Grass Roots

by Stuart Woods

  “Why don’t you let me buy that one for you?” a familiar voice behind him asked.

  Keane turned around to find Manny Pearl leaning on an aluminum crutch. “Hey, Mr. Pearl, how are you?” he yelled. He liked Manny Pearl, and he was glad to see him.

  “Call me Manny,” Pearl said, “and come on back to my office.” He waved the bartender over and took the bottle of Scotch from him. “Follow me,” he said to Keane.

  In his office, Manny waved Keane to a huge sofa, then stumped around his desk and settled into a large chair. “I read it in the papers,” he said. “I was sorry to hear about it.”

  “Thanks,” Keane said, pouring himself a shot from the bottle.

  “What the hell is going on down there, anyway?” Manny demanded. “Letting good officers like you leave the force.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on down there,” Keane replied, downing the whiskey, “but I’d sure like to know. Nothing has gone right since we identified the Perkerson guy. People just seemed to draw away from Chuck and me, you know?”

  Manny looked solemn. “Pittman was a fine detective,” he said. “I felt like I lost a son when he was killed.”

  “I shouldn’t a let him go in that house by himself,” Keane murmured, pouring another shot.

  “So, you should have died with him? Is that what you’re telling me?” Manny shook his head. “That’s dumb. It wasn’t your fault. Tell me, did this burglary thing have something to do with Pittman?”

  Keane told him about the raid on the shop and his reasons for breaking in.

  Manny nodded. “I figured. Listen, don’t take that drink, okay? I want to talk to you, and I want you to understand me.”

  Keane paused with the glass at his lips, then put it on the desk. “Okay,” he said, “I’m all ears.”

  “What are doing for a living?” Manny asked.

  “Drinking,” Keane replied.

  “I thought so. I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “I want you to stand up, take that shot of whiskey, and pour it back in the bottle.”

  Keane stood up, steadied himself against the desk, and poured the Scotch into the bottle, not spilling a drop.

  “That’s the first thing,” Manny said. “The next thing is, I don’t want you to take it out again.”

  “Huh?”

  “Listen, Michael—can I call you that?”

  “Call me Mickey.”

  “Mickey, I been in this business long enough to know when a fellow doesn’t have no business drinking whiskey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Have you got enough guts to give it up?”

  “For what?”

  “For me. I want you to come to work for me. But I want you sober.”

  Keane shook his head. “Thanks, Mr. Pearl, I appreciate the thought, but I’d make a lousy bouncer.”

  “I don’t want you for bouncing.”

  “I’d make a lousy bartender, too.”

  “Not that, either.”

  “What, then?”

  “I want you to go find this fellow Perkerson. For me.” Keane sat up straight.

  “It looks like, to me, the police department isn’t too interested.”

  “It looks that way to me, too,” Keane said.

  “I will pay you one thousand dollars a week to find him.”

  “And kill him?”

  “No, that would make me no better than him. You, too. I want you to arrest him and put him in jail. Please don’t misunderstand me: I don’t want you to put yourself in danger. I got reason to know how dangerous a man he is, and if you have to kill him to protect yourself, I would understand. Just like you were still a policeman. Nobody expects you to die.”

  “And just why do you think I can find Perkerson when the whole department can’t?”

  “Because you’ve got motivation, my boy. It’s important, motivation—in business, in everything. You want Perkerson. So do I.”

  “You understand, I don’t have access to the homicide bureau anymore, to computers and all that.”

  Manny smiled. “You’ll get what you need. I’m not worried. That’s what you were doing in that printing shop.” He held up a finger. “Just don’t get arrested anymore. And when you catch Perkerson, I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars more.”

  “That’s very generous, Mr. Pearl, especially when you know I want him bad anyway.”

  “Manny. And it’s not so generous. You’ve got to live, like everybody else. Another thing: I’m going to offer a hundred-thousand-dollar reward. I’ll run an ad in the paper. That should get you a few clues, yes?”

