The Lafayette Campaign: a Tale of Deception and Elections (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 2)

by Updegrove, Andrew

  He escorted them to the private dining room door and held it as they entered. When the waiters inside looked his way, he gave a slight jerk of his head towards the door. Obligingly, they disappeared.

  He smiled at the men. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “We’ll be fine. Can we lock that door from the inside?”

  “Why yes, you can.”

  “Fine. We’ll be finished by the time Mr. Barbash arrives.”

  He heard the click of the lock slide into place as soon as the door closed behind him.

  * * *

  Frank wheeled his camper into the parking lot of the first motel he found after leaving the highway. It was late, he was tired, and the appeal of standing under a shower with an unlimited supply of hot water had been growing on him ever since he’d left Arizona. But the parking lot was crammed with vehicles, some of which were vans supporting improbably long, telescoping booms at the ends of which video uplink dishes shuddered in the wind overhead. He parked under the portico and walked up to the desk.

  “Hi. Have you got a room for one?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. May I have your credit card and a picture ID?”

  Frank dug them out of his wallet.

  “Is your timing always this good?” the desk clerk asked as he clattered away at his keyboard. “If you’d walked in any other time today, you’d have been out of luck. I just got a cancellation not two minutes ago.”

  “Then I guess it’s my lucky day. Is it this busy all over Iowa?”

  “Depends on where the candidates are. Tomorrow there’s a debate at the community college, so every place in town is sold out for tonight.”

  Frank felt less lucky when he heard the opportunistically elevated room rate. But the next town was fifty miles down the road, and who knew whether he’d have any better luck there? Anyway, he was here to be in the thick of things, so why complain?

  Soon, he was luxuriating in the steam of a shower blasting an environmentally inappropriate jet of soothing hot water in his direction. Ten minutes later, he was feeling reborn. And also ravenous. He strode off to the motel restaurant with renewed vigor. It was jammed.

  “An hour wait at least,” the hostess informed him. “Do you want to give me your name, or check out the lounge first? You might find something in there.”

  “Thanks, I’ll give that a try.”

  The lounge was also packed, but there was one empty seat towards the far end of the bar. He squeezed himself in between two other patrons, wondering how long it would take the overtaxed kitchen to produce a meal.

  The bartender, of course, was also busy. Frank didn’t see a menu anywhere within reach, and he realized that he’d left his phone in the camper, leaving him with nothing at all to look at. He felt like a bump on a log sitting there alone.

  He fixed his gaze on the soundless TV screen hanging above the rows of bottles behind the bar. The fact that he cared absolutely nothing about sports – and knew even less about any of them – made it a rather pointless and unsatisfying exercise. Worse yet, the television was tuned to a hockey game. The players were milling around on the ice in what seemed to him to be aimless patterns as the puck moved around the ice.

  Hockey! he snorted. Probably the dullest game ever invented, and the one with absolutely the ugliest trophy – the Stanley Cup − ever created in the history of the world. Not only did it look like a giant coffee urn, but the only way to tell which end was up was by reading the names of past winners on its side. And even then you had to wonder whether the inscriber had gotten it wrong.

  He stared at the television pretending he understood what was going on. As far as he could tell, 99% of the time all the game was about was just a bunch of guys wearing helmets zooming around with sticks and occasionally ramming each other into the barrier that surrounded the rink.

  He was relieved when the bartender handed him a menu at last, giving him something to focus on that he understood. He was still studying it when he heard a voice on his right. “So who you with?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Which team do you play for? Candidate? Paper? Cable?”

  “Oh – Got it. I guess just ‘voter.’”

  “Then what are you doing hanging around here?”

  His neighbor had clearly been sampling the bar’s offerings for some time. Frank decided that a neutral answer would be prudent.

  “Just passing through, but I hear there’s a debate here tomorrow night. I’ve got some spare time, so I might stick around for that.”

  His neighbor grunted. “Well, it’ll be a circus, I grant you that. If you haven’t seen one before, in person and with your own eyes, it might be hard to believe it isn’t all cooked up by the media. Me, I’ll take covering a natural disaster every time. It’s more authentic and there’s usually less lasting damage. ”

  “So you’re in the media?”

  “Not as you’re probably thinking about it. I’m just a lighting roadie for POX News. That’s why I’m sitting here at the bar instead of ordering room service, like the guys with the microphones.”

  What should he ask this guy? He was more used to avoiding conversations in bars than encouraging them, but here was just the sort of person he should be trying to chat up for information. Maybe he could work his way in from the outside and figure things out as he went along.

  “So what do you think about all the swings in the polls leading up to the primaries?”

  “Well, there’s only two possible explanations, right? Either the American people are crazy, or those polls were rigged.”

  Frank perked up. “So which do you think it is?”

  His companion looked amused. “You serious?”

  “Well, sure. And who would you think would be behind it?” He’d only been here an hour, and already he was making progress!

  The man laughed out loud.

