Quarry's vote q-5

by Maxallan Collins

  He laughed, and finally sat, crossed his legs, ankle on knee.

  “It’s a problem,” he said. “These kids are very enthusiastic, and very hard workers. They come into the party alert and questioning, but they get so indoctrinated, after a while, that they become, well, rather single-minded.”

  “They should be able to discuss the issues, not just parrot the party line.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. What’s your interest in the Democratic Action party, Mr. Ryan?”

  “I just like what Preston Freed stands for. I represent a loose, informal group of businessmen from my community. We want to contribute several thousand dollars to the party-perhaps as much as ten.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  I raised one of mine. “But I want to make sure we wouldn’t be pissing our money away.”

  He gestured around his little war room. “Do you think we’d make this effort if we didn’t think it would amount to something?”

  “Well, frankly, you yourself are probably well paid. Most professional campaign managers are. And your staff is obviously fresh out of college, looking for meaningful work, taking on a low-paying position for the experience and out of belief in a cause. Kids right out of college who haven’t figured out, yet, that you can’t deposit a cause in the bank.”

  He nodded, smiled wryly.

  “And I would imagine some of your staff are college kids, drawing on the various campuses in the area… Augustana, St. Ambrose, Palmer…”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “Most of the area colleges allow political science students to work on campaigns for academic credit.”

  “So,” I said, “I see that it’s extremely possible for me to be pissing my and my associates’ money away by donating to your party’s election efforts. We might be better off supporting conservatives within the Republican party. Candidates who actually have a chance of winning.”

  “You’re underestimating us, Mr. Ryan,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve been at this for a long, long time. This will be our third Presidential race. In our first attempt, we gathered less than 80,000 votes in the national primaries. But last time around, we racked up a quarter of a million. And this year? Anything is possible.”

  “Except victory.”

  “You’re not a fool, Mr. Ryan, nor am I, and certainly Preston Freed is anything but a fool. Victory is a practical impossibility.” He raised a forefinger in a lecturing gesture. “However, we’re undoubtedly going to be putting on the strongest third-party candidacy since George Wallace in 1968.”

  “You’re anticipating that Preston Freed will become a kingmaker, at the Democratic convention.”

  “We do anticipate that. Who can say what victories will come from that? And we can look forward to the next election. If our rate of growth continues, the next time around Preston Freed will be a viable candidate, and the Democratic Action party will be a third, vital, major party.”

  “All of this from a storefront in Davenport, Iowa.”

  “Don’t be deceived, Mr. Ryan. This is only the first stop on the primary trail. We’re getting an early start. The Iowa precinct caucuses January twenty-first sound the opening gun of the presidential race. But we’re running now. Our candidate will begin making public appearances next week. Our volunteers, our staffers, will cover every county in Iowa, door-to-door and by telephone.”

  “And then on to New Hampshire.”

  “On to New Hampshire. And at least a dozen more primaries after that, and we’ll be purchasing radio and TV spots in each of those states. Beyond that, we’ve already purchased four half-hour national television broadcasts.”

  “I’m starting to feel encouraged.”

  “You should feel encouraged. And the presidency is only the most visible aspect of our strategy. I don’t have to tell you that where the Democratic Action party has made strides is in local and state government-we’ll field thousands of candidates in those races, and we’ll win a good share. We’ve done it before.”

  “You sure made a mess out of Illinois state politics not so long ago.”

  That made him grin. “Thank you. I had a certain small hand in that. We’ve had similar successes in California, Texas, Maryland and Oregon.”

  I stood and offered him my hand. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Neely. I’ll be talking to my fellow business people, back in Milwaukee. My report will be favorable.”

  His grin went ear to ear as he shook my hand. “I’m very glad to hear that. You will not, I assure you, be pissing any money away. All of you gentlemen will be welcome members of the Democratic Action Policy Committee.”

  I looked forward to getting the secret decoder ring.

  “I had hoped,” I said, “considering this is the national headquarters and all, to get to meet the candidate himself. Have a little one-on-one discussion, however briefly.”

  Neely shook his head and his smile turned regretful. “I wish that were possible. Mr. Freed doesn’t drop by here often. In fact, not at all. And these headquarters, despite the ‘national’ designation, are strictly for the Iowa effort. We have a suite of offices upstairs, in the hotel, for our executive staff; and the actual command center is at the Freed estate.”

  “Not far from here,” I said.

  “Not far from here,” he said, “but I’m afraid Mr. Freed doesn’t meet with individuals often… although once we know the exact size of your contribution, well. But do keep in mind, Preston Freed is a political genius, and like all geniuses, he has his eccentricities. He’s a bit of a recluse.”

  “Isn’t that unusual for a political candidate?”

  “Frankly, it is, and I’ve had to work on Preston to get him to come out and ‘press the flesh’ in these primary campaigns. You must understand that there are many people who would like to see Preston Freed dead.”

  “Such as?”

  “The Soviets.”

  I managed not to laugh, and merely nodded with concern. “I can see that.”

  “And of course, the Mafia.”

  “The Mafia?”

  “Certainly. You’ve read the Freed position paper on the Drug Conspiracy?”

