by Stuart Woods
“It’s an outstanding job, Tom,” Billy said. “I think you accomplished exactly what you wanted to.”
“Thank you, Billy.”
“Hey, don’t I get any credit for any of this?” Will asked with mock hurt.
“Maybe a little,” Kitty said.
“I’m also doing a thirty-second version of each of these spots,” Tom said. “That’ll give us a bank we can use right through the general election.”
“Thank God for that,” Will said. “I wouldn’t want to go through this again.”
Somebody came into the room and called Billy to the phone. When he returned, his face was neutral.
“I’ve got some news,” he said.
Everyone looked expectantly at him. “A source of mine says that a few minutes ago the State Republican Committee picked Jim Winslow as the Republican candidate.”
“Whew!” Tom said, slumping in his seat.
“You were afraid the Reverend Don Beverly Calhoun would get it?” Billy asked.
“I was,” Tom said.
“But why?” Billy asked. “The man’s a buffoon.”
“So’s Ronald Reagan,” Tom said, “from my point of view, anyway. But he’s good on TV. So’s Calhoun. What’s more, Calhoun’s about as well-known in this state as Ronald Reagan. He’s got his own television studios, and he can reach any home in the state two or three times a week; he’s got a massive mailing list, too, all computer-catalogued by county and city and all sorts of other things. If Dr. Don wants to send a letter to all the people in metropolitan counties between the ages of forty and sixty who have given him more than one hundred dollars in the past years and who are terrified of gays, he just punches it in, and the computer cranks out a list: I wish we had a database half as good.”
“Well,” Billy said, “he’s out of the picture now, unless he campaigns for Winslow.”
“I don’t think he will,” Tom said. “Winslow is too liberal for him; Winslow thinks abortion should be available in cases of rape and incest.”
“When do these spots start running, Tom?” Billy asked. “We’ve only got ten days until the primary.”
“Tonight,” Tom said. “Three of them. Big blast, statewide. By primary day, we’ll have spent three hundred thousand of our money.”
“Aren’t you loading too much of your money into the primary?” Billy asked. “What will you have left for the general election?”
“If we don’t win the primary, we won’t be in the general election,” Tom replied. “We’re getting poll results frequently now, and I’m prepared to commit our whole budget to the primary, if the figures we get warrant it.”
“Sounds risky to me,” Billy said.
“Billy,” Tom said, “I’d hate to wake up the morning after the primary with three hundred thousand dollars in the bank, having lost the vote by half a point.”
“I see what you mean,” Billy said.
“Besides,” Will chimed in, “if we win the primary, the state party will chip in some bucks, and our fundraising should pick up, too.”
“I hope you’re right,” Billy said.
Tom stood up. “Well, we’d better all get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, we’re in the home stretch.”
26
Ernest Jenkins was accustomed to meeting people in hotel rooms, so, in that respect, there was nothing about this occasion to unnerve him. Still, he was unnerved. He had never expected to find himself in a meeting alone with this man. He could not have been more nervous if he had been meeting the President of the United States. He was shown to a seat and offered a drink, which he declined with thanks; it might stand him in better stead to be abstemious, and anyway, he wanted a clear head. He wanted to remember every detail of this occasion.
The man seated himself across the fireplace from Jenkins, crossed his legs, and dusted something off his neat blue suit. He was impressive even in his smallest motion. “Now, Ernest,” the Archon began. “May I call you that?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Jenkins replied. “I’d be honored.”
“I’m told you have some interesting information for me.”
Jenkins fingered the envelope in his lap. “Yes, sir, I believe it is. May I tell you the whole story?”
“Of course, Ernest,” the Archon said smoothly. “Just take your time, and tell me everything.”
“Well, I’m in the business of private investigations, and the other day I was contacted by … well, can we just say I was contacted by this certain party?”
“By all means, Ernest. I wouldn’t want you to betray a confidence.”
“Thank you, sir. Well, as I was saying, I was contacted by this certain party and asked to do a surveillance job, a kind of confidential job, you understand.”
“Of course, Ernest. A surveillance would have to be confidential, wouldn’t it?” There was just a flicker of impatience in the Archon’s voice.
Ernest plunged ahead, not wanting to inconvenience the great man. “Well, sir, I was told to follow this certain young lady, that she might be meeting a gentleman, and I was asked to record and photograph the, uh, occasion.”
“I see. And did you do this?”
“Yes, sir, I did. I followed this young lady to a certain house in the country, and I found that I was able to set up an excellent surveillance, in spite of the impromptu situation, as it were. I’ve got some very good camera equipment and a parabolic microphone—that’s a highly localized microphone with—”
“I believe I’m familiar with the instrument. Please go on.”
“Well, I was able to get an excellent angle through a window and take some very excellent shots, and I got a very nice sound track, so to speak, to go with them.”
“I see. And why did you think this would be of interest to me?”
