“How did this baggage man know it was Cooper Hall?”
“Recognized him.…Seen him on TV.…So I bust into Hall's Subaru while he's up in the plane, and there's Bobby's locker bag in there okay, but it's empty.” Newsome was wheezing pretty badly.
“And before you left the airport you gave that suitcase to Winston, and he destroyed it, right? And you had also checked Hall's car for a copy of the videotape but didn’t find it?” There was a weak nod from Newsome. “Purley? Come on, Purley. Tell me about the Brookside videotape. After Winston killed Slidell, you two couldn’t find the original of the tape either, is that right?”
“Couldn’t find tape.…Willie hid it. Wouldn’t tell. Wanted to turn us in. I said, ‘Don’t kill him, Winston. Don’t.’”
“Did Otis have a copy of the video?”
“Don’t know. Leave me ’lone.” Purley's big head turned fretfully side to side, as he gasped, “Can’t breathe…can’t breathe….”
Justin turned off the tape and left to find a doctor.
“Newsome's not going to die, is he?” I asked this question half an hour later of a young doctor who gave me a skeptical look, as if she suspected a lack of sympathy in my interest. I returned the look. We stood out in the hall, leaning against the I.C.U. desk. I said, “If his condition is critical, we’re going back in there right now with the tape recorder.”
“No, you’re not.” This young woman came up to about my waist, the sleeves of her white jacket drooped over her knuckles, and she actually still wore braces on her teeth, but she had the self-assurance of Attila the Hun. “No one's going in there. Mr. Newsome's temperature's one hundred and three point two, he's on oxygen now, his condition's unstable and quite serious.” Folding her arms around her clipboard, she added, “He is not, however, going to die.”
I asked her if she were sure, and she said that all she was sure of was that no more policemen were going inside the I.C.U. today.
I said, “Tomorrow?”
She said, “Tomorrow is conceivable.”
I gave her a sigh. “Doc, all of civilization's been based on that very same assumption.”
“Then why shouldn’t it satisfy you, Captain Mangum?”
“Why?” I tapped the tiny portable TV on the desk, where Channel 7 was hyping the news. “Because history's just one big old messy junkyard of inconceivable civilizations.” Noticing she had an Andrew Brookside button on her jacket collar, I pointed at it, and added, “And their conceivers.” Maybe we could have gone on shooting the philosophic breeze this way, but suddenly a male nurse burst through the unit's double doors behind us, and yelled at her, “Doctor! Got a cardiac arrest!” Pushing past me, the tiny doctor took off like a sprinter. Seated by the doors, where he’d be keeping guard all night, Wes Pendergraph had to jerk his legs out of her path.
I said, “Well, hell,” to Justin, who was squatting against the wall looking miserable. “Okay, let's go on downtown. Try here again later. So where's that damn original videotape?”
No response.
I tried again. “You know, I think it's kind of sweet how old dick-head Purley doesn’t believe Otis called the shot on getting rid of Cooper. But you can bet your Reeboks Otis did call it. Winston is crazy, but he's not dumb. He wouldn’t have killed Coop to spite George unless he knew George had fingered him, and he wouldn’t have blown away what might have been a lead to the money just for kicks. And most of all, he wouldn’t have done it with Slidell sitting right next to him, not unless they were both already on the same payroll. Right, General Lee?”
Justin still didn’t answer, and I nudged his leather sneaker. “Come on, perk up! Purley's given us a direct link to Otis and his political pals. And Carpenter's visitors’ log corroborates. Plus, we know Winston's vowed to kill me and Purley both, and me and Purley both are right here in Hillston. And I’ll bet you my photo-mural of Cape Hatteras, Winston's pissed enough to come here gunning for us. That's when we’ll get him.”
Justin nodded without much interest; he didn’t even bother reminding me how much he hated my photo-mural, or predicting that Russell would gun me down before we got him. As we left the hospital (walking under a painting of Justin's dad in the entrance lounge), I tried talking about the Hall trial. Did Isaac Rosethorn really have the chutzpah to make a case that George had never run stolen goods for the Pym/ Russell crew at all? And if so, was he going to keep George off the stand, so Mitch wouldn’t get a shot at him?
Justin just mumbled a few I don’t know's, and got in my car. Driving downtown, I pointed cheerfully at the stone side wall of the Hillston Playhouse, now lavender with wisteria vines. “Yeah, it's pretty,” he said without looking.
