“If it’s Vidor Kingman, I’ve already had the pleasure,” said Mitch, half joking.
On the less-developed outskirts of Cathedral City, the ten-acre site boasted a museum-sized house, a petting zoo, pool house, game house, stables, and a canal, complete with a Venetian-style gondola, which serpentined around a landscape of lush, freshly rolled turf. Twenty-five horses worth of electric pumps may have kept the canal water from going stagnant, but that didn’t keep the huge mosquitoes from party crashing. No doubt it was all designed and built by the same golf-course architect who’d done such spectacular work for Pete on The Links at Lucas Landing. Kickbacks? wondered Mitch. Peterman had most likely constructed and paid for most of it with contractor rebates from the resort.
“The Koreans seen this place?” Mitch asked.
“Seen it. Loved it. But see, that’s how it’s done over there. Business is relationships, everybody looking out for each other.”
“Sounds more like the mob. Anyway, as your attorney, I’d rather not know the details.”
“So about Vidor Kingman. Not a bad guy, if you want my opinion,” said Pete. “But he cheats at golf.”
“But does he cheat and win?” asked Mitch.
“Took me for an easy coupla thou,” said Pete, the not-so-sore loser, leading the way into a green, glass-encased dome of a structure across the canal. “We’re in the solarium.”
The solarium was cooled with tropical plants and an automatic misting system to moisten the air. At center was a marble fountain atop a stone deck, littered with ornate iron-worked garden furniture. Fitz was waiting there with Sandy Mullin.
“Sandy Mullin. Mitch Dutton,” introduced Fitz, arms wide as if bringing together two heads of state.
“Nice meeting you,” said Sandy as he shook the candidate’s hand. “Heard great things about you.”
“Heard a few things about you,” answered Mitch with a wary smile. Oh, he’d heard all about Sandy Mullin. He’d just never met the industry maven. Younger than Mitch had imagined, he was edging up on sixty, rail-thin, with skin like a newborn’s and bleach white hair.
“It’s all true,” joked Sandy. “Unless you heard it from one of my wives.”
“Everybody. Let’s sit and have something cold to drink,” said Pete. From an ice tub filled with canned brew, Pete served Bud Light and Dr. Pepper. Then after some meaningless chitchat about divorce lawyers, Sandy made his pitch.
“I’m the CEO and the principal stockholder of New Century Industries—” began Sandy.
“I’m familiar with the company,” said Mitch, wondering if Sandy was more famous for moving a tool and die foundry to Mexico and leaving five hundred-plus South County residents on the local unemployed rolls, or living the life of Elizabeth Taylor and marrying seven times in his sixty years.
“We’re multinational,” continued Sandy. “But we’re still Texas. Now, I’m here to tell you I’ve got nine thousand employees total. And eighty-one of those are senior managers. Each of whom, along with their wives and a little lobbying on my part, want to give you and your campaign the individual maximum contribution of one thousand dollars each.”
“That’s a hundred and sixty thousand dollars,” added Fitz, revealing an envelope in his pocket.
All were smiling but Mitch. “In exchange for what?” he asked.
Sandy looked at Fitz, then Pete. “Why, for some good Goddamn government. What do you think?”
“I’m sorry if I seem cynical,” said Mitch. “I’m more curious than anything else, considering that I’m on record for opposing the pullout of Standard Tool from South County and sending all those jobs to Mexico.”
“And I respect your opinion on the matter,” responded Sandy. “But on a corporate level, I felt it was the right move. I got stockholders to think of. Many of whom are fellow Texans, I might add. That doesn’t mean we can’t disagree and get on with it.”
“Get on with what?”
“Good government,” said Pete.
“You’re the man for the job,” said Sandy. “I like what you have to say. So do all my managers. We want to help.”
“And help is appreciated.” Fitz gave Mitch a hard look.
“And if I’m elected?”
“You will be elected,” said Sandy.
“After which…” The candidate was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You’ll give us good government,” said Pete again.
Good government, my ass.
