Despite his reflexive self-confidence—some would call it arrogance—Zach didn’t really understand just how good he was at finding information. Every time someone else threw up their hands in frustration and pushed back from the keyboard and computer screen, Zach simply assumed they didn’t know where to look. He was right, but he had an innate grasp of the right places to dig for skeletons. It was a great gift when he was still in politics; he could find the buried DUI record of a born-again moral crusader or the hidden bankruptcy of a fiscal conservative with just a few minutes and a wireless connection.
Zach never put it into words, but he saw people’s inner fears underneath all the shiny armor piled on top to hide them. He understood hidden shame. This gave him an almost intuitive ability to break open secrets.
If he’d ever stopped to think of it, he would have realized that his own hidden shame would have to come out. It was just the way it worked. Nothing stays buried forever, no matter how hard you try.
But somehow, it still surprised Zach when his own worst secret stood in front of him, grinning that idiot grin, smelling of Marlboros, Old Spice, and his usual lunch of Coors Light and stale bar popcorn.
He was still handsome. Maybe not movie-star good-looking anymore, but definitely aging-TV-star level. In fact, one of the young women who volunteered in the local office followed him with a proprietary eye. He winked at her before offering Zach his hand.
“Hello, Zach,” the man said. “Been a while.”
Zach shook it. He didn’t know what else to do.
“Yeah,” Zach said, his throat suddenly dry. “Been a while, Dad.”
IN RECOVERY AND THERAPY PROGRAMS, they call it “inappropriate loyalty.” It’s the tendency shown by many children of narcissistic alcoholics to stick with people long after it becomes destructive. The thinking being that because they were let down and abandoned so many times in their childhood, the grown-up kids decide it’s the highest virtue to remain steadfast to someone no matter how much shit piles up.
That was probably why he agreed to Frank’s request to have a beer.
“Beer is all right,” Frank insisted. “It’s the hard stuff that gets me into trouble.”
Zach was pretty sure there were any number of things that got his father into trouble. But he let it slide.
After all, they were working on the same campaign together.
Frank had, after years of political exile, been chosen as the guy by the Lanford Democratic Party to reach out to the Tea Party and other disaffected voters. That seemed fitting to Zach. If there was anyone who could tap into a reservoir of resentment, it was his dad.
If pressed, Zach would admit that there must have been good times when they were a family. He just couldn’t name any off the top of his head.
Zach’s father had served as a city councilman, a state representative, and a county commissioner despite a complete lack of accomplishments in any of those offices. But he looked right and sounded right. He inspired trust. He radiated such confidence that even people who were spitting mad when they confronted him would stop and listen. A few minutes later, they were nodding in agreement. Only when he was gone would they realize everything he’d said was complete bullshit.
Frank had the gifts to go far in politics. His lack of interest in actual policies or issues wouldn’t have been a problem. Even his fondness for young women and aged Scotch could have been managed. But Zach, who developed his own political instincts very early, knew that Frank’s biggest problem was his ego. Frank Barrows could never admit he was not the biggest man in the room, even when he knew he wasn’t. This got him into trouble, especially when combined with his other bad habits.
Zach remembered the first DUI that went public. He’d been in junior high. The cop might have let City Councilman Barrows off with a warning, Zach knew. He’d seen his father talk his way out of other scrapes with the law while sloshed, starting at the very young age of six when Frank picked him up from school while half in the bag and then dented the fender of the principal’s car in the parking lot. (Zach sometimes looked at all the safety gear parents used now and wondered how he made it through his childhood alive.)
But Frank had threatened the cop. And so all the sordid details came out. The “exotic dancer in the passenger seat of the councilman’s family sedan,” as the local paper put it. The mug shot showing Frank’s idiotic, bleary grin. The inevitable quote from the police report: “Don’t you know who I am?”
That was the first DUI, but the last straw for Zach’s mom. She’d put up with other girlfriends, unpaid bills and drunken fights. But when her humiliation went public, she kicked Frank out. He still managed to win reelection—he blamed a vindictive police chief angry over cuts to the city budget—but that was the start of the downward slide. City councilman was only a part-time job, and Frank’s drinking began to take up all his remaining attention. Zach’s mom had to go to court to get the child support she was owed, and this showed up in the press as well. Eventually, the local party hacks convinced Frank it was time to retire and a new candidate ran on the ticket in his place. Then he changed his mind and ran as an independent and was crushed in the general election despite his years of service.
Frank survived on small-time patronage jobs and miscellaneous city contracts from old friends who took pity on him. But he was still owed favors, and he called them in when Zach was arrested for Grand Theft Auto in high school, and again when Zach needed an introduction to then-Senator Samuel Curtis.
Zach cut the old man off when he failed to show up, even once, at his mother’s deathbed in the hospital. Not that she would have wanted to see him, or would have been able to respond after she slipped into the coma. But still. Zach felt his father owed her at least an attempt at an apology.
They’d spoken only once since Zach left for D.C., not long before Zach began working with Cade.
The phone had rung at 3 a.m., and Zach had answered it before checking the caller ID. Rookie mistake. Frank had been drunk-dialing him since Zach went to college, and the conversations never ended well.