  “Oh yes. The alliance between the banking community and the crime syndicate.”

  He shook his head somberly. “It’s all around us. Infiltrated like a spreading cancer. Did you see the papers today?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “A local businessman was murdered just last night-by a syndicate assassin, it’s thought.”

  “That’s shocking.”

  “I know it is. Apparently this man-who I thought was a respectable member of the community, hell, we belonged to the same country club! — had a long history of ‘mob ties,’ as the QC Times put it.”

  “Disgraceful.”

  “Well, then you can understand why a man with the strong views and the bitter enemies of a Preston Freed would choose to fight from within a fortress, so to speak. In the last campaign, Preston made no public appearances, restricting himself to radio and TV speeches.” Disgust twisted his mouth. “The Reagan administration ruled that we do not qualify for Secret Service protection, which shows you that our enemies are not restricted to Russians and Sicilians.”

  “But now Freed plans to get out among the voters.”

  Neely nodded. “Yes-at the insistence of myself and his top advisors. If we’re to make our move into the political mainstream, to become the viable third party that we are already starting to become, to leave the stigma of the so-called ‘lunatic fringe’ behind, Preston Freed must emerge from his fortress and do battle in the corrupt outside world.”

  Arch as that sounded, Neely was right: there was no place in the scheme of things for an armchair politician. And, of course, as I well knew, the threat to Freed’s life was a real one, even if it didn’t have anything to do with the Soviet Union, even if the mob connection was only tangential.

  “Does Freed have any enemies in the business community?”

  “Certainly,” Neely
said.

  “Anyone specifically?”

  He paused. Then, rather reluctantly, he said, “One does come to mind. You have to understand that the Democratic Action party’s policies represent neither the left nor the right, as conventionally defined. Some of what we stand for is thought of as conservative, and yet Preston Freed was first thought of as a leftist, and in fact led a splinter group out of the old SDS, during the ’60s.”

  “Meaning?”

  “One of Preston’s best friends, closest advisors, who’d been with him since those early days, became… frankly… disenchanted with some of the party policies, as we have become more aligned with what are seen as ‘right-wing’ ideologies.” His voice seemed weary. “It’s a loss to us all, that one of the movers and shakers of our party should go over to the other side.”

  “The other side?”

  He nodded. “The Democrats. Of course, it would be no better if it were the Republicans. But in George’s case, it was the Democrats… he’s made sizable donations, been active in fund-raising and so on.”

  “You don’t mean George Ridge, the real-estate guy?”

  “Well, yes I do… let’s say nothing more about it. All great causes suffer setbacks. But with Preston going high profile for this primary push, we can overcome anything.”

  He walked me to the door. Put a hand on my shoulder. “The thing of it is, Jack-if I may call you Jack-Preston is a charismatic public speaker. His personal magnetism is, frankly, our secret weapon. It’s worked before.”

  “Germany, for example,” I said, pleasantly.

  And I smiled and patted him on the shoulder, and moved through noisy, bustling Zombie Central and out into the cold but real world.

  10

  The Embers Restaurant was in Moline, just off 52nd Avenue, near South Park Shopping Center and not far from the airport. A two-story, brown-shingled, rambling affair in the midst of its own little park, the Embers was perched along the Rock River like just another rustic, if oversize, cottage. I left the black, “like-new” Sunbird in a nearly empty lot (it was late afternoon-before the supper hour) and briefly wandered the pine-scattered grounds, noting a teepee and a totem pole, a white pagoda bird bath, a statue or two of a Catholic saint, stone benches, wooden picnic tables, and a bright red sleigh awaiting snow. Along the gray river, with a well-travelled overpass bridge looming at left, was a cluster of gazebos with red-canvas roofs; there was even a band shell. Here and there plaster animals, deer mostly, were poised in plaster perfection, to make you feel close to nature.

  This was just the sort of oddball, cobbled-together joint that went over well with tourists and locals alike. As the former owner of the Welcome Inn, I felt at home.

  An awning covered the lengthy astro-turfed walkway up to the entrance, which was the back door of the place really, and a narrow wood-paneled hallway, decorated with ducks-in-flight prints and various signs (“Casual dress required,” “Home of Aqua Ski Theater”), led to an unattended hat check area where I left my overcoat, with stairs to the right and a bar to the left.

  I went into the bar, which opened out onto a dining room with a river view. The Embers interior was just as studiedly rustic and quaint as the grounds. The ceiling was low and open-beamed with slowly churning fans, and there were plants and ferns here and there, though a Yuppie joint this was not. The barroom walls were populated with stuffed animals-small ones, birds and fish mostly. If the Bates Motel had had a restaurant, this would have been it.

  A youngish blond guy with glasses and a white shirt was working behind the bar. “We’ll be serving dinner in about half an hour,” he said.

  “Fine. I’ll wait.”

  “You can sit at the bar, or the hostess will be here in a moment and seat you.”

  “Fine,” I said, noncommittally.

  A couple of businessmen were sitting at the bar having drinks, munching peanuts. I noted several ashtrays cradling Embers matchbooks like those I’d found in the dark blue Buick.

  I sat at a small round table near the big brick fireplace; a fire was going, and the warmth was all right with me. The afternoon had grown colder.

