by Dianne Emley
Iris looked askance in spite of herself.
“You have, haven’t you? Tell me, tell me.” Amber’s eyes sparkled.
Iris gritted her teeth and squinted in mock pain. “I wish I could.”
“You know who Dexter’s replacement is, don’t you?”
Iris slid her eyes coquettishly to the corners. “I might.” She beamed. She wasn’t supposed to tell but she thought she’d burst if she couldn’t at least throw out a hint.
“It’s not you, is it?” Amber’s demeanor changed from chatty to stern.
“If it were me, I’d hope you’d be a little happier about it than that.”
“I would be if I thought you didn’t get the promotion on your back, or was it on your knees?”
“What?” Iris shrieked.
“You know what I mean.” She stomped out of Iris’s office.
Iris stood speechlessly behind her desk.
CHAPTER TWENTY
At the end of the workday, Iris changed into her date clothes in the women’s rest room two floors above the McKinney Alitzer suite. She examined her tarty image in the mirror. “This is a side of you that’s definitely not for McKinney Alitzer’s consumption.”
When she crossed the lobby to leave the building, the security guard with whom she was friendly shouted out, “Miss Exec-u-tive Woman! She’s got it goin’ on.”
Iris waved her hand over herself, as if she was demonstrating a product. “Deal-making by day. Sinning by night. I’m every woman.”
“Mmm… mm.”
Iris retrieved the Triumph and puttered to the northeast side of town. The Gaytan DeLacey for City Council headquarters was a storefront operation on a busy street in the most populous and least prosperous part of the district.
The district boundaries zigzagged to the north and south and encompassed mostly lower-middle-class neighborhoods where the population was largely native Latino and immigrant Asian. The boundaries also included a small affluent pocket of primarily Caucasian conservatives who voted regularly and contributed generously to political campaigns. In the rest of the district, constituents over the age of fifty across all races tended to vote three times more regularly than those under fifty. Consequently, a steady stream of political moderates had occupied the Fourteenth District City Council seat even though the district’s total population was inclined to be more liberal.
For the past twelve years, Gil Alvarez had successfully remained in office by focusing on the concerns of the older, vote-casting population. Gaytan DeLacey recognized the older voters’ fierce loyalty to Alvarez and consequently had gone after the typically nonvoting younger and poorer constituents. Ironically, the land-owning Gaytan DeLacey was pitching himself as the representative of the common man and portraying Alvarez, the former cop, as an elitist.
Through the office’s glass walls, Iris observed the hustle and bustle of Thomas’s campaign volunteers, many of whom appeared to be young women. She saw Thomas exit an inner office at the rear, followed by a thirty-something Latina who was still dressing for success. She wore a dark, man-tailored business suit, an Oxford-cloth button-down shirt, a paisley bow tie, and round, plastic-framed glasses. Her attire seemed to plead for her to be recognized as a force to be reckoned with. Iris deducted points for trying too hard.
Red, white, and blue-themed campaign posters were hung in the large windows with Thomas’s photograph prominent in each one. “A new generation of leadership for the new Los Angeles,” Iris intoned. “Thomas Gaytan DeLacey is not a politician. He’s a businessman, attorney, and lifelong resident of the Fourteenth District.” Another poster showed Thomas as a young boy standing with Gabriel Gaytan in front of the Las Mariposas adobe ranch house. “Thomas Gaytan DeLacey respects our heritage yet recognizes the demands of the future.”
She picked up a campaign button from a box on a table near the door and admired Thomas’s face before slipping the button into her purse. The table was scattered with brochures. She picked up one that had a drawing of Gil Alvarez wearing a crown on his head and gazing into a mirror. The copy read: “He calls himself the lion of the Fourteenth. Isn’t this how he really sees himself?”
Another brochure showed dollar bills floating in a river labeled “campaign contributions.” It opened to a caricature of Alvarez done up like the Monopoly banker scooping the money from the river into a hole with question marks rising from it. The caption read: “Demand accountability. Demand Gaytan DeLacey.”
