Twitter Girl

by Nic Tatano

  It’s on the bottom row, since I just arrived. And has one letter inside.

  I pull it out and turn it over. No return address, the address printed with a computer. There’s a letter opener on a shelf next to the mailboxes so I slide it through the top and open it.

  Inside there is a single sheet of white paper, folded into thirds. And what’s written on it pushes my curiosity to the front burner:

  All is not as it seems. I know it but cannot prove it. You have resources I do not.

  438903125267

  What does it mean?

  I stare at the message for a moment, put it back in the envelope, fold it in half and shove it into my purse.

  I walk into the empty break room and fix myself a cup of coffee.

  A twelve digit number.

  And resources I have that our mystery guest does not.

  What does it mean, indeed.

  ***

  Tre Bella is an old restaurant in Little Italy. I’ve eaten there a few times; the food is excellent and the prices reasonable. Not the type of place I’d expect to meet a big wheel in a presidential campaign, but nothing about this campaign is normal. But hey, I don’t mind Italian two days in a row. Make it three if you count Sam’s better-than-sex pasta.

  I hop out of a cab as a smiling older gentleman holds the door to the restaurant for me. The smell of garlic and fresh bread greet me along with the crooning of Dean Martin as I head for the hostess stand. A petite, middle-aged brunette smiles with the look of recognition I’ve grown accustomed to. “Ah, Miss Shea, you’re with the Harris party. Right this way.” I follow her through the mostly empty restaurant, which is not surprising since it is a Monday. She takes me to a door in the back of the restaurant and opens it. This campaign does like its private rooms.

  I enter and what I see stops me in my tracks. Senator Becker seated at a round table.

  He smiles and stands up to greet me. “Cassidy, right on time.”

  He moves around the table and pulls a chair out for me. “Thank you, Senator. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Please call me Will,” he says, as I take my seat and he moves back to his own.

  “So, Mister Harris hasn’t arrived yet?”

  He smiles. “He’s already here. You’re talking to him.”

  I furrow my brow, trying to quickly process what’s happening. “I’m a little confused—”

  “When you’re running for president, it’s hard to have a casual dinner off the grid. I’ve got a lot of aliases and restaurants with private rooms that I use to get away.”

  I slowly nod. “Make sense. So, anyone joining us?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Just you and me. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Sure, you’re my boss.”

  “I’m not here as your boss, Cassidy. I hope that’s okay too.” Suddenly the man sitting across from me is not the next President of the United States, but a single guy about to have dinner with me.

  Is he trying to tell me we’re on a date?

  “Of course it’s okay. You just caught me off guard, that’s all. I mean, you were the last person I expected to find here.”

  “I could have actually set you up with one of our billionaire donors who would have bored you to death.”

  “No, this is fine. It’s a nice surprise.”

  Damn, is that an understatement.

  “I’ve been following you a long time, Cassidy. I remember when you broke in with the local station here.”

  “Wow, you must really be a news junkie.”

  “You sort of have to be in my line of work. All it takes is for some reporter to ask you something you’re not familiar with and you’re toast.”

  “True enough.”

  “But I always looked forward to your stories. You had such a unique way of reporting… your life force really came through the screen.”

  “Thanks, that’s a nice compliment.”

  “And then when you started doing the Twitter Girl thing it really gave me an insight into your true personality. It made you even more attractive.”

  “Sarcasm made me attractive?’

  “Guys like a girl with a lot of spunk. And you took no prisoners as a reporter.”

  “I really loved what I did. But, as they say, all good things come to an end.”

  “Why would you say that? You could certainly go back to TV after the campaign.”

  I shake my head. “Along with being toxic right now my sell-by date is coming up. Once women hit forty in the business, they become producers behind the scenes. High def is not kind to those with wrinkles.”

  He waves his hand like shooing a fly. “Pffft. That’s ridiculous. And you’re stunning. Any news director would be an idiot to not put you on the air.” He leans forward. “And I don’t see a single wrinkle.”

