“A photographer?” asked Mitch. None of it was making sense. Fifteen points off of Hurricane’s primary bid?
“Step up to the plate, Murray,” barked Fitz.
Murray cleared his throat “I called a friend of mine who works with the State Elections Commission. You know how we all have to send Xerox copies of every contribution we get? The checks, you know?”
“Tell him who Shakespeare McCann’s supporters are,” laughed Fitz. He just loved saying that damned name.
“Nobodies. The elderly. Giving him five dollars here. Ten there. Personal checks, some even postdated.”
“Poor white Baptist trash,” volunteered Rene. “Same folks who give money to the ‘Old Time Gospel Hour’ because they’re promised Salvation Vacations.”
“My friend faxed me some of the canceled checks,” continued Murray. “They all got those little Christian fish in the corners.”
“You making fun of Christians?” warned Mitch. “They vote in solid blocks. And they believe in something.”
“No. It’s just that they appear to be McCann’s target group,” answered Murray. “Anyway, I made a call. You know. To one of those names on the checks. Five-dollar contributor named Suzy Summers. Know what she told me?”
“I’m all ears,” said Mitch, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Fitz took over. “This woman is fifty-five, living on her dead husband’s disability. She’s got three girls, all married with kids. She tells Murray she’d never heard of Shakespeare McCann until she gets a phone call selling portrait plans. She was interested, so an hour or so later this guy Shakespeare came knockin’ on her door to deliver her the coupon. He explains the deal. Family pictures. You know, a buy-three, get-one-free kind of deal? Anyway, this lady’s got grandchildren, and who wouldn’t want more pictures of their little grandkids? She pays him the money. Then at some later time, he takes the pictures for the contracted price and, upon sending the family photos, includes his pitch as a candidate for congressional office.”
“Can you believe it?” added Rene. “He’s just kissin’ babies like any other old-time political hack. Just this time, he’s doing it through pictures from the post office.”
“You’re kidding me,” was Mitchell’s cautious response. “It sounds like something born from a boiler-room scam.”
“But it’s not. It’s legal,” interjected Fitz. “He buys a list of likely voters. The hard-core, elderly, Christian right. Sells them a good product, but leaves them with his political pitch on the doorstep. It’s just targeting.”
“I made some more calls. Same story. And like Fitz says, all legal,” reported Murray. “All the good folks said is how great their babies looked in the pictures. And what good sense McCann made when he sat down to talk with them.”
“A baby photographer,” Mitch said with wonder.
“Here’s what I figure,” said Fitz, digging in. “Republican primary, big-time incumbent means low voter turnout. Thirty-five, forty percent tops. So you crunch the numbers. Six hundred thousand in the district’s population base. Two hundred thousand registered voters. Little more than a hundred thousand Republicans. Low turnout means only thirty or so thousand actually turn out to vote.
“So this Shakespeare guy,” he went on, “buys a Republican voter analysis of South County. The real conservative Bible Belters. The ones who always vote no matter what the Tuesday. He targets the elderly with grandchildren. Sells them the plan. Takes the pictures. The way those numbers work out, that’s barely five thousand votes, and it gets him fifteen points off of Hammond. Who woulda guessed that would be enough to put a fellah in the November slot?”
“Five thousand votes,” repeated Murray. “I could get five thousand votes.”
“Makes sense,” said Mitch, the pragmatist’s tone taking over. “But that’s for just your fifteen percent. Do you think he actually was crazy enough to think he’d do better than half the vote to carry the primary?”
“Like I said. He’s a Looney Tune,” pointed out Fitz.
“And lucky,” reminded Rene.
Fitz finished, “Probably believes in Elvis and O.J. conspiracies. And now he’s your only opposition.”
It was sinking in. Mitch sat in wonder, looking back at the three faces before him for confirmation that this was indeed some kind of prank.
Fitz gleefully guffawed. “Just think about those Republican horses’ asses up in Dallas and the bricks they’re shitting cuzza the news.”
