by Ed Gorman
It was bullshit but it worked.
‘What the hell do you want from me?’
‘The truth. Why you were taking photos of Waters.’ I hesitated. ‘And why you were seeing David Nolan?’
For a cunning woman, she wasn’t much good at covering her feelings. She lurched as if somebody had jammed a knife blade into her side. Those rich dark eyes showed panic.
‘I ran into him once. I thought it would be nice to sit down and talk to him. You know, to show that there were no hard feelings. Believe it or not, I like to be sociable. I get tired of all the name-calling.’
‘You saw him on at least four other occasions and I’ve got proof of that.’
‘That’s a lie.’
And so it was. But again the way she responded – eyes averted now, faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, troubled breathing – I knew that my lie had evoked the truth.
‘I need to go to the ladies’ room.’
‘No.’
‘You can’t stop me.’
‘I want you to answer my questions before you do anything else. About Waters and about Nolan.’
‘I’ll answer when I come back.’
She was out of the booth before I could do anything. And what could I do anyway? Tackle her and drag her back? Political consultant was arrested this morning for clubbing a helpless woman to prevent her from using the ladies’ room.
I tried hard to enjoy my breakfast. The eggs were delicious and the hash browns just the way I liked them. Mrs Burkhart was long gone, of course. The only thing I might have accomplished was scaring her into doing something that would reveal what was going on here.
Why had she been talking to David Nolan?
The Sandler College auditorium was a red brick building complete with a church-like steeple and a tree-lined walkway that led to campus. With the sun out and the trees blazing with autumn, I remembered how I’d imagined college life when I was small. I’d read a lot of adventure novels back then and colleges were usually depicted in the books as places where young geniuses met wise older professors who encouraged them to take on tasks that would somehow change the world – open doors to other dimensions, help create a species of super-humans, make contact with beings from other galaxies. But alas, college days, my college days anyway, were mostly about beer, girls, and studying. All of which was fine. But I still wished I’d stood on a hill one night and been contacted by another planet, the way John Carter had been in my favorite Edgar Rice Burroughs novel.
An army of TV people had taken over the auditorium. Miles of black cable, men and women pushing cameras around on stage, sound checks, lighting checks, rostrums being set in place, all for a night that would hopefully attract not only a large viewing audience but also a few headlines. Maybe even a career-destroying statement uttered in haste or anger. It was a boxing match with words.
I didn’t see any of our people so I just dropped into a chair in back and opened my laptop and checked in with the home office. None of the internals had changed much. There was a Tribune poll that showed a tie, Burkhart with a one-point lead, but since that was well within the margin of error it was moot. My other candidates hadn’t moved much either.
I went to HuffPo and Talking Points Memo for breaking news. A candidate in Texas wanted to declare all liberals ‘enemies of the state,’ and a congressman on our side was trying to explain why he’d hired five of his inexperienced relatives as staffers. The way of the world.
My cell phone beeped. I smiled as soon as I heard her voice. ‘Are you in some important meeting?’
‘Yes. The president and I are discussing whether or not to round up Goth people and make them start wearing real loud Bermuda shorts and yellow T-shirts.’
‘Humorous. Just like my father.’
‘But you don’t like your father and I thought you were crazy about me.’
‘Well, I like you better than my dad but that doesn’t mean I trust you very much. No offense, but you’re sort of out of it. In general, I mean.’
‘Who could take offense at that?’
‘I went back to Jimmy’s apartment. My wallet must’ve fallen out when we climbed on to the fire escape. I had to be nice to that creep again. I even had to let him rub against my leg. He’s like a dog.’
The colorful world of young Goths in America.
‘So did you find your wallet?’
‘Yeah. But that isn’t why I called. He wanted to know who you really are. I guess he saw us standing at the bottom of the fire escape. I lied and said you were just this friend of mine. Then he started telling me that three or four nights before Jimmy died these two people came real late at night and went upstairs. He saw them because he had to help the old woman who lived across from Jimmy get her cat. The cat got out and was running around the apartment house.’
