What was surprising was that Earl Turner insisted on being there as well. “Danny’s my friend, and he is very important to my campaign,” Turner said, smiling his big homecoming smile and slapping Danny on a knee. “Besides, I was a lawyer not too long ago. I want to be here if he needs any help.”
But Danny knew the real reason Turner wanted to sit in on the meeting. He wanted to know if the two investigators knew anything about “Ezra.”
Turner led them all to the campaign headquarters boardroom. When they’d all taken a seat, Laverty looked at Turner, expressionless. “It’s not necessary for you to be here, Mr. Turner,” she said. “Danny isn’t in any trouble. Far from it.”
“Then what is this about?” Hailey said, scrawny arms crossed, frowning.
Laverty ignored him, looking only at Danny and Turner. “A few days ago, a man was found murdered on a stretch of road near Durham, New Hampshire,” she said, watching for any reaction. “He had been bound and shot execution-style. Two bullets in the back of his head.”
Despite his best efforts, Danny blanched. His eyes had a yellowish tinge. He grabbed at his middle, which was throbbing.
“What does that have to do with this campaign, Special Agent?” Hailey asked, likely wondering where the campaign’s real lawyer was.
Laverty kept her focus on Danny O’Heran and Earl Turner. “This man, who used a false name but was a fraud artist with past convictions for extortion and racketeering, had two things in his hotel room that are of interest to the FBI and the NYPD,” she said. Danny was sweating. “He had a number of your public schedules, Mr. Turner, and he had an address book with details about Danny and his family in it.”
Before Danny or Turner could say anything, Derwin Hailey spoke. “Anyone can walk in off the street and get one of our public schedules,” he said. “Some newspapers even print those schedules in their campaign coverage. It is not unusual.”
Laverty and Schenk kept watching Turner and Danny. “The fact that this man had the unlisted address and phone number of the O’Heran family is unusual, wouldn’t you say, Danny?” Laverty said, more as a statement than a question. “Did you know this Ezra person?”
Danny shook his head, but did not speak. He had gone even more pale.
Pete Schenk spoke up. “Had you ever met him, Danny?”
“No,” Danny croaked, looking profoundly uncomfortable.
Laverty immediately knew Danny was lying; he was a lousy liar. Earl Turner could probably see this, too. He smiled, waving his big football hands around as he spoke. “Pete, Theresa! There could be any number of explanations for that, right?”
“And what would those be, Mr. Turner?” Laverty snapped, her dislike for the Republican presidential candidate obvious. “We are drawing a blank on how your personal assistant’s private information could be known to a man who had been executed and dumped on the side of a road in another state. What would your explanation be for that?”
Turner smiled again, unfazed. “The O’Herans are very active Christians and very active in their church. I would imagine many people know them, Special Agent Laverty. What do you think it means?”
Laverty was deadpan as she responded. “We think it means someone was targeting you, Mr. Turner. Possibly with blackmail, possibly with threats. But we do not think it is a coincidence.”
The boardroom was silent for a full half-minute.
“Are you familiar with the Church of the Creator, Danny?” Laverty abruptly asked.
Danny O’Heran’s face was a blank. Derwin Hailey looked surprised. And the big smile on Earl Turner’s face completely disappeared.
“Wait a second, wait a second,” Hailey said, raising his voice. “We have spoken to the Secret Service about Albany, and we don’t have to speak to you about it …”
There was suddenly a loud knock, and the door to the boardroom flew open. The campaign lawyer had arrived, out of breath and stuffed into what looked like a ten-piece pinstriped suit. He made a big show of slapping his briefcase down on the table. “This interview is over, officers. My clients have nothing more to say!” he said, wheezing.
Seconds later, a smiling Daisy Something stepped into the room and handed Derwin Hailey a pink message slip.
As he read the message, Hailey smiled, too. “Mr. Turner,” he said, clearly overjoyed. “You have just been endorsed by two former vice-presidents and the widow of a former president.”
CHAPTER 47
Patti Upchuck was crying.