From inside the campaign office, Thomas spotted Iris on the sidewalk. He pushed open the glass door and smiled as he walked toward her. The bow-tie woman was behind him.
“Welcome,” he said.
“Pretty impressive, Thomas,” Iris commented.
He shrugged diffidently. “Thanks. Hope they do the job.”
“The camera certainly loves you.”
“Critical in the television age,” the woman stated. She was no-nonsense.
“Iris, this is my campaign manager, Sylvia Padilla. Sylvia, this is an old friend, Iris Thorne.”
They shook hands, grasping firmly, like two graduates of the same assertiveness training class.
“TV?” Iris gave Thomas a provocative look. “That’s right. You were the boy who wanted to be president.”
“I still am that boy.” His full lips had a defined edge and pulled away from his teeth at an angle when he smiled as he did now. He’d acquired the best features of both his parents. He had his father’s height and long, stately bone structure and his mother’s rich coloring and wide, dark brown eyes. “But my sole concern at this point is ensuring that the people of the Fourteenth are well represented in City Hall.”
“I’m off,” Padilla announced. “Thomas, tomorrow morning, Kiwanis Club breakfast at seven, PTA at nine, Senior Citizens Center at eleven, then All Saints Church for the carnival. In the afternoon, I think we should stump the commercial district down Huntington Drive and Eastern Avenue.”
“Just dress me up and point me in the right direction.”
“And don’t forget the fund-raising dinner at the Mendozas’.” She rapidly flipped through a datebook. “And we have to check out the American Legion Hall.” She finally smiled. “I still can’t believe that Alvarez agreed to a debate.”
“We backed him into a corner.”
“You’re gonna bury him.” She glowed. “See you tomorrow.” She nodded at Iris. “Nice to have met you.”
They watched her get into a practical Japanese coupe parked on the street and drive away.
“Wow,” Iris said. “I’m exhausted.”
“Sylvia’s the best. She’s absolutely committed to this campaign.”
“Give her a tip and tell her to lose the little bow tie. It makes her look like she’s been under a rock since the eighties.”
He let his eyes travel over her. “Unlike yourself.”
“Now I don’t want to encroach on any situation between you and Ms. Padilla.”
“She’s involved with an organizer for the farm workers.”
“My, she is a serious-minded citizen. And here I am, a lowly capitalist who’s only concerned with making money and looking good.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
They looked into each other’s eyes.
“Little Thomas DeLacey,” she said. “Boy, you were a pain in the rear when you were little. Always trying to kiss me and cop feels.”
He smiled. “You can’t blame a boy for trying.”
“You were not a shy child.”
He laughed. “I guess I’ve found the right forum for my personality. Although being in the public eye can be a burden. Sometimes I have to remind myself why I’m doing it.”
“Why are you doing it?”
“Because I’m afraid of what would happen to the community if someone didn’t stand up and do something.”
She liked his answer. She took a good long look at him, wondering how he seemed to her away from the emotionally charged setting of Dolly’s funeral. Very nice, she concluded.
“I don’t collect rodents and spiders anymore, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
It wasn’t what she was thinking. She was thinking about his starched, crisp cotton shirt and imagining what it would feel like to run her fingers down it, pressing it against his chest. His silk tie was woven with a brilliantly hued abstract design. She imagined how it would feel to slide it between her fingers, how the silk would be smooth yet resistant to the touch. She caught a whiff of faded cologne. The green undertones had melded with his scent, creating something unique that could only be detected in close proximity. A bonus. She giggled and felt herself blushing.
“You’re cute,” he said. “You always were.”
“Thanks. You’re pretty cute yourself.” She giggled again. He was making her feel giddy: a bad sign.
He straightened the knot in his tie, also appearing flustered.
Casting a glance at the window, she changed the subject. “So tell me about this campaign. Some of these materials are pretty controversial, don’t you think?”
“It’s necessary. The people have to see the real Gil Alvarez. Gil did a great job for eight years, but the past four have been a disgrace. His personal problems have destroyed his ability to lead. My family has long ties to this area and I won’t see it dragged down.”
