“Looking for these?” said a familiar voice. Mitch turned to find Hollice Waters seated at a nearby booth. He held Mitchell’s glasses, putting them on his face, then taking them off. Putting them on, taking them off. “You know, I could’ve used a pair of these. I can see a lot better with them on. Now I know why you want ‘em back.”
“Just cheap ones,” said Mitch. “I bought ‘em across the street…” He pointed over to the five-and-dime. When he looked back, Hollice was gone. Only the glasses remained, left on the table for Mitch to retrieve. He crossed and picked them up, discovering them sticky with semicoagulated blood and strands of Hollice’s hair.
As if in no hurry at all, he dipped the glasses in a glass of water and wiped them clean with a napkin. Only then did he remember the alley. Connie was there. Waiting. The dream overwhelmed him with a sense of dread. He pushed through the crowded cafe to the rear, shouldering his way out the back door and into the alley, where Connie was screaming. He turned to the right, and lying in the exact spot where he’d been so soundly beaten, there was Connie, her dress pulled above her waist with Shakespeare upon her.
Like some animal, he was mauling her, all tongue and claws. His feet scratching at the dirt for traction. Then before Mitch could move, before he could bring himself to cover the short distance that would rescue his wife, a fist caught him from the rear and knocked him to the dirt. He quickly rolled to face his attacker. To see a face that he fully expected. Shakespeare McCann, of course. After all, it was a dream. He knew it was a dream. It was all making some kind of twisted sense. Connie was rescued. And now Shakes was, once again, upon him. Just like before. But the dust cleared and Mitchell’s eyes strained to focus without those cheap glasses. A face appeared. A face that owned the hand that struck him to the ground. Not Shakespeare’s, though. A face that proved far scarier.
The face belonged to Mitch! Candidate Mitch!
Mitch had tried to scream. He woke with a hacking cough and a burning in his throat. The acid in his stomach had washed up in an ulcerous tidal wave of spit. Connie had merely moaned and rolled to him, gently kissing his back. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he’d said. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
“Gonna run?”
“Yeah. Go back to sleep.” He’d patted her on the behind and crawled from bed. Thus the routine had commenced. The dogs. The jog.
And the dream? It stuck with him. Like classic movie scenes never to be forgotten, some dreams were meant to linger. But this nightmare. It gripped him by the throat, and strangled his concentration throughout another morning round of debate rehearsals. He appeared tired and unfocused. Badly in need of rest.
Fitz took him aside. “Getting sleep?”
“I’m okay.”
“I know you’re okay. I was just checking.” Then Fitz wrapped his arm over Mitchell’s neck in a mock hammerlock. “You’re gonna eat his lunch, you know that?”
The studio was small, donated by the local public TV station. Neutral territory, as Fitz had insisted. His negotiations with Marshall Lambeer had been cordial, phone talk. Marshall had an agenda, obviously fed to him by Shakespeare, while Fitz was free to arrange whatever kind of setup he thought would be beneficial to his candidate.
Format? Fitz gave that away. On the issues, Mitch was more than confident. So let the questions fly. What Fitz had worried about was what Rene liked to call the forum effect. In holding a televised debate in front of an audience, candidates are forced to play to a crowd. Candidates and their staffs were long known to pack these houses with rabble-rousers, known mostly for heckling the opposition into costly mistakes. It was undignified. And Mitch was the dignified candidate.
Whether it was dignified or not, Rene went ahead and delivered exactly as she’d promised, billing the debate as a must-see for potential voters. A civic battle royale. In a surprise media rush, she’d plied the day’s airwaves with a teasing buy. A blitzkrieg ten seconds of radio and TV that advertised the definitive answer to a voter’s choice: Dutton vs. McCann! The Man or the Sham? Tonight!
Local TV couldn’t resist the tease. By 5:00 p.m. the three other Cathedral stations clamoring for signal tie-in were granted access. Show time was at eight. All players were present. Let the party begin.
“Yeah. This oughta rock,” said a cameraman into his headset, the sarcasm dripping thickly as he focused on a two-shot of the stand-ins perched at podiums complete with children’s renderings of donkeys and elephants, winners in a contest held amongst Cathedral’s competing elementary schools.