“My my, your sprezzatura's got a sag in it, son. Why, things are finally looking good for our side. Now I want you to get in touch with Boone, help them find that cabin, and dig up that poor camper's body.”
“All right.”
“What's the matter with you?”
He shrugged, shaking his head. I gave up. I figured he’d been upset by memories of University Hospital, which Justin's father had not only run, but died in. Not to mention the man had had a heart attack while in a car accident with Justin drunk at the wheel. Then, a few years back, Justin himself had lain for months in the same hospital, getting over a bullet that took off a bit of his skull. All in all, just being there was probably enough to cause the sunk look on his face.
But, as he finally decided to tell me, turns out that U.H. wasn’t the problem, neither was Purley, and neither were the two other homicides he was investigating now. He was “upset about what happened to Alice.”
My whole body went cold as sleet, and staring at him, I missed the turn off Haver onto Main. “Oh God, no,” Justin explained fast. “She's fine, the baby's fine—we just had sonar. No, no, it's nothing that bad. It's Brookside. She met with him late yesterday.” Justin's jaw set tight. “He's decided to go with Harold DeWitt for lieutenant governor instead of her.”
“Aw, shit! That's all?”
“That's all?! Can you believe it? After all the merciless stuff Brookside said about DeWitt in the primary!”
Well, in fact I could easily believe it. DeWitt was a mainstream party-machine man, with lots of pull in the western half of the state, with contacts, money, and twenty more years’ worth of favors owed than Alice MacLeod had collected. Enough favors to make Andy apologize for any earlier “merciless stuff.” Enough of a chance at the lieutenant governorship to make DeWitt accept the apology.
Pulling into the parking garage under the municipal building, I said, “Politicians. Fuck ’em. How's she taking it?”
“Better than me. I’m furious at Brookside. I really thought we had a personal relationship.”
I said, “Well, hey, so what? This isn’t personal.”
His thick lashes opened wide. “Are you kidding? Of course it's personal! Everything's personal. You think if Isaac Rosethorn wins, and those twelve people decide not to send George to the gas chamber, that won’t be personal? Brookside was her friend, and he just drops this on her, after he's already made the decision. I mean, he just didn’t do it right.”
“If it had been personal, he would have picked Alice; I’m sure he's a lot fonder of her than he is of Harold DeWitt.” Jesus, what was I doing defending Andrew Brookside?
“I worked hard for him, Cuddy; I mean, I had some resistance to overcome, in, you know, my family's circle. Some people really didn’t much approve of Lee's marrying a—”
“Yankee?…Liberal?…War ace?…Man who wears garters on his socks?”
“Oh, cram it.” Justin was feeling better.
As I drove down into the parking garage, I asked him, “Hey, why don’t y’all come over and eat supper with me tonight? Tell Alice, fried eggs, fried potatoes, fried ham, and we’ll toss in some alfalfa sprouts for you. We’ll watch my videotape of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and she’ll see what a cesspool she just sidestepped.”
Justin finally smiled. “I’ll cook. Bu
t Alice is fine. I’m the one who's mad. She never expected it anyhow. You know Alice: she didn’t have the power base. Too young. It was going to be hard to campaign in the fall pregnant anyhow. Plenty of time later. Et cetera, et cetera. All the reasons why Brookside was right to make the decision the way he did.” (No more “Andy” for Justin, I noticed; we were back to “Brookside.”) “He did offer her the post of executive secretary.”
“That mean she gets to make his coffee? Hop out. I’m setting the alarm.” Since I’d gotten sapped, I parked right beside the elevators, but I also gave a careful look around before stepping out of my Olds. Right now I could almost feel Winston Russell pressed into the black shadows of the concrete walls, or crouched against the fender of a car, taking aim. I hurried to the elevator and leaned on the button ‘til it opened. “So, what’d she tell Brookside?”
“I told her to tell him to stuff it.”
“Yeah, but she told him she’d think about it.”
“Right. That she’d have to believe that her views—you know, like on the death penalty—would get a real hearing from him. But listen,” said Justin as we slowly clanked upward in the elevator, “executive secretary's actually in lots of ways more powerful than lieutenant governor. You know when Reagan was governor of California, Meese was his secretary?”
