by Stuart Woods
He put the phone down, and it rang immediately.
“It’s Tom. I’ve got more bad news.”
“I’ve heard. The AP just called.”
“What did you tell them?”
Will related his conversation with the wire-service reporter.
“I hope you sounded flabbergasted.”
“I think I must have; I certainly was.”
“Kitty Conroy knew,” Tom said.
“What?”
“Now, don’t blame Kitty, Will. Jack told her about it when he was arrested but swore her to secrecy. She was only keeping her promise to him.”
“Christ, what a day!”
“Will?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s time to get uncivilized again. Why haven’t you been seen socially with a woman in years?”
Will nearly didn’t answer. “Because I’ve been seeing only one woman during that time, and we don’t go out together in public.”
“Oh, shit,” Tom said, “a married woman.” He brightened. “Still, that’s better than no woman at all. How big a flap will it cause if her name comes out?”
“Her name isn’t going to come out.”
“Now look, Will, you’re in serious trouble here.”
“And she’s not married. It’s just that … for reasons I can’t go into, we can’t … we couldn’t be identified with each other.”
“Why not?”
“I told you, I can’t go into that.”
Tom Black drew in a deep breath, obviously trying to keep his temper. “All right, I think you’d better come to Atlanta today. We’ve got to agree on a way to deal with this.”
“All right. I’ll leave right after lunch. I want to have lunch with my folks.”
“I’ll see you later in the afternoon at headquarters, then.” Tom hung up.
Will sat slumped for a moment; then he did what he knew he had to do sooner or later. He got his address book and looked up Jack Buchanan’s home number.
Millie Buchanan answered the phone.
“Millie, it’s Will. The AP just called me about the story.”
“You bastard,” she said.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that,” Will said. “I didn’t know about Jack’s arrest. I didn’t have the slightest idea that he … had some sort of problem.”
“Well, I knew about it, and I don’t see how you couldn’t have known it,” Millie said hotly.
“He never gave the slightest indication,” Will said. “How do you think I could have known?”
“Look, Will, I know you want to get elected, but you don’t have to pull this with me. I know too much.”
“Millie, what on earth are you talking about? You can’t think that Jack and I were … involved, can you?”
“Can’t I?”
Will was speechless.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to say anything to the press,” she said.
“Say anything? What would you say? That’s complete nonsense, and you know it.”
“I don’t know it,” Millie said. “All I know is that less than a year after we were married, Jack told me.”
“Told you what? There was nothing to tell!”
“That he was in love with you.”
“What?” he yelled at her, but she had already hung up.
11
Mickey Keane had been a burglar during his teens, in a small way. He had broken into a dozen houses—neighbors, people in the surrounding homes. He had never stolen anything of real value, just some small souvenir of each place—a Zippo lighter, a cheap manicure kit, a girl’s panties, once—to prove to himself that he’d been there, that he’d done it. It had always been a thrill, and he had never been caught. The need to do it had passed.
Now the need had come again. He crouched at the back door of the shop and worked quickly with the picklocks he always carried. A snitch of his, an old con, had taught him how. Only the fancy stuff could stump him. The lock, a cheap Yale, yielded after less than a minute. He opened the door gingerly, in case there was an alarm he hadn’t found. There was no noise; he let himself in, left the door ajar.
His masked flashlight played over the small offset press, the copying machine, and the other paraphernalia. He knew what he wanted; he had seen it when they had pulled the raid. Thumbtacked to a small bulletin board was a typed list of the names of the boxholders. He took it to the copying machine and quickly made copies of all four pages, then tacked it to the bulletin board again, careful to use the same holes in the paper. He stuffed the copies into a pocket and walked into the small office off the printing room. He started with the desk drawers; only one was locked, and he picked that in no time.
