“Let’s just say I wanted to even up the debate.”
“There is no debate yet. Is that what this is about? You wanna negotiate terms?”
“No. I just wanted to tell you about the favor I’ve done you. This Bayou bitch? We both know he’s the Achilles’ heel of your campaign. And we both know in a public debate I could crucify you for writing that little ol’ appeal mat would release a killer from his noble appointment with death.”
“Fine. Do it then. A place and time. You and me and everybody watching.” But Mitch was missing the entire point.
“Maybe I should make it crystal-clear. This is a publicservice call. Shoop de Jarnot is no longer a campaign issue. Justice was served.”
Shakespeare coolly hung up and turned his gaze back to a very frightened Gina. “Now, with that done, what do you think I should do with you?”
Her skin twitched and spasmed. The fun and vengeance in her had long since gone the way of the dinosaurs, substituted by a terror she thought only existed in other people’s lives. “I can help you,” she squeaked, her voice quivering and barely audible. “Please, let me help you,” she finished, realizing only then that she was begging for her life.
“When the timing’s right, I’m sure you will.”
After Shakespeare hung up, Mitch had held the phone for a moment before quietly laying it back into the cradle.
Justice has been served? By whom?
Mitch looked at the clock. It was 11:18 p.m. Too late to call the prison. Or even Alex, for that matter. Alex had a newborn baby and his hours were bad enough. He didn’t need to be disturbed by Mitch on some ruse. Shakespeare was a liar and manipulator. Mitch was not going to spend another sleepless night suffering the little bastard. Resolved to getting a decent night’s sleep, he put aside his worries and turned off the light, rolling over to lay a cozy arm across Connie. Only she wasn’t in bed.
The bathroom light was on and the door was closed. He could hear the water running. All he could assume was that the call had woken her and she’d gotten up to wash her face. She often did that on hot and humid nights. But he hadn’t a clue. His mind was still with the cryptic call.
“You okay?” he called out.
“Just cramps,” she returned.
“You need anything?”
“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
According to state prison officials, the cause of Shoop’s death was either a case of premeditated poisoning or an allergic reaction to something exotic served in that special meal, sent him by an anonymous Mitch Dutton supporter. It took the state prison coroner over forty-eight hours to show up at the prison morgue for the postmortem, extracting the standard selection of stomach contents, blood, liver, and kidney samples from Shoop’s body. But the poisoned tissue never arrived at the county SID. Somewhere along the scientific assembly line the materials were either lost or intercepted.
Covering for the error, the county coroner’s office officially listed Shoop’s death as an allergic reaction to an unknown, exotic biological toxin.
Molly’s in New Orleans’s French Quarter was informed.
The investigation was picked up by the New Orleans City Health Department.
And that was the end of the inquiry.
Nobody thought or cared to check with Tyler Tubbs, or made notice that he’d called in sick, quit school, and left the state altogether.
TWELVE
“HE KNEW. I don’t know how, but he knew. And not just that. I think McCann had him killed just to mess with me,” said Mitch, pacing across Fitz’s office.
Fitz crossed the room to close the hollow door. “You wanna tell what precipitates this kind of paranoia?” he asked calmly.
“You think I’m paranoid?”
“No. I think we’re down to eight and a half weeks and you’re looking for explanations into the unexplainable.”
“He called me. He knew.”
“So he’s got somebody inside the prison. Ally, campaign supporter, volunteer. So what? That’s allowed,” said Fitz, who chose to sit on the rented, upholstered couch instead of behind his desk.
Mitch was shaking his head. “No. It was a threat.”
“Coulda been. McCann’s an opportunist. We know that much. But it certainly doesn’t mean he did the actual deed.”
“Play along with me,” said Mitch. “What if he did? Think about it. What would it mean?”
“I’m not gonna go there, Mitch.” Fitz had his hands up. And until that moment, he’d been holding back on how he really felt about Shoop. The poisoning. Mitch’s involvement with the con. But now it was ripe. “I’ll tell you where I will go. McCann’s smart. Can we acknowledge that?”