“That's a recommendation?”
“I mean Alice said Meese had a lot of power.”
“I know, J.B. I was there when Alice read us about how Meese spent a lot of time lobbying to stop the state legislature from outlawing capital punishment, and when it was clear they were going to abolish it anyhow, he and Reagan let some black guy go to the gas chamber the night before they voted it out. Right, that's a lot of power. Tell Alice to grab it.”
The elevator jolted to a stop, and my muscles tightened as the doors opened on a man. But standing there was just Sergeant Hiram Davies, his thin white hair pristinely combed, a paper lunch bag neatly rolled at the top in one hand, a gym bag in the other. It was one of those August-hot days in June, but his uniform had lost none of its starch.
“Aren’t you an hour early, Hiram?”
He looked a little embarrassed, as he lifted the gym bag. “I’m taking Officer Moore's class, Captain.”
“Brenda's giving a class? What in?”
“Aerobics,” Justin explained. “We do Jane Fonda in the lounge. On the VCR. Whoever's around.”
“That's news to me.”
Justin grinned. “Pretty lonesome being boss, huh?”
Hiram showed us the front page of a local evening paper—a small-time outfit with views considerably less conservative than I would have suspected the deacon of harboring. The headline was BROOKSIDE PICKS DEWITT, but that wasn’t what he wanted us to see. It was a small piece at the bottom: GRAND DRAGON CANCELS ON CANE. According to the article, the born-again former KKK leader who’d been scheduled to renounce the Klan this evening on the Carol Cathy Cane show had apparently renounced his renunciation instead; at any rate, he’d canceled his appearances both on the TV program today and the panel discussion at Trinity Church tomorrow. Carol Cathy's substitute guests would be Kirk Niebshon, president of Haver University Gay Activists, and Mrs. Brodie Cheek, president of the Christian Family Wives Clubs. I said, “Umm, sounds lively. Well, I guess some of our Klan boys persuaded the Grand Dragon if he wanted to stay born again long enough to enjoy his new life, he’d better keep it a quiet one.”
The elevator let us out on our floor; I saw Brenda Moore and John Emory in sweat pants headed for the lounge.
Justin said, “Brookside is the main speaker at Trinity tomorrow night, and they’ll still get the crowd. Alice said Jack Molina talked him into it. She thinks Molina's the one who got her the executive secretary offer, too. And Jack's promised to incorporate some of her ideas into the Cadmean Stadium speech.”
I’d already advised the Brookside campaign against formally kicking off with this huge rally in an outdoor stadium, but they wouldn’t listen. Not only had they gotten the big left-wing movie star to agree to appear, she’d talked three other movie stars into coming too, and a female rock star, who’d agreed to do a free concert. The place would be mobbed by people who didn’t even know who was running for governor, much less care who won. I’d called Brookside personally to suggest that the whole thing was going to be a security nightmare, and he’d told me, “Molina's in charge. He’ll have it under control.” I said to Justin now, “Dr. Molina seems to have gotten his deft hands pretty firm on the rudder these days, doesn’t he? Quite the kingmaker.”
Justin frowned. “I don’t like Molina.” “Aww. You just don’t like his clothes.”
“I don’t like your clothes.” He patted my shirt front (okay, so it was only 50 percent cotton), then he socked me on the shoulder. “But I love you. Take it easy. Hiram, hope your sister's feeling better.”
“Justin's a nice man.” Hiram nodded thoughtfully, as we watched Savile the Five hurry down the hall, swinging his father's old briefcase from hand to hand. “I never understood why somebody like him, you know, with his family background, ever joined the police.”
I said, “Yeah, I used to think he was slumming among us country copulatives, too, for the low-life thrill or to rile his folks. But, in fact, he joined because detective was something he knew he’d be real good at.”
“I never said I thought he was ‘slumming.’” Against his tight collar, Hiram's neck twisted like an angry bird's. “And I’m not a country what-you-said. I’m from Raleigh. Raleigh's a city.”
“But you do copulate, don’t you, Hiram?”
“I do not!”
“Well, at least twice. You got two kids.”
