Zig had sat across from hundreds of candidates in his years at the Committee. That was his job. All of the candidates with their hands out for money. Hearing their practiced pitches. It was a power position for Zig, holding the purse strings to so many political futures. But something about Shakespeare had him off kilter. Suddenly he didn’t feel so powerful.
“I haven’t spoken to Hollice Waters yet. But you can bet I will.” Zig watched the strange man, wondering why the candidate wasn’t squirming.
“All he’s gonna tell you is that I showed him a canceled check from your Committee to my campaign,” said Shakespeare.
“Not from my Committee. Because I didn’t sign it. We didn’t give you seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“Take a look for yourself.” From his inside coat pocket, Shakespeare handed over the canceled check.
Zig examined the check, his brow furrowed in a sudden, worried stare. It looked real enough. And the signature was dead-on perfect. “This isn’t real. It’s a forgery.”
“And a damn good one if you ask me,” said Shakespeare, as if he were expecting a compliment.
“You’re proud of it?”
“Got your attention, didn’t it?” The candidate smiled, obviously pleased with himself.
“Was that your intent? To get the Committee’s attention?”
“Here I am.”
“So you are,” acquiesced the chairman.
“So let’s get to know each other. I’m your candidate from South County. You give me five minutes, I’ll betcha I can make that phony check as good as gold.”
Ballsy, thought Zig, briefly charmed. There were plenty of wannabe candidates who’d tried to get through his door. Few of those uninvited had made it past the lobby. Shakespeare was clearly an exception. “Have you thought of how it might look when we deny ever giving you a check?”
“I have,” said Shakespeare. “But it goes both ways. How’s it going to look to the faithful in South County when they find out their own party won’t support the rightful nominee?”
“The Committee already weighed that risk against our own limited resources.” Zig shrugged.
“Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”
Zig turned the clock around on his desk to face McCann. “Five minutes.”
“Betcha I won’t even need that.”
“Clock’s running.”
“I’m a people person, Zig. I can call you Zig can’t I?” asked Shakespeare. But he wasn’t about to wait for an answer. “I know what’s in folks’ hearts. I got a feeling for what they’re lookin’ for in a representative. Their hopes. Dreams. The world ahead for their children. How else can you explain how I pulled fifteen points off ol’ Hurricane?”
“There’s always a fringe vote willing to go the other way.”
“I did it with zero party resources and my own humble dollars. I talked to people. They told me what they wanted and I listened. I’m a good listener, see? And most every one of those good folk I talked to down there rewarded me with their faith and votes. Ninety-two percent by my count.”
“Who did your polling?”
“I did.”
“Scientific, was it?” Zig couldn’t wait to hear this. “How large was your sample?”
“One hundred percent.” From his briefcase Shakespeare produced a computer-printed diary. He fanned the pages in front of Zig. “I made a record of every registered Republican voter whose hand I shook or shared a cup of joe with. I also included their family names, church affiliations, and the likelihood that they would go to the polls and pull a lever.”
Zig stared at the sheaf of paper. He had never heard or seen such a thing as the Bible-thick log. Elections were modern. Polling. Tracking. Advertising. The way Shakespeare made it sound was that practically every person he spoke with had gone into a voting booth and cast a ballot for him. “You must have a winning personality,” was all he could think to say.
“That, I do. Imagine what I can do in a general election Me up against this fellah Dutton? He’s nothin’ but a Ken doll. Me? I’m the real thing. A genuine people’s candidate. I can deliver.”
“Different animal, a general election,” shot back Zig. “Taking fifteen points off an incumbent in a primary is one thing. You had a low turnout for an obvious winner. The general requires military-like tactics and the dough to see it through. Let alone name ID.”
“I’m resourceful. I’ve got ideas.”
“I’m sure you do. How’s this? Get out there, put some of your ideas to work. We’ll track you when we can. Start putting up some numbers, maybe we’ll make good on the check.”
“A carrot on a stick.”