He let his sable eyes rest on her. She wondered if he looked at every woman that way. If so, it was a guaranteed vote-getter. The atmosphere again grew prickly and she again moved past it to keep from acting like a schoolgirl.
“Thomas, really.” Iris tapped the photo of him with Gabriel Gaytan. “Respecting our heritage? Isn’t that the land your father wants to level for a housing project?”
“Low income housing,” he corrected her. “It’s a case of putting the needs of the community ahead of the benefit to an elite few, namely the Gaytan DeLaceys. Las Mariposas is prime real estate in a densely populated area, which can be used for the public good. My father is well experienced in low-income housing.”
“Thomas,” Iris scolded. “Your father was fined and forced to live in one of his own rat- and roach-infested buildings for three months as punishment.”
He took her comment in stride. “That was a case of poor communication on the part of a building manager whom my father has since fired. Now my father and brother oversee all the properties personally. I invite anyone to take a look at my father’s buildings. They’re clean and well run.”
“You’re good,” she goaded him.
He continued in the same dynamic tone of voice. “My being elected does not guarantee a go-ahead on my father’s project. We’re looking at a variety of ideas. On my desk right now there’s a proposal from a firm that runs preschools and another from one that runs drug and alcohol rehab clinics for teenagers. The election of Thomas Gaytan DeLacey in no way means money in Bill DeLacey’s pocket.”
“Thomas, you can stop. I don’t live here. I can’t vote for you.”
He rubbed his forehead and rolled his eyes. “Listen to me. The election’s just a few weeks away and it’s hard for me to switch gears. Sorry.” His expression became almost shy. “Sometimes I’m too intense for my own good. Probably explains why no woman has been able to put up with me for very long.”
“You’ve invested your time in building a career. It doesn’t leave much left over for relationships. That’s what I tell my mother about myself anyway.”
“Does it work?”
“Nah. She still gets on my case.”
Out of the blue he said, “Now that was an interesting time! My grandfather murdered, Humberto dying, my mother having a nervous breakdown, my sister running away from home, your father leaving, and the San Fernando quake.”
“I’ve never heard anyone ask to do it all over again next Saturday night.”
“You’ve never had any contact with your father after he left?”
“Not really.”
“Didn’t you ever wonder why he just left like that?”
“Yes.” Iris shifted her feet. The topic made her uncomfortable.
A beat-up, small, red pickup truck pulled up next to the curb behind the Triumph. It was driven by Junior. The bed of the truck was full of sealed corrugated cardboard boxes.
Bill DeLacey pushed open the seriously dented passenger door with difficulty and climbed out of the truck’s cab onto the sidewalk. The crablike bend of his legs made him look as if he were squatting. “Junior! I told you not to get so close to the curb.”
Junior got out of the truck and began unlatching the tailgate. He was wearing an oversized T-shirt that his large belly still managed to raise in front. His dark curly hair had receded from his forehead. What remained was disheveled. He wore a neatly clipped moustache. It was the only neat thing about him. He didn’t respond to his father but lifted a box off the truck bed and headed toward the front door of the office.
Thomas held the door open for him. “Good, the new mailers are done.”
“Get a dolly, lame brain,” DeLacey yelled after Junior. “Don’t carry them in a box at a time.”
“Lighten up, Dad,” Thomas said.
DeLacey handed Thomas a large postcard printed on both sides.
“Hello, Mr. DeLacey,” Iris said.
He ignored her. “I had them use the green instead. It’s a lot better than the red you wanted.”
Iris peeked around Thomas to see the postcard.
The front of the postcard showed a mock handwritten check made out to the Gil Alvarez Legal Defense Fund. The caption read: “Drunk driving. Wife battering. Gil’s going to need every dime he can get.”
“Looks terrific, doesn’t it?” Thomas asked her.
Iris raised her eyebrows and responded diplomatically, “It’s certainly an attention-grabber.”
“Hear anything from Paula?” DeLacey finally acknowledged Iris.
“Actually, I’ve seen her.”