‘Did he describe the two people?’
‘He said they looked like rich people, but remember, anybody who takes a shower probably looks like they’re rich to him.’
God, I liked her. ‘He give you any details?’
‘Yeah, but he was suspicious. He wondered why I was so interested. I told him because Jimmy was my friend and somebody murdered him. That’s when I had to let him rub up against my leg.’ She then started painting a verbal picture of Mrs Burkhart and David Nolan. And then she said, ‘He said he almost went up there because he could hear them shouting at each other. But just when he was putting on his shirt to leave his apartment they quieted down. He said they probably stayed about half an hour.’
‘Did he tell the police any of this?’
‘He said he didn’t tell the police anything they didn’t ask. He said his best friend was doing time in Joliet and that even though he’d run over that chick he was a nice guy when he was sober and because of that he wouldn’t tell the cops dick. That’s the word he used, ‘dick.’ Does any of this help you?’
‘A lot.’
‘I miss Jimmy. He was my best friend, Dev.’
Rusty Burkhart strode on to the stage for the rehearsal. He had the easy, comfortable masculinity of the old Western movie stars. He shook enough hands to give himself blisters and then ambled over to one of the rostrums, hefty but not fat in his charcoal shirt and jeans. He’d once claimed he was from Viking blood, which was possibly true if Vikings had worn lurid red toupees.
Jeff Ward in the flesh appeared from the other side of the stage. I wondered if he’d coordinated his outfit with Burkhart. Blue shirt, jeans, Western boots. We weren’t going to have a debate; we were going to have a hoedown.
Being pols they shook hands like old friends. Being in a photo op they smiled their asses off, too. And being single-minded about winning they started taking shots at each other with the smiles getting bigger and bigger.
Speaking to the small cadre of TV reporters and camera people standing on the floor below him, Rusty Burkhart produced some kind of document from his back pocket and waved it at them. ‘We’ll see if my friend Jeff here is willing to sign my “I Am an American” pledge tonight. That’s one way we’ll know if he’s going to do right by this country or not. A lot of people are suspicious about anybody who won’t sign this pledge. And by people I mean voters.’
They were like a vaudeville team. Now it was Ward’s turn to shine. ‘And while I’m not signing the pledge that violates many parts of our sacred Constitution, I will be reminding voters that my friend Rusty here once said that maybe God’s plan was to have sick people die if they couldn’t afford to pay for their own insurance. He hasn’t been saying that much lately.’ Ward was shaking his head like a schoolmarm who’d just uncovered a turd on the floor.
‘Not only have I not been saying it lately – I’ve never said it.’ So there. Burkhart sounded definite.
‘But there’s a tape of you saying it, Mr Burkhart,’ a young female reporter said.
‘Completely out of context. And let’s not change the subject.’ He waved his pledge again.
What we had here was similar to the weigh-in for a he
avyweight champion boxing match. The fighters wanted a good crowd so they gnawed on the other guy’s ass to the delight of the press.
The last thing I paid attention to was Ward saying, ‘What Mr Burkhart is saying here is that if we got rid of the minimum wage we’d put a lot more people to work. But I don’t know many folks who’d sweat and slave for a dollar an hour.’
‘Nobody ever said anything about a dollar an hour and you know that, Congressman.’
And so on.
I went back to my work on my laptop. I didn’t know much about David Nolan so I tried to find as many short biographies of him as I could. I had no idea what I was looking for. I had one fact to guide me. He and Ward had been best friends for most of their lives. And yet he and Mrs Burkhart had not only been together some of the time, they’d visited Jim Waters a few nights before his death. There was a connection here somewhere, but what was it?
I skimmed the results of numerous Google searches before hitting one from an alumni magazine piece that spotlighted Nolan and Ward as celebrated former students. The first five hundred words focused on the politics of their time in Washington, the second five hundred words dealt with their student council activities while undergrads at the school. It was in the final five hundred words that I found what I was looking for.