This one started well enough. Frank went on and on about how proud he was of Zach. Then Frank got to the point.
“Makes me proud, son. It really does. Who’d have thought you would have come back from being a car thief?”
Zach knew both politics and his father too well to believe that was just a random comment.
“What do you want, Frank?”
“Hey. You watch your tone. You owe your career to me, Mr. Big Shot White House. I helped you out when you needed it. Now all I’m saying is, maybe you could help me out.”
“Or else what?”
“You think I’d threaten you?”
“I want to hear you say it out loud. I want to hear my father say it out loud.”
Frank’s face darkened. “Ah, this is just like that crap you spouted after you went to that goddamned therapist. And who paid for that?”
“Mom did. What happens if I don’t help you out, Frank?”
“Well, I hate to say this, but there have been a few calls. Reporters. Some of them say they’ll pay big money for any dirt on Curtis.”
“You don’t have any dirt on the president.”
“I know one of his staffers is hiding a criminal conviction.”
And there it was. In the end, there was nothing Frank would not use as a bargaining chip. Zach was not disappointed. He was not even surprised. All he felt was the grim and useless pleasure a person gets when he gets to say, I told you so. All he got out of this was the proof that his worst expectations were, once again, dead right.
By the end of the haggling, it wasn’t much. Zach was able to cover the amount with what he had in his checking account. They could call it a loan, a gift, a long-overdue Father’s Day present. Whatever.
It was a small price to pay for the solid proof that his father was exactly the person Zach always suspected him to be.
Since then, there had been other calls—Zach let them all go to voice
mail. Zach had grown practiced at turning enemies into allies, or at least defusing their anger. Drop him into a congressional hearing or a fundraiser and he’d be able to work the room as if he’d known everyone in it for years. But he never knew how to handle his father.
ZACH WAS ODDLY comforted by the fact that the bar Frank had made his second home hadn’t been transformed like the rest of Lanford. It was still a dive: same cracked leather banquettes; same pool table with a phone book under one leg; probably even the same phone book, Zach was willing to bet. The bartender brought them ice-cold Pabst from the tap and Zach paid with a five and got change.
Frank smiled at his son as if five years hadn’t passed without them speaking face-to-face. Frank’s smile had, in fact, kept many people from punching him over the years. Zach had to admit, his dad looked a decade younger than the last time he’d seen him. Maybe all he needed was a little time in the limelight again.
“So,” Frank said after draining half his glass in a single gulp, “you getting any?”
Zach had a brief, painful vision of Bell, smiling, naked and sweating, straddling his hips, leaning back and displaying her entire body for him.
“I was seeing someone for a little while. It didn’t work out,” he said.
“What happened?”
“Career stuff. She and I… we were on different sides of the issues.”
“At least it was a she. God, for the longest time I worried you were queer.”
“That term isn’t an insult anymore, Frank. The queers took it. But you could probably still be offensive if you went with ‘faggot.’”
Frank’s grin went a little stiff. “Ease up, kiddo. No need to get all politically correct on me. I just wanted to know if I’m ever going to see a grandchild.”
Zach stifled a laugh. It wasn’t just his lack of a social life (He could barely imagine what a date would even be like anymore: “So what do you do?” “Oh, I work with a vampire who protects us from ungodly things that want to feed on our souls. You say you’re in marketing?”) or the thought of Frank playing grandpa. It was trying to justify bringing a child into the world now that he knew there really were monsters lurking under the bed.
All he said was, “Maybe someday.”
“Well, you better get on it.”
“Work’s keeping me busy. I’m not really seeing anyone right now.”
“That’s not what I hear,” Frank said.
“Really? What do you hear?”
“You’ve been fucking the big man’s daughter.”
Zach hesitated a beat too long. “Who told you that?”
Frank laughed, filling the bar with the sound of real delight. “So it’s true. You never could lie to me, kid.”
He signaled for another round. Zach waited while the bartender delivered two fresh glasses and then left.
Frank raised his drink in a toast. “Well. Congratulations. She’s some kind of piece.”
“Hey. I don’t appreciate that.”
“Come on, just a couple details. I bet she’s taught you some things already. She’s been around. All those Hollywood guys.”
Zach slammed down his glass. “Frank, are you trying to find out if I’ll kick your ass? Because you’re not going to like the answer.”
Frank put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry. Sorry, son. I just—well, we never did this when you were running around in high school. Guy talk. I thought maybe, I don’t know, you missed out on it. Because I wasn’t around.”
He really sounded contrite. Between Frank’s improvement and the second beer, Zach almost felt bad for a moment. It seemed like his father, in his own fucked-up way, was actually trying to bridge the gap between them.
Zach sighed. “It’s not like that between me and Candace, Dad. I’m not in this with her for the entertainment value.”
Then, of course, Frank hit him with the sucker punch.
“So you are doing her,” he said. “Good to know.”
Zach immediately realized he’d made an enormous mistake. “Frank. You can’t tell anyone this.”