“Make your point.”
“Your weakest position in every track and poll is your death penalty position. Agreed?”
Mitch didn’t need to answer.
“Okay,” continued Fitz. “That appeal you were writing was political dynamite. You know my reservations with it. But it’s something you felt compelled to do, so I never pressured you to lay off it.”
“You were always clear.” Mitch was looking impatient.
“I’ll get to the heart of it. The appeal was looking good. Shoop was going to get shipped to a Louisiana facility. And guess who’d be responsible. You. Candidate Mitch Dutton got the killer off.”
“In jail for the rest of his life. I don’t call that getting a killer off.”
“You don’t think Marshall Lambeer’s got a thirty-second TV spot ready to go? One that makes it look like you, Mitch Dutton, personally screwed with the death penalty? The law of the fucking land? This is Texas!”
“I don’t need you to remind me—”
“Listen to me. If Shoop is dead, that means the issue is dead. No more political dynamite. The bomb’s been dismantled.”
Mitch was shaking his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Life doesn’t make sense. Food poisoning doesn’t make sense. Or cancer. Or criminal behavior.” Fitz was back on his feet. “But you still don’t get it. Your buddy Shoop and his lucky supper was the best campaign donation you could have imagined!”
“You’re a heartless SOB—”
“That’s why I get the big bucks,” joked Fitz.
“Shoop de Jarnot meant something to me.”
“Well, that’s between you and him.” Fitz calmed himself. “Just as long as he doesn’t mean anything to the enemy. That’s all I give a shit about.”
“Then why the phone call?”
“Emotional terrorism. That’s all the cachet he had left. McCann knew Shoop was his only shot at catching you. He was waiting to spring it on you, counting on your genius appeal. But now that he’s dead, he’s lost. He’s got nothing to hang you with.” Fitz was in fine form, putting all the pieces together. “The phone call was nothing more than sour grapes. Now can we put this behind us and get on with the dog and pony show?”
Mitch found a seat behind Fitz’s desk. Fitz, on the other hand, wanted to take a bow. It was a hell of a performance in the art of political perspective, thought the show runner. But the compliment never came from the candidate.
“I’m gonna need the weekend,” said Mitch. “All of Friday, too.”
“What for? You need some time off? You know, all of us are working real hard trying to get you the whole month of November off. You’re gonna need it to pack for the big move to D.C.”
“Just three days. Then I’m yours until election day.”
“Permission granted,” authorized Fitz. “We’ll move some stuff around. Just as long as I get a hard week’s work from you beforehand.”
“That’s a deal.”
“Mind saying what for? Gonna take the wife for a little three-day whatever?”
“I’m gonna keep a promise,” said Mitch, his voice grave and resolute.
The Dog and Pony Show.
Watch Mitch be phony show.
But it’s my only show.
The Dog and Pony Show.
The si
ngsong verse ran through Mitch’s head. From the very beginning, Fitz likened the long days of a campaign to an old dog and pony act. For a while Mitch was amused by the pomp and circumstance of it all. Then one day he made the verse up in his head while pumping hands and grinning his way through another faceless gathering of local political fringe dwellers. From that day on, the verse never left him. He would shake a hand, giving some lucky well-wisher his best “Hi there. Mitch Dutton. Pleased to meetcha.” But that silly song would be what always played in his head. Like some bizarre cue for him to put up a smile and be the candidate.
The Dog and Pony Show.
Mitch was forced to make a deal with Fitz about his planned attendance of Shoop de Jarnot’s funeral. Being that it was in New Orleans and out of the campaign’s province, let alone the state of Texas, Fitz gave his okay as long as the trip was quiet. Nobody else would know. Mitch would slip out of town with the missus and merely show up at the memorial to pay his respects and leave. No public appearances. No speeches. In and out.
Mitch promised.