  “That should,” Keane agreed. “It might also make it easier to get a little help from inside the department. If somebody in there helps me nail Perkerson, you’ll take my word? He’ll get the reward?”

  “I’ll slice it any way you say,” Manny said. “Now, you didn’t answer my question—about the whiskey.”

  “I’m off it as of right now,” Keane said.

  “Good. Tell me, you have a few debts, you’re behind on a few payments, maybe?”

  “You’re a good judge of character, Mr. Pearl.”

  Manny shrugged. “Manny. Don’t call me Mr. Pearl no more. Even my girls call me Manny.”

  “Manny.”

  Manny went to his safe, opened it, and took out a steel box. “Here’s five thousand,” he said, peeling bills off a stack. “I’ll take it out of your fifty when you’re done. Will that get you off the hook?”

  Keane nodded. “It will.”

  “Good. I don’t want your mind distracted by unimportant things.” He reached into a desk drawer, took out a box, and handed it to Keane.

  Keane opened the box. In it was an expensive-looking 9 mm automatic pistol.

  “Keep it,” Manny said. “I’ve got two, since Mr. Perkerson.”

  “Thanks,” Keane said. “I had to turn mine in.”

  “I figured,” Manny said. “Wear it in good health.”

  14

  When Will got back to the Atlanta office, it was humming. His Aunt Eloise was prowling among a corps of young volunteers, watching their telephone manners. There was a stack of credit-card chits in front of each of them, and a growing stack had been filled out.

  “The money looks fair for this stage, considering our unwanted publicity,” Tom Black said. “Your dad’s on the phone now, and he’s doing okay.”

  “Come on, Tom, what’s the bad news?”

  “You’re getting to know me, aren’t you?” Tom said, shaking his head. “The bad news is, the telephone company demanded a fifty-thousand-dollar deposit for the phone bank.”

  “What?”

  “The good news is, I got them down to thirty.”

  “That’s good news if we had the money,” Will said.

  “We had it. When I wrote the check, it left eight dollars and forty cents in the account.” He held up a hand. “We’ve taken in some more since then; your aunt Eloise is doing a great job.”

  “She’s been doing it a long time,” Will said. “All my father’s campaigns. Where is he?”

  “Upstairs in your office.”

  “Come on, let’s see how he’s doing.”

  “He’s working on something special,” Tom said.

  They went up the stairs and into Will’s large but ill-furnished office. Billy Lee was on the phone, and he waved them in and put a cautionary finger to his lips.

  “Tell you what, Marvin,” he was saying, “how about we each pick one, and they each pick another one? Fair enough? All right. Yes, Sunday afternoon. The station’s standing by for confirmation. You get Mack’s okay. No, I’ll hang on. I know damn well he’s standing right there.” He covered the phone. “I think we’ve got him,” he said to Tom.

  Will was puzzled. “Got who? Mack Dean? Got him for what?”

  “Just hang on a minute,” Billy said. “Yeah, Marvin, all right, you’re on. Three o’clock Sunday at the PBS station. Who are you choosing? If that’s wh
o you want, that’s who you get. I don’t know; I haven’t talked to Will yet. I’ll let you know. Bye.” Billy turned to Will. “Your first debate with Mack is Sunday at three.”

  “How’d you get him to do it?” Will asked, astonished.

  “Oh, I’ve still got a card or two up my sleeve. He’s agreed to two meetings; I tried to get him to agree to three, but he won’t. If he thinks he does well enough in this one, he might agree to another.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Will said. “I never thought I’d get a shot at him face to face.”

  “Hang on,” Tom said, “don’t get too excited. You haven’t won the debate yet. Don’t underestimate Mack Dean. I’ve seen some tapes of his debates last time around, and I want you to see them, too.”

  “Mack’s picked Shirley Scott, the anchorlady at Channel Six, for his panel member. We get to pick somebody; then they each pick one.”

  “I hear Mack’s screwing her,” Tom said.