His face was so purple, I could almost feel the heat. I apologized. Walking down the hall, I ran into Carl Yarborough, who wanted to know why the mayor of Hillston had to hear on the radio about Purley Newsome's being in the custody of the Hillston Police. I apologized. I apologized to Lee on the phone for snapping at her because Brookside had dumped Alice. I read a note on my desk in which Mitchell Bazemore said he expected me to apologize to him for all sorts of alphabetized grievances, a to k. I apologized to Judge Dolores Roche for not recognizing her voice when she telephoned to ask us to assign a social worker to Martin Hall, who’d been expelled from school and needed help. Lee called back and apologized for getting angry at me when I’d snapped at her. By the time Bubba Percy waltzed into my office without a knock, much less an appointment, it was actually a relief that he didn’t say he was sorry. Flopping down on my couch, he made a splatting noise with his lips, and ordered me to “Turn up the air-conditioner. Christ, I hate the South.” He pulled out his pink shirt and fanned it up and down. “Well, Moonfoot's on his way back to Delaware, and I never got near him. Couldn’t get squat about Purley Newsome out of this little bitch of a doctor at intensive care either.” Rolling up his sleeves, he scratched at his reddish arm hair. “She had a great pair of knocks, though. Next time I’m at U.H., I’m gonna ask her out.”
“Why bother being so suave? Why not just rip open her dress when you see her in the hall?” I turned from feeding pizza-flavored popcorn to the pigeons on my window ledge—“Bubba, get your fucking boots off my sofa!”
“Hey, chill out, Captain.…You know, I interviewed your buddy Rosethorn at lunch. That old man's working like a coolie for Hall. Said he hadn’t cared this much about anything in a long time. Said it was his last case. You believe it?” I shrugged. “Me either.… Listen to this. I ask him who his heroes are. He says, Gandhi, Eleanor Roosevelt, and you, Mangum.” A big snorting laugh.
I picked up some popcorn kernels off the rug and ate them. “Ask Isaac tomorrow, he’ll tell you Cicero and Catherine the Great. Go on, Bubba, get out of here.”
He slid his legs out further, so the Italian heels didn’t touch the arm rest. “Mangum, you’re a charmer, I guess you hear that a lot, huh? So, too bad about your pal Alice MacLeod. I’d heard she was on Brookside's short list. But, let's face it, he needs DeWitt's
retro bafflegab, the way he's taking these little hike-outs to the left lately. You hear that speech to those women in Charlotte? He's sounded good enough for Gloria Steinem.” Bubba's complaisant voice went melodically on, but I wasn’t listening. I’d started thinking about Brookside's little hike-outs to the left; thinking about Jack Molina, about his getting his candidate to do all the things Justin had mentioned. Then the idea hit me, and I chuckled out loud: I was already pretty sure that Molina had stolen the videotape from Coop's desk to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. But that meant it was in his hands, and that meant, I suddenly realized, he could use it against Brookside himself. Use it for political leverage, exactly the way Coop had planned to do. Molina was blackmailing his own candidate, for the Cause.
“What are you snorting about, Mangum?”
I sprinkled the rest of the popcorn on the ledge, and shut the window. I said, “Utopian socialism.”
“Yeah, it's a laugh riot.” Bubba lifted his hips off the couch, pulled out his pocket comb and worked on a wave in his pompadour. “Listen, I got some scuttlebutt for you. But you’ll owe me.” I suggested that if it hadn’t been for me, he wouldn’t be city editor, not to mention I’d steered him to Coop Hall and the House of Lords both, and those were the articles getting him national exposure. He ran the comb through his eyebrows. “Believe it, friend. I’m a media star. Pumping for the Pulitzer. So anyhow, wanna hear this or not? Over in Raleigh, I’ve been sniffing all kinds of doo-doo from my personal and—take my word for it—highly placed team of Deep Throats.” He tapped his nose with the comb.
From my swivel chair, I made a nice basket shot with the popcorn bag. “Deep throated doo-doo? With that kind of imagery, I’d say don’t even mess with the Pulitzer, go straight for the Nobel Prize”
“Numero uno.” His furry arm shot straight up from the couch. “There was this big pow-wow at the Governor's Mansion, with Constitution Club money men leaning on Wollston hard to step up his support of Lewis. What I heard was, Dyer Fanshaw and Atwater Randolph foamed at the mouth about the ‘George Hall mess back-firing,’ and how if Wollston had listened to Julian Lewis it wouldn’t have happened. What do you make of that?”
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