  I can’t help but blush. “Thank you, you’re very kind. But if you want stunning, Ripley’s your girl.”

  He nods and smiles. “Yeah, when the two of you are in the office at the same time, the guys all hit the pause button.”

  “Oh, stop it.”

  “I’m serious. Productivity hit an all time low that first day you were both there. May have to hide you guys in the supply closet.”

  So now I’m thinking after the “stunning” comment that he’s interested. And then he hits me with… wait for it… this:

  “I like to have a quiet dinner with all new members of the staff. Chance to get to know them better.”

  “Uh, yeah, this is nice.”

  “So to what does Twitter Girl aspire?”

  I lean back in my chair, figuring I’ve returned to being an employee, albeit one he considers stunning. “Well, you know, what the average girl wants. A fun career and a guy who loves me. Men think we’re complicated but when you boil it all down that’s really about all that matters. Along with, you know, shoes.”

  He laughs a bit, then turns serious for a moment. “It’s the same for guys, finding a soul mate.” He gets a faraway look and I know he’s thinking about his wife. “And the career thing as well, but nothing is as important as having someone to love. Anyway, I hope this job is going to be fun for you.”

  “Already is. Hey, getting paid to be sarcastic, I mean, talk about a dream gig.”

  “So now that you’re working again you’ve probably got it all. I’m sure you have men beating a path to your door. Along with enough shoes.”

  Okay, now he’s fishing.

  I think.

  “While I’ve got plenty of heels I’m pretty much a free agent in the dating department.”

  “Ah. Interesting.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  ***

  I arrive home at eight-thirty to find Ripley playing gin rummy with Sam at the kitchen table. “So, how was your dinner with the high ranking official?” she asks.

  “Confusing,” I say, opening the fridge and pulling out an IBC root beer. (Can’t beat ice cold soda out of a glass bottle.)

  “So who was it?” asks Sam. “High roller?”

  “Nope. Senator Becker.”

  Ripley sits up straight. “Senator Becker? And who else?”

  I twist open the bottle and sit down between them. “Just Becker. He was the mystery guest.”

  “Interesting,” she says, putting her cards down. “So, a private dinner with Mister Perfect. Was this a date?”

  I take a long sip of my root beer. “To be quite honest, I’m not sure.”

  Now Sam puts his cards down and leans back. “Oh, this oughta be good.”

  “Soooo… what happened?” asks Ripley.

  “Nothing happened. Half the time he talked to me like a guy on a date and the other half he was my boss. And the other half he talked about you.”

  “That’s three halves,” says Sam. “You’re still bad at math.”

  “It would make sense if you were there.”

  “So when he talked about you,” says Ripley, “what sort of things did he say? I mean, when he was the half
who was a guy on a date.”

  “It was typical first date stuff. What do you like to do, tell me about your family, where’d you grow up, favorite movies, lifelong goals, that kind of stuff. He seemed really interested in me as a person, though I don’t think we have much in common.”

  “And when he talked about me?”

  “He seemed to be asking if you were available. Of course he asked me the same thing.”

  “So let me get this straight,” says Sam. “Will Becker, who is Mister Perfect for the two of you, asks you about her and her about you. That makes no sense if he’s romantically interested in either of you.”

  I take another sip of root beer. “Nope, sure doesn’t.”

  Sam gets a gleam in his eyes. “Unless….”

  “Unless what?” we ask in stereo as we both lean forward.

  “Ah, you actually need advice from the oracle.”

  “Spill, Sam,” says Ripley.

  “Unless he’s interested in both of you and is so clueless about women he doesn’t realize you shouldn’t talk about another girl when you’re out on a date.”

  “He can’t be that clueless,” says Ripley. “He’s running for President.”