It was code. As an attorney, Mitch was attuned to the double talk, insinuations, colored innuendo, and code-speak. He’d used it plenty himself. It was part of the trade.
“Cut the crap!” moaned Mitch. “There’s some quid pro quo somewhere in this good-government garbage. Why doesn’t somebody just spit it out so I can politely say no?”
Fitz shrugged and backed off, as if he didn’t know a damn thing.
Pete, on the other hand, was exchanging subtle gestures with Sandy. Should they tell? Shouldn’t they tell? Finally Sandy angled forward in his chair. His voice in a lower timber. “I have friends in Washington who tell me you’ve already been pegged for an assignment on the Commerce Committee.”
It was news to Mitch. Flattering, even. He was already being spoken of on the Hill. Sandy went on, “New Century has recently acquired a Texas-based company and retooled it at considerable expense to manufacture brake pads specifically for SUVs.”
“Sport utility vehicles,” chimed Pete.
“Parts for these vehicles are becoming a huge market. Lots of jobs,” said Sandy. “But these SUVs? They’re basically cars built on truck chassis. And where we’re making brake pads specifically for this kind of vehicle—”
“You’ve got a foreign competitor,” prompted Mitch.
Sandy almost beamed. “You know it. German operation based in the Philippines. They make brake pads for trucks. Their labor peaks at a dollar per hour.”
“Gee, Sandy. You ought to understand those kind of wages,” shot Mitch. “Why not move your operation next door to your plant in Mexico and flat out compete?”
“I’ll bet you already know the answer.”
“Because you don’t want to compete,” offered Mitch. “You want the tariffs raised on truck parts.”
“Only because it’s not fair. They’re getting in under the present trade rules where some truck parts aren’t taxed the same as auto parts. But these SUVs aren’t trucks. They’re family cars.”
“And once in office, you’d expect me to send a vote your way.”
“I’d expect you to vote for Texas jobs and Texas employment,” answered Sandy.
“But not South County jobs.”
“Congress is a federal office. I expect you’ll be voting on stuff that affects the Eskimos in Alaska.”
“And if my opponent were the front-runner?”
“He’s not. You are,” said Sandy.
Mitch stood. He was about to say no thank you and good-bye when Sandy added more fish for the frying pan. “You know, Mr. Dutton. Those same eighty-one senior managers of mine might also have a mind to contribute to a political action group of my making, say, let’s call it the South County Citizens for Good Government Committee. That’d be a hundred and sixty-thousand more dollars that my committee could put toward anything it damn well pleases. Could buy some TV time in your name—”
“Whoa! Stop right there,” interrupted Fitz. “What you and your PAC do in the name of good government or the Good Witch of the West is up to you. But the Federal Election Commission rules are clear. The candidate cannot and will not be a part of such dealings.”
“So be it.” Sandy smiled. He’d gotten his message across.
“Pete?” said Mitch. “It’s been fun. Thanks for having me.” The candidate turned to Sandy Mullin with a reluctant handshake. “On the record, Mr. Mullin. No and thank you. I’ll get to the Hill on my own.”
Once outside, the heat hit Mitch like a hot blanket. And if it weren’t for all the hands he was compelled to sha
ke on the way to his car, Fitz would surely never have caught up with him.
“I got something to show you,” said the campaign manager, ushering Mitch around the corner of a catering truck. Fitz pulled out that envelope.
“No. I don’t want to even see it.”
“You’re gonna see it,” demanded Fitz, opening the manila flap and unfolding the envelope. “Tell me what’s in here.”
Mitch was forced to look. Somehow he expected to see something dirty. Like used twenty-dollar bills wadded into rubber-banded stacks. Instead Mitch found a rainbow of different-colored personal checks. From different banks. Some personalized. Some plain. Each made out to the Mitch Dutton for Congress Committee for one thousand dollars.
“You know what this is?” asked Fitz. “A hundred and sixty-two checks from a hundred and sixty-two different individuals. Taxpayers, Mitch. Each of them wanting to support your election to office. You can’t just put ‘return to sender’ on them.”
