“Thank you, Mr. McCann,” interrupted Margot Wallace.
“One last thing,” he rolled on. “Y’all have no job security, health security, or Social Security. When we stop letting government in our lives, the better off we’ll all be.”
“Thank you—”
“America’s economy is like a patient with walking pneumonia. He’s out of bed, but he ain’t doin’ so good.”
“Time’s up, Mr. McCann. Now can we please start?” pressed Margot.
“Just gettin’ warmed up, ma’am.”
Mitch, who’d patiently been waiting for the smoke to clear, stepped up to his mike. “Since Dr. McCann’s informed us all as to the state of our poor and lacking health, it might prove helpful if he’d show us his medical diplomas before recommending surgery.”
“All right, gentlemen,” said an exasperated Margot Wallace. “Our first question is for Mr. McCann. Let’s go to your opening statement. You just referred to Washington as a pigpen. Lobby reform has long been an issue that Capitol Hill has refused to engage. If elected, how would you vote on lobby reform if it affected, let’s say, the liquor industry? And how would you balance that against a congressman’s power to induce a corporation to build its newest brewery in your district, thus creating a thousand new jobs?”
“Well, that would depend on the brand of beer they were cookin’,” quipped Shakespeare, eliciting a room full of laughter. “Margot, let me first say that I don’t drink. Those days are long over, though I don’t deny anybody’s legal right to the occasional nip as long as they’re not driving a car or running for high office.” More laughs.
He turned serious. “As for your question about dirty, sneaking lobbyists out to corrupt our once fair government? I say throw the scalawags out of Washington and make ‘em go get real jobs. We got jobs enough to go around down here if we just gave the Immigration Department a good kick in the behind. None of which excludes the liquor companies from building a plant down here, anyway. If it’s good for Cathedral, bring ‘em on. Who needs a lobbyist for that? Our primary problem as a community is how to create taxpayers. And you create taxpayers by building strong companies with American workers.”
“Mr. Dutton?” asked Margot. “Would you like to respond?”
Mitch, having recovered from the lousy start, turned to face Shakespeare, waiting for his peripheral vision to catch the cue from the camera’s red light. “You know, it’s awful hard to win an argument when your opponent is utterly unencumbered with the facts.” Then he smiled. “But I’ll try anyway. Mr. McCann? You ever hear of Arkansas?”
“Sure I have.”
“Well, what Ms. Wallace is referring to is Budweiser and the plant they wanted to build in Cathedral City, only to lose out to Little Rock when they were able to offer greater tax incentives and postpone sewer levies for a period of time until the plant was in profit.” Mitch made a professional acknowledgment to the camera, then finished his answer looking straight across at Margot Wallace.
He went on to explain what he thought was wrong with lobbyists, then turned, looked back over to Shakespeare, and dropped his patented camera-ready style in exchange for a slight down-home kind of Texas twang. “In other words, when you’re up to your behind in alligators, it’s hard to remember that your original plan was to drain the swamp.”
There it was, a folksy little salvo fired right up into McCann territory. A torpedo shot that, when the TV director called for a two-shot, seemed to catch Shakespeare by surprise. The homilies were McCann’s domain. Slick and substance were for the other guy. Mitch Dutton. The Democrat went on with his rebuttal. “We live in a free market. Business should be free to promote itself to a government free of corruption. Instead, we are governed by a Congress that will not govern itself. For example, that’s why I’ve cut from the national Democratic platform and endorsed term limits. The professionals in Washington are no longer the businessmen. They’re the members of Congress themselves. I’m advocating that politics return as a moral and spiritual awakening to public service. That’s my plan.”
“Would you go as far as setting your own term limits as a congressman?” asked Margot in a follow-up.
“I would. I plan to spend no more than eight years in office. I have a life here in Cathedral,” answered Mitch, nodding toward Connie. “I don’t want to grow old on a farm in Virginia.”
“May I say something?” interjected Shakespeare.
“You have one minute to respond, Mr. McCann,” answered Kevin McWorter.
“That was a nice speech, Counselor. But who says once you’re in office, you’re gonna get a free ride for eight years? Congress, if I remember the rule book, is a two-year deal that a fellah makes with Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public. That means, if you ain’t pullin’ the freight, the voters out there can pull your meal ticket just about anytime they dam well think it’s a good idea. And that’s the way it should be!”
In the green room, Rene and Fitz were fixed on the studio feed monitor. “You can see the coaching,” she said. “Just watch McCann. He’s about to go iambic.”
Sure enough. Shakespeare started punching at the air with his index finger, like a conductor counting the beats of a verbal symphony.