“Try not to fall asleep, fellahs,” said the director from the booth. “We’re about to perform a public service.”
“Betcha the shit’s gonna flow. We shoulda worn our hip waders,” added another cameraman. All the crew were laughing at that one. Those headsets were like being plugged into their own private laugh line. That was until an unfamiliar voice came on from the booth, belonging to the station manager.
“Remember, gentlemen. One of these two men is gonna be your next congressman. And they’ll be voting on public TV grants,” said the boss over the intercom. “Do your paychecks a favor and make ‘em both look good.”
Fitz stumbled into Connie on his way to the makeup trailer. She’d been standing behind the sound baffles, waiting for someone she recognized. Instead, it seemed everyone had been looking at her. Red dress. Just enough leg to make a young man look, but distant enough for only a mature man to brave. Or a campaign manager. Fitz was quick to ease her with a warm smile. “Been a while, Connie. You look ravishing. Maybe we should put you on tonight. Give Mitch a break.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much,” she said. “I’ve been spending too much of the campaign at home.”
“Too exciting for you. I understand,” he said, trying hard not to sound patronizing. “Bet you’re looking for Mitch.”
“Actually, I was just wondering where I should sit.”
“Front row. Right behind the panel.” He offered his arm and escorted her up past the cameras to a small, foldout chair set four feet behind the press box with her name tagged on it. He’d handpicked that very seat, just so that every time the director cut to a question from the panel, Connie would be right there in the immediate background. “How’s this?”
“Fine, thanks. When does it start?”
He checked his watch. “Nine minutes now. Fasten your seat belt.” Then he was gone.
Connie watched him leave. She hadn’t wanted to come. That afternoon in a soft voice she’d asked Mitch if he’d mind if she watched the debate on TV. Mitch hadn’t heard her. And she hadn’t brought it up again, afraid she might choke on the words. She was surprised to discover her fear of telling Mitch about the rape was a far greater fear than seeing Shakespeare again.
The makeup room was a permanent trailer parked on cinder-block pilings outside the TV stage. A security guard stood post at the bottom step, smoking a cigarette.
“How’s it goin’?” asked Fitz as he started into the trailer.
“Looks like we got us a storm on the way.” The guard nodded toward the sky.
From the top step Fitz took a moment to check the sky. Sure enough. The usual southern twilight was obscured by encroaching cloud cover, boiling up from the Gulf. “Just as long as the roof doesn’t leak,” he said as he ducked into the trailer. Inside, the final touches of pancake makeup were being applied to the evening’s panel, Margot Wallace of the local National Public Radio station, and a print journalist from the Evening Breeze named Kevin McWorter—an eleventh-hour replacement for the media MIA, Hollice Waters.
The third chair was filled by Mitch. His conservative suit from Barney’s New York was bibbed to save it from messy makeup. And Rene was at her candidate’s ear, giving a last-minute pitch.
“Keep your knees bent and breathe,” she whispered. “Stay in the moment. You’re good in the moment. We both know that. Remember to listen, don’t leap. Say ‘thank you’ after you’re asked a question.”
“W
hat if I sweat like Nixon?” he joked.
“Don’t sweat,” she said simply. He looked at her in the mirror. She was cool. All business. Yesterday, a memory.
He turned to his interrogators. “You guys get a copy of those easy questions I wanted you to ask me?”
Margot laughed. “You mean the ones with the single-syllable words?”
“So you got ‘em. Great. Use those on McCann,” he quipped. Even the makeup artist laughed.
Fitz appeared in Mitch’s mirror view. “Where’s bachelor number two?”
“Somebody said he’s got his own makeup man and a rented Winnebago somewhere hereabouts,” said Rene.
“He must be nervous,” figured Fitz.
“No,” said Mitch. “He’s saving the handshake for the cameras.”
Shake hands and come out fighting.
Mitch started coughing, as if he’d inhaled a lungful of dust from behind the Mairzy Doats Café.
“You okay?” asked the makeup girl.
“Fine,” he coughed and then turned to Rene. “Water.”
