by Kyra Davis
“So everyone here is a jack-of-all-trades?”
“You could say that.”
“It must be hard with Eugene gone. I mean, with the workload.”
“O’Reilly was a wonderful man and his absence will be sorely felt. However, I have an incredible staff and they’ll rise to the occasion.”
“What was Eugene responsible for?”
Fitzgerald’s smile tightened. “As I said before, we are all responsible for a little bit of everything.”
“But what did the bulk of his responsibilities entail?”
For a moment Fitzgerald didn’t answer and I had the horrible suspicion that he had just figured out that I wasn’t there for the reasons I had claimed. Perhaps it was the knee-length leather skirt that was giving me away. Only Ann Coulter could pull off right-wing shtick in leather. The rest of us needed to wear pastels or risk being called out as imposters. But then Fitzgerald’s expression softened and he leaned back in his chair. “Eugene was a researcher. But every campaign is run differently, as I’m sure you’ll discover if you talk with Anne Brooke. Have you made an appointment to speak with her?”
I shifted slightly in my seat. The idea had never occurred to me. “I’ll be speaking to her soon.”
Fitzgerald lifted his eyebrows. “So she agreed to an interview? I wasn’t sure if she would since, as you probably know, the National Review has the unjust reputation of being somewhat biased.”
Shit, I had just walked into a trap and an obvious one at that. “I told her the same thing I told you. This article is less about the politics involved in the campaigns and more about the campaigns themselves.” Fitzgerald nodded but didn’t say anything. “Plus, I told her I was impressed that she had the courage to speak out against the cigarette tax, despite its popularity within the Democratic Party.”
“Right, the cigarette tax. It may be the only issue Brooke and I agree on. That and Robert Louis Stevenson, the school she chose for her son. I went there myself. However, I do find it odd that a woman who refuses to support school vouchers would send her son to a private boarding school.”
“Guess she has her reasons.” I didn’t know enough about Brooke and her son’s situation to be able to comfortably comment further. “Are you and your wife planning on sending your children to Robert Louis Stevenson?”
Fitzgerald frowned and looked down at his desk. “We haven’t been blessed with children, though we are planning on adopting.”
“I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful father,” I said, unsure if that was true. He was being nice and appeared to have some gentlemanly qualities, but my gut told me that he wasn’t a spare-the-rod kind of guy.
“Thank you. Getting back to Brooke, she’s run a very good campaign so far, but then again I expected nothing less. She’s a very calculating woman.”
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “I’m not sure her campaign has been all that great. Since it began she’s had to spend more time explaining her previous affairs and drug use than talk about her positions, and then one of her campaign workers threw himself out of the fifteenth-story window of her campaign office. I’ve got to think it’s a bad sign when the people who are supporting you start killing themselves.”
If Fitzgerald was amused he showed no sign of it. “What happened to that boy was tragic.”
“What happened…to him?”
“He was only twenty-two, much too young to die,” Fitzgerald replied. “It was just an awful thing.”
“But it didn’t happen to him, he did it to himself.”
“The loss of a life is a tragedy under any circumstances. As for Brooke, she wouldn’t have to defend her reputation if she would just live a moral life. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the woman personally. In fact I pray for her every day.”
I tried to imagine how these little conversations would go. “Dear God, please help Anne Brooke get her priorities straight and decide to become a stay-at-home mom sometime before November.”
“She’s cheated on her last husband three times that we know about, and when O’Reilly told me about her aborted pregnancy…” Fitzgerald stopped short. I couldn’t be positive, but I thought I saw him flinch.
“Eugene told you about that?”
“Yes, well, I can’t be the first to know about everything, can I?” He laughed, but it sounded forced. “I think he read about it in some periodical.”
“So he found out about it after it came out in the press.”
“I don’t really remember. Are you going to be comparing Brooke’s campaign and mine?”
“Yeah, sure. Eugene told me that the workers on this campaign had become sort of an extended family, if you will. That everyone really looks out for one another.”
