacts in his life and was left with the bony remnants.
Then he felt a presence standing over him and looked up to see Solomon Kazorowski, with an unlit, soggy cigar in his mouth, glowering down at him.
"I think maybe we need to share some info." Kaz sat down heavily and looked at the newsman, who was dressed in neatly pleated pants with a blue shirt, tie, matching suspenders, and tweed coat. Despite this perfect ensemble, Cole had only a few dollars left in his pocket. His newsman's instinct took over.
"Let me buy you a cup," he said, pulling out two bills, wondering if he could pump this sorry piece of ex-government beef for some information, without giving up any of his own. Kaz had exactly the same agenda.
They played mind poker for two hours, giving little bits of information to get back little bits, trading shreds like beggars. Each wondered how he could use the other to his own advantage. Gradually and begrudgingly, they gained respect for one another.
Chapter 38.
HALF TRUTHS
THAT SAME DAY, A HUNDRED MILES NORTH, NEW HAMPshire voters were going to the polls. A. J. knew that Haze was going to win big. The question was, How big? Since the defining event in New York, Haze was the frontrunner, tracking in the high 50 percentiles. The message had scored. The question wasn't, Would he win New Hampshire?--but, Would he win it bigger than any candidate in modern history?
Even better news was that the Super Tuesday states were all polling their way. A. J. had been told that Senator Skatina was going to drop out if he did less than 20 percent in New Hampshire, and A.]. was pretty sure that was going to happen. Skatina had "managed the damage" stemming from the mob allegations as best he could, but they'd slowed him down and hurt him. The other candidates were DOA in New Hampshire and would probably pull out, too. It was pretty damn hard to get political funding if you're losing elections and trailing in the polls. A candidate needed over 20 percent to qualify for government matching funds.
The way A. J. had it figured, a week from today, after Super Tuesday, Haze should be running unopposed, except for a few favorite-son candidates. He'd be virtually assured of the Democratic nomination.
A. J. had called a strategy meeting in his Manchester hotel room with Malcolm, Vidal Brown, Carol Wakano, and Ven and Van. He'd left Haze off the list because more and more he'd been fighting with Haze for center stage in strategy sessions. He felt it would also be a good idea for Haze to get Anita back from Providence. A few articles had already appeared spec
ulating about the candidate's missing wife. A . J. knew they were barely speaking, but he was urging Haze to make an effort to patch things up before Super Tuesday. He desperately needed some photo ops with Anita.
There was a knock on the door. He opened it and let his "first circle" in. They spread out in the small room, all of them wearing big smiles. It was fun being on a winning team. The purpose of this meeting was to look past Super Tuesday and start thinking about the Republican Vice President who had been running pretty much unopposed. Vice President James "F'udge" Anderson had been basically selling the regular Republican agenda, not sure whether to take on Skatina, who had started looking like the man to beat, or to shift his focus to Haze.
After the New Hampshire win tonight, and after the latest tracking poll in the Super Tuesday states, A. J. knew the Republicans were going to be looking for ways to knock Haze around, and he had to get some strategy going for that.
"Okay, kids, we've got ponies coming out our ass and that's great," he started. "But we gotta start looking ahead. All winning campaigns communicate optimism, and we've been doing that. Americans are optimistic about Haze, optimistic about the message, but the Republicans are gonna start throwing mud. We've been riding a media wave recently, but we gotta get ready for some white water. Vidal, what have you got for next week?"
"I just got off the phone. We booked Haze on the Hour of the Living Dead," Vidal said, referring to what insiders called Washington Week in Review. "We aren't gonna do Letterman or Leno, or any of the entertainment shows yet. They're calling, but I said wait till after Super Tuesday. We're going to stay with a hard news look. Besides Night-line, we'll do a Sixty Minutes piece. We're still arguing over the correspondent. . . . I want Lesley Stahl to help with our gender gap. Haze knows her and feels comfortable, but they want Bradley. They're probably gonna fold if we give them an exclusive three-day window. That would keep us off Nightline till Wednesday. I think with all the free press, I can live with that," he said. "We're also booked on Larry King Live for some call-in segments. The way the polls are running, we should do great in that venue," he said, finishing his update.