  “You’re kidding,” Will said. “He’s got twenty-five years on her.”

  “I told you not to underestimate him, didn’t I?”

  “Who do you want, Will?” Billy asked.

  “I don’t care. Pick somebody fair who’ll pick somebody else fair. Anybody but the lady at the Sunday magazine.”

  “I hear she doesn’t like Atlanta, is thinking about going back to Washington,” Tom said.

  “Did she get canned?”

  “Nobody will admit it, but I know somebody who knows the guy who’s subletting her apartment in D.C., and he’s been told to get out.”

  “I hope it’s true. Good riddance.”

  “Yeah,” Tom laughed, “but she’ll just be waiting for you when you get to Washington.”

  “A nice thought; thanks.”

  *

  On the Saturday before the debate, Will got his hair cut and his suit pressed; then he went to headquarters and was grilled by Tom Black, Kitty Conroy, and his father for nearly six hours, until none of them could think of anything else to ask.

  “I give up,” his father said finally. “I can’t stump you.”

  “You’re in good shape, Will,” Tom said. “Mack will have to get awfully lucky to take you.”

  “One thing, Tom,” Will said, “I have a tendency to sweat when it’s the slightest bit warm. See if you can get the studio refrigerated, will you?”

  “I’ll do the best I can, but when the microphones go on, the air-conditioning will go off, so here’s what you do: keep a fresh handkerchief in the palm of your hand, and when Mack’s talking, give your face a quick pat—don’t wipe; that’ll screw up the makeup—and don’t try to figure out which camera is on; it’ll just confuse you. Chances are, if Mack’s talking, the camera will be on him.”

  “Okay. Any other advice?”

  “Yeah. Don’t look into the camera when you’re answering questions; look at the questioner—answer him. I know there’s a school of thought that you ought to face the viewer when answering, but I don’t buy it; it’s artificial. Also, when you sit down, sit on your coattails, so that when you lean forward with your hands on the desk, your suit won’t ride up.”

  “I saw that movie, too.”

  “Good. Be sure and pee right before you go on. And try not to be too serious. You have a tendency to do that when the questions are serious. You’ve got a sense of humor; use it. Don’t call Mack Governor, unless he calls you Mr. Lee. If he calls you Will, call him Mack; it’ll keep you on a more equal footing. I don’t want you referring to papers or index cards; you’re good on your feet, and I don’t want what you say to sound written. For an opening statement, use some stuff from the stump speech—you’ve already taken that far beyond what I wrote. It sounds like you now. That’s all I’ve got. Anybody else?” He looked around, but nobody had anything. “Okay, get a good night’s sleep; I don’t want you hoarse tomorrow.”

  *

  That night, when the campaign headquarters had finally emptied of volunteer workers, Will settled down in his makeshift bedroom and tried to sleep. Instead, he found himself thinking about Kate, something he had not had much time for recently. He wanted to be angry with her, but all he could feel was desire. They had not slept together since before Christmas, and he missed her beside him in bed. He supposed she’d seen the stories in the Washington papers about Jack’s suicide, and the subsequent revelations about his homosexuality, but she had not called. He wondered how she could simply stop seeing him after four years, with no explanation and no apparent regrets. It didn’t make any sense to him, and it didn’t make him want her any less, either.

  He slept, finally, and his dreams were erotic.

  15

  Will woke with hardly a thought of the debate. He got through the morning papers, made a couple of fundraising phone calls, and listened with Tom to a proposal from Moss Mallet, head of a local polling operation. They agreed to a statewide poll, their first, immediately following the debate.

  On the way to the television station in the car, Will listened to a dozen ideas from Kitty and Tom and agreed with most of them. At the station, they walked into the studio and Will immediately began mopping his brow. “You’ve got to get it cooler in here,” he said to Tom.

  “Damn it, they promised me,” Tom said, disappearing into a glass-fronted booth, where Will could see him gesturing emphatically to a young woman. Shortly, the air-conditioning came on.