  On the hearth was an aquarium, about two feet tall and four-and-a-half feet wide. In the tank swam a fish, silver, and a foot and a half long. He had a very sour expression. He would glide slowly to one end of his tank, make a swishing turn and glide to the other end of the tank, make a swishing turn and you get the idea. I supposed his life was no more meaningless than anybody else’s.

  “He’s from the Amazon River,” somebody said.

  I looked up. It was the blond bartender; he’d come over out of boredom or to take my order or something. He was perhaps twenty-five years old. The fish tank’s lights reflected in his glasses.

  “Amazon River, huh,” I said.

  “Notice the little goldfish down toward the bottom of the tank? They’re his supper.”

  This fish tank sort of summed up everything anybody needed to know about life.

  “I guess that makes him King Shit,” I said.

  “Guess so,” the bartender said. “Till we come in some morning and he’s belly up. Can I get you anything?”

  “Well, it won’t be fish.”

  “I mean, from the bar. We aren’t serving dinner…”

  “Till five, right. Just a Coke. Diet, with a twist of lemon.”

  He nodded and went briskly back behind the bar. I got up and went and took the glass of Coke from him, to save him another trip. I sat two stools down from the businessmen and sipped my soda and said to the bartender, “This place been here a while?”

  “Thirty-five years,” he said. “Original owners are still associated with the place.”

  “Associated with it? You mean they don’t own it anymore?”

  “No. They just manage it. Some flood damage a few years ago hit ’em hard, and a local businessman bought ’em out.” He made a clicking sound in his cheek and shook his head.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Well, I don’t know what’s going to happen now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not from around here, obviously, but d’you see the papers today?”

  “Sure.”

  “That fella that was shot? Ja read about that?”

  “I’m vaguely familiar with the story.”

  “He owned this place.”

  I fingered a book of matches in the ashtray. “No kidding. What sort of guy was he?”

  “Okay,” he shrugged. “He wasn’t around all that much. This was just another investment, I’d guess. One of many.”

  I lit a match, studied the flame.

  “You want some cigarettes?” the bartender said.

  I smiled, waved the match out. “No. I don’t smoke. It’s bad for you.”

  “Here’s the hostess. She can seat you. We’ll be serving in about fifteen minutes.”

  I turned and watched the hostess approach.

  She was a very attractive blonde with dark blue eyes, in a light blue, wide white-belted turtleneck dress, menus tucked under her arm. She filled the dress out nicely, if not spectacularly, but what was most impressive was the white dazzling smile. That, and the fact that I knew her.

  She recognized me immediately, too. “Why, Mr. Ryan. Hello again.”

  I climbed off the bar stool. “How many jobs do you have, Ms. Jordan?”

  “Make it Angela and I’ll make it Jack. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “And it’s two jobs. Fulltime at Best Buy, and weekends here. I’m a single, working parent.”

  “How many kids?”

  “Two. Both girls. One in second grade, another in sixth. Where would you like to sit? The upstairs dining room doesn’t open till six, but you can eat out here in the bar, by the fire, if you like, or.. ”

  “Out where I can have a river view.”

  “Fine.”

  And I followed her through the dining room proper, past prints of riverboats and your occasional cigar store Indian,
out onto a sort of sun porch, a glassed-in greenhouse-like area with plenty of plants and more rustic knicknacks.

  I sat down and said, “Why don’t you join me for a few minutes? Nobody’s here yet.”

  She smiled, glanced behind her. “I shouldn’t.”

  “Have a seat. After all, the boss is dead.”

  She tipped her head, viewed me through narrowed eyes. “How do you know that?”

  “I read the papers. Sit down, please.”

  “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”

  “If the fella was a friend of yours, I apologize. I was just trying to get your attention.”

  She smirked wryly. “Well, you got it.” And she sat across from me, on the edge of her chair, ready to get up at a moment’s notice, casting an occasional eye through the dining room into the bar area, watching for customers. A few wait- resses, in black skirts and white blouses, were milling around.

  “Really, that was a thoughtless thing to say,” I said, and shook my head.

  “That’s okay.” She leaned forward. “He was a sonof-a-bitch, anyway.”

  I smiled. “Really?”

  She raised a hand and squeezed the air, palm up. “Handsy. You know.”

  “That’s illegal. Sexual harassment.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “How’s your other boss in that department?”

  “Lonny? He’s very sweet to me. We’re just friends.”

  “You say that like maybe he wishes you were more.”

  “Well…” She smiled a little, a modest smile, showing just a touch of dazzling white. “Maybe he does. Frankly, I got both these jobs because of who I am.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Maybe I should say who I was. This is embarrassing. I hardly know you.”

  “I’m the guy who bought a car from you today.”

  “And don’t think I don’t appreciate it. The commission will help pay Jenny’s orthodontics bill. Her father sure won’t.”

  “No alimony? No child support?”

  “He’s way behind. The courts are slow. What can I say? But I have him to thank for my two jobs, in a way. That’s what I started to say. Lonny Best is a good friend of Bob’s, my husband, ex-husband. I think he… Lonny always… well, a woman knows.”