“They’ll challenge it. Recount the votes,” said Mitch.
“Let ’em,” said Fitz. “It’ll take a month at least. Meanwhile, the ACLU takes this Shakespeare guy’s case. Sues and probably wins. That’s another month that we’re out there, running the race our way and without credible opposition.”
Murray added, “Their hands’11 be tied. Nothing they can do when it comes down to it. They’ll have to run this nobody.”
Finally Mitch added his own guess. “Ten’11 getcha a hundred that when it’s all said and done, the Republicans crap out on the poor SOB. Don’t give him a dime.” Suddenly he was thinking like a candidate. “No point in chasing good money after bad. They’re no dummies. After all, they’re Hammond’s cronies, handpicked by the old man himself.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Fitz, jacking the last shot of Chivas into his mouth. He pounded on the table and called for another round. “Reload!”
Mitch thought to remind the bartender. “Perrier.”
“Aw, have a real drink, Congressman,” goaded Fitz. “Here’s to you!”
The words slapped Mitch in the face. It was premature. It didn’t ring true at all.
Congressman…
FOUR
THE MITCHELL Dutton for Congress campaign office was on the Island in a grungy northside section underneath the span that crossed over to Cathedral City. It was out of the way and cheap. A campaign hellhole designed to be abused by volunteers. But it did include a helicopter landing zone on a rooftop that offered great views of the mainland, especially when necessitated by a TV press conference.
“It is with great sadness that I join the Hammond family in mourning the loss of a great politician and patriarch. No doubt about it, he was a great man and a father figure to this community. I will miss him,” said Mitch to the press, already halfway through his prepared statement.
At the rear of the media pack stood Hollice Waters. Bored already with the eulogy, he nudged a young TV info-babe, ready for her first round of election politics. “So would you vote for him?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Would you sleep with him?”
“He’s married.”
“Never stops Mitch.”
“No way. He’s a Boy Scout.” But the young woman had swallowed—hook, line, and sinker. “You think?”
“Woman on his campaign staff. A real Southern Delight. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
Then she thought about it and came back with “You think his wife knows?”
Hollice answered with a trademark shrug. He didn’t know shit, let alone have any factual support for his theory. If words were power, Hollice was deadly. If he’d wanted, he could sink a new candidate like Mitch. He’d simply laid the pipe and primed the pump with little more than a whisper of hearsay. All somebody had to do was turn the valve and the flood of rumor would begin. He wasn’t concerned about whether it was true. He’d heard a little talk and that’s all he was doing. Talking. There surely wasn’t a fact at issue yet, or enough to print that would hang the candidate on the horns of his own character. That would come, he figured. It always did.
“Obviously we had our differences,” Mitch continued on with his statement. “And it was because of those differences that I chose to run against him, thus challenging his congressional seat. But to speak any more of politics, or to answer questions concerning the race on this sad day, would only exploit what should be a day of mourning. We’ve lost one of our own. And today we should be remembering him. Thank
you very much.”
Despite Mitchell’s subtle urging that the press put their political questions on the back burner out of respect for the deceased incumbent, they clamored for more. Having laid the seed of rumor at the rear of the media pack, Hollice pushed forward, ready to snag Mitch with another barbed hook.
“So, Mitch, what do you think of your new challenger, Shakespeare McCann?”
“I’ve never met the man,” said Mitch. “So I must assume he’s a decent human being and a worthy opponent”
“Okay, so how’s it feel to be front-runner then?”
Hell, thought Mitch. There hasn’t even been a poll yet and I’m the front-runner.
“Please!” he urged the throng of TV and flash cameras, shouting beyond Hollice but making sure the writer knew the statement was directed at him. “Today belongs to the Hammond family! I’m asking you to have some respect!” With that, he shoved his way from the rooftop location and back into his campaign office. He’d meant what he’d said, too. He’d had enough speculation of what would be. He needed to put his thoughts together.