  “How you doing, Will?” a booming voice behind him said.

  “Hello, Mack,” Will replied, remembering to keep on an equal footing. “You’re looking well.” He wasn’t at all, Will thought. He was puffy around the eyes and pinker than usual.

  “You look pretty good yourself,” the Governor replied. “You enjoying the campaign trail?”

  “Oh, there’s nothing I like better,” Will came back. Jesus, he wanted to get away from Dean. He found this artificial bonhomie a strain. He was rescued when a makeup lady came and led the Governor away.

  Tom came back into the studio. “That better?”

  “Yeah. I hope there’s time for it to get really cold before we go on.” He mopped his face again; then a young man came and led him into a makeup room. Pancake was applied to his face, the first time Will had ever had the experience. He didn’t like it; he was starting to feel uncomfortable.

  When he walked back into the studio, the four reporters who would be questioning the candidates were in place, as was the moderator, a woman from the League of Women Voters. Mack Dean took his place at a small desk opposite Will’s. As Will sat down, he got a look at Dean’s image on a monitor and was surprised at how good he looked. His pinkness was now a tan, contrasting with the Governor’s wavy gray hair and gold tie. It was not until he had seated himself opposite Dean that Will began to be nervous.

  He listened absently as the moderator went over the rules; then the stage manager called one minute, and everyone seemed to become absorbed in their notes. Will, who had none, tried to think about his opening remarks but couldn’t concentrate. The air-conditioning went off, the lights went up, and he began to feel the heat.

  “Good afternoon,” the moderator said suddenly, “and welcome to the first in what we hope will be a series of debates between the two Democratic candidates from Georgia for the United States Senate: Governor Mack Dean on your left, and Mr. William Henry Lee the Fourth on your right.”

  Will tried not to wince at the recitation of his full name. He hadn’t heard it spoken out loud since he had graduated from law school.

  “We will begin with a brief opening statement from each candidate,” the moderator said, “and then they will be questioned in turn by our guest panel.” She introduced the panel, two print reporters from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and the Gwinnett Daily News and two television reporters from local stations. Will took note of Shirley Scott, the tall blond anchorwoman with the dramatic hairdo, who Tom Black had said was sleeping with Mack Dean. She looked up from her notes and smiled professionally at the camera.

  “We w
ill begin with Mr. Lee,” the moderator said.

  The words came like a clap of thunder to Will. He had won the toss; hadn’t he chosen to go second? Rattled, he swallowed and faced the camera. “Good afternoon,” he began. The stage manager was waving frantically at him, pointing to another camera. Will found the red light, shifted his position, and stared at the lens.

  “Good afternoon,” he repeated, “my name is Will Lee, and I’m running for the United States Senate.” Why the hell had he said that? Everybody watching knew it. “For the past eight years, I’ve had the privilege of working at the side of the greatest United States Senator Georgia has produced, the last four of those years as his chief of staff. I know Senator Carr is watching today, and we all bid him hello and a speedy recovery from his recent illness.” He hadn’t meant to say that; it had just popped into his mind that the Senator would be watching. “Under Senator Carr, I’ve had what amounts to a postgraduate education in how the United States Senate works, and now I want to put that knowledge to work for the people of the state of Georgia.” A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead, then traveled down the side of his nose and to the corner of his mouth. He tried to ignore it. “I’ve just come from a week of campaigning around the state, and I’m encouraged by the interest the people of Georgia are showing in this race. They tell me they want a strong defense for our nation, and I do, too; they tell me they’re interested in family issues, and I am, too; they tell me they want their government run sensibly and economically, and I do, too.” Where was he going with this? He tried to remember the stump speech and failed. “Naturally, this program will be brief, and if you’re not satisfied with any answer of mine here today, if you want to know more, just write to me, and I’ll see that you have a prompt reply. Thank you.” Jesus Christ, had that been a good idea? He didn’t know. It had only just occurred to him.