by Stuart Woods
“I’ll see you the day after tomorrow,” Will said, still laughing.
“Count on it, my love.”
“I love you.”
“You better.”
38
As the 737 landed, Will looked across a taxiway into a boiling crowd at the Supermarine terminal. “Oh, look,” he said to Kitty Conway, as they raced past, engines in full reverse, “a spontaneous demonstration.”
“Yeah,” Kitty replied, “and it only took three weeks to put together.”
A Secret Service agent sitting across the aisle from Will briefed him as they taxied back toward Supermarine. “This is the biggest crowd we’ve managed yet, and I want you to know the setup,” he said. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and displayed a diagram of the area. “We had Supermarine pull all aircraft off their ramp to make room for the crowd. A podium and sound system have been set up, where the airplane will stop, and this area to your left will be press only, except for cameramen, who will be scattered all over the place. If you feel a sudden urge to plunge into the crowd, remember this: The first rows of people, three or four deep, are our buffer zone. All the people there are campaign workers or invited guests; we’ve run the name, date of birth, and social security number of every one of them through our computers to make sure that none of them has a criminal record or has ever made a threat on a president or a politician.
“Behind them is the general public, and if you push that far into the crowd, it will be almost impossible for us to protect you. That’s how we lost George Wallace; he pushed past the buffer zone, Arthur Bremmer was waiting for him with a handgun, and Wallace spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair.”
“I see,” Will said. “The crowd seems pretty happy; I don’t think we’ll have to worry about an Arthur Bremmer.”
“Senator,” the agent said, “with all due respect, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say. Remember how happy the crowd was in Santa Fe?”
“Yes, that was a good rally.”
“Well, there was a man on a rooftop, probably with a rifle and a telescopic sight. We rushed the roof, but he got away from us.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“We didn’t want the press to get hold of it, and we thought it was just as well that you didn’t know.” He reached into a small duffel on the seat next to him and took out a vest that matched Will’s suit. “We’d like you to wear this,” he said. “It has a lining made of Kevlar, and it will stop small-arms fire.”
“This is Southern California; it’s a little warm for a vest, isn’t it?” Will looked at Kitty. “What do you think?”
“I think I would not like to be alive,” she said, “if I let you leave this airplane without it, and you got shot. Please wear it for me.”
Will slipped out of his suit jacket and into the vest, which was surprisingly light. “It fits,” he said. “How did you get it to match my suit?”
“We got the outer fabric from your tailor,” the agent said, “and the vest was made from his pattern by our man. We’ve got three more.”
“Looks like I’ve got a new tailor,” Will said. “I didn’t know the Secret Service provided that service.”
“If you’re nominated,” the agent said, “you’re going to have a new wardrobe of protective garments—an overcoat, a trench coat, some other things. The colder the weather, the more we can protect you.”
The airplane came to a halt, and everybody stood up.
“Funny,” Kitty said, “I feel as though the campaign is starting right now; as if nothing we’ve done so far matters; just everything from here on in. Do you feel that way, Senator?”
“I think I do. It’s very strange.” The door to the airplane opened, and the noise filled the cabin. Somewhere a band was playing “Happy Days Are Here Again.” “Let’s go,” Will said.
He stepped out onto the gangway, and the roar of the crowd struck him like a breaking wave. Clips of old newsreels flashed through his mind—Eisenhower, Kennedy, Reagan, stepping out of airplanes, hands in the air, waving, smiling. He felt like Woody Allen’s character Zelig, superimposed on some old black-and-white footage. His knees were weak as he walked down the steps. Then, as he mounted the platform, the roar became even louder, and suddenly, he felt as if an enormous rush of energy had passed from the crowd to him, and, for the first time, he was one with his audience.
The band stopped playing, and the audience slowly grew quiet. Will began to speak, and magically, what had become his standard stump speech grew into something else—rehearsed, yet improvised. He was modest, then amusing, then serious, then finally, inspiring. He knew he had never spoken so well, and when he ended and stepped back from the microphone and listened to the crowd cheer, he felt he had crossed into some fresh, new political territory.
The Secret Service agents herded him and a handful of staff down a funnel of screaming people toward a line of waiting vehicles. Will shook hands on either side of him, felt people grabbing at his clothes, heard them shouting at him. He looked into their faces and found himself wondering if one of them was his Arthur Bremmer, concealing a gun behind a smile, eager to become a footnote of history by ending his life.
Then he was in the back of a Secret Service limousine with Kitty and Tim, and they were moving faster and faster. To Will’s surprise, they drove straight across the runway and out of the other side of the airport. “Isn’t this dangerous?” he asked.
“We got the FAA to close the airport for a few minutes, until we were clear,” Kitty said. “Senator, what happened back there? I’ve never heard you speak like that.”
“I don’t know,” Will said. “I got this incredible rush. That was a very well trained crowd, Kitty.”
Kitty shook her head. “Only a couple of hundred of them were ours. The rest just showed up. Something is happening here, I swear it is. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.”
“Neither have I,” Will said, his heart still pounding. “Don’t let it stop.”
