I said nothing and tried to process exactly what was being offered, if anything.
“It could be a very big, highly watched moment, Stan. I’d like you to think about that. Assuming it’s Tobias, I’m offering you the chance to address the party convention and the nation, from your hometown.”
“Well, that would be an honor, Governor.”
“Good. It’ll be a critical time, Stan, just as people are starting to focus on their November choice. And there are a few things they need to know about the Florida governor sooner rather than later. Things you’ll be happy to share, I’m sure.”
“You can count on it.”
Margaret Haskel shook my hand again, more firmly than most guys I know. Somebody suggested we pose for a photograph together, which we did. And then I was shown the door. I scrambled to juggle my luggage as I hustled out to the curb and my car for the 50-minute ride to the airport, all while wishing I had more time to go back to Venice Beach for medicinal purposes. Alone, in the back of a Town Car, and for the second time in almost as many days, I scrolled my iPhone for reaction to the spectacle that had just occurred.
By that point every news outlet—large or small, left or right—was all about the election. Summer’s withdrawal had stirred the pot and generated interest like never before, and both parties’ nomination contests had started to feel more like Survivor than American Idol. America was hooked. The excerpt from the James deposition many years ago was now getting the siren treatment at Drudge. Huffpo remained focused on Tobias and Baron going down to the wire, which was more of interest to its readers. I thought of Susan and hoped she’d had bigger things to do tonight than watch the circus on the other side of the aisle. The Democratic debates were over and tonight Tobias and Baron were both holding their final rallies of their abbreviated primary campaigns.
Having surveyed the blogosphere to see how big the open marriage question was playing (Answer: Big), I was ready to see how my role had been received in my inner circle. In my mind, texts were like exit surveys, emails more like election results. Via text, friends could only give me the bottom line, but if they were so motivated, could tell me more in an email. I started with the exit surveys.
“U should have told me. Homerun,” was Phil’s take.
“Important that you call me tomorrow,” from Jules.
“Atlanta extremely pleased,” from Steve Bernson.
“You had to have been high,” from Alex.
“Asshole.”
That was the one word that was texted to me from a phone number I recognized as Debbie’s. That’s about what I’d expected from her. And I didn’t disagree. Suddenly I lost my appetite for reading the longer-winded emails.
That night I learned why they call those flights red-eyes. Given all that had happened over the previous couple of days, you’d think I’d have slept like a baby, but I hardly caught any rest. Instead I tossed and turned under a blanket in seat 3C replaying in my mind everything that had happened since Thursday. But the critical timeline extended further back than that. Phil had been adamant that I push Tobias on religion. Even though I’d soft-pedaled it on account of Susan’s unexpected presence in the studio, there was no doubt that I was the one responsible for making it an issue in the election, at least amongst those on the right. The Haskel campaign had noted that I’d raised something hot while advancing my own interests, and appropriately concluded that I was game for bigger assignments, namely taking out Wynne James. And now, anticipating that they’d vanquished James, they were hoping I would do likewise for them with Tobias. How exactly they expected me to do this hadn’t yet been explained. Molly Hatchet had said there were things people needed to know about Tobias sooner rather than later. Flying home solo, I thought about the people I could possibly call for advice by running through in my mind what I knew they would say. Phil? He’d have me throwing that Molotov cocktail on radio air immediately, not waiting until the convention. Jules? He’d tell me the convention speech would guarantee syndication and that everything should be focused on that moment. Debbie? I doubted she’d even speak to me. And if she did, she’d say I had finally, officially sold my soul. Susan? Holy shit. My head was spinning.