  “Put politics aside for a minute,” says Sam. “Look, the guy got married at eighteen. If he hasn’t dated since his wife’s death, and I’ll bet he hasn’t since it was only three years ago and he’s been campaigning for the last two, that means he hasn’t asked a woman out in a quarter century. He’s still operating on a high school level when it comes to women. And we all know how dumb guys can be in high school. As proven by the quarterback who was able to resist you two.”

  “You know,” says Ripley, “that actually sounds plausible. He never did go through the dating thing in college or after.”

  My brother may be on to something. “And come to think of it, he almost seemed a little shy at dinner. Didn’t have the confidence you’d expect.”

  “He might actually be scared of women on a romantic level,” says Sam. “And he hasn’t had any experience with them. I did read that his wife was his high school sweetheart for all four years. If he hasn’t dated since she died, she might have been the only women he ever dated. And the only woman he’s ever, you know…”

  “But does that mean he’s interested in both of us?” I ask.

  “Alas, dear sister, I do not have a crystal ball to tell me if he’s right for either one of you. But there is one sure-fire way to find out.”

  Ripley’s eyed widen. “And that would be…”

  “At some point, I need to meet this guy.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  @TwitterGirl

  In New Hampshire for tonight’s Town Hall. Redcoats marching from Boston to attack Marvin Hensler.

  In television news, a political event that attracts a horde of media people is known by the genteel term of “gang bang.” (Hey, don’t look at me, I didn’t make it up.) I’m sure it’s a reference to the fact that a lot of people (reporters) want to screw one person (the politician.)

  Now as I look at things from the political side of the fence, I see the term can be taken literally.

  Our Manchester hotel is filled with candidates and their staffs, and every single person has come armed with cutlery service for sixteen. A walk through the lobby and you can overhear any number of political flacks plotting against the competition accompanied by the quick whoosh-whoosh-whoosh sound made by knives flying through the air. And I thought media people had no souls. These guys are the devil’s minions and already have their tickets punched for an eternity by a roaring fire.

  Of course when I checked in I got several raised eyebrows along with some looks that said, “can you believe she is working in a campaign?” I’m definitely the wild card in the race. I’ve heard another candidate is looking for a snarky Twitter person, but according to Frank I’m a Jedi Master in sarcasm and any attempts to copy what I’m doing will pale in comparison. I guess it’s a compliment that the guy known as “Viper” who is running a presidential campaign thinks I’m the snarkiest person on the planet. Personally, I was already thrilled that Senator Becker thinks I’m stunning even though I don’t think I’m remotely close. He may in fact be clueless about single women, but at least he noticed me.

  Frank and I are having lunch in the hotel restaurant when I see a familiar face heading our way. New Jersey Governor Rachel Schilling is perhaps our strongest challenger in the race, as she does for spunk what I do for snark. The petite late-forties brunette with the ice blue eyes is considered a maverick, as she doesn’t believe in “going along to get along.” She does believe in saying exactly what she’s thinking and really doesn’t have much of a filter. (I know, sound familiar?) Typical Jersey girl. She stops at our table and smiles at Frank. “Hey, Delavan, how’s it goin’?” she asks in a sharp accent.

  Franks puts his burger down, wipes his mouth with his napkin, stands up and shakes her hand. “Governor, nice to see you again.”

  She turns to face me. “And who do we have here but the famous Twitter Girl.”

  I stand up and shake hands. “Pleasure to meet you, Governor.”

  She looks back at Frank. “I must say, Frank, her hire was nothing short of inspired.” She turns to me. “Honey, if your candidate drops out, you’ve got a job with me.”

  “Hands off the hired help, Rachel,” says Frank.

  “That offer goes to you too, Frank.” She turns back to me. “Becker apparently beat me to him as well.”

  “I’ll keep your offer in mind,” says Frank. “In the unlikely event we lose the nomination.”

  She moves a little closer to me and drops her voice a bit. “Listen, Twitter Girl, do us all a favor and take Marvin Hensler out tonight. That idiot makes everyone in the party look like a bunch of whack jobs.”