“Why not? Hell, if I were you, I’d put it on fucking billboards. You got any pictures? I know some people who’d pay big for them.”
Zach ground his teeth. He was an idiot. Like his father was going to change now?
“She doesn’t need the political sideshow. Neither does the president. Aren’t we supposed to be on the same side?”
“There’s only one side, Zach: your own. You’ve been in politics this long and you still haven’t learned that?”
Zach sighed again. “What do you want, Frank?”
“I’m not getting any younger, son. I’m tired of bouncing from one thing to the next. I could use a nice, protected, civil service job. Something with a good pension. Six figures. I know you can tell the president to make it happen. Hell, you’re practically family now.”
Zach stood. Goddamned moron, he told himself. How did he not see this coming? For a moment, he considered just stuffing Frank into an administration position somewhere until he died. It wouldn’t be that hard. Zach had done much more difficult things with a single phone call.
But no. Not this time. He was really finished this time. He was done looking for his father in this man. He didn’t want to waste another second on him.
“You know what? Tell whoever you want,” Zach said. He threw a twenty on the bar. “Drink up. It’s on me.”
“Come on. Zach. Zach,” Frank called after him as he stalked away. “It’s the least you can do for your father.”
That nearly sent Zach right at Frank. But he restrained himself. “No. The least I can do is nothing. But if you don’t stay the hell away from me, I’m going to tear your fucking arm off and beat you to death with it.”
The bartender and the few other drunks all stared at him. Zach realized he was shouting. He stormed out of the gloom and into the daylight. He began walking blindly the streets of the town where he grew up, on autopilot, following the sidewalks by memory.
But that was okay. Nothing here ever really changed.
CADE FOUND FRANK BARROWS at the same bar where his son had left him. He’d either been celebrating or drowning his sorrows ever since.
Barrows was alone aside from the bartender. Cade showed the Secret Service credentials he’d been given by Butler. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Barrows in private for a moment.”
The bartender took a pack of Marlboros from behind the register and walked outside. Barrows straightened up at his barstool as much as he was able and turned both bleary eyes on Cade.
“This ought to be good,” he said. “My little shit of a son call you in? Afraid to stand up to his daddy? I should have whipped his ass more when he was a kid.”
“Your son didn’t ask me to come here, Mr. Barrows,” Cade said.
“Well. Sit down. Have a drink. Call me Frank.”
“No,” Cade said. “I’m here to deliver a message.”
“Well, let’s hear it.”
Cade took a step closer. “You’re going to keep silent about anything your son told you. And you will never contact him for any reason. Ever again.”
Barrows looked uneasy. The effect of Cade’s presence was making its way through his protective shell of booze. But rather than back down, he decided to try for intimidation.
“So you here to put the fear of God into me?”
“I’d appreciate it if you did not take the name of the Lord in vain,” Cade said.
“Oh Lord. You’re one of those Bible-thumpers? Well, Jesus H. Motherfucking Christ on a Popsicle stick. Please forgive my goddamned manners.”
He grinned. Cade said nothing. The grin faded. Barrows reached behind the bar and picked up a bottle. Absolut. He poured more vodka into his glass and slurped it down quickly.
“Fine. Let’s get this over with,” Barrows said. “You’re here to tell me to back off. To keep quiet about my son and the prez’s slutty daughter. Mission accomplished. You can go. But I find it hard to believe you’re
stupid enough to think that you can scare me into shutting up.”
“Why?” Cade was genuinely curious as to how this man’s mind worked.
“Because you just made it worse!” He laughed loudly. “You telling me to keep my mouth shut just makes the story better! Now I can say the Secret Service threatened me. This just went from the front of the National Enquirer to the Washington Post. Tell my son to forget the job. I’ll wait for the book deal instead. I should thank you. You just made me famous.”
“I don’t think so,” Cade said.
“Yeah?” Barrows laughed again, but not quite so loudly this time. “What makes you think that every newspaper and network in the country won’t beg me for an interview once they hear about this?”
Cade took a final step closer. He was face-to-face with Zach’s father now.
“Because they would never believe you,” he said.
He bared his fangs.
The shock hit Barrows like a two-by-four to the face. He stumbled off the barstool and staggered backward.
“Don’t try my patience, Mr. Barrows. Zach is under my protection. And his sentimental attachment to you means less than nothing to me. Do you understand?”
Frank Barrows didn’t say anything. He shook violently and opened his mouth without speaking. Then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fainted.
Cade looked at the man on the floor. His almost-smile flickered on his lips. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Hitchhiker drinks:
“I call again on the dark
hidden gods of the blood”
—Why do you call us?
You know our price. It
never changes. Death of
you will give you life
& free you from a vile
fate. But it is getting late.
—Jim Morrison, “Lamerica”
OCTOBER 13, 2012, FORT MADISON, ILLINOIS
Stacy felt the gloom of the strip club wrap around her like a familiar blanket. It was always the same: the AC cranked high, the fog machines cranking, the too-clean antiseptic stink of the sanitizer the dancers used on the poles, the flat wall of bass notes from the speakers. It could have been the club she’d worked the night before, picked up and moved almost three hundred miles west.
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