  “Brother, if you’d spent as long as I have on this beat, you’d know only one answer makes sense. Each one of these candidates is more over the edge than the last, sure, but the good citizens that come out and vote for them are crazier than the whole bunch put together!”

  The bartender put Frank’s cheeseburger down in front of him, and he ate glumly in silence for a while. Then the man spoke up again.

  “But I will tell you this. Something is going on. I just can’t tell exactly what.”

  Frank’s hopes rose again. “What do you mean, ‘going on?’ What is it you’re noticing?”

  “I don’t really know. I mean I do, but it’s hard to figure out what to make of it. Something just isn’t right with the new front runner. I’ve covered three presidential campaigns, and nothing about this guy Wellhead’s campaign makes sense.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, here’s an example. You see those guys over there in the corner?”

  Frank looked over his shoulder at a half dozen men and women sitting and standing around a table, laughing and joking.

  “Yeah?”

  “And those folks at the other end of the bar?”

  Frank saw a similar group, obviously enjoying themselves.

  “Yeah, okay?”

  “Now look over there in the dining room. You see the people around that big table over there, the one next to the wall?”

  He saw seven serious looking men, all wearing suits. They were speaking intently, leaning forward to hear each other over the din welling up from the tables crowding in around them.

  “Looks like a fun bunch. Who are they? And who are the other ones?”

  “The first group is Julian Johnson’s posse, and the second is Roxy Rollins’s. Now which candidate do you suppose that third bunch pledges allegiance to?”

  “I guess it would have to be Davenport or Cabot, right? T
hey look like pretty straitlaced Ivy League types.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Well, how ‘bout if I told you they were Br’er Wellhead’s handlers?”

  Frank turned and looked again with surprise.

  “Those guys? Have they ever listened to him? I would have expected his people to be wearing cowboy hats sooner than ties.”

  “Funny, isn’t it? And you know what, everybody else he travels with looks the same way. Never seen so many politicos wearing dark glasses in my life.”

  * * *

  14

  Just a Friendly Game of Cards

  Butcher was becoming increasingly anxious as he drove the long road from the airport to the casino. White Crow had made it clear the last time they’d met that Butcher would be kept on a short leash. But there were limits to how far he was willing to go. He might have been royally stupid in the past, but he was smart enough to know that if he didn’t draw a line in the sand now, there would be no limit to what White Crow could force him to do in the future. Better to have it out now.

  And he did have one ace in the hole, though he hated to use it: his wife’s family had money. His in-laws had never been particularly fond of him, but if his wife said they were having a financial crisis, he couldn’t believe they wouldn’t help out. If he had no other choice, he was willing to ask them for whatever perhaps ridiculous sum White Crow might demand to let him escape. He tried to use that plan to bolster his courage.

  Butcher was welcomed by the hostess as if he was the casino’s most valued customer – that was a first! It made him even more suspicious regarding what this unexpected invitation was all about.

  As he passed through the unobtrusive door next to the long bar, he saw three players already hard at work around a poker table in White Crow’s office, cigar smoke rising above their heads like the steam in a sweat lodge. White Crow simply nodded towards the one empty seat without introducing him. Butcher slid in behind a large, neatly stacked pile of chips. He wondered how much each chip was worth, but decided not to ask.

  The casino’s most attractive server appeared at his elbow and set a large drink in front of him. “Your usual, Mr. Butcher,” she murmured.

  Butcher studied the other players without trying to be too obvious as he waited for the hand to end. That wasn’t difficult, as the eyes of the players were focused on their cards and each other as the pile of chips in the center of the table continued to grow.

  Two were Native American, one probably local, with a weathered face and a leather belt heavily decorated with hand-tooled silver. Around his neck he wore a bolo tie, the large, antique slide beautifully inlaid with turquoise and red coral. The other Native American was stylishly dressed in city clothes; either someone who had grown up on the Rez and made good, or maybe someone from another tribe. The last player was Anglo and dressed casually but expensively. Butcher bet the Rolex on his wrist was genuine.

  Finally, the local Native American took the hand, and the deal passed to the Rolex wearer to his left.

  “Five card draw,” was all he said, and the cards started to snap down in front of Butcher and the others.

  Butcher took a deep breath and tilted his face down cards back to see what he had. It had been a long day, and he was already well into his first drink. As usual, he tried to establish his balls right out of the gate, regardless of the hand he’d been dealt. With only an ace to work with, he matched and raised when his turn came around.

  To keep them guessing, he drew two cards instead of three. To his delight, he now had a pair of aces. Two rounds of betting later, he took the hand, and another drink materialized at his elbow. As the game continued, he was astonished to see that the calm, analytical Casino manager was a terrible poker player. Not only was his technique inconsistent, but he took wild chances on incredibly weak hands, bidding the pot up recklessly and often.