We were sitting on the steps leading to the basement at Sound Swap. The Punk Rock Virgins had finished practicing for the Gary’s protest gig, and Sister Betty and Leah had left to pick up spray paint and cardboard to make anti-Turner signs.
The rest of the Hot Nasties wouldn’t be arriving for a half-hour or so, so Patti and I had the place to ourselves.
“I don’t know why he just took off when we were all in Toronto,” she said, her mascara streaked down her cheeks. “Where the fuck did he go, Kurt? Did I piss him off?”
I squeezed her hand. I knew things that I just couldn’t tell her. But I wanted to make her feel better.
“You didn’t piss him off, babe,” I said. “Not a chance.” I paused. “I think I know the answer already, but I assume you tried to talk to him, and he didn’t tell you anything?”
“Of course,” she said “Why the fuck would he communicate anything to me? I mean, it’s not like we’re intimate or anything!”
She sobbed a bit. I waited a bit.
Then she looked at me, right at me. “Kurt, don’t you fucking lie to me,” she said. “Don’t lie to me. Did he fuck that chick?”
I shook my head a million times. “No way. No way, not a chance, no fucking way,” I said. “Never. Never would he do that.”
“Then where did he go? Why did he just leave? Why won’t he tell me anything?” she said, sobbing again.
I wanted to tell her something. But I couldn’t.
“Babe, all I know is that he came back here early,” I said, then lied. “I’m not sure why. Maybe something to do with his family.”
“That’s fucking bullshit and you know it, Kurt,” she said, slapping my arm. “He’s got the most perfect and well-adjusted family there is. It had nothing to do with his family.”
“Okay, fine. I don’t know for sure. But he didn’t step out on you. Not X. Not ever.”
She looked at me and evidently decided I was telling the truth. “All right, then,” she said. “So he didn’t fuck that chick?”
I shook my head. “No. Eddie did.”
“Eddie did?” She started to laugh, and I burst out laughing, too. “Well, that makes sense. Eddie is a fucking slut.”
“Yes, he is. And he told me all about it when I was in the hospital.” I pretended to shudder. “Breeder sex. Gross.”
She laughed more. At least she seemed to be feeling a bit better.
“One more question,” she said. “And no bullshit, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I overheard him and Mike talking at Gary’s. I thought he was saying something about Mike needing to look after me, because he might be going away again for a while. Is that true? Could he be going away again?”
“No,” I said, but that was a lie.
CHAPTER 48
Earl Turner was smiling.
The FBI agent and the New York City homicide detective had only been gone for a few minutes, but the Republican presidential candidate had already forgotten about them. His trusted and wealthy friend Ben had said he would take care of “Ezra,” and that he would direct attention away from Earl Turner, and he had certainly done that. The COTC pamphlet had been left behind to attract attention to the Creators, and that had worked, too.
The Turner campaign schedules and the address book had been a sloppy oversight, but Earl Turner wasn’t worried. Even though he hadn’t practiced law for very long before his first congressional run, Turner knew that Laverty and Schenk simply did not have enough evidence to implicate him or his
campaign. Suspicions were not evidence. Besides, he and Danny had been Ezra’s victims, not his partners in crime.
In his discussion with his millionaire pal, Earl Turner had been careful not to mention why he was so concerned about “Ezra,” of course. Most of Turner’s supporters were big fans of his anti-black, anti-brown, anti-yellow, anti-punk, anti-Jew, and anti-gay campaign. An old photograph of Earl Turner’s dick in some old queer’s mouth wouldn’t have gone over very well at all, so he’d kept quiet about that.
Instead, he’d simply told his rich pal that “Ezra” had threatened violence against people close to him. Which, in a way, he had: one of the Jews had threatened to kill Danny O’Heran’s family.
Turner knew, however, that Danny had also seen the infamous photo and that he would not soon forget it. He might even suspect, as Turner assuredly did, that the original photo was in a safety deposit box at a bank somewhere.