  Frank nods. “On this we agree, and it’s already on the agenda.”

  “Have no fear, you’ll need a mop to wipe up the sarcasm,” I say.

  “Great,” she says. “We need to drop that chump.” Someone is yelling her name across the room and she turns her head. “Well, gotta go. Good luck tonight. But not too much.”

  “Same here,” says Frank, as she leaves and we both sit back down.

  “So,” I say, “would you have gone to work for her?”

  “She’s an interesting flavor of the month. That in-your-face style of hers may play well in the Northeast, but it won’t go over in Kansas. And she might be a little too honest for her own good.”

  “Honesty’s a bad thing?”

  “In politics it can be deadly. I know this is going to sound horrible, but there’s a lot of stuff the general public doesn’t need to know.”

  “What, like aliens in Area 51?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of extra-terrestrials.”

  I study his face and wonder what he actually knows about little green men. “Anyway, is Governor Schilling running-mate material?”

  “Possibly. But we’d have to put a tight leash on her. You do know why she came over here, don’t you?”

  “Being polite?”

  “Pffft. Polite doesn’t exist in politics. She’s hoping you like her enough so that she doesn’t get one of your barbs tonight. So make sure you zing her at least once to let her know you can’t be swayed.”

  ***

  Right now Frank and I are holed up in Becker’s hotel suite as the Town Hall is about to get underway at the convention hall next door. All the questions will be asked by “regular citizens” though every campaign has its plants in the crowd. Frank has come up with an added twist to this strategy, as he actually found a Brit who had become an American citizen. If called upon he will hopefully provide the final nail to Marvin Hensler’s coffin with a question about the whole UK third world thing. The event is moderated by network correspondent Hank Morell, who, though biased like everyone else in the national media against this party, will have no input into the questions. He’s merely there to call on people in the crowd. Of cou
rse there’s always the possibility that one or more campaigns has convinced him to call on their plants, but since he hates everyone that’s not likely. If anything he’d favor the candidate least likely to win against President Turner in November.

  And that would be Hensler.

  So I’m determined to take the man down tonight. Death by snark.

  We have seven “plants” in the crowd and Frank has taped eight-by-ten photos of each one around the flat screen monitor, along with the name of the politician whose button each will try to push. Of course our biggest hope is that our other Hensler plant, an attractive fortyish soccer mom, will be among those chosen.

  With two minutes to go I’ve got my laptop in front of me, logged in to Twitter, ready to strike.

  Frank points at the screen. “You should do a little welcome to your followers before we start.”

  “Good idea.” I think for a moment as my muse goes online.

  @TwitterGirl

  Every time Hensler says something dumb, take a drink. Should put you over the legal limit in 30 minutes, so don’t drive.

  Frank shakes his head and smiles. “I don’t know how you come up with stuff that fast.”

  “That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

  “You’re worth every penny. Beats the hell out of negative ads.”

  A patriotic banner flashes across the screen as the event begins. The moderator welcomes the crowd and the candidates, then briefly goes over the ground rules. He reaches into a large glass bowl filled with index cards, pulls one out and says, “Our first citizen is Danny Beaumont of Concord, who has a question about foreign policy.”

  Frank rolls his eyes. “Nothing bores the hell out of voters more than foreign affairs.”

  “Hell, it bores me.”

  The candidates, including Becker, basically “recite” memorized answers on the subject. No one impresses or says anything stupid, so I don’t tweet.

  Another question about health care doesn’t inspire my muse.

  And then the host picks one of our plants from the bowl. Frank sits up straight. “Get ready, it’s a question for our Jersey girl.”

  A dark-haired slender young man in his mid-twenties is handed a microphone. “I’m a new parent and there’s been a lot of talk about putting discipline back in public schools to give teachers more control. I’d like to know where each candidate stands on that, and how far you think that discipline should go.”