“Well, sir, when I got back to my darkroom and processed my film and started printing, I realized that the gentleman in question was someone rather, ah, politically prominent.”
“Ah … ” the Archon said. “Perhaps you’ll let me take a look?”
“Yes, sir, that’s why I’m here. I just wanted to get your assurance that this won’t go any further. I mean, I haven’t even shown the pictures to my client yet.”
The Archon gazed at him, saying nothing.
“Of course, I know you’d never mention it to anybody else, sir,” Jenkins said, handing over the envelope. “I mean, where you got the photographs.”
The Archon ignored him and removed half a dozen eight-by-tens from the envelope and began looking through them. His black eyebrows went up.
“You recognize this gentleman, then?” Jenkins asked.
“Oh, yes, I believe I do.” The Archon permitted himself a small smile. “And there was sound, as well, you said?”
Jenkins produced a small cassette recorder from his briefcase and handed it across. “Just push the start button, there; it’s all cued up for you.”
The Archon pressed the button.
“There,” a husky woman’s voice said. “Do you like my finger right there?”
“Oh, yes,” a man’s voice replied. “That’s a very nice place.”
“And what would you like me to do with my finger?” the woman asked coyly.
The Archon switched off the machine.
Jenkins thought he looked a little embarrassed.
“I believe I get the picture,” the Archon said. “Well, Ernest, you were right. This is very interesting material indeed. May I keep these photographs?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Jenkins replied. “Those are extras. You can keep the tape machine, too.”
“Thank you. I would like to give some thought as to how this material might best serve our interests. You say you haven’t given anything to your client yet?”
“Not yet, sir. I was going to this evening.”
“Well, go ahead, then. I’m sure your client has paid very handsomely for this work, and he—or she—is entitled to the results.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Archon stood
, signaling that the meeting was at a close. He took Jenkins’s hand in both of his. “Thank you so much, Ernest,” he said warmly. “You have done the right thing, and I won’t forget it.”
“It’s been a privilege, sir,” Jenkins replied. He walked on air all the way to his car.
*
When Jenkins had left, the Archon went through the photographs again. The man certainly did good work; he would remember that. The pictures were nicely shot and expertly printed—all the details were there, including the ecstatic faces of both the participants.
The Archon picked up a telephone and dialed a number.
“Hello?” a man’s voice said.
“Hello,” the Archon replied. “You know who this is?”
“Yes, sure. You heard about Jim Winslow getting the Republican nomination?”
“Yes, within minutes.”
“Not what we’d hoped.”
“It’s unacceptable,” the Archon replied, “but don’t despair just yet. I’ve told you we’re going to have an effect on elections in this state, and believe me, we’re just getting started. To that end, I want to place something of importance in the hands of just the right journalist. This is not the sort of story that might appeal to the nobler members of the profession, if you get my drift.”
“Newspaper or TV?”
“Wherever it will get the most play. You’re a better judge of that than I; I just don’t want it traceable to us.”
“Mmmm. I think I might have an idea; fellow on the Columbus Beacon, name of Huel Hardaway.”
“Does he have credibility with his colleagues?”
“I think so. He’s thought to be a little over the hill, drinks a fair bit, but he drinks with other press people. I’ve heard that he makes more money than he’s been worth, lately, and his position at his paper is not very secure. He might jump at something big, even if it was on the questionable side.”
“He sounds ideal. How soon can you get some material to him?”
“Tomorrow, if you’re in a hurry.”
“Not too big a hurry. We’ve got a few days before the primary. I’d like this to break late; say, the Sunday papers before the Tuesday primary. I don’t want the story to have time to cool before the vote.”
“You’ve got something on one of the candidates?”
“When you see the material, you’ll know who. Another thing, I don’t want this to seem to come from his opponent. We don’t want a backfire.”
“I think I can manage that all right, but I’m a little confused. What do we care who wins the primary?”
“We want our man to have the opponent who’s easiest to beat, don’t we?”
“But Jim Winslow isn’t exactly our man.”
“You let me worry about that.”
“Now listen, I know Winslow, and he will never be reliable for us.”
“I’m aware of that,” the Archon said with some irritation.
“No offense, I just … well, I’ll let you handle it.”
“You do that. I’ll leave the material in your mailbox before midnight. You just get it to your man, Hardaway, tomorrow, but stress that he holds it until Sunday.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Archon hung up, then sat quietly for a moment. The upset he had felt at the selection by the Republicans of Winslow was ebbing away. He saw his way clearly now. This little private detective, Jenkins, had given him the means to control the primary. Now all he had to worry about was the general election. He picked up the telephone again.
“Hello?”
“You know who this is?”
“Yessir.”
“Come to my house at three A.M.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line went dead.
*
Harold Perkerson hung up the telephone. He went back to the sofa and once again entwined himself with Suzy, the nurse. “A meeting with the Man,” he said, glancing at his watch. “We’ve got plenty of time, though.”
