Quarry's vote q-5
Page 17
“If all that’s true, why didn’t I have you killed?”
“Well, you’d have probably had to do it yourself, and I think you know you’re not up to it. I didn’t tell you where I was staying, and I warned you that if I were followed, there’d be hell to pay. No, I think you wanted me there, at the press conference; I think I’d have been shot down in the confusion, to provide even more proof that some mob conspiracy had attempted to snuff out your idealistic flame. Why not a real president? If the mob wants him dead, he can’t be all bad!”
Finally he dropped the pretense and smiled with infinite smugness. His face took on an almost demonic cast, thanks to the glow and the shadows from the fire behind us. “It would work. It would’ve worked.”
“I think it would’ve at that. It was foolish for a man as public as Ridge-whose business was public speaking, after all, even if most of it was on audio tapes-to show himself to me. He would risk that only to help contain the conspiracy, and with the knowledge that I’d be taken out, later, anyway. You planned the same for Stone, of course. And all it’s really cost you is that ten grand you slipped under Stone’s hotel room door tonight.”
His smile now was one of almost gentle amusement. “What about all your talk of a ‘million-dollar contract’?”
“Well, Stone told me about the numbered Swiss account. He just wasn’t smart enough to know that the account was yours; that you no doubt have it set up for deposits and withdrawals. Pardon me if it comes as no surprise that a guy like you, bilking his supporters for every buck he can, would have dough stashed in a Swiss bank.”
He turned his body on the sofa to pay me complete and apparently benign attention, his voice mellow, soothing, like the glow of the fire behind us. “Mr. Ryan. Let’s suppose what you’ve said is substantially true. What is there left for you out of this? I can offer you money, if you’re interested-and I won’t play any tricks with numbered accounts. But you’re a man who can stand exposure no more than I, in this. Perhaps we can agree to go our separate ways.”
“My wife is dead. She was pregnant.”
He licked his lips; lowered his gaze as if respectful. “That is most unfortunate.” Then he lifted and trained the light blue eyes on me; persuasion radiated like heat over asphalt. “But I had nothing, nothing whatever, to do with that. Whether it was Ridge’s doing, or simply those bunglers Jordan and Crawford, I can’t say. But I never approved such a thing. Would never approve of such a thing.”
“Yeah, well you got your hands bloody tonight, just to protect your own ass. But, what the hell? Whose ass should you be expected to protect? Uh, what time is it?”
He checked his watch. “A few minutes after two.”
“You’re missing yourself on TV. You’re missing your show.”
Quick half-smile. “I thought just this once I could.”
“How does that work, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
I gestured with one hand. “Something about a satellite feed.”
He frowned impatiently. “Well, there’s a small cable outfit that uplinks the show for me. Show goes out to approximately two-hundred stations across the U.S.-they air it two A.M., central time, on Monday night. Some of them tape and air it again. Why should that concern you, and at this particular moment?”
“Oh, it just seemed a curious time for a show to air.”
He shrugged, annoyed by this digression. “It’s less expensive to air at this time. We’re not the Republicans, we’re not the Democrats, we’re not the goddamn 70 °Club. There’s a limit to our funds. Why are we talking about this?”
“Let’s turn the TV on. Let’s see this show of yours.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
I reached behind my back, took the nine-millimeter out. “Let’s take a look. And if you call for your watchdogs, I’ll shoot up the fuckin’ place. Remember that, if any of ’em interrupt us.”
He nodded, more irritated than afraid.
A big 27-inch console straddled the far corner of the room. He rose slowly, smoothed out his silk robe, walked over to the set and turned it on. He pushed the buttons on the cable box on top until he found the correct station.
And what he saw was himself.
Naked.
Apparently engaging in what polite folks call anal intercourse, if polite folks call it anything at all.
“Is that just rear entry, or are you really stirring the fudge there?”
His mouth dropped open to the floor. “What… what…”
“That poor little girl’s name is Angela. I don’t know her last name, but I understand she had a nervous breakdown, committed suicide, not long after you cast your vote in her every bodily orifice.”