The most interesting thing was a photograph of a girl in a bikini. Short, plump, but fairly sexy, Mickey thought. There was a picture on the desk of a woman and two small children. The guy had a girlfriend; that was why the drawer was locked. There was nothing else in it. He turned to the filing cabinets, which weren’t locked. Invoices, copies of dunning letters, nothing of interest. He tried another drawer. There must be applications for the boxes somewhere, at least a record of the boxholders’ actual addresses. But there wasn’t. He closed the filing cabinet and turned toward the door. He had just entered the printing room again when the flashlight hit him.
“Freeze! Police!”
Mickey shot his hands into the air. “Okay, okay, it’s all right, I’m on the job!”
“Shut your mouth; up against the wall!” The voice was very young. “Turn that light on, Bob.” The light went on, but by this time, Mickey was leaning on the wall, his legs spread; hands were patting him down.
“He’s carrying,” said another voice. “We got a live one, Hal.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey said, still careful not to move. “Just check the wallet, left-hand hip pocket.”
A hand removed the wallet. “Jesus, he’s Atlanta PD,” the younger voice said.
“I’m going to turn around, real slow,” Mickey said. “For Jesus’ sake, don’t shoot me, okay?” Without waiting for a reply, he pushed away from the wall, and, holding his hands protectively in front of him, he turned around to face his apprehenders. “There was a silent alarm, right?”
“Right,” the younger of the two uniformed East Point policemen said. The older one wasn’t older by much.
“You’re Hal, right? And you’re Bob?”
Bob, the older one, looked at him. “So, what are you doing in here, Keane?” he asked, looking at Mickey’s ID.
“You remember the cop got killed a little while back? Down in Meriwether County? Booby-trapped house?”
“Yeah, I heard about it.”
“Well, I’m his partner.”
“So?”
“So, there’s a connection with this place.”
“What kind of connection?”
“The guy who owned the house had a box here.”
The younger cop, Hal, interrupted. “I don’t much care what it’s connected to. You’re breaking and entering, pal, and if you’re a cop, well, that makes it all the worse. You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent—”
“Jesus Christ, man,” Mickey said. “You’re not arresting another cop, are you? Don’t you know anything? How long you been on the job?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Hal said, reddening.
Bob spoke up. “Listen, Hal, let’s be sure we’re doing the right thing here. The guy’s a cop, after all.”
“Bullshit,” Hal said. “I don’t buy that shit at all. He’s in here where he shouldn’t be, and that’s it as far as I’m concerned. We let him go, we’re accessories to a B&E, right?”
Keane felt the situation slipping away from him. He turned to the older cop. “Listen, Bob, you’ve been on the force awhile, right? You know that no cop would ever bust another cop. Now talk some sense to this kid.” As he said it, Keane knew, too late, that he should never have called the younger cop a kid.
Hal’s f
ace was set hard now. “That’s it, up against the wall,” he said, spinning Keane around and shoving him into the position. He snapped handcuffs onto Keane’s wrists. “You have the right to remain silent; you have the right to—”
“Shove it up your ass, kid,” Keane said. “I know the drill.”
*
Keane stood uncomfortably before his captain’s desk.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out sooner,” the captain said. “The cop was within his rights. Even his commander tried to get him to change his mind, but he stuck to his position.”
“Thanks, Captain,” Keane said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “I enjoy a night in the tank every now and then.”
The captain regarded him somberly. “Your tit’s in the wringer, Keane, don’t you know that? What the hell do you mean going off on your own like that, breaking and entering? We’ve got a homicide squad here that investigates murders; we’re investigating this one.”
“Well, you’re getting nowhere fast, aren’t you?” Keane snapped back. “If you’d put me on it, where I belong, maybe I could come up with something.”
“You don’t get it, do you, Keane? I’m not putting you back on homicide. I’m not even transferring you to traffic. You’re finished around here, don’t you understand?”
Keane jerked involuntarily. “Finished? You mean you’re kicking me off?”