“Yes, everyone here is very close.”
“It certainly seemed that way at Eugene’s funeral. Rick Wilkes gave a beautiful eulogy and so did…um…who was that woman who spoke? The one who said she met him during this campaign?”
“Maggie Gallagher. Gallagher is my media consultant. She and O’Reilly bonded immediately. I think their Irish heritage played a role in that.”
“Is Gallagher here today?” I was following Fitzgerald’s lead by referring to her by her last name. In California pretty much everybody called one another by their first name, but clearly Fitzgerald had a preference for surnames.
“No, her husband is having surgery so she’ll be out for the next two days.”
“How awful. Is he going to be all right?”
“He’ll be fine, he’s had severe back pain for years and Gallagher finally convinced him to get a laminectomy.”
A bad back usually translated into a bad sex life. Plenty of people had been driven to adultery for lesser reasons. In her eulogy Gallagher said Eugene had been a father figure to her, but maybe she had a Freudian thing going on.
“O’Reilly hit the nail on the head when he compared us all to a family,” Fitzgerald continued. “Family unity is definitely what this campaign is all about. Politicians should take the principles and values they nurture within their homes and apply them to their work environment and their policies. That’s why character is so important.”
Fitzgerald was beginning to sound like one of his commercials. “Campaigning must be incredibly nerve-racking. There’s so much on the line,” I said. “I remember Melanie telling me a few weeks ago that Eugene was a bit on edge. How do you and your staff deal with the stress?”
“I find that prayer helps.”
The phone rang and Fitzgerald smiled apologetically before picking up.
I studied him while he proceeded to mutter a series of I-sees and interestings into the receiver. There was something about him that I didn’t trust—something about his hair. It was as if all that pomade was hiding something, maybe even the beginnings of a bald spot. I had always felt that men who tried to hide something as innocuous as hair loss were also likely to go to great pains to hide all of their other issues and faults.
“Ms. Katz, I’m so sorry,” Fitzgerald said as he hung up, “something’s come up and I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this interview short.”
“I think I have all the information I need for now, but if I have any further questions…”
“Just give me a call.” He rose from his seat and waited for me to do the same. “I’d be happy to help in any way that I can.”
Funny, he didn’t look happy. He looked nauseated. Whatever had “come up” couldn’t have been good. “Okay,” I said, “then maybe you could help me get an appointment with Maggie Gallagher and Rick…”
“Of course. I’m sorry to rush you out like this, but the mayor of Orinda is under the impression that I’m scheduled to meet with him this afternoon, although I would have sworn that meeting was tomorrow. But that’s politics for you. No one’s ever on the same page.”
“Totally understand.” I stuffed my notebook in my purse as he escorted me out of his office. Johnny was sitting at a desk right outside the door, clicking off his
computer. “Did you have a good interview?”
“It was fine,” Fitzgerald said a bit too quickly. “Are you leaving for the day, Keyes?”
“I was going to, but if you need me to stay, I can. I don’t mind staying.”
“No, you go enjoy your evening,” Fitzgerald said. “Perhaps you can escort Ms. Katz to her car.”
“Sure thing, boss!” Johnny looked a little too excited about the task.
“Wonderful. Ms. Katz—” Fitzgerald turned to me one last time “—it’s been a pleasure.”
Fitzgerald disappeared back into his office, leaving me in Johnny’s incapable hands. I took one look at his dippy grin and started booking it toward the elevator. “You don’t need to escort me to my car,” I said over my shoulder as Johnny struggled to keep up with me. “It’s really not necessary.”
“I insist!” Johnny said. He jumped onto the elevator with me and eagerly pressed the button that would bring us to the ground floor. “That interview was shorter than I expected.”
“I had thought it was going to be longer, but as it turns out Fitzgerald forgot about an appointment with the mayor of Orinda.”
“The mayor of Orinda? He doesn’t have an appointment with him today.”
