by David Chill
"Fine."
"We used to call this a See-Through," Sudeau said, putting my drink together. "Years ago. Ah, maybe that was made with gin, I don't know. Nowadays, everything's a martini. Gin, vodka, apple liqueur, doesn't matter. When someone offered me a chocolate martini I knew the world was changing and not in a good way."
I smiled. "Change can be positive sometimes."
"It can indeed," he said, handing me a tumbler that was filled close to the rim. "So, Randy called a little while ago. Said the focus groups were fantastic. Civilians loved the new me. He said I should hear it straight from the source. That your take? Come on, sit, sit."
Richard Sudeau navigated his way awkwardly to a maroon sofa and sat down. From a distance, he still looked every bit the part of the distinguished public servant; the rugged, handsome face, the square jaw, the confident smile. There are people who gaze and others who are gazed upon, and the vice president was clearly the latter. I sat across from him and took a sip of vodka. The vice president took a long swig of scotch, gritted his big, perfect teeth and looked at me expectantly.
"So here's where we are," I said, choosing my words carefully. "Unaided, the voters don't have a strong opinion of you, one way or the other. Your name is well known but your background is not. They thought you looked presidential, strong and distinguished. A bit like Kennedy. But the people who thought they knew you were a little surprised. There are some challenges to altering an image, but it's not set in stone. It's something we can build on."
"How so? I've been in public life for over twenty-five years. The people should know who the fuck I am."
I stopped for a moment and tried to be delicate in my response, reminding myself that people with big titles almost invariably have big egos. "People focus on the president, not the vice president," I said slowly. "So, a lot don't know your back story, your history. That's the good part. We can shape their impressions."
"All right. Maybe you're onto something. But I have to tell you, my wife's been acting a little nervous about all this. Amber thinks the world should see us as the ultimate power couple. Almost like royalty. You know, the Kennedy family had that mystique, the Clintons tried it, but, well, the Arkansas thing mucked it up. Not to mention Hillary was an asshole. But Amber's not so keen on this. So tell me how the civilians reacted when they learned about my actual background."
"Good," I said. "Here's the thing. You're relatable. One of the people. They like that you've had challenges to overcome. That you were born into problems and climbed out of them. But those who know you a bit feel ... misled."
"How's that? That I've presented myself for so long as an Ivy Leaguer? There's some resentment?"
"I wouldn't call it resentment," I said, a little surprised at the path he was going down. "They like people who lift themselves up. Who've earned their positions. We'll need to change your image a bit, mostly just define it better. You're still an Ivy Leaguer, you just got in the hard way. You worked for it. No one handed you anything."
"All right," he said, sitting back in the sofa, taking this in. "But what about Amber? Randy said the group loved her. But you know, her background is a hundred-eighty degrees different. Everything was laid out for her. She was born with a fucking silver spoon in her mouth."
His statement was jarring, almost a recrimination of his wife, and certainly not what I was expecting. It revealed something ugly, a disdain for his wife, a sneering sense that her upbringing was privileged, unearned. There was more going on here, a subtext I could not see. Then he took another long swig of Scotch.
"Whenever we mentioned Amber," I continued, "the reaction was extremely positive. But again, it's based to a very limited amount of data. Sure, she was a Congresswoman, a cabinet member, but most people don't pay attention to who the secretary of the Interior is. Unless they get indicted. People know far less about her than they know about you. But when I showed them a picture of you together, something clicked. They remembered it. Maybe it was from a convention, an ad from years ago. It's interesting what sticks in people's minds. They loved it. She's not a concern. She's a big asset."
"She's a concern," he said.
"Oh?"
Richard Sudeau took another swallow from his glass. "My wife is a fucking bitch," he replied, and then rose to freshen up his drink. I sat in stony silence watching him, a powerful man who was harboring a distasteful secret. A hundred questions fluttered through my mind, none of which were appropriate to ask in this setting. But he opened the door to an issue, and I couldn't let it go untouched.