“Keane, you’ve never been anything around here but a pain in the ass. First, there was the drinking—”
“Listen, Captain, I’ve got a better record of busts than ninety percent of the guys in the department—”
“You were doing okay with Chuck; he was keeping you straight, but now—you’re just hell-bent on flushing yourself down the toilet.”
“You’re recommending me for involuntary discharge, then? I thought this department took care of its own.”
“We do, Keane, we do. But when you go out into another jurisdiction and commit a felony, what the hell can we do? East Point won’t play ball, or at least this young cop won’t, so what the hell can I do?” He sat back in his chair. “No, I won’t make that recommendation, but it doesn’t make any difference. In a few weeks, you’ll come to trial on this charge, and you’ll fall. You’ll get a suspended sentence, sure, but you’ll be a convicted felon, and that boots you right off the force automatically. You won’t even get a hearing.”
Keane could not bring himself to speak, could not believe what was happening to him.
“Listen, Mickey, here’s the only way out for you. You retire from the force and go quietly. The kid’s commander tells me he won’t press it if you take out papers.”
“Papers, what papers? I’m two years and two months short of a pension. I won’t have nothing, and I won’t be a cop anymore, either,” Keane said.
“You’ll be a retired cop instead of a fired one, and you won’t be in jail, either. Anyway, you stopped being a cop when you picked that lock,” the captain said. He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a folder, placed it on his desk, opened it, and spun it around. He pulled a pen from his pocket and placed it on the stack of papers. “There’s three places to sign,” he said. “I marked them.”
Keane stared at the man. What were they doing to him? He had seen commanders get cops out of worse scrapes than this. The captain wanted to be rid of him; that was it. He picked up the pen, signed the documents, then placed his gun and his badge on the captain’s desk.
“You need any money, Mickey?” the captain asked.
“Not from you, I don’t,” Keane spat. He turned on his heel and walked out of the captain’s office, out of the precinct.
12
“You might have told me, Kitty,” Will said. He sat on the edge of his desk in the Atlanta campaign headquarters and dangled his feet.
Kitty looked miserable. “I promised Jack I wouldn’t,” she said.
“It wouldn’t have changed anything, would it?” Tom Black asked. “I mean, when Jack showed up at your house, you wouldn’t have kicked him out, would you?”
“No,” Will sighed, “I wouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry, Kitty, this isn’t your fault in any way. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.” He turned to Tom. “All right, what’s next? A statement to the press?”
“What sort of statement?” Tom asked.
“That I’m out of the race.”
Tom laughed aloud. “You really are feeling sorry for yourself, aren’t you?”
“You mean you think I still have a chance?”
“I didn’t say that. But what’s the alternative? You drop out, and you’re queer, right? And what the hell are you going to do with yourself? Practice law in Delano?”
“I could get another Senate staff job,” Will said.
“Get serious,” Tom shot back. He tossed a copy of the Washington Times at Will. “It says there that there are ‘reports’ of a ring of homosexuals operating among Senate staffers. You drop out of the race, and you’re the chairman of their board. Who’d hire you? People on the Hill would fall all over themselves getting away from you.”
“I see your point,” Will said.
“Anyway, I like a challenge. It was too easy before; you were a shoo-in. Now there’s work for me to do.”
Will laughed. “Okay, where do we start?”
“We’ve been working on your schedule,” Tom said, handing him some papers. “You start at the Atlanta Rotary Club at lunch today; then you hit the shopping malls in the afternoon. I want you on Atlanta TV tonight charming housewives right out of their socks. I think given our press over the weekend, we’ll make all three channels. Tomorrow, we head for south Georgia. We’ve got three fundraisers, in Thomasville, Waycross, and Savannah, later on in the week, and half a dozen speaking engagements in small towns.”
“I sound pretty busy,” Will mused.
“You are, as of this moment,” Tom said. “Let’s get started. I’ve written you a stump speech.” He handed over more papers. “There are three main points: a strong defense, education, and family values.”
“Not Mom and apple pie?” Will asked.