“Apparently the mayor wrote down the wrong date.” The elevator doors opened and I started race-walking toward my car.
“But I’m the one who confirms Fitzgerald’s appointments, and I don’t know anything about any appointment with the Orinda mayor today or even this month.” Johnny’s voice was getting a little panicky. “I couldn’t have forgotten something that important. Oh, jeez, what if I did? No wonder Fitzgerald looked kind of mad when he came out of the office. What if I messed up? I’ll be in so much trouble!”
“I guess you might be,” I said, not really caring. We had reached my car and I was desperately fishing for my keys.
“You want to join me for my dinner plans tonight?”
“No.” I knew it was rude to be so blunt, but clearly Johnny wasn’t good at picking up on subtlety.
“How come?”
Subtlety definitely wasn’t his thing. “Look, Johnny, you seem like a really nice guy but…”
“I’m actually meeting Rick Wilkes for dinner at Max’s Opera Café in Frisco and was hoping you could join us! You know, the one on Van Ness. He’s taking me out for my birthday—it was my birthday yesterday. Maybe you could bring your friend Mary Ann. I think Rick really liked her.”
“You’re meeting Rick Wilkes?” This could be helpful. I needed to talk to Rick, and if I could get him in a social setting (other than a funeral) he might be a little more chatty than if I set up a formal interview. “What time’s dinner?”
Johnny beamed. “Six-thirty. Do you think Mary Ann will come? Rick would really like that.”
“I’ll give her a call,” I promised. “Nice of you to invite us to your birthday dinner,” I added. “Especially since we’re all just friends.”
“No problem, it’ll be fun!” He looked down at his watch. “I guess I should let you go. I want to change before dinner. I want to look good for you, my new lady friend.” He winked at me before turning and heading off in the opposite direction.
Ew. I always attracted the winners.
I called Mary Ann on my way back to the city and she quickly agreed to dinner. I had a feeling that she was as interested in Rick as he was in her, which surprised me a little. Men were always asking Mary Ann out but she rarely said yes. Despite her naiveté she was pretty discerning when it came to the opposite sex.
Getting back to the city took far longer than I had anticipated. I was hit with a major Frappuccino craving but couldn’t find a Starbucks (a problem I hadn’t had since 1994). Then I hit rush-hour traffic, there was an accident on the Bay Bridge, yada, yada, yada.
When I finally arrived in my neighborhood I only had fifteen minutes to spare before getting to the restaurant. I thought about just going straight to dinner, but I needed to feed my cat and my feet were screaming to be freed from the designer torture devices I had confined them in.
I ran upstairs to my third-floor, two-bedroom f lat, and went straight to the bathroom, then rushed into the living room, where I pressed the play button on my answering machine and sat down on the arm of my sofa as I began to unbuckle my strappy sandals.
“I know what you’re really up to, Sophie,” a voice began. I did a quick double take. The voice wasn’t normal. It didn’t even sound fully human. Someone had left a message on my machine using a voice synthesizer.
“You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat,” the caller continued, “and that would be a shame…because I do…love…cats.”
And that was it. The whole message.
I looked down at the one shoe I still had on and tried to make sense of what I had just heard. “Curiosity killed the cat,” I repeated. Was that a death threat or a donation request from the SPCA?
Where was my cat?
My heart jumped to my throat. Where was Mr. Katz?
In a f lash I was on my feet, my gaze quickly moving from the window seat to the couch to the love seat. Not there. Not under the coffee table or under the dining table.
I opened my mouth to call out to him, but I was too scared to actually make a sound. He had to be here, he just had to be!
With one shoe still securely on my foot I hobbled into the kitchen. No Mr. Katz. Okay, no need to panic yet. He could be asleep in my bedroom, or in the guest room. I lived in a f lat, not a mansion. I just needed to check the other rooms.
But of course even that wasn’t necessary. If Mr. Katz was home and able to walk I could get him to come to me. I reached out and, after sending up a quick silent prayer, pressed down on the electric can opener.
