Dark Horse

by Doug Richardson

  “Gotcha.”

  “One step back, three quarters to the right,” Fitz reminded Connie. By now, she’d learned to obey Fitz when she had no other option. It was better than showing her actual contempt So she made that one step back, three quarters to the right. That would keep her on camera should the TV want to start on a two-shot. Yet it would give them something to “push into” just in case they wanted to go close on Mitch as he got rolling in his speech.

  A chant raised the room. “MITCH, MITCH, MITCH, MITCH…” This took the candidate by surprise as the room rocked with his name, reaching for another crescendo. It was a powerful rush that he was none too quick to kill.

  “Get to it, Mitchell,” Fitz snorted over the din. “Free TV is free TV.”

  When the hounds found their way back to the farmhouse was anybody’s guess. A live-in horse hand returned from a softball game and dinner around 10:30 P.M. and fed the poor beasts their singular meal of the day before turning in himself. He’d assumed the old man had drunk himself to sleep early and had simply forgotten the chore.

  It wasn’t until Wednesday morning that an alarm was sounded. Congressional campaign aide Mary Riverton showed up for her usual 8:00 A.M. meeting with an armful of daily legislative details. When she discovered the congressman missing, she first called Hammond’s campaign manager, Marshall Lambeer, who immediately dropped the previous night’s election figures and instructed her to call the police.

  Hurricane’s hounds led them all to the body.

  The black-and-white forensic photographs seemed to spell out all there was to know. The mare was found twisted clear around, her head pinned underneath her own shoulder. A few yards away, Hurricane was propped up on the nearest tree trunk. To all who observed, he had obviously crawled from the wreckage of his tumble like so many drunk drivers after they’ve destroyed mini-vans loaded with families.

  The autopsy would venture that cardiac arrhythmia had turned Hurricane’s racing muscle into a quivering stutter, the first pains probably numbed by the vodka. When death finally arrived, it seemed to have come as an excruciating shock. By the twisted look on the old man’s face, he’d had a chance to look at death straight on and in all its bloody horror.

  The coroner called it an accident.

  History would record it as Hurricane’s last tumble. He’d taken so many in his stellar career, physically and politically, always to rise and dust himself off to climb up those Capitol steps one more time. No longer, though. This final defeat would send a resounding shock wave across the Beltway, and hats flying into the thick Cathedral air.

  Standing back from the body while the coroners figured out how to carry it from the woods to the road, the aging Marshall Lambeer, Hurricane’s longtime friend and aide, couldn’t help but blame himself. If he’d only pressed the old man harder, shoveled the bastard onto a late afternoon flight to Houston, boozed and all, and driven him to Cathedral for a victory salute. Just as they’d done so many times before. Then, by Wednesday morning he’d have slept it off and been left with little more than a hangover.

  The future, once again, would have been bright.

  But the old man was dead. Marshall was unemployed. And nothing, ever again, would be the same.

  Fitz Kolatch could barely contain his glee. While showering, he’d heard the good news over radio KDRL, Cathedral’s one and only All News Station. Bursting from a ghetto blaster taking up half the bathroom countertop, the news was more an early morning blowing of “Taps” than a trumpeting of the tragic accident. George “Hurricane” Hammond was dead. Fitz toweled his way from the bathroom to grab the nearest telephone, leaving all vanity behind. He had to call one man, Charlie Brewer in D.C. He’d be able to confirm the radio report. The campaign manager’s heart pounded as the phone rang at the other end. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he prodded. Last ring, he decided, when finally Brewer picked up.

  “Hello?” He knew Brewer’s voice cold. Brewer was the wonk of wonks. He was also a lightning rod on the pulse of D.C.

  “Charlie, it’s Fitz—”

  “Say no more, Kolatch. Hurricane’s dead. Looks like your horse race just turned into a sure bet. So double congrats. Or should I say, condolences. I’m sure the old man’s death has got you all sad and gooey-eyed.” Suffice it to say, Brewer knew Fitz.

  “This is confirmed?” urged Fitz, tugging on his size XL Jockeys. “I don’t wanna go getting my candidate’s hopes up.”