“Let’s call it incentive,” said Zig, now feeling confident. It was an obvious brush-off. “We’re busy up here. Lots of campaigns. And I’m afraid money’s tight, Mr. McCann. What can I say? We have to spend our cash on candidates that can win. Show me you can win, then we’ll talk.”
For a moment those sharp blue eyes just stared back at him. “You didn’t even ask my views. What I stand for. Hell, as far as you know, I could be for open borders and a Mexican in every kitchen.”
“Are you?”
That smile again, the ice in his eyes gone. “Just pullin’ your leg.”
Impatiently Zig pushed on for some kind of closure. “I’m sure your politics fit the platform.”
“How about I tell you about my business?”
“Five minutes, Mr. McCann. Maybe we can meet again?”
“Oh, the rest of it won’t take long.” Shakespeare sat back again. “I’m in the printing business.”
“Makes sense.” Zig nodded toward the bogus check. “Forgive me for being short, but for now, the decision stands. The Committee has met on your candidacy, and financing is not appropriate. I’m sorry.”
“Rivers flow. Preachers know. And decisions can be reversed,” spun Shakespeare. Confident. Like he knew something Zig didn’t. “To bet against me would be as dumb as eating soup with a fork. I’m full of surprises—”
“Damn right you’re full of surprises!” Zig waved the check in front of Shakespeare’s face. “You can go to jail for this. And you want our support?”
“It’s good work, that check.”
“You’re proud of it?”
“Like I said, printing is my business. Started out with one shop. Built it up to six. And the technology, now. Whooey. It’s amazing. With high-resolution computer imaging. You can manipulate just about anything. Checks. Signatures. Pictures.”
“Check forgery’s a felony.”
“So’s blackmail and extortion. But that doesn’t stop smart folks from makin’ hay outta hooey.” Shakespeare opened up his briefcase, lid forward so Zig couldn’t see inside.
“You can leave right now.”
“You gonna call the police?”
“If I have to.”
“That’d be a good story. Republican Committee chair has Republican candidate arrested. There’s some PR for ya. Betcha the honchos back in D.C.’ll love that in an election year.”
“You can just go,” insisted Zig. “How’s that? No cops. We’ll forget about the check. Just go.”
“Pretty little girl you got there.” Shakespeare gestured to the framed pictures behind Zig. “Her name’s Erica, am I right?”
“How’d you know my daughter’s name?”
“Texas Tech?”
“I asked you how you knew—”
From his briefcase Shakespeare withdrew a folder. He laid it before Zig. “I know your daughter from her pictures. Looks like she’s done some modeling.”
Zig opened the folder. His heart stopped He gasped at a singular black-and-white photo of his daughter, nude, reclined with her legs spread while some other, faceless female performed some acrobatic, oral copulation. Utterly pornographic and…
“Now, before you get all worked up—”
“That can’t be my little girl.”
“Well, it is and it isn’t. It’s a fake, if that’s the wor
d you’re lookin’ for.”
“Yes. It’s a fake! It has to be!”
“A good fake, too. Just like the check.”
Zig ripped the picture in half and tossed it at Shakespeare, standing and shrieking, “You sonofabitch! How dare you make smut out of my little girl! I oughta—”
“Siddown, Zig. You have a heart attack, you can’t write me a check for seventy-five thousand dollars,” eased Shakespeare. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll plaster this little picture all over Texas Tech. I’ll put it on the Internet. I’ll stuff it in your neighbors’ mailboxes.”
“You won’t blackmail me!”
“You selfish SOB. All you’re thinkin’ about is you. Instead you should think about Erica. Her years in college. What her friends think of her. A lesbian. Oh my.” Carefully Shakespeare retrieved the faked photo from the carpet and reassembled it in front of the chairman. Nearly apoplectic, Zig stood over his desk and heaved. His chest rising as he sucked in more air. His heart clanging against the confines of his rib cage. Veins swelled.
“Your face is as red as a fire truck,” warned Shakespeare. “I’m serious, Zig. Please. Sit. I didn’t mean to scare you that bad.”