“If elected, all I can do is promise to make some waves in the name of God, Cathedral, and the Great State of Texas. And if the good people who put me there don’t see me makin’ headway in the first two years, they got the God-given right and privilege to hand me my walkin’ papers and send me packin’!”
“He looks like a forehead artery stuffed into a gray suit,” dissed Fitz before diving into his breast pocket for the cell phone. He flipped it open and dialed Murray to see what the focus group was thinking.
Miles away, in a meeting room at the Cathedral City Holiday Inn, Murray had corralled fifteen undecided voters who knew nothing of Murray or his affiliation with the Dutton camp. For the promise of free pizza and twenty dollars, the focus group agreed to watch and score the debate in three-minute segments.
“Time,” he would call out, and each of the participants would pass to the right a preprinted card that read either “Dutton” or “McCann.” Murray would score the rounds like a professional boxing match.
Afterwards, a discussion, the free pizza, and doling out those twenty-dollar bills. Murray’s phone rang. He picked up, knowing it could only be Fitz. “How’s it goin’?”
“So far so good,” answered Murray.
“Scores?”
“Opening statements were six to nine, McCann. The next two were eight to seven, Mitch. Then the last was eight to seven, McCann.”
“Bullshit! Except for that hattrick at the gun, Mitch is cleaning the little bastard’s clock! Did you score that termlimits question?”
“I’m just reading you what I got.”
“I’ll call back.” Fitz flipped the phone back up and pocketed it, switching his attention back to the green room monitor where Mitch was giving a practiced answer to a question from Kevin McWorter.
“You know, Kevin,” said Mitch, calling up the same catalogued answer from the studio rehearsal, “when I think of African-American or minority role models of any kind, I think of the better than seventy percent of those minority men and women who get up every day, pack lunches for their children, and head off to a job that pays a mortgage or a babysitter. Those are the role models of today. To offer up the likes of some fallen sports or music personality is an insult to all those good people who earn their keep day in and day out.”
Kevin McWorter turned to Shakespeare. “Mr. McCann. You have two minutes to respond.”
“You know what? I’ll yield my two minutes in exchange for some straight answers from my opponent,” fired Shakespeare in a not-so-generous-sounding gibe. “I wanna know who’s a role model? Last July you cashed a thousand-dollar check from Jamal La Croix. A man who we all remember led a mob of black hoodlums that tore a hole right through the center of our precious tourist industry. Now, my question is, who wants to be the role model? So
unds like you do, Counselor. In Congress. On Capitol Hill. Consorting with the desperate likes of Jesse Jackson and Louie Farrakhan.”
“It sounds like you’re doggin’ me, Mr. McCann.”
“Call it what you want, Mr. Dutton.”
Again Mitch flavored his response with some tangy Texas barbecue. “Well, let me first say that my daddy taught me never to stand between a dog and a fire hydrant.”
Back in the green room, Fitz howled. Nobody had seen that coming. Only Mitch, who’d saved the line, set it up, and let go with it at the opportune moment. The candidate knew the TV cameras had him in close-up, so he took a moment to return to his classic pose before moving on to the meat of his answer.
Mitch continued, “Secondly, from your characterization, one would infer that I invited Jamal La Croix to endorse my campaign. Whereas the answer to that question is, obviously, no.”
Shakespeare mocked. “Whereas and infer.”
But Mitch continued, “I did not invite the endorsement, nor did I ever give it credence and acknowledge it. We returned the money. Still, if your characterization was correct, I might infer that you invited the Ku Klux Klan, The American Nazi Party, and other white supremacist organizations, all of whom have publicly committed to your campaign, to endorse you.”
Shakespeare wheeled to face the camera, waiting for the cue of the red light. “I have never been a member or accepted money from any racist groups. And I resent that you might imply otherwise, Counselor! My question was legitimate and pertained to the man who led the riot which ravaged our city. Good, innocent people were either injured or murdered. And the best you can manage is a smug ‘I returned the money.’”
With that, he swung Mitch an accusatory look. That’s when Mitch saw it. The sweat. Upper-lip sweat. Nerve sweat, bleeding through the thick makeup that was there to protect against such occurrences. Sweat creased Shakespeare’s eyebrows, leaked from his temples. A deadly giveaway the TV cameras would not be able to hide.
Shakespeare’s jugular was exposed. All Mitch needed was the blade to cut it. And then the words came. “Role model,” he said. “If that is the heart of your question, then yes. I would like to be a role model. I’ve lived and worked in this community my entire life. I am a property owner. I am a taxpayer. I am a loving husband. I serve on the boards of numerous charitable organizations. And during this campaign, I have stood by my convictions to my own detriment. In other words, I’m an open book. Yet opposite me, we have a man who stands only on what he says. Not on what he does. Who he is or where he’s been. He’s more like a mystery novel. Turn another page and there’s a new twist. Another tale. And when he talks, all we know for sure is that his mouth is moving.”