When they spoke, Ben told Turner that nothing was found on “Ezra.” Turner was pleased to hear that. He wondered if the photo was in a vault at a place like the Bank of Credit and Commerce in New York City — where Turner himself maintained a couple of secret bank accounts, to hide some money he’d made from various bribes and illegal donations. The Bank of Credit and Commerce was the favored financial institution of terror groups and despots around the globe, too.
Danny wouldn’t have known about any of that, of course, but he might one day have too much to drink, and he might mention the photograph to someone. It would invariably set off all kinds of questions and maybe even a press inquiry. And Earl Turner couldn’t have that.
So, Danny O’Heran would need to be eliminated. He knew too much — about “Ezra,” about the donations from guys like Ben, about the dirty tricks, about the extracurricular excursions with Daisy and Stacey. After he had secured the nomination, the Republican Party’s experienced staff in Washington would become part of Earl Turner’s campaign organization, and he wouldn’t need a small-town rube like Danny anymore. So Danny, a potential liability, would be erased as “Ezra” had been.
At the moment, however, Turner didn’t need to trouble himself with any of that. With these endorsements — two former Republican vice-presidents and the widow of a former Republican president — the nomination was now his. He knew this, but he wanted to hear Hailey say it.
“The numbers are incredible, Mr. Turner,” Hailey said, relishing the moment, too. “Barring any unforeseen disaster, the nomination is yours. Your opponents are running out of money, or running out of support, or both. And you now lead in every national poll of Republicans. The America for Americans campaign was always a risk, but that risk paid off.”
Turner clapped Hailey on the back, then Danny. He was happier than they had ever seen him.
Danny O’Heran, for his part, was still rattled by the visit by Laverty and Schenk. They seemed to know more than they were letting on — and they hadn’t looked like they’d been persuaded by his attempt to lie, either. But if Turner wasn’t worried, then why should he be worried? “Ezra” was dead, which meant the threat to his family was gone for good. As Turner patted his back, Danny managed a small smile.
“Danny, Derwin, I owe this all to guys like you,” Turner said. “We need to turn our rally at the State Theatre into a victory party!” He paused, anticipating what Derwin Hailey would say. “Not a formal victory party, of course. We don’t have the nomination yet. We can’t look cocky, I know, I know. But an almost-victory party!”
Hailey laughed and Danny smiled. Turner then put up his finger, remembering something. He reached into the pocket of his button-down shirt and handed Danny a business card, which was silky to the touch. “Can you call Ben and tell him I want him at the rally? He knows you from my meetings with him at the Hilton.” Turner said. “I don’t have time — I’ve got some vice-presidents to talk to!”
“Yes, sir,” Danny said, and then he looked down at the card. His heart felt like it stopped, then started again. In addition to the phone number, the card stated.
BERNHARDT (BEN) KLASSEN
Pontifex Maximus, COTC
P.O. Box 100, Otto, SC 28763
CHAPTER 49
By the time we got there, the cops had formed a blue wall around the State Theatre. Wearing helmets and wielding billy clubs, they had set up a more or less continuous line on Congress, along High Street and down Deering.
The cops looked nervous, and it was easy to see why. Hundreds of students, union activists, and visible minority protestors had descended on the area. They’d come from Boston, New York, and as far away as Philly, too — by bus, train, and car. Not every American supported Earl Turner, apparently.
It was fucking awesome.
The cops, accordingly, were jumpy as a box full of crickets. They’d already cracked a couple skulls, and that had pissed off the crowd. The TV cameras were there, of course, and some drunken jerks were performing for them. There was a lot of pushing and shoving going on, a lot of shouted curses and threats. The air pulsed with menace and sweat and the promise of lots of violence.
Most of the Earl Turner supporters had arrived earlier, to avoid the protestors. But some arrived late, and they seemed to be a lot more interested in picking fights and getting seen on TV. Almost all them were guys, and not a few of them were bikers, skinheads, and what even looked like straight edge types.