  When the game broke up at 1:00 AM, Butcher’s head was swimming with success and alcohol. All of White Crow’s guests had done well at their host’s considerable expense, but Butcher had done best of all. The size of his pile of chips had tripled, and it had been impressive to begin with. When White Crow summoned the cashier to pay out his guests, Butcher was stunned to realize they must have been playing for $50 a point. Instead of counting out single banknotes, the cashier was handing out bundles of $100 bills. Butcher had never seen so much cash in his life.

  But White Crow was unconcerned. As ever, he was pleasant and calm, though anyone else would be morose or downright belligerent. It suddenly struck Butcher that the real purpose of the game was to provide a cover for paying off business partners without having to account for the real reasons the cash was changing hands.

  If that was the case, he couldn’t take credit for his winnings at all. But why was White Crow throwing so much money his way? Butcher’s elation collapsed as the answer came to him.

  As feared, White Crow put his hand on Butcher’s shoulder when the others rose to leave. “You have had an especially good evening, my friend. Perhaps you will stay a moment longer so that we may catch up.” The distance between his pile of cash and the front door of the casino suddenly seemed impossibly great to Butcher.

  There was of course no way to refuse. Butcher had noticed that two of the casino’s bouncers were on duty at the front door when he had arrived. Doubtless they had been told not to let him leave until they’d received the appropriate signal from their boss.

  “Sure, Ohanzee. Sounds good,” he mumbled as the other men departed.

  White Crow gestured to Butcher to sit down again, and walked to the bar in the corner. When White Crow returned to the poker table, he held a highball glass in one hand and a bottle of sparkling water in the other. An uncharacteristically warm smile ornamented his face.

  “I am very happy for you, my friend. The cards seemed to be,” he paused briefly for effect, “stacked in your favor tonight.”

  Butcher’s responsive laugh was surprised but not forced; he’d never heard White Crow tell a joke before.

  But there were more surprises to come. White Crow poured himself a glass of sparkling water, and then reached across the table to take two of the six bundles of $100 bills piled in front of Butcher. “We are now ‘square,’ as I believe you said before. You now owe me nothing.”

  Butcher was dumbfounded. He had tried to imagine every possible scenario that might transpire, and this was not one he had anticipated.

  “Wow – that’s great, Ohanzee. I mean, you don’t know what a relief this is after our last meeting.” He was about to ask what it was all about and then stopped. He had no need to hear anything more. Just a desire for once to get out of the casino while he was still ahead.

  “Indeed, my friend. I felt badly about that,” White Crow replied. “We have known each other for a long time, and it was not a good way for one friend to treat another.”

  The casino manager raised his glass, and Butcher guardedly raised his own in response. “Now that we are friends again,” White Crow said, clicking his glass against Butcher’s, “I know that you will be happy to do me a favor.”

  So now it – whatever “it” would be – was coming. Butcher began to sweat. “A favor, Ohanzee?”

  White Crow leaned forward, his forearms on the table and his hands clasped.

  “Yes, a favor. I’d like you to give me a bit more information about the subject we touched upon briefly the last time we met.”

  So they were back to that. And it wasn’t a favor White Crow wanted, it was payback for the bribe he had just paid to Butcher. But why a bribe? The casino manager already had enough information about his drinking, betting and indiscretions to get him fired.

  Then Butcher had another thought; he wondered where the camera and microphone were hidden. Trading secret information for money would put him away much longer than disclosing information to a blackmailer.
He tried to choose his words carefully to avoid incriminating himself.

  “Uh, Ohanzee, I’m sure you don’t realize this, but if I were to answer the kind of questions you started to ask me before, we would both be breaking the law. You know I’d be happy to do any type of legal favor for you.”

  “Is that your final answer?”

  Butcher felt more confident now. “It is.”

  “I see.” White Crow unlocked a drawer in the table and took out a fresh pack of cards.

  “I am disappointed, my friend,” he murmured as he removed the band from around the pack of cards. “Very disappointed. I thought perhaps we might make a fresh start tonight.”

  Butcher said nothing, wondering what would happen next. He watched as White Crow set the deck of cards on the table, and then spread them in a neat fan, face down. Without looking up, he asked softly, “Are you certain you will not reconsider?”

  What the hell was he up to? Butcher couldn’t follow this at all.

  “Yes,” he finally said, his voice trembling.

  White Crow looked up, smiling pleasantly. “Well then. Perhaps you will indulge me in one last hand of cards before you leave?”

  Once again, Butcher said nothing.

  “You wish to quit while you are ahead for a change? Is that it, my friend? No? Good!”

  White Crow scooped a double handful of chips out of the table drawer.

  “Here – I will stake you again – just like old times.” He split the chips evenly between them and slid the fanned cards once more into a stack, setting the deck between them. “Care to cut the cards?”

  Butcher shook his head no.

  “Ah! We trust each other! A good start! The game is five card stud.”

  He snapped each card down smartly as he dealt, the small, sharp sounds echoing like pistol shots around the silent room.

  Butcher looked across the table: White Crow had a king of spades up. Then he looked down at his own cards, and to his astonishment saw a card-sized picture of his house.