She was already on the case, quickly filling a Dixie cup from the water cooler. She handed it to him. “Relax, sweetie. Calm.”
“I bet it was the hair spray,” offered the makeup girl.
“Five minutes,” said the director over the intercom speaker.
Fitz leaned down close to Mitch. “You ready, son?”
Mitch drained the Dixie cup, cleared his throat, then checked his look in the mirror.
“Lemme at him.”
FIVE
THE STUDIO lights burned. Thousands of watts poured onto the simple set, erasing any natural shadows except for those that would be underneath the candidates’ feet. For cleaner sound, the director in the booth ordered the air conditioning to be turned off. The room immediately began to cook. Ties were loosened and women in panty hose began to wonder why they’d worn them at all. It was sweltering, destined to be a contest as to who would melt first. Mitch or McCann?
The red light on camera two flashed on while a taped announcement played over the air:
“The League of Women Voters and the Cathedral Chamber of Commerce are proud to present this special debate forum. Tonight, candidates for the open seat in the House of Representatives’ Thirty-first Congressional District of Texas.”
At the tape’s end, the director called over his headset, “Cue the candidates.”
A stage manager cued Mitch to step out onto the stage while opposite him entered Shakespeare McCann, all smiles and hubris. The man’s hand outstretched in a gesture of friendship and fair play.
Shake hands and come out fighting.
In the glare of the lights, Mitch smiled and clasped Shakespeare’s hand, fully expecting a sort of schoolyard squeeze. Boys with vise grips. Instead, Shakespeare gave Mitch a sweaty palm and a grip like a wet rag. He’s nervous, said Mitch to himself, smelling blood in the water.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” spoke Kevin McWorter, already impaneled next to Margot Wallace. “Would you please take your podiums.”
Mitch eased over to his assigned space, grasping the podium as he’d rehearsed and facing his interviewers with his chin up. A glance over to Shakespeare revealed a mirror image of professional coaching.
Kevin McWorter continued, “Our format this evening consists of an opening statement from each of the candidates of two minutes apiece, followed by an open forum of questions and answers, finishing with two minutes apiece for closing statements. A coin toss has decided that the Republican candidate, Mr. Shakespeare McCann, shall go first. Mr. McCann.”
“Thank you. But I cordially yield to let Mr. Dutton speak his piece first.”
Yield? What is this? thought Mitch. Some kind of tactic. Or did McCann look as unprepared as his handshake might’ve revealed?
“Mr. Dutton?” asked Kevin McWorter.
On cue, and without much forethought, he simply turned to the camera with the red flashing light and began his opening statement. “Ladies and gentlemen. My name is Mitch Dutton. And I’m here not only as a candidate, but also as a concerned citizen who sees the great state of Texas straining at its limitations while ignoring its greatest assets. You. The people of Texas.”
As he continued, the cameras relaxed briefly and swiveled away from Shakespeare, who shuffled his colored three-by-five note cards into no apparent sort of order. Shakespeare scanned the room, then tossed friendly smiles over toward the panel, whom he’d not yet had an opportunity to meet. From them he got scant nods of acknowledgment. Then, in the semishadow behind them, he caught sight of the red dress. Connie. Dutifully watching her husband. Legs crossed. Arms crossed. Avoiding Shakespeare’s gaze.
Mitch went on. “More so than any other state, Texas is saddled with an immigration problem that the federal government has turned a blind eye toward with ineffective policies and an understaffed INS…”
But Shakespeare. Once his eyes had settled upon Connie, they would not release. He stared, flat and even. Dead on her as if from that twenty-five-foot distance he could reach across and prod her. Slap the bitch’s face.
I gave you a message for Mitch. Did you tell him? Bet you didn’t. Naw. I know you didn’t! Maybe I didn’t fuck you hard enough. Was that it? Maybe I shoulda left you black and blue. Left bruises for you to explain. Bet that woulda done the trick.
“As taxpayers, you are overburdened. As property owners, you are undervalued. As businesspeople, you are underwhelmed. And as teachers and health care providers, you are overwhelmed and in grave need of relief.”
Look at me, you cunt! You think you’re tough? You think you can keep a secret? Look at me!