“It’s a payoff, Fitz.”
“It’s a legal political contribution. And those go only one way. Into the campaign kitty.”
“If elected, I won’t vote to raise tariffs just so he can make a bigger profit.”
“Then don’t. And when you get to Washington, you vote your heart. And if Sandy Mullin doesn’t like it, come your reelection, he’ll back the other guy. That’s how it works. It’s a great country.”
Over the past ten years, Fitz Kolatch had liked to joke that he wished he’d had a drink for every time he wondered if he was an alcoholic. The line would draw guaranteed guffaws from whoever might be listening, usually a local PAC or some deep-pocketed special interest group from whom he was about to ask for money. Yet deep down, Fitz truly missed the days of the pocket politician, the money boys, smoking up those famed back rooms. A deal was a deal then. And campaigns were plain fun to run.
But the Byzantine laws concerning campaign funding had since been structured by lawmakers themselves. And where money had never been a worry in most respectful campaigning, show runners like Fitz now were forced to spend less time making deals and more time hustling the big dollars required to win a seat for their candidate.
The old days were gone.
The deal Fitz was working now was for the front-runner to agree to speak to the entire membership of the Latino Businessmen’s Alliance in a fund-raising forum. What remained was negotiating the ticket price of the meal that would be served.
“Two fifty,” said Fitz. “Campaigns aren’t cheap, gentlemen. You wanna know what thirty seconds on Channel Three during the dinner hour costs us?”
“Our membership is not a wealthy membership,” stated Carlos Rodriguez, the leader of the local alliance. “Mitch knows that. We’re mostly small businesses. But we are a good-sized membership. We can buy lots of dinners.”
But Fitz was playing hardball. “Two fifty per member. That’s what it costs to put a man in Congress.”
“Maybe against Hammond. But you’re practically running unopposed,” chimed the fat man to Carlos’s right. Bad move.
“Did I hear you right?” said Fitz. “Because we’re ahead in the polls, that’s reason for you to go cheap on a candidate?”
“If Mitch were here,” pleaded Carlos, doing his best to be forgiving of his old friend for letting Fitz throw the fast balls, “he’d say two fifty’s not a fair price.”
“Well, Mitch isn’t here, friends. He sent me to cordially ask you to put up two fifty a head. Mitch knows what he needs to win. And that’s the price of a ticket.”
The table was silent, the members looking blankly at each other. Carlos broke the silence. “Can you give us five minutes?”
“Sure thing.” Fitz stood and gestured that he was headed toward the bar, giving Carlos a friendly pat on the shoulder as he walked off. He had ‘em and he knew it. The members would complain to Carlos about the ticket price, but they’d eventually sway to their leader’s opinion. Giving money to a front-runner was too good of an investment. Two fifty was cheap.
At the bar Fitz ordered another vodka and gave a look-see as to what was on the TV. It was just after five o’clock. “Care if I switch channels?” he asked.
“Go ahead,” said the bartender, sliding the remote in front of him.
He channel-surfed until he found some local news. A live press conference was under way. The cameras were focused on Shakespeare McCann.
“That’ll be four bucks.”
But Fitz didn’t even hear him. He was too busy turning up the volume.
In front of the First Cathedral Bank, Shakespeare McCann stood before an eager gathering, holding up a Xerox copy of a canceled check. “Made out to the Dutton for Congress Campaign Committee!” he announced, as if he were the cat who’d just eaten the canary.
Marshall Lambeer had successfully coached Shakespeare on everything but the timing of the press conference. Five o’clock on Friday would leave the opposition no time to respond before the weekend when news and information ratings tumbled. But McCann insisted on Thursday.
Copies of the Xeroxed check were passed among the press while Shakespeare continued, “One thousand dollars. The maximum contribution. And signed by Jamal La Croix himself.”
The media buzzed. Jamal La Croix was a black nationalist and a former member of the Nation of Islam. Considered a crackpot by most politicians, and extreme in the eyes of African-American leaders, locally and beyond, La Croix was most famous for a march he’d led through Cathedral Island only three years earlier. A protest that soured, turning into a riot, trashing a good part of the Strand, and practically killing the tourist trade for the following two summers.