Putting aside my complicated feelings for his wife, I liked Bob Tobias and thought he’d done a decent job as Florida’s governor. And of course, I didn’t give a shit whether he was a person of faith. How could I? Debbie was correct in saying that I hadn’t exactly set church attendance records on fire. But if the path he’d chosen was a religion founded in the twentieth century by an American science fiction writer based on some intergalactic horseshit, not even I could ignore that. Frankly, given the fantastical basis of Scientology, I couldn’t believe that the IRS gave it tax-exempt status. The audit summary that hung in my office alleged that a spouse was challenging her husband’s adherence to Scientology and that he was an elected official. Assuming that Tobias was the public figure referenced, Susan Miller was the one who’d tried to drive that wedge.
It might be total bullshit. The idea that such a secret could be kept from Florida voters for so long made it dubious. And even if the audit was truly related to the Tobias/Miller marriage, it was unclear whether Susan had been successful. I also considered the possibility that she too was or had been a Scientologist and that perhaps she was trying to get her husband to ditch the church with her. How the fuck should I know?
What I thought I knew was: Tobias had a longstanding refusal to say the usual bullshit about our nation’s religious roots while running for office; I’d had something stuck in my palm at a Tea Party rally that purported to link an unnamed elected official to Scientology; Susan had an uncanny awareness of a hidden dive bar that was located within spitting distance of Scientology’s headquarters; and Molly Hatchet was now insinuating that Tobias had a deep dark secret that voters needed to know. All that, and the fact that Susan was mysteriously interested in keeping me close to her as the campaign unfolded.
Ever since she had left me that first message after my in-studio interview with Tobias, I’d wondered what her motivation was. Of course, I hoped it was sexual, that she thought about me over the years, and that now, recognizing the career I’d built for myself on a path that she’d paved, she wanted to rekindle an old flame. Whether she’d come to the studio that day to be the dutiful political spouse, or because she’d figured out that she knew Stan Powers, I wasn’t sure. But she came, we saw one another, and then she called. That was followed by our odd encounter at Delrios, a night that had seemed to lack any purpose. Or did it? I hadn’t raised religion in the offensive manner prescribed by Phil, but I had raised the subject in a cursory way face-to-face with her husband and countless times on the radio thereafter. Maybe her purpose in coming to Delrios had been to take my temperature, to see whether my questions and comments were based on anything substantive or whether they were just the usual drivel from her husband’s detractors. After all, if I were onto the fact that he, or he and she, were followers of a faith that Middle America found cult-like and preposterous, wouldn’t I have brought it out when we were alone? This seemed plausible. Maybe her only interest was in finding out whether or not I knew she was a Scientologist. And for all I knew, she’d done it with Tobias’ blessing! Somewhere over the Grand Canyon I fired up my Kindle and began to read Janet Reitman’s Inside Scientology.
CHAPTER 14
Rod Chinkles seemed legitimately happy to see me when I dragged myself into the studio on Tuesday morning. Alex, not so much.
“I don’t get you Stan.”
“I don’t get me either.”
Thankfully, our listeners agreed with Rod. I received a hero’s welcome from the many callers at WRGT who wanted to praise my exposure of Governor James and throw Bill Maher under the bus.
“Stan, you spared us another Clinton fiasco with James. He’d have sullied the Oval Office if not for you,” Kyle from Riverview told me.
“Maher’s the same guy who called our soldiers cowards. Way to go Stan,” said Wa
lt from Winter Haven.
I only had a vague recollection of Walt’s reference. No doubt Maher had said something stupid when comparing the relative cowardice of the 9/11 terrorists to our military’s use of drone technology, but I wasn’t about to jolly-stomp on the statement. It wasn’t something I would have said, but I thought I understood what Maher had been trying to say at the time. I was too tired to get worked up about it. And besides, a guy who does what I do every day is always a seven-second delay away from temporary unemployment.
I spent an hour on air recapping the Real Time appearance and played sound bytes that Alex had edited, and another hour rehashing the debate.
“Thanks for outing that bigamist,” said another caller, regarding James.
By the time I signed off and headed for sleep, the campaigning for the nomination was finally over. Californians were headed to the polls and when I’d return on Wednesday morning, the combatants for the general election would be set. On my way out the door, Alex handed me another message from Wilma Blake. This time she said:
“Funny name. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a call on air from a Wilma.”