Holed up in his office, he ignored the Hammond eulogies on the TV. Instead he returned phone calls, then headed for the door shortly before dusk. He’d nearly made it to his car when Rene stopped him. “You did well today.”
“Better than Old Hurricane, I’m sure.”
“I meant with the press. We weren’t expecting you to answer any questions.”
“Only die one. But Hollice is an old pal,” he answered. “And when in doubt, tell the truth. It’s easier to remember,” he continued. “At least, that’s what my old man used to say.”
Mitch’s old man. Quentin Donovan Dutton. Immigrant, gentleman farmer, shrimp boat entrepreneur, and a not-so-loving father. But from time to time he’d left his son with a little wisdom. Little road maps Mitch would sometimes dig up to find his way through the darkness. That evening Mitch had returned every call but one. Quentin Dutton’s.
“Going home?” asked Rene.
“Going home,” he answered. “It was supposed to be my day off. Nobody was supposed to find me.”
“Break time’s over. It’s hard work from here to November.”
“You keep telling me.” He was trying to ease his way out the back door. Rene, though, was hard to leave—no matter how much a man might love his wife. She was that beguiling.
“But I can see now that you’re up to it.” She smiled. “You’re the kind of man that can go all the way.”
It was a certain tease that wasn’t lost on the candidate. It was her way, though. The way she dealt with men. Some women can’t help it. And most men can’t help but think to follow suit. Every instinct told him to lean in and kiss her good night. Even if it was just a polite, gentleman’s kiss to the cheek. Instead, he gestured toward the car. “Home is as far as I’m going.”
By most standards the commute home was short. But there were no thoroughfares on the Island. All the streets were tight, and stoplights were plentiful. The turbo on the Volvo wouldn’t get a chance to kick in until he made the right turn off of Broughton Drive onto the long, sloping drive that wound its way up to the stately hilltop where each house was afforded a view and a lion’s share of sweet Gulf breezes.
Mitch pulled up to the old Victorian around seven. For a brief moment he gazed up at the mansion and wondered if he’d miss it should he go to Washington. It was home to him, that’s for sure. But it wasn’t his. It was Connie’s. And it would always be hers.
Key in the door, he entered the house from the kitchen, dearly hoping his nostrils would discover the happy leftovers Connie was used to leaving. But it was early yet. So instead of cooked food and the sweet smells left to linger, the air was stale with the smell of burning cannabis. Gina. He knew she was there. Marijuana was her usual calling card.
“If it’s not my wife the pothead and her friend Gina,” he said with disgust. It was as much reserve as he could muster.
“Well, look who’s here. The star of the five-o’clock funeral hour.” They’d obviously had a good laugh watching the TV. And Gina had a way of making Mitch feel unwelcome, even in his own home. “They said on the news you’re a shoo-in to be congressman. The wife and I thought we’d celebrate.” She passed the roach bacx to Connie.
“Sweetheart?” Mitch kissed his wife, who stuck her tongue in his mouth and giggled.
“Oh, don’t gimme that look. You know grass makes me horny.” Connie giggled again. She was stoned, no two ways about it. The comment was more for Gina’s sake than Mitch’s.
He blamed Gina for this.
Dos Amigas. That’s what they called themselves. Instead of a clan of women surrounding her, Connie had Gina Sweet. A trust-funder with unlimited time for her adopted sister.
They’d met back in their sorority days at SMU up in Dallas. Gina was always a candy-eyed miss with a nose for trouble and the name to get away with it. A self-diagnosed neurotic with what she liked to call a Traumatic Expectations disorder, she was always deathly afraid her parents would up and die on her. Tragically so. And when they didn’t, it was no surprise that she latched on to young Connie Hamilton, a scholarship student who’d lost her own parents in a boating accident years earlier. The two friends had ended up rooming together during their last two years before the traditional postgraduation split. During that time they’d smoked enough pot to resurrect the Hindenburg.
“Just promise me you won’t smoke outside the house,” Mitch gently warned. He didn’t want to tangle with it now. It wasn’t the time. Plus Gina was there.