  “He was drunk, fell off his horsey, and had a heart attack. The Post’s already rolling on it. Anything else?”

  “No…That’ll do me.”

  “What’s your candidate’s name? Looks like we’ll be seeing him out this way come January.”

  “Dutton. Mitch Dutton. He’s the real thing.”

  “They all are, Fitz.”

  When Fitz hung up, and before dialing his next number, he could be seen by the ritual morning swimmers doing a nearly-naked jig in front of his condo’s big window overlooking the pool. His flab-flaked body shaking effortlessly to silent Irish strings.

  The phone calls continued as he drove to the campaign office in his leased BMW, a success-draped sedan colored black with a tan leather interior and a self-defining vanity plate.

  ISPIN4U

  The idea was that the darkened Euro-car was supposed to be a symbol of prosperity. Much like the Burberrys suits and Rolex watch. It looked prosperous, but the reality was that the expense was a serious burden for a campaign manager on a ten-year losing streak. And the car, always seeming to need another tune-up, was a payment he didn’t need. Still, it was bait for the candidates who wanted a winner on their side. A bet of political craps that was looking like it was finally going to pay off. Big time.

  During his short drive, he worked the cellular phone and surfed the AM radio dial. Every sound bite about old Hurricane’s tragedy gave the man tingles of success.

  Four years earlier Fitz had first met Mitchell Dutton. He was in Dallas on a party swing through the West that had finished in Texas. Mitch, a corporate attorney from Cathedral Island, had shone bright in the eyes of one talent scout, namely Fitz Kolatch. Young, articulate, attractive, with a sense of purpose. Plus a singular quality difficult to define, but certain in the eyes of the beholder. Mitchell would call it belief of self.

  Fitz called it destiny. All the boy needed was a little convincing.

  Four years, it took Fitz. Mitch was happy in his law practice. The work suited him and left him time for his pet projects: pro bono work and the South Coast Education Committee, which he chaired, as well as his constitutional interests. As much as he might’ ve fancied what a House seat would afford him, what it took to get there wasn’t appealing in the least. Campaigns ran dirty. No matter where they started, they always seemed to end up in the mud.

  A judgeship. That’s where Mitch had his sights. He fancied the idea of spending the rest of his career in the cradle of the bench. Maybe do some teaching. Write a book, even. Fitz convinced him that the political gambit could be the means to that very same end. But the convincing took time.

  Fitz kept at him. Phone calls and target polling and plane tickets galore. At one point the party gave up and stopped footing the bill. Fitz was left with his own piggy bank to swing the potential candidate. And if that wasn’t risky enough, he knew that even if Mitch decided to throw his hat into the political ring, he certainly bore no legal obligation to retain Fitz Kolatch as his campaign manager.

  In the end, though, despite a myriad of other options Mitch had picked Fitz. Not because he thought he would lead him to the winners’ circle. Mitch wasn’t expected to win his first one. He knew that. Most contenders’ second or third runs brewed success. No. Mitch liked Fitz because he felt he could exert a measure of control over the show runner. Mitch had insisted that he would run a clean campaign. Issues only. No negative attacks on anything but Hammond’s voting record. The Dutton campaign would be about ideas.

  Fitz agreed. He was thinking bigger anyway. Lose the Hamm
ond race. But in the process, get some solid backing and roll up some serious numbers. Name identification was the key. Then two years hence? A U.S. Senate bid. One of the two state seats would be empty and the race would be wide open. Jack Kennedy had done as much and as quick. That’s when Mitch would shine brightest. Statewide. Big media. Without Hurricane Hammond as an opponent.

  And once again Fitz would be flavor of the moment.

  But the rules had changed. It looked like Fitz’s ship was heading ashore sooner than he’d planned. If only he could find Mitch to give him the happy news.

  “Call every Goddamn number until you find him,” he railed. “Then patch me through on the cellular!”

  It took nearly an hour to find the candidate. Not that this was so unusual. He had a habit of sneaking off without telling a soul, a behavior Connie had complained about for years. So had his law partners. He would simply up and excuse himself. Vanish. Later explaining he’d needed time to think. That morning following the primary, Mitch had wanted to think about the rest of his life.

  Then he heard the news.

