Dark Horse

by Doug Richardson

  “Good answer, but listen to these numbers,” Rene interrupted the mock debate, the lights catching her taupe suit and dangerous hair. “Eight out of ten men have their hands on the remote. They’ve got small penises and short attention spans.”

  “Keep my answers shorter,” acknowledged Mitch.

  The rented TV soundstage sported dual podiums and working television cameras to help him acquire a better feel for the forum. It was October and they were only one day away from the real debates.

  Rene examined Mitch closely, continuing the coaching. “Okay. The makeup seems to be working. You’re not sweating yet. But don’t be fooled. Everybody sweats under these lights. The trick is to get touch-ups during the commercials.”

  He remembered her telling him of her brief sufferance under the lights as a political TV commentator for some independent channel in Mississippi. She’d had the right looks and the velvet voice to seal some down-home ratings. But she’d hated it.

  “Don’t face the camera except during your opening and closing remarks.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. He’d remembered Hammond’s style of speaking directly to the viewer.

  “Talking to the camera is out of vogue,” she answered. “Remember. This is a TV show. Folks are tuning in because they’re expecting a drama between you and McCann. Direct your answers to whoever asks the question until it engages your opponent. Then go for the jugular. The viewers are gonna want to see some blood.”

  At the back of the room paced a not-so-calm Fitz, rifling through the latest tracking results. Occasionally he’d glance up to the debate rehearsal, but with nothing to offer. Rene was the pro. She knew all about TV. Seen her work before. Fitz’s job was to stay on top of the numbers. And the numbers weren’t good.

  The tide had clearly turned to McCann’s advantage. His TV was hitting hard on the same old point. The death penalty. Not only that, but in the tradition of the great campaign devils, Willie Horton being the heavyweight champ of all time, the deceased Shoop de Jarnot was fast becoming the poster child for capital punishment. Shakespeare McCann gave out Shoop T-shirts on his weekend bus and truck shows around the county. The old school bus, painted red, white, and blue, would appear at shopping malls and parks, followed by a flatbed outfitted with a public address system. After ten minutes of music and the free ice cream that had come to symbolize the McCann campaign, Shakespeare himself would step out onto the stage and give a rip-roaring twenty minutes on the evils of Democrats and Mitch Dutton, lawyer and lover of those who’d take a life. Then he’d hawk those damn Shoop de Jarnot T-shirts for ten bucks a taker and be off to his next stop.

  The numbers were bad.

  McCann was ten points back in the popular vote. But only four points among the likely voters. If the weather was bad, he’d fair even better. Dead even, figured the paid pollster. The indisputable election fact mat bad weather meant bad news for Democrats loomed in the show runner’s mind. The Dutton negatives were way up. No thanks to Shoop and Hollice Waters. Fitz cursed himself for ever letting Mitch go to New Orleans. It revealed his weakness. The reason so many candidates under him had lost elections and given him such a losing record in recent years. He let the friggin’ candidates run the fuckin’ show!

  Dead even, thought Fitz. It’s a horse race now.

  While the rehearsal continued, Murray entered from the stage door, stalling a moment to watch Mitch and Rene before angling for Fitz.

  “So what do you want—the bad news or the worse news?” offered Murray in a hush.

  “Don’t tease me! Just tell me!” said Fitz, his voice loud enough to capture the attention of the other two.

  “Something we should know about?” asked Mitch.

  “Sorry Mitch,” said Murray. “It can wait.”

  “Give it up,” pushed Fitz. “Let’s hear all of it.”

  Murray halved the distance between the rehearsal space and Fitz. Then he let loose with the news. “Vidor Kingman is—”

  “Is dead?” asked Rene.

  “No. He’s endorsing McCann,” was Fitz’s guess.

  “Just let him finish,” ordered Mitch, who hated guessing games. He simply wanted to know.

  “Vidor Kingman,” continued Murray, “has endorsed his very own independent candidate.”