Next was convincing Connie to accompany him. It would hardly be a vacation. A couple of days. A funeral, after all. But it would be time away from the campaign grind. Just the two of them. Alone, for at least a little while.
Watch Mitch be phony show.
Due to the bureaucracy of shipping prison corpses interstate, the funeral was three days away. And a deal was a deal. So Candidate Mitch knuckled down to work in the few days that were left. That meant more endless handshaking at shopping malls and supermarkets. Meetings and greetings. And sleeves rolled to his elbows as he beat the pavement, door to boundless door, through South County subdivisions.
But it’s my only show.
“Hi. How are ya?” He would start with that line, followed by, “Mitch Dutton. I’m running for Congress.”
The drill would go as follows. A campaign thrasher would work one or two houses ahead. Knocking on doors, ringing bells. Finding the registered voter in the house. By walkie-talkie, the name of the pigeon was radioed to Rene. The groundwork thus laid for the candidate to appear from the sidewalk with trademark loosened tie and rolled-up shirtsleeves. Then Mitch would offer his hand and that rehearsed smile. The one that Rene had taught him. Not a grin, not aloof, nor contrite. Just enough teeth to look genuine, the campaign smile, always served up with a firm handshake—two hands if the voter was a woman. “Hello, Mrs. Addison. Mitch Dutton. Pleased to meetcha.”
The Dog and Pony Show.
And those three days were merciless. Humid. Precinct after precinct.
In the rear of the campaign van, Rene kept a fresh box full of starched, white shirts. After only an hour of doorknocking and handshaking, she’d have Mitch strip in the air-conditioned van. Once there, he’d towel off, shower himself with baby powder, pull on a fresh shirt, and go at it again.
“Mr. Gaines. Can I call you Walter? Swell. I’m a new Democrat,” he would charm. “I want you to call me in Washington—I want you to have my number—I’m running to make sure Washington runs for you!”
So many hands to shake. So many people to meet. It was candidate as faith healer. God’s disciple and charitable hand. A role Mitch found easier with every newly starched shirt Rene would peel from shrink-wrap.
It had been forever since Connie had packed anything for Mitch. The politics of packing, she’d complain to herself. Suitcases would be strictly his and hers, prepared respectively at different times. And where she was usually prepped and ready a full twenty-four hours before departures, Mitch would always wait until the last minute, raiding closets and drawers until the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes the racket would be so annoying that she would take to sleeping in the guest room.
Yet two days before the weekend, he surprised her with an uncommon request. He called from the campaign HQ and asked her to pack for him, giving her a short list that included one black suit and bathing trunks. He would entrust her with the rest.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“New Orleans. I thought we’d drive the Gulf route. Mustang. Top down.”
“Who’s we?”
“You and me, babe. How about it?”
It was meant as a surprise. And Mitch had wanted to see her face, but his plans had only formed within the past hour. There was the promise and there was New Orleans. The getting there was what he hadn’t figured out until the moment before he called. It warmed him to think that he and Connie would have three days to themselves, maybe finding something they’d lost along the way. Each other.
She held her breath. She needed to ask one more question. “Is this about the campaign? Or is it about us?”
“It’s about us, Connie.”
“I’m sorry, Mitch. I don’t mean to be paranoid. I just need to know.”
“Do I have to say it twice? It’s about us. That and some personal business which I’ll explain later.”
“No politics?”
“Nope.”
“We’re not meeting anybody in New Orleans?”
“Nobody from the campaign,” he assured. “Now, do I have a date?”
She had to think about it. Caution was her new credo. An emotional look before leaping. Then she said sweetly, “Of course you do.”
“Good,” he said, his voice smiling back at her.
“I’ll start packing.”
“And I’ll try to be home for dinner. No promises, though.”
Connie hung up and turned instantly to Mitchell’s request. Her mind quickened. A trip along Route 87. A random motel stop. An oceanside dinner. God was talking to her. The scene would be perfect. Already she had her own surprise to spring. She would go shopping. Buy Mitch some new clothes. And quite possibly, when the timing was right, somewhere along the way she would tell him about the baby.