Connie knew he was glaring at her. But prayed she was wrong as, with the slightest turn of her neck, she peeked Shakespeare’s way.
That’s right, honeypie. It’s me. Your handsome boogeyman. Look at me and tell me why.
Somehow, she was being drawn merely to see if it was really him. Really the same man who’d charmed her, drugged her, and crawled into her bed and so violated her. Dressed in a neat suit, hair combed, madeup, and ready to go on TV and charm the rest of the foolish county.
That’s it. It’s me. You remember, don’t you? How could you forget?
He was smiling at her now. That sick, twisted grin the cameras never seemed to catch. She shuddered, gathering herself up tighter within her arms. She tried once again to focus on Mitch.
“We need new ideas for better schools, a stronger economy, a safer community where you can rest your head and raise your children, with waste-free water and fresh air and a future filled with hope,” continued Mitch, tactfully addressing the camera, unaware of the game Shakespeare was playing with his wife.
When it’s my turn, bitch, will you listen to me? What would I have to do for you to look at me the way you look at him? Get a law degree? Make a pile of money to keep you in that big old house?
Connie snuck a look back at Shakespeare, whose gaze hadn’t wavered. He was sending her a message. What it was, she hadn’t a glimmer. She didn’t want to know. The best she could muster was a simply mouthed Fuck you.
You already did, honey. And you liked it!
“To the good people of South County, I’m not just asking for your vote tonight. I’m asking for your eyes, your ears, and a reasonable place in your heart to do what’s necessary to raise our own limits of possibility. You can do that on November third. I know you can. Thank you.”
“Mr. McCann?” cued Kevin McWorter.
The cameras swiveled, and with the simplest of expressions, Shakespeare dropped his evil gaze from Connie and turned to face the viewing audience with a look of wonder.
“Rich lawyers,” he said. “You can love ‘em. You can elect ‘em. But you can’t trust ‘em.” He turned to face Mitch, already on the attack. “Counselor, I applaud your opening ditty. You’re awful slick, but so is that pigpen called Washington. You know how many lawyers they got there? Thousands, by my count. And I say to the good people out there in TV land, w
ho think handsome is as handsome does. I say lawyer is as lawyer does. And one wrong vote…” He let the implication hang for a slow moment. He smiled broadly at Mitch, then looked at his watch. “Now, if my watch is correct, according to the rules, I got me a minute and a half more of opening statement. Tell you what, Counselor. I’ll concede the entire debate in exchange for an answer to a simple question.”
McCann twisted like a defensive back waiting to tackle. “I want Mr. Dutton to tell us how much the average working mother should expect to pay for a dozen large eggs.”
Mitch froze at the trick question. It’d been years since he’d done the shopping. It was Connie’s domain. And when she couldn’t, he had his assistant pick up groceries.
“Is mat your approach to the issues?” he deflected. “A dozen eggs?”
“You think it’s a silly question?”
“I do, yes.”
“I’m sure the voters who scrape every week to feed their families don’t think so.”
Mitch looked to Margot Wallace.
“Mr. Dutton. The format does not require you to answer the question,” she said.
“No,” he said. “I’ll answer.”
“So let’s hear it,” said Shakespeare, arms crossed and waiting.
“The Republican candidate will forgive me. I live in a traditional household. And my wife buys the groceries. But I would expect a dozen eggs would run about a dollar twenty-five.”
“Try two and a quarter,” said Shakespeare. “In my opinion, that makes you, the rich lawyer, nearly eighty-five percent out of touch with the average American family.” He swerved to face the camera. “Good and fair people of Cathedral, my name is Shakespeare McCann and I’m seeking office in the U.S. House of Commons. That means House of the common man. My opponent just proved that he is anything but common. But what should we expect? He’s a lawyer.
“Me?” he continued. “I’m just your common South County businessman. And where I create jobs for this community, what does a lawyer do but steal a piece of the action? He creates nothing. He produces nothing. He’s antimorality. He’s antifamily. And he and his big-business supporters want to send more of your manufacturing jobs overseas or south of the border, leaving y’all with barely a minimum wage to pay your mortgage and feed your children.”
Dark Horse Page 32