“That tape… that tape… where…”
“Came from your collection upstairs. I don’t know how much longer this’ll air. Somebody’ll probably run out to that cable station and shut it off. I’d imagine your phone’ll start ringing pretty soon.”
“Jesus… Jesus… what have you done?”
“Publicly embarrassed you. Pretty much ruined you personally and politically for all time, I’d say. Sunk you and your loopy ‘cause,’ whatever the fuck it is, forever.” I pointed to the screen. “Uh, you don’t just pork that poor kid, by the way-you engage in some chemical shenanigans, as well, after awhile. That freebasing is pretty dangerous, don’t you think? Do you really think you ought to be doing that on TV, where you might influence young people adversely?”
His eyes were wide; he was moving his head slowly, side to side, the phosphorescence of the TV an aura on his face. “How… how did you…”
“Somebody must’ve switched tapes. Your weekly show got exchanged for ‘Debbie Does Preston.’ Probably just a clerical error. And the guy who works at the station, he’s all alone, and no matter how much coffee he downs, he’s got to fall asleep on the job sooner or later.”
He finally looked away from the set to glare at me. “You son-of-a-bitch…”
“Hey, lighten up. I could kill you. But I decided to let the press and the public crucify you instead. I’ll let you suffer the humiliation. Fate worse than death. That sort of thing.”
He found a smile; it was ugly-the real him at last. “You really think this will work? I’ll expose this for a fraud.” He crouched before the TV, as if worshipping. “The camera’s back far enough… I can insist it’s a hoax… lookalike actors…”
“Hey, yeah, maybe that’d work. The Drug Conspiracy-the Latvian/Martian Connection. Whatever. Give it your best shot at the press conference tomorrow.”
He stood; his smile was tight and not right. “You think I can’t. But you’re wrong. You’re wrong.”
“Who knows? You wanted an assassination attempt, but I guess you’ll just have to settle for character assassination. At least you can call off some of your security tomorrow. Your problem isn’t going to be Stone-who’s no problem to anybody anymore, anyway; your problem’s going to be ducking questions, not bullets. And you’ll have a good press turnout, don’t you worry.”
“I’ll pull it off,” he said, mesmerized by his own fucking image. “I’ll pull it off.”
“Yeah, give it a shot.”
And I turned to go, gun still in hand.
Behind me, he said, “That’s it? You’re just going?”
I turned back to him. “That’s right. You know, my only mistake was not taking the goddamn job in the first place, and save us all a lot of trouble. Because the mistake you made was thinking that once I’d been set in motion, I could’ve been stopped.”
I pointed the nine-millimeter at him.
His mouth fell open. The china-blue eyes were suddenly empty, his leathery face a mask.
It was tempting; but it wasn’t how I wanted it.
“So long, mister candidate,” I said.
And I walked out of there. When I went down the back steps, Larry was still under them; he was awake now, struggling like a fish, eyes bugged, mouth slashed with tape. I smiled and waved
at him.
I stood at the edge of the quarry and looked in at the water. I couldn’t see myself. Just the moon and stars, shimmering.
I headed down the paved path to my Sunbird. I would drive to a motel, somewhere well beyond the Cities, and sleep (I’d kept a few of Linda’s Seconals for myself) and eventually wake up and head for Milwaukee. I had a name up there and a little money and maybe I didn’t have a life, anymore, but I might be able to put something together. It wasn’t like I didn’t have a trade.
When I got to the motel, though, I’d have a phone call to make before hitting the sleeping pills and the sack.
I’d call Stone, back at the Blackhawk, and tell him that security tomorrow morning should be no problem, though he ought to be aware that media coverage of the press conference would be heavy. Stone understood that he might not get anything out of it beyond that ten grand that had been slipped under his door; but after I’d explained it all to him, earlier, much as I had just explained it to Freed, he was eager to honor the contract. It wasn’t the money-it was the principle of the thing.
After all, once you set somebody like Stone in motion, it’s a mistake to think he can be stopped.
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