Clearly she had noticed that this wasn’t the first call from Wilma, and I’m sure she was looking for my reaction. I tried to offer none.
My convertible top was up when I cleared the parking garage and gave a nod to my fishing friend. Then I dialed. Every time I had returned her calls, they had been to a different number. This time it was a Los Angeles exchange, suggesting she was still in California to watch the returns later tonight. Obviously Tobias thought he was winning the state or he’d be moving on before the votes were tallied.
“Good luck tonight,” I said when she picked up. “Win and you’ll be just one step away.”
Susan didn’t even so much as say thanks. Nor did she offer any thoughts on today’s primary, including the buzz created by my question to Wynne James. She was all business.
“You really need to give this a rest, Stan. I saw the Maher show. You’re embarrassing yourself every time you talk about Bob’s faith. Haven’t you noticed that no one else shares your obsession?”
“Maybe that’s because they don’t know what I know.”
“And what is it you think that you know?”
It was really the first time she flat-out asked me what I had on her husband. I partially obliged.
“I know that for your husband this is far more than a semantic debate.”
I wasn’t prepared to drop the S-word yet since I was far from having the goods. All I had were a few threads that raised a suspicion, but nothing that warranted an outright confrontation. Plus, who knew what kind of News of the World scum was tapping her phone calls these days. Still, she seemed to get my meaning.
“I think we should meet to discuss this.”
“I assume you’re not talking tomorrow at 7:35 on Morning Power?”
Susan ignored the suggestion.
So I said, “Okay, how about Delrios again?”
“I’m flying back into Tampa tomorrow. Meet me at 7. The Clearwater Hilton right on the beach.”
I was surprised that she’d pick such a public spot, a hotel no less, but I said, “Fine.”
“Ask for Wilma Blake at the desk. They’ll know.”
The line went dead.
• • •
I wasn’t sure how Susan intended to meet with me at the Clearwater Hilton without getting noticed. Her husband’s visual ID was about 100 percent in Florida, and now 98 percent in America—and hers was climbing just as high. She had already been on every regional television program, and in every regional magazine and newspaper. And come tomorrow, she would be the wife of the Democratic nominee for president.
I had ignored an incoming call while speaking with Susan and now saw that someone had left me a voicemail. It was Carl.
“You sure as hell better be at Delrios tonight. Three strikes and you’re out,” he said.
All I wanted to do was go home and go to sleep, and the last thing I felt like doing was tying one on with my buddies. I erased the message as I headed for a nap, deciding that I’d see how I felt if and when I ever woke up. Then I drove home, showered, pitched the blinds, and turned off my electronics.
When I awoke sometime later in total darkness, I’d been in such a deep sleep that I didn’t immediately recognize my surroundings nor the day, much less the time. Both of my digital alarm clocks said 8:40. I didn’t know if that was a.m. or p.m. My first fear was that I’d slept through an air shift. Elated when I figured out that wasn’t the case, my next thought turned to my empty stomach. And remembering my looming meeting with Susan tomorrow, I suddenly felt the need for a drink. It was then that I decided I’d hightail it over to Delrios to meet Clay and Carl, less they voted me out of our triumverate. By the time I caught up with them, standing exactly at the bar where I expected to find them, they were hammered. And, happy as hell to see me. Of course, it was my round. I waved Ralph over to pour us a few shots and so that I could ask whether there was anything edible in the kitchen.
“You sure do spend time with interesting people,” he said with a bottle of tequila in his hand.
I smiled and reached for a shot, trying to comprehend what he was saying. Was that a reference to me being on Maher? Participating in the presidential debate the prior night? Or was he subtly telling me he’d figured out with whom I’d shared a drink in the back a few weeks ago? I wasn’t sure. And he was way too street-smart to let me know which it was. Bastard. Two C-notes were now coming his way at Christmas.