‘Most reports about the friendship of the two men omit the year they didn’t speak to each other. Even now they are reluctant to discuss it. This happened in 1993 according to some of their close friends. But even they aren’t sure what caused the rift. What ended their disagreement – subject still unknown – was that they were seated near each other at a homecoming football game. Ward claims that Nolan came over to him and offered his hand; Nolan insists it was Ward who came over and offered his hand. Whatever, the friendship was renewed.’
Precedent. What had happened back then? And did it have any bearing on their recent falling-out?
By the time I was finished Burkhart and his people had left the stage. Ward stood by the podium he’d been assigned, talking to a member of the TV crew. As I walked over to them, Ward was pointing to a light placed directly above him. ‘I’m not trying to tell you your job, Jason, I’m just saying why don’t we light it up and take a look. I don’t want to pull a Dick Nixon here. Remember the first Kennedy-Nixon TV debate?’
If Jason remembered reading about the debate, it hadn’t made a big impression. He just shrugged. ‘Congressman, I’ve been lighting these debates for years now. I think I know what I’m doing.’
‘How about humoring me? How about setting the lights the way I want right now, then we’ll tape me at the podium and look at it. Fair enough?’
Jason didn’t even try to look happy. ‘I guess so, Congressman. Why don’t you go over and get in place, then, and I’ll start lighting the stage.’
‘I really appreciate it, Jason. You’re a good man.’
As soon as Jason was out of hearing range, Ward said, ‘That fucker has no idea what he’s doing. I wanted to bring my own lighting man. But the old fart who oversees these debates said we had to use the same people. Burkhart doesn’t care. He looks like a bear and people like him that way.’
‘You’ll look fine.’ Then: ‘Why did you and Nolan have a falling-out back in 1993?’
He’d been distracted by two men lugging the moderator’s desk on stage. But when I spoke he whipped around and said, ‘What the hell kind of question is that? I’m supposed to be prepping for a debate tonight, remember? Staying calm and focused. And you bring up some old nothing bullshit like that?’
We were starting to get an audience. His voice was high, strident.
‘Keep your voice down. There’re reporters here.’ I spoke so only he could hear. ‘I just asked you a question.’
‘Well, un-ask it. This isn’t the time or place.’
Over the speaker Jason said: ‘Congressman, would you take your place at the podium, please.’
It was as if a starting pistol had been fired. Ward broke away and walked double time to the stage. Nobody up there was going to ask him any questions about why he and Nolan had not spoken for a time back then. In fact, since this was only a rehearsal of sorts, nobody was going to ask him any difficult questions of any kind. He took his place behind the podium.
The smile and charm came with light-switch speed. The reporter and her crew moved in for the same kind of shots they’d gotten with Burkhart. Ward knew better than to try any diva routines about the lighting. The press would love a story about his vanity. While a good number of men probably envied his success with women, there was something a bit unmanly about it when the cocksman was wealthy and obviously pampered. A courtesan rather than a warrior. That wasn’t his problem alone. Senator John Kerry had after all gone out and bought himself several thousand dollars’ worth of hunting gear for a photo op that made him look like a member of Nerds Gone Wild. I’m told there is a photo somewhere of a rabbit giving him the finger.
I was soon back at work on my laptop. I wanted to know more about the rift between Ward and Nolan but Mother Google wasn’t yielding much. I switched over to my other campaigns. Updates. Scuttlebutt. One of our candidates had been shouted down by two men in an open meeting. Our campaign runner there was sure they were hired to do so by none other than Sylvia Fordham herself, who was running the opponent’s campaign. She was sure she’d seen these two at other open meetings.
She snuck in without me seeing her. But when I looked up there she was, the back of her anyway, eight or nine rows ahead of me. Mrs Teresa Burkhart. Her coiffure was unmistakable, as was the way one of her husband’s campaign staffers served her coffee – with great trepidation if I interpreted her body language correctly. The young woman turned out to be none other than Melanie, the pretty teenager who’d tried to have me thrown out of Burkhart headquarters. I recognized her when she glanced my way. She recognized me, too, and immediately bent to inform her employer of my presence.