  “Independent?” asked Rene in sudden shock. Kingman was the ultimate party player. Both sides of the aisle.

  “Independent party?” asked Mitch.

  “A new party,” answered Murray. “He’s found himself the environmental candidate.”

  The room went silent long enough for all parties to do their own arithmetic. Support from Kingman meant money and press. But even worse, an environmental candidate would automatically cut into Dutton’s slice of the electorate—the wide-left liberals who’d vote Democrat for lack of anybody else who might hear their call. Mitch had catered to these voters, having mailed extensively on the subject, and he brandished a record of serious environmental credentials. These were his constituency, now taken from him by Kingman in an obvious public relations effort.

  “Well, fuck him!” groused Fitz. “He’ll probably want his candidate to debate.”

  “No can do,” said Rene. “Format’s already set.”

  “It helps McCann,” said Mitch. “He’s gonna want to add him to the bill. He got a name?”

  Murray went through his pockets until he came up with a note. “Yeah. Peter Garret Dunphy.”

  “Know him,” said Mitch. “Smart guy. He worked with me on settling some corporate stuff.”

  “Just tell me he’s got a terrible case of acne and I’ll put him on the show,” groused Fitz. “So what’s the worse news?”

  “The new Hollice Waters rumor.”

  “You mean the one where he told Kingman that they ought to change the name of the paper to the Daily Moroni” said Fitz.

  “I thought all trails led to Mexico,” said Mitch.

  “I got this one off the bulletin board of the McCann Web page.”

  “Murray. This soundstage is costing us two hundred an hour.”

  “Okay,” continued Murray. “The rumor is that we’ve got a wealthy contributor with mob ties.”

  “Of course,” said Fitz, “they wouldn’t say who.”

  “It’s a conspiracy theory. This business guy wants you in office. Hollice Waters knew about the mob stuff. So they had him rubbed out.”

  “Rubbed out?” laughed Mitch.

  “Don’t laugh,” said Fitz. “I wouldn’t put anything past McCann once the cameras light up.”

  “Can we deal with the issue at hand?” Rene centered herself amid the group. “I think we’re going to be asked for a format change by McCann in order to accommodate this new candidate—”

  Fitz’s cell phone rang from inside his coat pocket. He reached inside and flipped open the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Fitz? It’s Marshall.”

  Covering the receiver, he nodded to Rene. “It’s Marshall Lambeer. I betcha he’s gonna ask us to change the fuckin’ format.”

  “Gimme the phone,” asked Mitch with his hand out.

  “I got this handled,” said Fitz.

  “I’m sure you do. Give it to me, anyway.” He locked eyes with Fitz, holding out his hand until Fitz submitted. He instantly put the phone up to his ear and said, “Marshall? Mitch Dutton here. Put Shakespeare on, will you?”

  All eyes were on Mitch as he peeled away from the group in favor of a darker corner of the stage.

  “Marshall? I know he’s there,” pressed Mitch. “I’ll bet you don’t send out for lunch unless McCann’s standing right over your shoulder. Now, put the SOB on the phone before I come over there and do this in person!”

  He gave a wink back toward his team. He was enjoying this.

  “This is Shakespeare McCann.”

  Mitch went right after him. “Listen, you little shit. We’re not changin’ the format to accommodate a party crasher. And if you dodge this, I swear to God I will take i
t right to the media. I’m gonna say that Shakespeare McCann would use any excuse whatsoever to avoid confrontation with me on the issues.”

  “What? You suddenly grow some balls? Wasn’t that long ago you caught a lickin’ in that back alley.”

  “I’ve turned my back on you for the last fuckin’ time. I know better. I’m doin’ this head-on. Man to man.”

  “Shake hands and come out fightin’. Just like that?”

  “Just like that. So are we gonna get it on? If not, I’ve got a campaign to win.”