The Hot Nasties gig at Gary’s had gone off without a hitch. Because it’d been free, the bar was packed to the grimy walls with our Portland fans, and they sang along to every song. They knew all the words, which made us feel ten feet tall. Between songs, whenever I encouraged them to oppose Earl Turner and his racism, they cheered and raised their fists.
After the show, we got ready for the short walk to the State Theatre, with X and me at the head of the crowd. I was feeling pumped up and ready to fight, but not everyone in the X Gang was happy. The Upchucks had begged us not to go. They, along with Sam Shiller and Bembe Smith, had decided to stay back at Gary’s. But Luke, Eddie, Leah, and Mike all came with us — along with maybe two dozen punk rockers in various stages of inebriation. “Lots of aggro,” Eddie said, in a fake British accent, approving.
As we were heading out of Gary’s and onto Brown Street, Bembe stopped me and X, holding out a big hand. “Wait, please,” he said, and he leaned toward us. He sounded different. “I am urging you guys not to do this. Someone is going to get hurt.”
We just looked at him.
Getting no response, Bembe said, “I need to talk to the two of you tomorrow, please. There’s something you need to know.”
X’s face was blank. “We already know it,” he said. “We called London.”
Bembe’s eyes widened; he looked shocked. He stared at X. “Then you know why I’m asking you to reconsider and stay here,” he said. “Please.”
“Sorry,” I said. “This is our fucking town, not his. We’re going to protest.”
Bembe stood back. “All right,” he said, clearly very unhappy. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I hope.” He watched us go.
We stepped onto Brown Street and started jogging west. Gary’s was four blocks or so from the State Theatre, but we didn’t get that far. The crowd of protestors was too big, and there were too many cops. It was mayhem: pushing, yelling, and whistles blowing, some union guys yelling chants into megaphones.
X turned to the rest of us and raised his voice to be heard: “The cops are all along Congress, Deering, and High Street. Let’s go behind the theater — there’s a small road there, off High Street and behind the United Church.” And off we went, cheering and chanting, running through Congress Square Park, at the corner of Congress and High Streets. We ran north on the sidewalk along High Street, past the State Theatre, and then we dashed across the street and onto a small street — an alley, really — behind the Williston-Immanuel United Church.
There weren’t any cops there, but others were: skinheads, guys with military-style haircuts, big guys looking for trouble. A couple of them we
re beside a car with the trunk open, and they were pulling on what appeared to be homemade Klansmen’s robes.
Seeing that, X didn’t wait for me or anyone else. He ran straight toward the two Klansmen, arms up, like he was a football tackle. He barreled them over, then started swinging. The skinheads and the other fascists jumped onto him, but our small army of punks was on them two seconds later. Like any fight, when you’re in the middle of it, it’s hard to know who’s winning. But it felt like we were kicking ass. I stood back-to-back with X and hammered at every fascist who came close.
A minute or so into the brawl, we were surrounded by flashing lights and sirens. A cop car pulled up, then another, and another. The passenger door to an unmarked car flew open, and we saw Theresa Laverty jump out, glaring at us. “You two!” she yelled. “Get in this fucking car, right now!”
At that point, the fight had more or less stopped and the fascists were scattering like cockroaches. X and I looked at each other, shrugged, then got into the back seat of Laverty’s vehicle.
She slammed the door. “Are you two out of your fucking minds?” she yelled. “What the hell did you hope to accomplish with a street fight?”
X rubbed his bloody hand on his Clash T-shirt. “We were exercising our constitutional right to protest, Special Agent,” he said. “Are you going to arrest us?”
“We might!” she yelled, and then she remembered who was beside her in the driver’s seat. She collected herself. “This is Detective Pete Schenk, from the NYPD, by the way. We’re working together.”
“How did you know where we’d be?” I asked, impressed — despite myself — that she’d gotten to us so quickly.
X answered for her. “She knew where we were because her undercover FBI partner told her,” he said, deadpan. “FBI agent Bembe Smith.”
It was the last day. It was all over.
X and I sat in a windowless interview room at the Portland Police Department’s boxlike headquarters on Middle Street. We were exhausted. But at least we weren’t under arrest.
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