"Okay, we'll have a separate meeting on campaign spots after this one," A. J. said. "Ven, I need a new two-sentence policy on all the key issues to deal with what the Republicans are gonna throw at us. I also want spotlight teams to work on world affairs. We need Haze to look good on foreign policy 'cause that's Pudge Anderson's strong suit."
The door opened and Susan Winter put her head in. "What's going on in here?" she asked, smiling at them and brushing her auburn hair off her forehead.
"Little strategy meeting," A. J. said.
"Shouldn't Haze be included? Does he know you're meeting?"
"Look, Susan, Haze needs his rest. Today is one of the few days he can just take it easy."
"I don't think he wants to take it easy, A. J. I think he wants to be in all the strategy sessions. If I were you, I'd call him." She gave them a snotty smile. " 'Bye," she said and closed the door.
Ten minutes later, Haze was pounding on the door. A. J. let him in the room.
"I didn't think you'd want to be in on a preliminary strategy meeting, Haze," A. J. apologized. "I was going to capsulize it for you while we watched the returns tonight."
Haze didn't answer A. J. He moved past him, into the room, walked to the window, and looked out. Finally he turned.
"I wanna do Letterman now," he said to Vidal. "Can you get me on? I thought I could do some stuff there to show 'em I'm just a regular guy. . . . Susan thought maybe I should play my guitar."
"Sure, babe, anything you want."
A. J. let the stupid suggestion stand. He knew they were going to win the nomination and he didn't want to get thrown off the bus before it pulled into Washington.
Chapter 39.
TRAPPED ALIVE
LUCINDA HAD NEVER GONE TO SLEEP. SHE SAT UP, HOLDing Ryan's hand all night. Kaz had begun to think Ryan was going to be no use to him. The leg was a goner as fa r a s Kaz could see. He wasn't going to get anywhere dragging a cripple around. He told Lucinda that she should take Ryan away, someplace where he'd be safe, maybe back t o t he sun in California. She nodded her agreement. He hope d t hat Bolt would listen.
Kaz left the motel and drove out of the parking lot to the rail yard, two blocks away, where Cole Harris had elected to park his van and sleep. He said he was used to sleeping in the bus, so that's what he'd done. Cole had a mattress and battery heaters in the back of the VW.
Kaz pulled up as Cole Harris was folding his laundry on a portable table he had set up. He was putting his clean bed linen in plastic bags. Kaz had noticed the night before that everything in the van was spotless; everything fit into neat compartments. There was even a built-in computer with a portable work station. He got out of his car and moved toward Cole, who had one corner of a bedsheet tucked under his chin, pulling the far end up to meet it. He checked the edges to make sure they were exactly even before making the fold.
"How's Bolt?"
"On injured reserve. How 'bout breakfast? I'll buy. I'm going batshit watching all this compulsive behavior."
They got in Kaz's rented Chevelle and stopped at a Winchell's for coffee and doughnuts to go. Kaz bought a paper. The front page showed the smiling face of Haze Richards. The headline screamed:
PROVIDENCE COMES TO
NEW HAMPSHIRE
The subhead read:
HAZE RICHARDS SCORES KO
WINS RECORD 68 PERCENT
Kaz got on the Jersey Turnpike, heading toward New York City. Then he said, "Bolt says this guy is a mob pawn." A light rain started falling so he turned on the wipers and waited while Cole bit carefully on a sugar doughnut.
"You wanna kick in anything or are you just gonna perform oral surgery on that doughnut?"