She kissed him lightly and put her hand in his lap. “Must be a big one, if he’s meeting with you personally.”
“Yeah. It’s only the second time I’ve been to his house.”
“Where does he live?”
Perkerson sat up, drew back, and hit her hard across the mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t ever ask me a question like that again,” he said evenly.
A tear spilled from the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I know better than that.”
Perkerson brushed away the tear. She liked being hit, he thought. He’d do that again sometimes, if she got out of line. He cupped his hand behind her neck. “Come here, baby,” he said.
She came to him. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Show me how sorry,” he replied.
27
Kitty Conroy was leaving her room at the Best Western Motel in Americus, Georgia, near Plains, when Rick Barnes, a columnist for the Atlanta papers, fell in step with her. Barnes had traveled with the campaign off and on.
“A word, Kitty?”
She stopped. “I haven’t got much time, Rick. We’re due at Jimmy Carter’s house in half an hour.”
“Is Carter going to endorse Will? And, if so, does Will really want the endorsement?”
“The answer to your first question is, I don’t know; to the second, yes, if he can get it. You might remember that Mack Dean wants his endorsement, too. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
Barnes shook his head. “No. But we have to agree that this conversation never took place.”
“All right.”
“I mean, really—it never took place, okay?”
“Okay. It stops here.”
Barnes took a deep breath. “First of all, my people are planning to endorse Will on Sunday.”
Kitty brightened. “That’s good news, Rick. Thanks for telling me.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Barnes said. “There’s more.”
“More?”
“Kitty, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, and I stress, it may just be talk, but … ”
“What kind of talk?”
Barnes looked embarrassed. “What the hell, I’d better just get it out. You know Huel Hardaway, with the Columbus Beacon?”
“Fat, in his fifties, boozer?”
“That’s the one. Hardaway’s never meant a hell of a lot statewide, but he used to be well thought of in the Columbus area. He’s gone downhill a bit the past few years. There were rumors he was going to get the chop.”
“I don’t follow, Rick. What’s this got to do with us?”
“Well, apparently, he’s not going to get the chop now; he says he’s come up with a real front-pager for the Beacon.”
“And?”
“Somebody I know had a drink with Hardaway last night in Columbus. Well, a few drinks. It must have taken that to get it out of him.”
“Get what out of him?”
“He says he’s got pictures of, well, maybe Will in bed with somebody.”
Kitty froze. “With who?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“When were these pictures taken?”
“Maybe as recently as last weekend.”
“Rick, Will Lee is a heterosexual bachelor; he’s entitled to a sex life.”
“Yeah, sure. Normally, this wouldn’t be a story.”
“Then why is it a story, now?”
“It’s got something to do with who he was in bed with.”
“Who?” Oh, God, Kitty prayed. Don’t let it be a man.
“Hardaway was being cagey, but my source got the very strong impression that the identity of the person was more important than the fact of the, uh, meeting.”
“Rick … ”
“It was a woman; I got that much.”
Kitty tried not to sigh with relief. “No other information?”
Barnes shook his head. “None.”
“No respectable newspaper would run such pictures.”
“No, but the
Beacon would run a story saying that such pictures exist. So would we, if we could verify it. In the middle of a campaign for the Senate, it’s news any way you slice it.”
“I see.”
“And there’s something else.”
“What?”
“A respectable newspaper might not run the pictures, but that’s not the only place they could run.”
Kitty’s heart sank. “Hardaway says he’s got a bidding war going between two of the supermarket tabloids. That means very splashy and, of course, national coverage. After a week or two of follow-ups, your man would be as famous as Elvis. And just as dead.”
“Does your paper know about this?”
“Yes,” Barnes said. “They won’t go with it until they can verify all the details, and Hardaway is the only one who has those, so that probably means we’ll have to wait for the Sunday Beacon. In the meantime, they’re holding up on the endorsement of Will until they can check out the story.”
“Thanks, Rick. I know you went out on a limb, telling me.”
Barnes shrugged. “I think it stinks.”
“I owe you one.” She turned to go.
“Kitty?”
“Yes?”
Barnes grinned. “Maybe you can still get Amy Carter’s endorsement.”
*
“Well?” Tom Black said.
“Well, what?” Will answered.
“Oh, come on, Will,” Kitty said, “we’ve got to talk about this.”
“My sex life is my own business.”
“On Sunday morning, it’s going to be everybody’s business,” Kitty said.
“Let me ask you something,” Will said to them both. “Assume the worst. What can we do about it? Can we stop the story?”
Kitty shook her head. “No, not unless we can safely deny it. And they’ve got pictures.”
“Then why worry? Let’s continue as planned. If they run pictures of me in bed with somebody, I’ll deal with it then.”
*
“What I don’t understand,” Kitty chipped in, “is who this woman could be that makes her so dangerous.”
Will shrugged.