“That’s okay. We didn’t inhale.” Gina burst with laughter, making about as sophisticated a political reference as she could. Connie joined in the laughter. He tried to ignore them.
“Is there anything to eat?”
“Frozen pasta in the freezer,” snapped Connie.
Mitch gave up, starting for the stairs. “On second thought, I’m not hungry. I’m going to go upstairs and get some work done. Make sure the seeds go down the sewer and not the garbage cans.”
“I should go up, too. He’s usually not home this early. I should be thrilled, right?” Connie said, straightening up and trying back on the disguise of the good wife. She called after Mitch, “I think Rosa washed your clothes. They’re on the bed in the guest suite.”
Gina tried to rope Connie into staying. “Leave him be. He’s just being Mr. Political Party Pooper.”
“C’mon, G. We’ve barely talked since election night. He needs me.”
Gina. Sweet-tooth Gina. Sweet-assed Gina. Gina the Sweet. Gina the Sweater Gal. Mitch had heard all the nicknames and, in most respects, figured they were accurate. The SMU days were one long party for Gina Sweet, interrupted only by the occasional schoolbook or exam. Gina lived to be the first. In the sorority, she was the first to do cocaine. The first to make it in the house mother’s bed. The first to do it with two guys at once—or at least consenting to, she’d later say. And the first to have an abortion. She’d had die procedure in the afternoon in time for a mixer that night. Her roommate, Connie, was a wreck over the incident and skipped die party. Instead, she went to the campus chapel and prayed for her friend.
It was later in their senior year that Connie herself had gotten pregnant by a psychology professor. Then it was Gina’s turn to play the Good Mother. She drove Connie to the clinic for the abortion. It was Gina who paid for it. Connie would wonder every so often if something had gone wrong in the termination procedure that would later explain her difficulty conceiving and taking a pregnancy to full term. And while arrogant doctors scoffed at Connie’s theory, Gina was always there to hold her hand, just as she had after Connie’s abortion.
Dos Amigas.
Upstairs, as Mitch ditched his suit for something more comfortable, the day replayed itself in Technicolor. It had been long and difficult, preceded by a week of aggressive campaigning as the underdog candidate. No longer, though. The old man was dead and Mitch was in first position. Hurrah. Then why wasn’t he celebr
ating?
Instead, he switched on the TV for some background company, then found some peace of mind in a briefcase full of memos and notes messengered over from his law practice. Salivating at the prospect of having “Congressman” on their firm’s letterhead, Mitch’s partners had picked up most of the slack when the campaign kicked into high gear. But Mitch missed what he called “real work.” The kind that paid the bills on those Flower Hill mortgages left him by Connie’s frivolous parents.
The old master suite stretched over nearly a third of the upper floor, the pine floors dented with over a hundred years of wear, waxed weekly to an antique sheen. Persian rugs flanking her parents’ old four-poster that Connie had reconfigured for a king-sized mattress. Enlarged windows for maximum breezes. Irish pine furniture. All of it Connie’s. The house was the memory of her parents.
He heard the pipes whooshing below, a sure sign that Connie was flushing the evidence of contraband. Minutes later she appeared, carrying a tray of cheese, crackers, and microwaved chicken wings. “I’ll bet you didn’t eat lunch.”
“Not much,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t make him feel guilty for killing her party. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“No matter. It’s the least I can do for the front-runner.”
“So you saw the news?”
“I did. It’s sad about Hurricane,” she said, changing the subject ever so slightly. The front-runner thing scared her. It meant leaving home. Something she didn’t want to face right away. She’d rather just seek some affection. “I liked what you said.”
“On the news?”
“About Hurricane. Did you mean it?”
“Of course I did.”
“Gina said it sounded like bullshit.”
“Gina wouldn’t know shit from a shaman.”
“I know. She’s got a mouth when she’s stoned.”
“When she’s stoned?”
Dark Horse Page 4