"No one has a perfect marriage," I offered softly, knowing that sometimes the best way to evoke more conversation is to not ask a question.
"But the people think I do," he snapped. "They think Amber's just perfect. Far from it. It took some doing to get the police records sealed, but there were incidents. Years ago. Before we came to an understanding."
"An understanding," I repeated numbly, trying hard to keep my jaw from dropping at the mention of police records.
"We were better together than apart. At least from the looks of things. Oh, we were simpatico politically, that part was all right. But personally, we've been leading separate lives for years."
"Never would have known," I said. "And surely no one else seems to, either."
"For now."
I took this in and began to frown. "So, there are police records."
"Yes. Amber has always been a concern. That's why we were interested in what people thought of her. If they sensed anything about us."
I considered this. Sealed records were supposed to be just that. No one could touch them. But if the police had been called to intervene in a domestic squabble, there were invariably a few parties who knew of the incident. The rank-and-file cops who were involved, the police brass who read the officers' reports, the prosecutors, defense attorneys, the judge who sealed the files. And while records might start out confidential, human nature is what it is. Especially when the party in question is running for president.
"You'd hardly be the first politician with some personal issues."
"None like this. Amber could help me get to the White House. But she could also be my undoing."
"Isn't it interesting how one of your biggest assets can also be one of your biggest liabilities."
Sudeau smiled unevenly. "Yeah, I suppose that's true."
"People love her," I said.
"People have always loved her. Look, it's best not to get too into the details. And I've probably said more than I should. Lord, when that Scotch kicks in, my tongue can get awful loose. I didn't mean to bring it up, but I guess I needed to talk about it with someone. At my level, there aren't a lot of sounding boards. Lonely at the top and all. A few old friends know about this, but they're not in politics. And Washington is just like they say. You want a friend there, get a dog."
"True. But why are you bringing this up now?"
"There have been rumors," he said, struggling to find the right words. "Talk that someone has had access to the sealed files. I'm concerned there may be leaks."
"All right. We'll need a plan to combat this if it gets out," I said. "But is Amber on board with all this? Is she going to keep quiet about what happened?"
"She better be. Amber has as much to lose as I do," he said as his phone buzzed. He glanced down at it, staring for a long moment at the message. He stood up, staggered slightly, and pointed to the door, an odd signal that our time was done. I only had so much time with the vice president, and I wondered if he was too drunk to adequately process what I had been saying.
"Randy will be calling you about next steps," he said. "But I want you involved in this campaign. Amber likes you, too. Can't have too many smart people around us."
"Quick question," I said as we walked to the door. "Why just me tonight? Why didn't you want Blair to come?"
The vice president considered this for a moment and then spoke. "The same reason why I got rid of Frank Phelan. He was on TV all the time, getting famous at
my expense. He was hired to help me, not the other way around."
"And you think Blair might do the same thing."
"I like you, Ned," Sudeau offered, nodding slightly. "I want us to work together. But I have to tell you. Your partner has a big mouth."
Chapter 13
The same two Secret Service agents escorted me down the elevator and offered a brusque good night as we quickly parted company in the hotel lobby. My head was practically spinning. I thought about my day, starting with the oncologist meeting, soaring through two sets of focus groups and finishing with an audience with the vice president. I had barely taken a sip of my drink upstairs, so I figured I had earned one before heading home. I sauntered into the hotel lounge, found an open barstool inside the crowded pub and sat down.
A bartender slapped a cocktail napkin in front of me. "What'll it be, sir?" he asked.
"How about a see-through."
"A what?"
I smiled. "Vodka martini. Very dry. On the rocks. Lots of them."
He returned with my drink in under thirty seconds and slapped it down on the napkin. I tossed a bill on the bar, picked up the drink and sipped. Part of me wanted to go home and tell Leslie and Angelina about the rest of my day. Part of me needed to think about it. And part of me just wanted to sip a drink in a room full of strangers, unwind, let my mind drift, and think about nothing in particular for a few minutes. But that was not to be.