  “You know, I could go to the media myself. Say we were excluding the all-important environmental candidate. Call you the Democrat that ain’t for democracy. Wave the fuckin’ flag and say you’re not inclusive.”

  “And I’ll call you chickenshit to every newspaper and TV camera that’ll have me!” spat Mitch.

  “Chickenshit?”

  “Those words exactly.”

  The soundstage was silent. Team Dutton, waiting on pins and needles while Mitch held out for an answer.

  “Okay, partner. You want at me? Fine. Let’s go a few turns in front of the cameras. And when I get done with you, you’re gonna wish you was back behind the Mairzy Doats Café.”

  Mitch didn’t care to respond. He flipped up the receiver on the phone and tossed it back over to Fitz.

  “We’re on,” he said.

  As Murray shadowed Mitch out to his car, the daylight outside the studio left the candidate blind, squinting, and fishing for his sunglasses.

  “These are from HQ.” Murray handed Mitch the stack of pink phone slips. “The one on top’s from your father.”

  “Thanks for the reminder. Anything else?”

  The door was open, thought Murray. He’d been waiting for the right chance to hit Mitch up for a staff position come January, should the Democrat win. But he worried a bit too long whether this was his moment.

  “Mitch!” called Rene from across the parking lot. “Wait up a second.”

  Mitch nodded that he’d wait for her. “Something you wanted to say, Murray?”

  “Nothing. I’ll just see you later.”

  “Wear your seat belt, hot dog,” joked Mitch.

  As Murray exited, Rene swiveled her way toward him, serpentining the parked cars and looking far too cool for Indian Summer. Fall had arrived, but in name only. For Mitch it might have been better to think about the weather instead of gazing at Rene, whose legs stretched from underneath her smart suit with every southern step nearer to him. He feared being alone with her.

  “What’s the hurry?” she asked.

  “Got a lunch. Harvey Benton of the Cathedral Business Round Table.” There was ice in his voice that was hard to miss.

  “Fitz set you up?”

  “Of course. I’ll pay for lunch, then put a gun to his head and ask him to give the campaign ten thousand dollars.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t say that tomorrow night.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re avoiding me.”

  “Look,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m going to say tomorrow night.” He was still steaming from the phone call. When she looked at his face, he looked cool behind the glasses. But his hands shook when he unlocked his car door.

  “I’m not talking about the debate.”

  He was afraid of that. He was afraid to be cornered by her, alone with her, or too close to her. It was too easy. All he had to do was reach out and touch…

  “Can we sit in your car?” She was looking around.

  “I’m late.”

  “It won’t take a minute.”

  With a nod, Mitch crawled in, reached over, and opened the passenger door. Rene walked around the car and sat, knees together, her skirt hiked up to midthigh.

  “I know I’ve said I’ve been here before—”

  But I’m in love with you.

  “—but when you won’t even let me get close enough to whisper,” she finished, trying not to crack in front of him. “I’ve got work to do. You’ve got to let me do it.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was impeding your work.”

  And he wasn’t. It was just her way into the real issue.

  “Do you regret it?”

  “Regret what?” he said, uncomfortably playing dumb.

  “The sex.”

  No avoiding it now. So he tried to make it about him. Spare her feelings. “I regret falling off the fidelity wagon.”

  “You would.” She nodded a bit too emphatically.

  “Look. When it comes to me and Connie…I don’t know what’s going to happen. I know I still love her. I know she doesn’t deserve this.”

  “The campaign?”

  “Yes. I promised I wouldn’t take her from the Island.”

  “She may get her wish.”

  Mitch didn’t miss the implication. “So you think I might lose after all.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Sure sounded that way to me.”

  “I’ve just had some bad…thoughts. Feelings, you know?”

  He waited.

  “I have been here before, Mitch. And I thought I’d seen all of them. Good ones, bad ones, honest, corrupt.”

  “But nobody like me,” he jested.

  “Nobody like McCann. No telling what he might pull on TV.”