I squeezed my eyes closed. “Give him to the count of ten, Sophie,” I whispered to myself. “One, two…”
I felt something soft against my ankles. I looked down at Mr. Katz, who was nuzzling me and swishing his tail in anticipation of his next meal.
“Oh, thank God!” I dropped to my knees and tried to scoop him up in my arms. He evaded me and jumped up on the counter instead. He cast one eager glance toward the can opener, then narrowed his kitty eyes and glared down at me accusingly.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I really do have wet food,” I assured him, my voice shaky with relief.
Mr. Katz didn’t look convinced.
I got up and pulled a can of Fancy Feast from the cupboard and waved it in front of him. “See, it’s all good. I have food and you’re here, safe and gluttonous as always. No need to freak.”
I emptied half the can into his food bowl and then hurried back to my bedroom to change into a cute but much more comfortable pair of Munros, conscious of the fact that my car could be towed any minute.
The call had been a prank. That’s all. Although, the last time I had gotten a prank call it had been a serial killer playing the joke….
But this was different. Serious psychos killed cats, they didn’t love them. Everybody knew that the best way to identify which child was most likely to grow up to be a serial killer was to figure out which one liked to torture animals (which didn’t bode well for my nephew, but that was a different issue). The point was, I had nothing to worry about.
I just wish the caller hadn’t known my name.
5
When it comes to men I prefer the strong silent type. The ones who speak annoy me.
—C’est La Mort
BY THE TIME I GOT TO MAX’S, MARY ANN, JOHNNY AND RICK HAD already arrived and were waiting at a table, Mary Ann and Rick enjoying a glass of cola and Johnny a glass of what looked like Scotch.
“Hey, sorry to keep you waiting. I had to change and, um, feed my cat. My sweet, very curious cat.”
I gauged Rick’s and Johnny’s reaction. I couldn’t think of a single reason why either of them would have left that message on my answering machine, but then again I couldn’t think of a reason why anyone else would, either.
Rick barely e
ven seemed to hear me. He was too busy ogling Mary Ann. Johnny, on the other hand, reacted the way he always did, eagerly. “You’re a cat person! I should have guessed, you look like a cat person. I mean not like a crazy old cat lady or anything, but like you have it in you to provide an animal with care and affection. I’ve always wanted a pet but I’m allergic. But I can always take a Claritin if you want to introduce me to your pussy.”
As soon as he said it his eyes widened with embarrassment and Rick burst out laughing. “I didn’t mean your—I would never say that! That’s the word my last girlfriend used. For her cat! I really am talking about cats!” He dropped his head in his hands. “I’m seriously messing this up, aren’t I?”
“You’re just a little nervous,” Mary Ann said, giving him a kindly pat on his shoulder. “I think it’s sweet. Don’t you, Sophie?” She shot me a pleading look. Mary Ann was a little more sympathetic to the embarrassment of others than I was.
“It’s sweet,” I said grudgingly as I took my place at the round table between Johnny and Rick. “But you don’t need to be nervous, after all we’re all just friends here, remember?”
Johnny removed his head from his hands and f lashed me a relieved smile. “Thanks for understanding. I get a little tongue-tied around beautiful women, and when that beautiful woman happens to be my favorite author, well, I’m done for.”
A young waitress approached our table and handed me a menu. “Would you like another Scotch?” she asked, looking down at Johnny’s now-empty glass.
Johnny nodded eagerly. “That’d be great. It was the Macallan 18.” He pushed his chair back and smiled down at me. “I need to use the boy’s room. Be back in a minute.”
I watched his back retreat and shook my head in wonder. “Is he always like this?”
“Not quite this bad,” Rick said with a laugh. “He honestly is very nervous. He’s a huge fan of your work so he’s star-struck. Plus, what he said was true, he has a habit of getting tongue-tied in the company of a woman he’s become interested in. Give him a chance, he’ll calm down.”
“Without the help of medication?”