"Mister, you look like you need a weekend," came a strange voice with an accent I had trouble placing. A large, balding man about my age sat down next to me. "Or at least two more of those drinks."
I turned and looked at him. There was nothing familiar. He had the type of face I'd seen a thousand times in focus groups, and I wondered if he recognized me from one of those.
"Do I know you?" I asked.
"Doubt it," he said, and I identified a slight twang. He waved for the bartender to bring him a bottle of Blue Moon. "I'm just in from Denver. Here for a convention. Why they hold these things in Los Angeles in June is beyond me. This is the place to be in January."
"What kind of convention?"
"Cannabis," he said with a laugh. "Isn't that something? Bet you never thought the day would come when pot smokers would have their own trade show."
"Feels like everybody has one these days," I shrugged. Even political consultants had their own soiree, a gathering that included pollsters, strategists, advertising gurus, aspiring politicians, and staff members of public officials. For me, it was a way to learn interesting techniques, meet new clients, and go out for a few nice dinners. Once in a while, someone, often Blair, would twist my arm and I'd join a few earthy guys for a night at a strip club. Personally, I preferred a good steak and a stiff drink.
"Got to make a living," he winked.
"I take it you're in the business."
"Oh, yeah. I own a retail shop outside Denver. Near Englewood. Best financial move I ever made."
"Probably not the type of career you wrote about in your college application," I said.
"Funny thing, you know," he smiled, removing an orange slice from his stein of beer and taking a healthy chug. "I never smoked it in college. I was one of those guys who was too busy with a job. Just putting myself through school."
"Try doing that today."
"Oh, man. Don't I know it. My kid's over at USC, I'm taking him to dinner tomorrow. Cost of his tuition is astronomical. Good thing for me my business is booming. You toke?"
"Not yet," I said cautiously, thinking again of my diagnosis.
The man frowned. "Something you're thinking about?"
"I was diagnosed with cancer recently," I said, surprising myself at the overt admission flowing out of my mouth. "Very recently."
It is odd how we sometimes feel comfortable sharing our most intimate secrets with strangers. The lessons of focus groups. It is remarkably easy to share your life's most intimate details with people you've never met before. Maybe we think we'll never see them again, and this allows our defenses to come down. I had just spent the day with my business partner and my closest assistant, and I never once thought of sharing news of my illness with them. If anything, I wanted to bury it, keeping them from seeing the vulnerability. With disease comes a level of shame, and even though I didn't cause my illness, its very existence weakened me, not necessarily in their eyes, but certainly in my own.
"Sorry to hear that, pal," he said in a way that was both sympathetic and breezy. "Join the club."
I looked at him. "You, too?"
"There's an epidemic of cancer in this country. An awful lot of people have it."
"When were you diagnosed?"
"Going on fifteen years. Started with colon cancer. Dealt with that okay, but then it hit the prostate. Then the thyroid. Mister, I've had more body parts removed than a sixty-five Mustang."
"Wow. And you're still here."
"Took a licking, and kept on ticking," he said, taking another swallow of his beer. "It's what got me interested in pot."
"I can imagine."
"Yeah, it don't look like it now," he said, giving his belly a smack, "but there were days on end where I had no appetite. Chemo can mess you up. My sister gave me a joint and said just try it. I figured I had nothing to lose. Damned if it didn't help. Helped the appetite and helped my attitude. Now it's helping me pay for my kid's tuition."
"That's amazing. Inspirational. Fifteen years."
"Sure. I don't think about it too much anymore. Don't even talk much about it unless someone brings it up. Say, what kind of cancer were you diagnosed with?"
"Lung cancer. Stage four. Non-smoker."
He nodded. "Don't need to explain. Even smokers don't deserve this. Rotten disease. You're lucky though. Back fifteen years ago, there wasn't much they could do."