  The first thing he said at the news of George Hammond’s death was, “Oh my God.” The ramifications of the tragedy were not yet obvious to him, proving that the politics of opportunity weren’t necessarily instinctive to the candidate.

  “We’ve got to talk about what this means to us. And fast,” said Fitz over the phone. “I’m thinking about that hotel over in Abby.”

  “The Beacon Hotel,” answered Mitch, still in shock. “Why all the way out there?”

  “I’ll explain later. Let’s meet there at noon.”

  “Wait…”

  “Wait for what?” asked Fitz.

  “I should call the Hammond family.”

  “Good idea. But first things first. The Beacon Hotel, Mitch. Please?”

  Mitch hung up last, then asked his secretary to shut the door of his law office. He glanced briefly at his call sheet Connie, Fay Lindsay, Fitz, his uncle Jasper, his father, Fitz, Fitz. He didn’t return a single call. The news of Hammond’s death winded him. Not unlike the day when John Lennon was shot or when the space shuttle exploded. It was as if at the actual moment the news was delivered, the air went dead. His muscles went limp and his body felt weak. George Hammond was more than celebrity. More than congressman. He was a presence during three quarters of Mitch Dutton’s life. Old Hurricane was the local icon on whom the sun rose and set He was everybody’s favorite uncle. He was fabric and family.

  For the moment, political gains and possibilities would remain in the opportunistic hands of Fitz Kolatch.

  THREE

  “HE’S DEAD and I’m sorry about it,” Mitch spoke as he entered the Beacon Hotel Saloon. More like a hunting lodge, he thought. Stuffed animal heads on the wall. Sawdust on the floor. Thick, varnished tabletops. He’d been standing there a good thirty seconds before anybody had noticed. His core campaign staff was already raising booze-filled glasses in jubilation.

  Fitz turned to him, with a toast. “ ‘Death slew not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies,’ ” he quoted. “So forgive us for toasting the old fucker on his newest venture in space travel.” With that, he guzzled a glassful of Chivas.

  Mitch crossed the room and found a seat at the bar. “Anything you want, Congressman. On the house,” spoke Kevin the barkeep.

  “I’m not a congressman and I want a Perrier,” he shot back.

  Fitz approached with a swagger in his walk. “I take it you didn’t like my quotation?”

  “Chaucer.” He was only guessing. English lit wasn’t his forte. But he recalled Chaucer as being something of a morbid-minded poet.

  “Spenser,” answered Rene Craven, from behind Mitch. The Mississippi in her gave the singular-sounding Spensuh a defined swing of sex. At least that’s the way he heard it. When he turned to face her, he was instantly struck. As if it were the first time he’d ever looked at her. Rene had that quality. Long, sandy hair, curls, slightly mussed in the humidity. One long leg stretched out from underneath an Armani skirt, the other bent and tucked under her perch on the stool, high heel dangling from her toes. That and her dark, untanned skin with a fixed nose that betrayed her family’s long-lost Hebrew heritage.

  Swamp Jews, she’d say of her family.

  “Spenser,” he repeated to her. “I shoulda known Fitz couldn’t pick his own quotations.”

  “So whaddayou think we pay her for?” answered Fitz.

  Mitch returned to Rene, trying to ignore her striking looks. It was easy to look at her. Too much so, Mitch would often think. Rene was detached, yet clearly available. She gave to him, but never seemed in need. She was drawn to him, yet smart enough to know that he’d burn her like the dickens should she get too close. He was married. Principled. And she respected him. None of which kept her from being a first-class tease. Mitch liked that most about her. “It’s a lousy way to sum up a man’s life in public service. Tell me we’re not using it.”

  “It’s up to you. I think it’s poetic. But Fitz thinks it’s not down-home enough for all you dogs of Arkansas.”

  Dogs of Arkansas.

  Fitz claimed it was a term of affection he’d long ago given to anybody whose coastline faces south. Local populations with the combined intelligence of homeless dogs who always seemed to run in powerful packs, voting in solid, yet ignorant blocks. Mitch allowed him his silly, idiosyncratic notions of southerners and especially forgave him for the Arkansas comparison, though in certain parts of Texas, guns would be drawn over less. As long as Fitz saved such representations from public consumption, Mitch would turn a deaf ear. Fitz was a Yankee and in need of forgiveness.