Thomas stopped looking at the postcard. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Didn’t come up.” Iris added, “She was at the funeral.”
DeLacey seemed amused. “Damned Paula. I spotted those guys in that Oldsmobile. I didn’t think they looked like they belonged to our group.”
Iris lied, trying to protect Paula. “She didn’t have an Oldsmobile.”
“I had Junior take a look,” DeLacey continued. “Damned Paula.”
“Mr. DeLacey,” Iris said. “She came to the funeral. Aren’t you pleased? Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“How is she?” Thomas interjected.
“She told me about the will, if that’s what you want to know.”
DeLacey began to laugh, gasping air, his shoulders bouncing up and down.
Iris raised her chin in his direction. “I remember that about you, Mr. DeLacey. You laugh when things displease you, as if you can’t quite believe what you’re hearing, like it might be a joke.”
“Well, you know old Paula. Always stirring the pot. Picking at the scab. You ever see a dog with a rag? You’ve got one end and he’s got the other and he’s turning his head back and forth…” DeLacey gritted his teeth and writhed his head to demonstrate.
Junior came out of the office pushing a dolly in front of him. He started loading boxes from the truck bed onto the dolly.
Thomas bristled. “Iris, you realize what this is about, don’t you? Paula’s always been jealous of me. Making up this will is a way for her to attract attention. I’m surprised she hasn’t pitched the story to Alvarez.”
“Frankly, Thomas,” Iris responded, “I think it’s simply a question of money.”
DeLacey raised his index finger and opened his mouth at the same time. “Now, old Paula’s mother, Dolores, was not the most mentally stable female, as you know. These things run in families. Now, Paula, while she’s not exhibiting the schizophrenic aspects, she’s definitely got a paranoid tendency…”
“Have you seen the will?” Thomas asked.
Iris shook her head. “No, but she was very specific about its contents. Sh
e said your grandfather left all his land to your mother with instructions that it was never to fall into your father’s hands.”
Junior was steadily working at unloading the boxes, giving no sign that he heard any of the conversation.
“…read a study a few years ago in Psychology Today about the effect of folic acid…”
Thomas continued, “You know as well as I do that Paula’s an adept liar. My grandfather’s will was filed after his death. It’s a matter of public record.”
“…and found a marked improvement in the subject’s depression and paranoid tendencies. Now at the time that old Doc Osgood over at Casa La Propia Hospital was treating Dolores, he was convinced that the electroconvulsive therapy…”
Junior began working more slowly as if to linger so that he could listen.
Iris spotted him. “Junior, what’s your take on this whole issue?”
He looked from Thomas to his father. “I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders very slightly. He was a big man capable of broad gestures but chose to use small ones, revealing little. He hurriedly pushed the dolly inside the office.
“That’s one thing I can’t figure out,” Iris said. “Why a will? If Paula was going to fabricate a story, why something as dry as a will? It’s unlike her.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been standing here explaining to you,” DeLacey said. “Old Doc Osgood over at the Casa La Propia Hospital, the psychiatrist who treated Dolores when she had her breakdown, says that the paranoid schizophrenic will fabricate stories to—”
“Mr. DeLacey, are you saying that Paula’s crazy?”
“Based upon what you’re telling me and what I’ve seen, that’s the diagnosis I’d make.”
“Your diagnosis?” She smiled at the ground. “Nice way to tie things up, isn’t it? My wife’s crazy, so don’t believe her. My daughter’s crazy, so don’t believe her either.”
“So did Paula say where she was living?” DeLacey asked.
“No, she didn’t.”
“Dad.” Thomas put his hand out and patted the air soothingly. “I told you before, there’s no need to get Iris involved in this.” He took Iris’s arm and began to walk with her toward the Triumph. “Why don’t you go on to the restaurant? I’ll catch up in a few minutes. I know my father can be a jerk, but he truly wants what’s best for his children.” He turned her to face him and put his hands on her shoulders. “Iris, no one loves Paula more than I do. But she’s not content to destroy herself, she wants to drag the whole family with her. Sometimes I think my father’s right about her having the crazy gene.”