"Okay, here's what I got so far. . . I think UBC is hooked to the mob. I'm not sure how high up it goes, whether it's just Steve Israel in the news division or if it goes all the way up to C. Wallace Litman. When they killed my story on the Alos in Atlantic City, I got to wondering if maybe there was something going on between the mob and UBC. I went back and looked at their news coverage on organized crime. They've killed every single story about the Alos, specifically, and the East Coast crime syndicates, in general. I find that very disturbing."
"Where's that take us?" Kaz asked.
"I'm digging around in the Justice Department, using old contacts, but it's pretty damn hard when you don't have any network clout behind you. I figured I'd start at the top, with C. Wallace Litman. So far, I haven't go t m uch that's solid, but one thing seems funny. . . ." "What?"
"Back in the sixties, he was just this little accounts manager for an investment portfolio company in Florida. He was making twenty-five to thirty thousand a year, and then he quits. Nobody in that firm can remember why. He resurfaced in New York a few years later, and he owned, of all things, two parking lots in downtown Manhattan, and I'm thinking, what a strange investment for this little Yiddish accountant from Fort Lauderdale. 'Course, it's not so strange when you realize the mob is big on Manhattan parking lots and all other cash businesses. Then he parlays the parking lots into some real estate and, ten years later, he tacks that 'C' on the front of his name and he's a big Wall Street gazoonie, buying media companies. I can't prove any of it, but my bullshit meter is in the red."
Cole amputated a piece of his sugar doughnut with his lateral incisors, managing not to get any powder on his clean, blue shirt and matching tie. "By the way, where are we going? I thought we were just gonna get breakfast and have a talk."
"I thought we should go back and have another look at Brenton Spencer. He's in NYC County. Ryan got me thinking, it's very strange Brenton walked off that stage in Iowa."
"Maybe it was the brain aneurysm that made him act funny."
"Yeah, and maybe it wasn't. If he wakes up, I wanna be there."
They arrived at County Hospital at noon and went directly to the Neurology floor. The hubbub h
ad died down and the press had left days ago. Now all that remained was the smell of sickness and Lysol. Nurses moved quietly, like green paper angels, their rubber-soled shoes squeaking on sanitized corridors, while music and doctors pagings came lightly over the intercom.
Kaz found the same intern he had talked to the day they'd checked Spencer in. He was in the office at the far end of the floor.
" 'Member me?" Kaz said, poking his head in. "How's Spence?"
The doctor had been up all night and was resting on the sofa with his shoes off, stocking feet propped on the arm rest. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"Still about the same. Like I told you, it's gonna be a while."
"This is his brother, Carl. He's in the jewelry business. Just flew in from Zurich."
"Brenton and I haven't seen much of one another since I started buying gemstones abroad. It's hard to believe this happened," Cole said, rolling with the improv.
"He's still in the same room. You can look through the glass but don't go in."
They moved out of the intern's office.
"Guy's a doctor, he should wash his socks," Cole mumbled as they walked down the spotless corridor to the room where Brenton was being treated. There was an observation window, but Kaz ignored the instruction, opened the door, and entered.
Brenton had gone camping in an oxygen tent. They stood at the foot of the anchorman's bed and looked at him. His head was wrapped heavily in gauze. To their surprise his eyes were open and staring up at them.
"Is he awake?" Cole asked, looking down into his eyes. "Brenton, it's me. It's Cole Harris." Brenton didn't move his eyes. He was looking up into space.
"Brenton, it's Cole. Can you hear me?"
Brenton Spencer could hear but he couldn't move or speak. His eyes were directed at the ceiling, but saw nothing. He had lost all sight and much of his memory. None of his senses worked except his hearing. Several times a day, people would come and give him a shot and he would fall back into a deep, drugged sleep. But he would always come out of it sooner than they expected. He began to realize, each time he came to, that he was frozen in thi s b ody; trapped, unable to see or speak or move. Through the blind patchwork of his crippled brain, he was screaming silently at everyone who came into the room. Screaming, Help, help, let me out. I'm in here. He could hear them as they walked in and out.
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