  “I grew up with George Hammond,” Mitch began with a crisp caveat. “Me along with everybody else around here. And when I say I’m sorry he’s dead, I mean it.”

  “Like the man but not his politics.” Fitz was musing on the theme. “I like it. It could work. Rene?”

  “It’s real. Some of the press would snipe, but who’s going to respond?” Rene leaned over her legal pad and began jotting down notes.

  “The opposition has no response because—there is no longer any opposition!” Fitz roared, clearly on a roll.

  “You wanna dance on Hurricane’s grave, Fitz, well, be my guest,” Mitch snapped, his patience worn thin. “Just wait until the election’s over and your Yankee ass is back in New York.”

  Fitz saw he’d gone too far. He stepped over to a nearby table and pulled out a chair for the candidate. “Murray, grab a couple more chairs. Mr. Candidate? This one’s for you.”

  “I’m comfortable right here, Fitz. What’s on your mind?” He didn’t move an inch from the barstool until Rene slipped off her perch with her arm around him.

  “You’re going to want to sit,” she eased. She had him by the elbow, drawing him over to the table.

  They were an effective tag team, Rene and Fitz. Good cop and bad cop. Bombshell and bombast. Together they could manipulate their candidate. Against one of them, Mitch could always hold his ground, but against both…

  “Okay, all joking aside, let’s get real for a minute,” said Fitz as he found his own seat. “Let’s look at what’s what.”

  Mitch fired a look over to Rene. She nodded her approval, although Fitz had yet to speak. “Just listen to him.”

  Fitz continued, “George Hammond is dead. That’s a fact of life that cannot be changed. Your chances of being elected to Congress have increased tenfold.”

  “I can’t believe that,” he interrupted. “The Republican Central Committee will name a candidate in Hurricane’s place. Probably Alan Middleton or Jaime Hernandez. Both of them are strong—”

  “Shakespeare McCann.” Fitz dropped the name flat on the table.

  “Who?” Mitch asked.

  “I’ll say it again.” This time he said it real slow, making sure Mitch heard each and every syllable. “Shakespeare Mc-Cann.”

  “What is this, some kind of joke? Who’s Shakespeare…” Mitch still did
n’t catch the last name. Rene would fill in the blank.

  “McCann. Just give it a little listen,” she said. “You might even be amused. Murray?”

  “Okay. Shakespeare McCann, born 1951. Where? Nobody knows. He was Hammond’s lone opposition in the primary,” began Murray, flipping through his notes. “Now, we all know that every major incumbent, Hurricane included, always has some extreme voice of dissent that throws his hat in the ring.”

  Mitch interrupted. “I’ve never heard of this guy.”

  “You and just about everybody else. Including the state Republican Committee,” chimed Fitz.

  “So how can they run him?” asked Mitch. “They’d be crazy to go with an unknown.”

  “Remember, we’re in Texas,” answered Fitz, handing off again to Murray. “So listen and learn.”

  Murray tabled his Zima cooler. “Now, Texas election rules are clear on this. In circumstances resulting in death, impairment, or withdrawal of a primary victor, the candidate’s party shall nominate one of its own instead.”

  Mitch insisted, once again, “That’s what I just said.”

  “It goes on,” Murray continued, “and I quote: ‘In such cases where the second-place finisher garners a minimum fifteen percent of the electorate, the second-place candidate shall be automatically nominated and his or her name executed onto the November ballot.’ ”

  “That can’t be constitutional,” insisted Mitch.

  “It is. It’s local election law. Written in 1911, I’m sure, with a pen in one hand and a six-gun in the other,” said Murray.

  “Shakespeare McCann.” Fitz completed the picture, his hands framing the name in the air. “This lone nut took fifteen points off the one and only Hurricane Hammond.”

  “How could he? A total unknown,” was all Mitch could think to ask.

  “That’s where it gets really good.” Murray grinned. The boy wonder was a wonk through and through. “I talked to some people who talked to some people. Turns out this guy owns some kind of print and photography business.”