Simon says. Zig actually sat down. After which he sort of listened. Shakespeare spoke quietly, but with a sudden firmness. He was in charge. “You know what your problem is? You look at me and think it’s not possible to exceed the limits of possibility,” said Shakespeare, standing and waxing political. “Me? I look in the mirror and see your future.”
“Erica,” Zig found himself whispering.
Shakespeare went on. “Now, let’s look at this like the two smart fellahs we obviously are. What I know about politics, you can stick up a gnat’s ass. But like I said. I know people. I know what they care about. Generally speaking, it’s what other people think about ‘em that matters. Stigma, I reckon they call it. Well, some stigma, real or imagined, can stick like a three-day-old Band-Aid. My guess is, when the smoke clears, you and your pious folks on your little Committee’ll come around and make good on your commitment to me and my candidacy.”
Zig didn’t know whether to hit McCann or stand and suffer the indignity of worse threats to come. Then came the big finish.
“Now, I would guess that in a candidate, you’re always looking for the reasonable man. And I’m the first one to say that I’m not. But look at me this way. Where the reasonable man adapts himself to the world, the unreasonable man persists on trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man. Am I right, or am I right?”
“George Bernard Shaw,” Zig found himself recalling despite the ringing in his ears.
“In my humble opinion, it’s the definition of a successful politician,” capped Shakespeare, pleased to have hit the right nerve.
“You might make a congressman yet.” From underneath that shelf where Zig’s daughter’s head shot reigned so pristine and prominent, the Republican party chair withdrew a large check binder. “Seventy-five thousand?”
“Why don’t we make it an even hundred?”
EIGHT
THE TEXAS State Court of Appeals’ hearing for Snoop De Jarnot’s writ of habeus corpus was less than two months away. And Mitch, anticipating an ever-taxing political schedule, and never one to wait until the last minute, spent most of his late nights in the early weeks of July on the written portion of the appeal. He decided, however, that the oral arguments to the high court would be performed by someone else. He didn’t need that kind of exposure, and neither did Shoop. The writ needn’t be compromised by a Texas Supreme Court justice who, for whatever reason, didn’t care for Mitch Dutton, the candidate.
Chosen to deliver the words was Public Defender Extraordinaire Alex Bernardi. The two had linked up on many pro bono sojourns over the last five years, having met through mutual friends in the Texas Legal League, the Longhorn State’s centrist-leaning answer to the ACLU.
“You can step off, now. I’ll put my name on it,” said Alex.
“You just want all the credit,” Mitch said, smiling.
“And you do? I’m not a politician, but I know this could hurt you.”
“Thanks, but Shoop was my client long before I decided to run for office. If my name’s not on the writ, it’d be as if I’d jumped ship.”
“In name only.”
“It’s like signing a contract. And I believe in contracts.”
It was moments like this when Alex was reminded why he’d grown such respect for Mitch. Pro bono work, as much as it was part of an attorney’s supposed credo, had long been lost in the maze of soaring fees and TV advertising. Most lawyers were in it for the buck. Mitch was clearly in it for something else, though Alex never bothered to ask what that might be.
“It’s gonna need editing,” Alex commented. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s looking real good. There just seems to be more verse than chapter, if you get my meaning.”
“Like I’ve been out on the stump too long,” figured Mitch. “I know, I know. What can I say? I’m just another windbag running for Congress.”
The meeting was in the law offices of Gade, Seaton, Peacock, and Dutton, only two blocks from the Strand’s trendy west end, with a fourth-floor view. The suite occupied the entire floor, with elevators that emptied into a sumptuous, mahogany-paneled lobby with dual receptionists, a far cry from the funky, around-the-corner-from-the-free-clinic digs where the campaign was waged. Mitch took refuge here with his diplomas and dog-eared criminal law books. An ancient oak church door turned horizontal for a desk. The wall behind it held family pictures, including a faded color still of a father and son standing before the Dutton fleet of shrimp boats.