THIRTEEN
ON THE rare and recent days when Hollice Waters ventured downstairs to what they called the dungeon, he was reminded of how much he missed the smell of newsprint. No longer, though. Gone were the massive presses and tumblers from which newspapers were spun and creased for delivery. Nowadays, news stories were composed in a cyber-world called RAM, downloaded as megabytes, digitized, then lasered onto recycled bond with color pixelized photos and software-generated graphics, and finally run on a massive copy machine.
“Any slicker, we’d be a daily magazine,” shouted Maynard, the shop manager, over the din of the newspaper stacker. Maynard might be the only familiar face left over from the good old days.
“If we were a magazine, the pay’d be better,” answered Hollice, lighting up the last of those Havana cigars he’d stolen from Charlie Flores.
“So why you down here in the dungeon?”
Hollice waved the cigar. “They finally did it. The communists four-walled the offices with no smoking signs. I mean, even Charlie Flores went along with it.”
“That one of his stogies?”
“He’ll never miss it.”
Maynard moved closer to Hollice. “Well, I won’t tell on you, then.”
Hollice’s pager sounded. He automatically scrolled the number. He didn’t recognize it. He had a memory for numbers, especially the ones that showed up on his pager.
“Got a phone?” he asked.
“There’s a pay phone next to the time clock.”
“What? There’s no inside line down here?”
“Oh, there’s plenty of lines. But each one’s someplace where you’d have to stub out.”
“Watchin’ out for me, Maynard. I won’t forget it.” Hollice waved his good-bye with the smoking cigar and headed off toward the time clock.
The pay phone hung on the wall between the rest rooms. He set his cigar atop the phone, fished in his pocket for a quarter, and came up with two dimes. A five cents savings, he thought as he dropped the change in the slot and dialed the strange number. The phone rang once before a voice picked up and said, “Hollice Waters?”
“This is Hollice Waters. Who’m I talkin’ to?”
“Shakespeare McCann. I think it’s time we talked. You know Fill’s Famous Barbecue?”
“Which one? Cathedral City?”
“I’m having lunch there at twelve-thirty. You come along. I’ll buy.”
“I’ll be there.”
As barbecue went, Fill’s Famous was just about okay. The original establishment was a delicatessen owned and operated by a New York émigré named Howard “Fill” Fillstein. Soon after opening, Fill discovered that deli wasn’t going over big in San Antonio, so he switched the menu to barbecue, and business picked up. So much so that he later opened a second franchise in Cathedral City called Fill’s Famous II. With its central air conditioning, plastic plants that looked almost real, serene poster art, and tabletops laminated from actual Mexican bullfight posters, it served three times the floor space as the San Antonio original. But too bad for Fill, it only served one quarter the customers. Friday was Fill II’s last day of business.
“Whatever you do, don’t order the house special,” said Shakespeare, sliding into the booth.
Hollice found Shakespeare’s hand inside his own, giving it a solid shake. “What is the house special?” he asked.
“Barbecue,” joked Shakespeare. “Poor SOB who started the joint shoulda stuck with deli and moved his dumb ass back to New York City.”
“Well, sir, you picked a swingin’ place to talk.”
“Closin’ their doors tomorrow. Thought this would be quiet. So we could talk, you know? Anyway, if you ask real nice, they serve up a helluva pastrami on rye. Hot mustard. The works.”
The hostess showed them to their seats, taking her time to educate both gentlemen on the day’s specials.
When she left, Shakespeare went about setting the ground rules. “I liked what you did with the Jennifer O’Detts story. You’re a guy that can play ball.”
“Depends on the game.”
“Your game. Headline. Byline just below that. Then you write what the people want to hear, right mere in black and white.”
“I’m not for sale. I write what I think.” Hollice loved the role of El Journalista.
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