The television above the bar—the same set on which I’d watched President Summers’ shocking announcement six months prior—now showed the election night coverage from California. The polls had just closed, and the exit surveys showed Margaret Haskel beating Wynne James by four points, cementing the nomination. The sound was muted on account of the jukebox, and the closed captions for the hearing impaired were crawling along the bottom of the TV. I caught enough to know what they were talking about:
“…credibility was hurt when the divorce deposition was revealed….”
Meanwhile, on the Democratic side, Bob Tobias was expected to handily defeat Vic Baron. That would make it official. As I had long suspected, it was going to be Haskel and Tobias fighting for the presidency. The three of us just stood there with our drinks, temporarily speechless as we watched the screen. Normally Clay and Carl would never bring up anything that involved my work, but I was in the midst of a pretty amazing run and therefore not surprised when tonight of all nights, they crossed that line. Of course, at the top of their list was Margaret Haskel.
“That is one presidential hottie,” Clay said. “She’s had my vote ever since she told the women of America to be like Jerry Hall.”
I was surprised he was even aware of that quote, but it was proof of Haskel’s ability to generate buzz well beyond the political sphere. But his next statement tempered my belief that he had any interest whatsoever in policy.
“Heaven would be that Texas broad and Florida’s first lady in my hot tub at the same time,” he hooted.
Carl had his own area of interest.
“Stan, sometimes I don’t get you. I watched last night when you gave that guy a workout because he told his old lady he wanted a threesome. The Stan Powers I know might not have asked, but would have been thinking the same thing.”
Clay laughed. I smiled but did not respond. Instead, I nervously clinked shot glasses with the two of them just as Ralph brought out something he said was a Philly cheesesteak but bore no resemblance to anything I’d ever eaten in Philadelphia. I felt like I was being fed a tourist special, but that didn’t stop me from eating it, further fucking up my body clock which was already confused by my sleeping eight straight hours during the daytime.
After I got home, the combination of too much rest, booze, and the remnants of something disguised as a cheesesteak sitting in my stomach made for a restless night before what promised to be one of the more interesting days
in an already crazy week. I tossed and turned trying to decide whether I should show Susan the audit summary when I met her at the Clearwater Hilton the following day. And, whether I should tell her the Haskel campaign wanted me to do to her husband what I’d done to Wynne James. By the time my two alarm clocks went off at 3:30, I’d made up my mind to take the audit with me and confront her with it.
I was still a bit fucked up when I went on the air. Fortunately, given the interest in the outcome of the California primary and the finality of the nomination contests, it was an easy show in which to coast. Listeners wanted to talk and I stepped out of the way and let them. Frank Sellers would’ve been proud. Then I went back home and tried to get some rest. When I left my condo later that afternoon, I was wearing my usual uniform: Bruno Magli shoes/no socks, jeans, Oxford cloth and sport coat. Only this time, tucked inside the left breast pocket were the purported notes of a Scientology audit, perhaps concerning a younger Bob Tobias.
I did as I’d been instructed. I arrived at the hotel at 6:45 p.m. and tossed my keys to a valet. Adjacent to his stand sat a pair of dark Town Cars, idling, that I thought had official state tags. But tinted windows prevented me from getting a look at the drivers, much less at any passengers. I slowed my gait wondering if Susan would emerge from one of the rear doors. Nothing happened, so I continued inside and up one flight of stairs to the lobby. It was overrun by baseball fans who were in town to participate in one of those MLB dream weeks at the nearby spring training home of the Phillies. Two guys in pinstripes stopped me in my tracks and asked if I would take their picture. I obliged, and then one of them said:
“Hey, aren’t you the Tampa talker?”
This was the last place where I wanted any recognition or notoriety but what choice did I have?
“We’re Lancaster County Tea Partiers,” he confided before asking his buddy to take his picture with me.
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