After the soul-saver had left the side of Mrs Burkhart, but not before she scowled in my direction of course, I closed my laptop and traveled down the aisle. I seated myself directly behind Teresa Burkhart. The way her neck and shoulders tensed, I knew she was aware of me. I said nothing for a few minutes. Two or three times she started to turn around and face me then thought better of it.
‘I see the most beautiful woman in the world sitting out there,’ Burkhart boomed from his podium. He waved to his wife and sent her a bashful-boy grin.
She raised a fawn-colored glove and waved.
The man overseeing the debate, whom Ward had referred to as an ‘old fart,’ was a former governor from the other side named Will Carney. We should all look like such old farts as Carney did at seventy-eight or thereabouts. He crossed the stage briskly, a tall, slender man in a blue windbreaker, white shirt, chinos, and white Reeboks. He had a headful of curly silver locks that any Roman senator would have envied and a voice as imposing as a general’s sounding the call to war. It was nice to see how much he intimidated the two candidates. He told them the kind of debate he wanted tonight; the kind, he said, ‘they owed the public, given all the bullshit in the air this election cycle.’ I took this to be criticism of some of the wilder and woolier candidates of his own party.
He had one major failing, did ex-Governor Will Carney, and the press and political cartoonists had always enjoyed bringing attention to it. Once he started talking he never wanted to stop. You needed ten armed guards to drag him off the stage. And he’d still be talking as they dragged him.
Today was no different. He got so intensely involved in talking about the kind of debate this state deserved – he’d been a pretty good governor: honest and inventive and willing to work with our side – that the initial surge of surprise and pleasure he’d brought with him now became weary resignation. When was this old fart ever going to shut up?
I decided now was as good a time as any.
‘You’re in a lot of trouble. And maybe I can help you. But I’m sick of chasing you around. You call me
if you change your mind. But you don’t have much time.’
I didn’t give her a chance to say anything. I just stood up, my laptop under my arm, and started to walk out of the auditorium.
In the lobby a harried-looking Lucy Cummings was hanging up her coat. When she saw me she rushed over, breathless. ‘God, I’m sorry I’m late. I had to set things up with this caterer for the party after the debate tonight. He wanted all this fancy food. I told him there’d be a cross section of people there so to keep it simple.’ She crossed her eyes. I appreciated her making me laugh. It felt good. ‘I think I offended him. He said that his clientele always wants sushi. I told him that most of the union guys would probably prefer little fried pieces of shrimp. He said maybe I should go to Red Lobster. Actually, that sounds pretty good to me. I love Red Lobster.’ Then: ‘God, here I am running my mouth off and Jeff’s in there alone.’ She touched my arm. ‘Bye.’
TWENTY
When I got back to my hotel Sylvia Fordham was sitting in the lobby in her best Audrey Hepburn pose. The lovely naïf lost in a world of sensationalism and sin. The dress was a simple blue number that modestly revealed the slender but comely body. She sat on a couch reading the National Review. I curbed my desire to take a match and set it on fire.
She pretended not to notice me when I sat down next to her.
‘You look very nice today, Sylvia. How about going upstairs with me?’
Her gaze rose from the magazine and settled on me. The smile was playful. ‘I knew you’d come around someday. Even as much as you hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you, Sylvia. I just think you’re a reprehensible threat to our republic.’
‘Well, if that’s all—’ The smile remained.
‘So what happened to last night’s big announcement?’
‘You feel like a drink?’
‘It’s early.’
‘Then you get Kool-Aid or something. I’m having a drink.’
And so she did. We were tucked away in a booth in the hotel bar. It was dark enough to get lost in. You needed a coal miner’s lighted hat to get around. The waitress appeared out of the gloom as if she’d stepped from another dimension. I had coffee and Sylvia had a double Scotch straight up. If I didn’t know her, it would be easy to have one of those eight-hour crushes on her. She really was beautiful and quietly sexual.