39
The motorcade turned into the back drive of the Bel Air Hotel and pulled into a parking lot behind a two-story building. Will was led down a tunnel and through a ground-floor door into the handsomest hotel suite he had ever seen. It looked, he thought, like the home of a very rich and very tasteful Hollywood producer. He heard voices, and the first person he saw was Charlene Joiner.
She was standing facing the door, next to Vance Calder and a short, well-tailored man Will had never met.
“Will!” Charlene cried, and rushed forward, kissing him on the cheek.
“Charlene,” he said, “it’s good to see you.” It had been ten years since he had seen her, and she had then been in her early twenties. A decade had made her even more beautiful, and the perfect hair and Armani suit helped. He felt an involuntary stirring in his crotch.
“I believe you’ve met Vance Calder,” Charlene asked.
Will shook the movie star’s hand. “Of course. It’s good to see you again, Vance.”
“And this is Lou Regenstein,” Charlene said, pointing Will at the shorter man, “the chairman of Centurion Studios.”
“Mr. Regenstein, I’m very happy to meet you.”
“Please, Senator, it’s Lou.”
Lou it is. I want to thank all three of you for the magnificent effort you’re making for my campaign. I believe it is the most generous act I’ve ever heard of, and I’ll never forget it. Won’t you all sit down?”
Everyone sat on facing sofas before a fireplace, while Will took off his jacket and removed the vest, which, along with Charlene, was making him warm. “Forgive me, but I don’t think I need to be bulletproof for this occasion,” he said, slipping back into his jacket.
Everybody laughed.
“I want you to know,” Calder said, “that the fund-raiser is fully subscribed, a thousand people at a thousand dollars a head.” He handed Will a check for a million dollars, made out to his campaign.
Will accepted the check and looked at it. �
��Outside of a couple of defense expenditures, that’s the biggest check I’ve ever seen,” he said. “However did you round up so many people?”
It was easy,” Charlene said. “We simply announced the party would be limited to a thousand, so we had an immediate demand for tickets.”
“Hollywood loves anything exclusive,” Regenstein said. “We hear rumors that tickets are being scalped as we speak.”
Will laughed. “Maybe we should scalp a few ourselves.”
Everybody laughed.
“How is Arrington, Vance?”
“She’s very well, and so is our son, Peter.”
“We have a boy named Peter, too; he’s arriving the day after tomorrow with his mother. He’s at Choate.”
Charlene jumped in. “If you’re on your own, will you come to dinner tomorrow at my house in Malibu? I’m having a few people in.”
Yeah sure, Will thought. “I’m so sorry, Charlene,” he said, “but you have no idea the schedule I’m keeping while I’m here. Your fund-raiser counts as recreational time.”
“Maybe next trip. I’d love to meet Kate,” Charlene said with patent insincerity.
Regenstein stood up. “Well, Senator, we’d better be going; I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do.”
Will stood, too, shaking the man’s hand. “Thank you again, Lou, for all your help on this fund-raiser, and I haven’t thanked you properly for Centurion’s incredibly generous gift to the party.”
Everyone laughed.
“Will,” Charlene said, “can I have just a moment of private time with you?”
“Of course,” Will said, looking around the room for rescue. Kitty, Tim, and two Secret Service agents were with them, and Kitty was whispering to an agent.
Will shook Vance Calder’s hand again. “I’ll see you at the party; Kate and I are both looking forward to it.”
“Arrington is looking forward to seeing you again,” Calder said.
Everyone filed out of the room, except the Secret Service agent to whom Kitty had been whispering.
“Could we be alone for a moment, Will?” Charlene asked.
“I’m sorry, Charlene, but the Secret Service insists on being with me at all times.”
The agent nodded vigorously. “It’s policy, ma’am.”
Charlene looked annoyed, but she returned to her seat on the couch. Will sat on the sofa opposite.
“It’s good to see you doing so well out here, Charlene,” Will said. “Starring with Vance Calder—that’s something.”
“Oh, Vance is a dear,” she said. “I’ve been fucking him ever since we started work on our movie. He’s over at my trailer every day at lunchtime.”
Will was speechless. He glanced at the Secret Service agent, whose eyebrows had shot skyward.
“Don’t look so shocked,” Charlene said. “It’s a tradition at Centurion. Vance has always fucked his leading ladies.”
“What did you want to talk to me about, Charlene?” he asked. He hoped it was not about fucking Vance Calder.
“It’s about Larry Moody’s appeal,” Charlene said.
“Yes, I heard about that,” Will replied dryly.
“The people from the J. Edgar Hoover Institute called me and asked if I would ask you to file a brief as part of the appeal.”
Will was startled at the mention of the right-wing group. “What sort of brief?” he asked, baffled.
“Well, as you know, the basis of their appeal is that Larry had legal counsel that was…inadequate.”
“I believe ‘incompetent’ was the word they used.”
Yes, well, they’re hoping that you’ll file a brief confirming that your representation of Larry at his trial was less than your best. I mean, you had the senatorial campaign going, and Senator Carr was ill, and…”
“Are they insane?” Will demanded. “Do they really think for a moment that I would state to an appeals court that I am an incompetent attorney?”
“Now, Will, it’s just a matter of form, and it’s to save Larry’s life, that’s all.”