“How’s your old man?” asked Alex during a reading break.
“Okay, I guess. Can’t get the old fart on the phone,” Mitch fibbed. Fact was, neither was working very hard at the connection.
“And your partners? They cool with the campaign?”
“At first they were cautious.” He made a couple of quotation marks in the air. “But now that I’m the front-runner, they’re thinking Congressman Mitch Dutton would look good on the letterhead.”
“What’s the other guy’s name again?”
“Shakespeare,” answered Mitch, who kept his head on page sixteen of the appeal brief. “Shakespeare McCann.”
“That’s it. There’s a South County name if I ever heard one. The Republicans are really gonna put money on this dog?”
“That’s what I hear. Ask me if I’m worried.”
“Are you worried?”
“If I were, I wouldn’t be here doing this,” said Mitch, thinking he’d rope Alex back into the appeals process. The less he talked about Shakespeare, the better. Naive? Yes. Mitch knew it, too. He’d better get used to the name. He was in a race with the scumbag.
“You met him yet?”
“I have,” he answered sotto voce, eyes still boring into the page.
“So what’s he like?” pressed Alex.
Mitch stopped what he was doing, stood, and crossed to the door, opening it briefly enough to ask, “Could one of you women bring us some more coffee?” Then he shut the door and turned back to Alex ensconced in a leather couch pushed up against a floor to ceiling window. “Had only a brief chat with the guy. He was gracious, I guess. A little strange.”
“You know where he’s setting up shop?”
“Ask me if I care.”
“Couple of blocks from here. Saw a sign down there this morning. Right on the Strand. Big banner with that stupid name of his,” noted Alex. “Republicans gotta be throwing bucks at him like crazy. Believe me, rent down there ain’t cheap.”
Mitch turned and looked out the window. There, two blocks to the east, was an eager-looking crowd gathering right on the street. Cars stalled. Traffic was backed up.
“Two blocks? Which way?”
“East, I think,” answered Alex, joining him at the window to point out the direction. He, too, saw the commotion below. “Right a
bout there. What do you think that’s about?”
Mitch shrugged. “Beats me.”
“Wanna go give it a look?”
“Let’s not,” he said, returning to his desk. “How about we get back to it?”
It was even hotter than the local weather gurus had forecasted. Four floors down outside Mitchell’s air-conditioned suite and just minutes after noon the temperature had already cracked the hundred-degree mark, with the humidity at ninety-one percent.
Two blocks to the east, before an empty storefront with a banner reading SHAKES strung from end to end was the other candidate, digging out scoopfuls of ice cream from a keg-sized tub. The lunchtime crowd, along with the tourists, were flocking onto the boulevard for a taste of both flavors: vanilla and Shakespeare McCann. Around each free cone was wrapped a red, white, and blue napkin with the slogan printed in bold:
SHAKES CAN!
The Strand was getting so congested that the Cathedral PD had to move in with three cruisers and six officers in white gloves to control traffic. Shakespeare gracefully complied with their requests, booming over the crowd with “That’s me! I’m the law-and-order candidate.” The ice cream lovers laughed and asked for more. Soon after, the policemen were a little less obstructive, bought off with Shakespeare’s good humor and ice cream cones to ease the sweat under the brims of their navy blue baseball caps.
TV cameras mobilized. Crews scrambled with tape and cable, trying to get close enough to catch a few sound bites before the ice cream melted. And that’s just what they got. Bites. Morsels from the new candidate as he answered a question about his campaign’s theme. Shakespeare was quick. “Early to bed, early to rise, work like hell, and advertise!”
Then came the obvious question about Shakespeare McCann being a neophyte candidate. The newcomer shot from his charismatic hip. “The trouble with experience as a teacher is that the test comes first and the lesson comes later.”
The crowd grew larger and lapped him up just as they did the ever-softening ice cream.
McCann on the economy: “If all the economists in the world were laid end to end, they still wouldn’t reach a conclusion.”
Dark Horse Page 11