"Lucky?" I said and almost felt myself laugh. "I don't feel so lucky."
"It's all relative," he pointed out. "When I got diagnosed fifteen years ago, they said some cancers simply had no cure. They told you to go home and put your affairs in order. The doc said lung and pancreatic cancers were the worst. Lung, they've made a ton of progress. Pancreatic, not so much."
"Fifteen years. So you're cured?" I asked.
He gave me a hard look. "You're never cured, my friend. Once it's in you, it's in you. Tough to fully get rid of. Oh, doctors can control it for years, I'm living proof. Cancer's not a death sentence, not any more. But once you're in the club, it's a lifetime membership."
I felt myself shudder as I took this in. It's one thing to talk to a doctor, a scientist, a clinician who is an impartial expert, a step removed from your affliction. There is an objectivity that allows professionals to talk with you in a way that mutes emotion, mostly their own. It is far different to speak with another patient, to look at them, to realize they have gone through what you're about to go through. There is a kinship, and there is a bond. But it is a bond built on trepidation, a connection that comes with a sense of the unknown, that our mortality is very present and very close. That we are in a special club, one that's just a little closer to death.
"Any advice?" I asked with a sigh.
"Sure. Be vigilant. Don't give up. And don't think about the end. One day I woke up and swore I saw the white light beckoning."
"White light?"
"You know. When you see the white light it's supposed to be a sign you're on your way to heaven. When I saw it, well, it turned out to be sunlight coming through the drapes."
"Okay. Anything else?"
"Yeah. Even if things look grim, keep asking what else they can try. Listen to the doctors but get second opinions. Or thirds. It's your body, not theirs. Docs are human beings too. Most mean well, but they make mistakes. Trust but verify, that's my motto."
I suddenly caught a glimpse of someone familiar approaching the bar. She was pretty in that L.A. way, slender, the nice hair, the nice smile. But it was Iris Hatcher's green cat eyes that stood out. Eyes that bore into yours. I watched her as she scanned the
lounge. Rising from my barstool, I picked up my drink and turned to my new friend.
"Listen, it was nice chatting with you," I said. "But I need to go speak with someone."
He turned and caught a glimpse of Iris. "Don't blame you, buddy," he laughed and handed me his card. "I'm Tom. Tom Geary."
"Ned Baker," I said, slipping his card in my pocket.
"Ned?" he said and started to chuckle. "Love that name. Nice meeting you."
I moved away from the bar and toward Iris. She noticed me, blinked those green eyes a couple of times, and then motioned for me to follow her to a table at the back of the lounge. Her cat eyes were no longer playful; if anything they evoked fear.
"Funny meeting you here," I said. "Of all the gin joints in L.A."
"Funny," Iris replied, not cracking even the hint of a smile. She took a cigarette out of her purse and lit it. It was an Old Gold.
"You smoke the same brand as my partner," I noticed.
"Life is full of coincidences," she said. "So what brings you here?"
"Needed a drink," I said.
"Liar. You were meeting with the vice president, weren't you?"
"Perhaps," I said. While I had no trouble revealing my cancer diagnosis with a complete stranger, I suddenly felt disinclined to share an abundance of work information. I guess we categorize the things we confide and with whom. Iris worked for the speaker, and the politics played at that heady level were intense. What I said was unlikely to be kept confidential, and if anything might be bartered.
"How'd the focus groups go?" she asked, coolly.
I frowned. Apparently certain things might already have been bartered. How Iris knew about the groups was curious, to say the least. Maybe someone in Sudeau's circle had shared a tidbit with the speaker. Perhaps she picked it up from someone on a Gulfstream flight. But then something made me realize the source could well have been sitting in my own backyard.
"You've talked to Blair," I said, not entirely certain I was correct, but it didn't hurt to take a shot. Her eyes didn't give her away, but rather the next sentence exiting her mouth.