“It’s not a matter of form, Charlene. No self-respecting attorney would ever do such a thing. I’m sorry that your friend faces the electric chair, but he put himself there, first by raping and murdering a young woman, second by insisting on his innocence, instead of allowing me to plead to a lesser charge, in return for a reduction in sentence, and third, by lying to me from day one.”
“I know all that, Will, but I’m very fond of Larry; he helped me at a difficult time in my life, and I’m still grateful to him.”
“That speaks well of you, Charlene, that you would stand by your friend, but I’m afraid I can’t be of any help to you in this matter. You must understand that it’s absolutely impossible for me to do anything for Larry now.”
Charlene sighed deeply. “Well, if that’s your last word.”
“It is, I’m afraid.” Will stood up to encourage her to do so.
Charlene stood and came toward him, her arms out.
Will grabbed her by the shoulders and held her at a distance while he pecked her on the cheek. “It’s good to see you,” he said, steering her toward the door, “and I want to tell you again how grateful I am for your help with the fund-raiser. It was an incredibly generous thing to do.” They had reached the door, and the agent held it open.
“See you at the party,” Charlene said, and before Will could back away, she leaned forward and kissed him on the ear, using her tongue.
“Good night, Charlene,” Will said, trying to keep his voice steady and noting the expression on the face of Kitty Conroy, who was waiting to come in.
As Charlene passed out of the room, Kitty stepped in. “Can I get you a Q-tip?” she asked as the door closed.
“Thanks for keeping an agent here,” Will said.
“What did she want?”
“She wanted me to file a brief in Larry Moody’s appeal, admitting that I gave him incompetent representation.”
“Oh, is that all?” Kitty hooted. “And I thought she wanted your body.”
“Maybe she did,” Will said defensively. He dug the check out of his pocket. “I guess she thought the price was right.”
Kitty looked at the check. “Jesus Christ, I never thought I’d see such a thing in my whole life.”
“Just get it into the hotel safe, and don’t take any detours to Las Vegas on the way.”
“Don’t you worry,” Kitty said, reaching for the door, “and I’ll ask the Secret Service to post extra guards to keep Charlene out.”
40
Zeke presented himself for work as requested, and Hiller, who had hired him, walked him down to the floor of the Coliseum, where a large platform was under construction at one end of the space. Hiller called another man over.
“Hank, this is Harry Grant, who’s just coming to work for us. I think you might find him useful. Harry, this is Hank Greenbaum; Hank will be your foreman.”
Zeke shook the man’s hand. Ordinarily, Zeke would have refused to work with a Jew, but there was no point in creating a fuss about race right now.
“Good to meet you,” Hank said. “I hear you have quite a range of skills to offer us.”
“I’ll help wherever I can,” Zeke replied.
“Tell you what, climb up on that ladder there and tell me what you think of the framing plan of our platform.”
Zeke climbed up and surveyed the work for a couple of minutes, making mental notes. He came back down. “Who designed the framing?” he asked.
“A kid in our in-house design office.”
“Not a structural engineer?”
“No, we thought he could handle it.”
Zeke shook his head.
“You see a problem?” Hiller asked.
“How many people at a time are you likely to have standing on it?”
“Maybe as many as two hundred,” Hiller replied.
“And what are you flooring it with?”
“Half-inch plywood, then carpeting,” Hank replied.
“You think it’s dangerous?”
“I think that, under a lot of weight, it could be a little rickety.”
“Let’s go take a closer look,” Hank said, “and you can tell me what you’d do to make it better.”
The three men walked under the platform and through the framing.
Zeke looked around. “You see how he’s got this series of boxes designed? I think we could make it a lot more rigid if we put cross-members in each box, and then I’d use three-quarter-inch plywood for the flooring. That ought to keep it rigid, and it would feel a lot more substantial underfoot, too.”
“I agree,” Hank said to Hiller, “but I’ll have to have approval for the extra expenditure. It shouldn’t be too bad; we can exchange the half-inch plywood for the three-quarter and get full credit. I might even be able to get them to throw in delivery.”
“Do it,” Hiller said, “and thank you, Harry; that was well spotted.”
Zeke shrugged.
Zeke did the shoring up himself, and Hank Greenbaum watched him closely. By quitting time all the cross-members were in, and the framing was ready for the plywood flooring.
“Good job,” Hank said. “You’re going to be real useful around here. I like the way you use tools.”
“Thanks,” Zeke replied. “What you want me to do tomorrow?”
“Come on up to my office and take a look at some plans,” Hank said.
Zeke followed Greenbaum up to a small room above the platform and watched as he unrolled some architect’s plans. “This wasn’t done by no kid,” he said, looking at them.
“Nope, this was an expert job,” Hank agreed. “These are the plans for the podium. It’s pretty elaborate, as you can see, wide, with raised paneling. It has room for all the telephone and sound-system wiring and the TelePrompTer equipment, and, directly under the podium, there’ll be a closet where all the junction boxes will be located. That way, if there’s a problem during the convention, we can solve it without sending men out onto the platform.”
Zeke nodded. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to another kind of box at the center of the podium.