Jamal La Croix was political poison.
And there it was, held up high by the grinning man running against Mitch Dutton, a copy of a canceled check to the Dutton campaign for one thousand dollars. “I think this is a good example of what I’ve been talking about. This is the kind of support my opponent seeks. These are the kind of sick people he believes he will represent in Congress. Dangerous men. Extremists. Communists. Black racists.”
“How’d you get the check?” called out one reporter.
“Right behind me is the First Cathedral Bank. Inside work loyal McCann-of-the-People supporters. But most important, citizens of Cathedral who watched in horror as our beautiful island burned three summers ago. All because one man, Jamal La Croix, marched through here with a band of hooligans and thugs from the Houston welfare projects.”
Hooligans and thugs. Buzz words.
But the worst buzz word came in the form of Jamal La Croix, a Texas black-activist so extreme and corrupt the Nation of Islam had tossed him out of their organization. Three years ago, he had found a cause in a proposed Cathedral liquor ban, which was a thinly veiled reason to sweep the tourist beaches of black teenagers. Sources said La Croix had wanted to make a splash. Something with headlines. Gathering bodies and muscle from the Houston projects, he bussed them down to the Island in a convoy, joining protesters on the beach and picking a fight with the cops. Tear gas canisters flew. Then as the mob fled the smoke and megaphones, they ransacked the Strand, overturning cars and setting a torch to shops and businesses. The Governor called for the National Guard. Overall, there were over fifty arrests, including La Croix. Most were convicted of civil disobedience and released on probation.
But Jamal La Croix never spent a day in jail.
“This man is a danger to our community,” spouted Shakespeare McCann. “And by association, so is Mitch Dutton.”
“Have you talked to Mitch Dutton about this?” asked another reporter.
“That’s your job,” answered Shakespeare. He grinned broadly.
The siege that followed the press conference quickly overtook the Dutton campaign office. The doors were locked. The phones went briefly unanswered until Fitz and Rene could figure a way to spin the situation back the other way. TV trucks and radio cars camped outside and waited for the return volley.
“In the name of God, how the hel
l did that check get cashed?” fumed Mitch. He was walking circles, around his desk, then behind the two chairs where Fitz and Murray sat.
“It must’ve slipped through,” answered Fitz.
“I don’t find that very satisfactory.”
“Checks have been piling up. We average forty to fifty a week. Then there was the stack we got from Sandy Mullin…”
“Candy is really sorry,” said Murray, referring to the campaign treasurer, Candy Anne Frost. It was her job to do computer checks against every campaign contribution, just in case.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” said Mitch.
“Wanna fire her?” offered Fitz.
“Of course not.” Mitch had known Candy for years. She’d done his taxes since law school.
Fitz took the offensive. “Question, then. Do you know Jamal La Croix?”
“No.”
“Ever met him?”
“No.”
“Any of his family?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then that’s what we say.” Fitz turned to Murray. “See where Rene is on the statement.”
Murray left the room while Fitz worked his theory. “It’s another trick.”
“McCann?”
“Has to be. Why else would this guy give you a thousand bucks? Probably wasn’t his money.”
“But Marshall Lambeer—”
“I know. It’s not his style. But he doesn’t sign the checks, does he?” said Fitz. “Think back to the alley. It’s the same old shit. Hit and run.”
Hit and run indeed. A sharp contrast to the Dutton campaign, wherein, over the last weeks, the Mitch Machine, as volunteers were calling it, seemed to roll along with a consistent ease, leading the way with endorsements from the Texas Teachers’ Association, the South Texas Police Chief’s Council, and the South Coast Commerce Alliance. TV and radio spots were politely dispersed along with direct mail drops and personal appearances. Meanwhile, the McCann of the People campaign would awkwardly vanish for a week, then pop up wherever and whenever the TV advantage might lead, always with a grin for the camera to defuse the lightning-rod rhetoric.
Dark Horse Page 14