“Oh, we’ll get around to that,” Tom said. “And listen to me. This is important: Every time you meet a woman from now on in this campaign—I don’t care if she’s eight or eighty, beautiful or ugly—I want you to gaze into her eyes and squeeze her hand. I want five seconds of seduction for every one of them, okay?”
“I’ll do my best,” Will said.
“Do you like women, Will?”
“Sure I do.”
“Then it won’t be such a chore, will it?”
*
They hit the road at sunup the next morning. By noon, Will had given the stump speech three times, and he knew the words by heart. He marveled at the advance work that Tom’s people had done. In every town they hit, there was a stand of some sort, with a public address system, a Dixieland band, and a small crowd, getting bigger. In every town, there was a white leader and a black leader to shake hands and be photographed with.
Will paid particular attention to the women, and they responded. By late afternoon, what had begun as a tactic was second nature to him. He kissed cheeks, hugged, and grinned into a hundred Instamatics.
That night, in a motel somewhere south of Macon, Will sat on the bed and massaged his feet. “You were right about the wingtips,” he said to Tom. “This is no territory for Gucci loafers.”
Tom laughed. “I’m nearly always right. Better start getting used to it.”
Will lay back on the bed and sighed. “My face hurts from smiling. What time is it?”
“Just after ten. Sorry about the food at the Kiwanis meeting, but we couldn’t pass it up.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t eat much of it,” Will murmured. He was drifting off.
“All right, up and at ’em,” Tom cried, pulling him upright. “We’ve got to get a steak inside you. You can’t campaign and diet at the same time.”
“Have mercy,” Will moaned. “I want to sleep.”<
br />
“We’ve got to get you on a schedule,” Tom said. “You go to sleep too early, you’ll wake up too early. And you’ve got to eat. Come on.”
Will trudged into the motel restaurant behind Tom and Kitty. As they slid into a booth, a blowsy-looking woman at the bar raised her glass to him. Will waved and started to sit down.
“Will …” Tom said reprovingly.
Will groaned, got up, and went over to the bar. “Hello, how are you?” he asked, smiling broadly. “I’m Will Lee. I sure need your support in the Democratic primary.”
*
On Saturday night, in Savannah, Will stood in a private dining room at a local country club and asked for questions from people he hoped would give him money. They came to the point quickly.
“We’ve been reading some funny stuff about you in the papers,” a man said. “What’s going on, Will?”
“Mr. Partain,” Will said, glancing fleetingly at the man’s name tag, “I’m a great believer in a free press. But I don’t have to believe everything I read in the papers. Neither do you.”
There was laughter, and Will thought he was over that hurdle, but then a man at one side of the room stood up. “Mr. Lee, let’s get this right out in the open,” he said, and his accent was sharp. “Are you a homosexual?”
Will looked at the man for a moment; he didn’t bother with the name tag. “Where were you born?” he asked. This was dirty, but it was a dirty question.
“Ohio,” the man said, a little too boldly. “I’ve been down here for two years.”
“Then,” Will said, “you’ve been down here long enough to know that, in Georgia, a man doesn’t ask another man that kind of question”—he paused—“unless he really wants to know.”
There was a mixture of laughter and applause; a Yankee had got himself nailed by a home boy.
At a table near the rear of the room, a woman leaned over to her female friend. “You know something?” she whispered loudly. “There ain’t nothing queer about that boy.”
Tom Black, who was standing nearby, allowed himself a large grin.
13
Mickey Keane looked up at the girl’s crotch. Funny, he thought, it was the only part of her that had any clothes on it, and it was the only part he wanted to see. He tucked a five-dollar bill into her G-string and hoped for the best. She squatted in front of him and made the money in the G-string move around, but her crotch remained covered. Then, having given him something less than his five bucks’ worth, she moved on down the bar. Keane waved at the barman. “Gimme another Johnny Walker Black,” he shouted over the din of the music and the screaming customers.