  He bravely took her hand in his. “It’ll be okay. The worst thing that could happen is that I’ll lose.”

  “To win, you’ve got to care more than that.”

  “It’s not life or death. It’s only politics.”

  Then came the nonsequitur. “I’ve been offered a job.”

  He wondered if he’d heard right.

  “They just lost a key consultant and need someone fast. I’d have to start before November.”

  “Whoa,” said Mitch. “Who, what, when, and where?”

  “Not why?”

  “I’ll get to that. Now, let’s have it. Who wants to steal you from me?”

  Rene tingled. It was the first proprietary thing he’d ever said about her. “The Com-Atlantic Media Group. It’s a senior position, based out of Atlanta. Two hundred thousand to start.”

  “And?” he prompted.

  “And I told them no. Not until I’m finished with my responsibilities here.”

  “But did you mean it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said deadpan and honest.

  “Okay. So here it comes. Why?”

  She swallowed before saying it. “Because you’re different.”

  Different, thought Mitch, because she hadn’t been here before. It was a club across his forehead. The one perfect aspect about playing with Rene was the safety net. She didn’t care. She could tease him, fuck him, leave him, and never look back.

  Them were the rules.

  “Look, I said no,” she said. “So let’s leave it there.”

  For now.

  “What’ll it take to keep you?”

  “That’s not a healthy question.”

  “How about until Friday?”

  “Keep me till Friday?” she asked, curious about the consequences of a deal.

  “After that, we can renegotiate.”

  Her chest rose and fell. She was winded. Mitch could smell her breath. “How about a kiss?”

  “A kiss and I get until Friday.”

  “A kiss.”

  “I can do that.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek that she refused to wipe. She let it be, wearing the traces like an open scar. “I guess I’m not so tough after all.”

  Mitch reached across and wiped the tear. It was the closest thing he could do to show that he loved her. If just a little. But still not enough to risk losing Connie. He held her chin and kissed her once. Sweetly. Long enough to mean it. Then without a further word, Rene slipped from the car.

  FOUR

  OCTOBER 23. The day of the debates. Mitch rose after a frightful night of hallucinatory dreams and tried to make as much out of his routine as possible
. With the dogs he jogged three extra miles by expanding his running loop to incorporate the lower flats of the Island’s westernmost suburb, known paradoxically as Westside Hills. Though Merle was faithfully able to keep with him every step, Pearl was quite literally dogging it at mile six. Mitch slowed for the rest of the run, feeling sorry for the girl and making rest stops so she could catch her breath. Before the campaign she would have made the entire stretch. But he had been forced to cut his runs to barely a third of his usual routine. The dogs’ endurance had suffered as much as his.

  Then there were the nightmares. They’d been building toward a crescendo over the last week in their intensity, with consistent guest appearances by the opposition candidate, Shakespeare McCann. And last night’s had been a head-knotting doozy. Mitch was eating lunch at the Mairzy Doats Café. This time he was with Connie. In the dream she was as beautiful as he could remember, wearing Rene’s sleeveless summer dress and sandals. Her hair was slightly unkempt, as if they’d been driving for hours with the top down, and he was braving it by telling her the truth. Not of the beating in the alley. He was telling her of the affair with Rene, and Connie wanted every lurid, sexual detail. Positions. Duration. Discussions. All down to the last exchange of body fluids in weights and measures. During the last leg of Mitchell’s morning run, the rest played back in grainy black and white.

  Hollice Waters appeared at the Mairzy Doats window, cupping his hands against the glass to retard the glare. Mitch, seeking escape from the reporter, dropped a twenty on the table and ushered Connie to the rear exit and into the back alley where the Mustang was parked just around the corner.

  “Your glasses!” she said. “You left your glasses on the table!”

  “I’ll go back and get them,” he said, leaving her alone in the alley. “Wait right here.”

  Once back inside the café, he couldn’t find his glasses. He’d asked the waitress, but she just turned and walked away as if he weren’t there.