“Now, that’s just a damned lie,” said Shakespeare in a sparked response.
“In the case of Mr. Shakespeare McCann,” hammered Mitch, “the only thing to scratch is the surface.”
Shakespeare tried to save himself. “With all respect to your party’s mascot, Mr. Dutton, any ol’ jackass knows how to kick down a barn. But only a carpenter can build one. Jesus, I might add, was just the kind of carpenter I was thinking of—”
Margot Wallace interrupted the verbal brawl. “Mr. McCann. We would like your response to the next question.”
“But I want to respond to this slander. We’re on TV,” he shot.
“I’d have to say no,” she said. “The format requires questions and response.”
“Forget the format. Voters don’t care about format. They care about action and words. Ain’t that right?” Shakespeare was reeling. Pumped up, poking his fingers in the air. “Now, in front of all the good people out there, this man has questioned my character. When, in actual fact, I know that just moments ago, he lied to y’all.”
“Can we please have another question?” asked Mitch.
“Just hold your horses, Counselor. You got somethin’ to answer to here. Just moments ago I heard you call yourself a loving husband. Am I correct?”
Mitch didn’t respond. He saw what was coming and held against the impulse to look at Connie.
But in the green room, Rene bit her lip. “Oh shit.” Shakespeare knew about her and Mitch. And he was about to tell the entire fucking viewing audience.
“He wouldn’t dare,” countered Fitz. He wasn’t sure about Rene and Mitch. But he knew about her. And had been suspect for months.
“Oh yes he would,” she said, stepping closer to the monitor. For the first time in years, she found herself praying.
On the TV screen they watched Shakespeare, in a wide two-shot, look at the camera while pointing a finger at Mitch. “When I know for a fact that my opponent’s employed women on his campaign staff for the express purpose of—”
The studio power failed. Lights out. The cameras off. Five full seconds passed before the stand-by generators kicked in and washed the soundstage in the white harshness of thousand-watt safety lights.
Outside, the brewing storm had enveloped the TV station. The squall pushed through the streets and alleyways, bending phone and power lines.
Fitz and Rene broke from the green room for the soundstage, where crew and technicians were rushing about trying to retrieve some power and signal. Entering from the rear, they caught Mitch and Shakespeare circling each other, the distance between them dwindling. “Ding ding. Saved by the bell. Huh, Counselor?”
“Better have proof of the stones you cast,” warned Mitch.
Shakespeare got hissing close to Mitch. “He who attacks need only to vanquish. He who defends can do nothing more than merely survive.” Then he pointed at Mitch. “I don’t need any proof. All I gotta do is look at you and I know!”
“You don’t know anything.”
“What? You gonna sue me? We both know libel and slander laws don’t apply to politics. So I’ll say what I will. It won’t matter a whit after November third.”
Shakespeare was blotting his wet face with a piece of white cotton cloth, smiling as if to ease the sudden tension. “Got in some good shots. I’ll give you that. Looks to me like you worked yourself a good sweat.”
When Shakespeare reached out to dab Mitch’s face for him, Mitch swatted his hand away. The bunched cloth unfurled, falling to the floor at Mitch’s feet.
Panties.
Shakespeare kneeled and picked them up, once again offering them to Mitch. “I thought I might return these.”
“What?”
“The panties. They belong to your missus.”
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be somethin’ for the newspapers. I fuck her. Then you fuck me.”
Mitch reached out and snatched the panties. At first inspection they were only women’s underwear smudged with flesh-colored makeup. They could’ve been anybody’s.
Shakespeare moved closer. “I’ve been there. In your house. Upstairs and to the right. Double doors. Green curtains. View of the backyard.”
Mitch threw the panties back at him. It was a sick game and he wanted none of it.
“Fine. Don’t believe me.” Shakespeare fired a subtle nod toward Connie’s seat. “Just look at her. She’ll tell you everything. All you have to do is ask.”
“Get out of my face—” Mitch shoved him “—you sociopathic sonofabitch.”
“You screw around on her. She screws around on you. I mean, fair’s fair, am I right? Shouldn’t hurt none.”
“That’s right. It doesn’t hurt. That’s because it’s bullshit.”
“A woman’s truth is in the eyes. So look at her. I dare you.”
Oh, Mitch wanted to. But even more, he didn’t want to turn his back on Shakespeare. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. A battle of instincts raged within Mitch that left him paralyzed.
A bell sounded and the studio lights ignited in a blazing flood. The frozen moment melted as quickly as it had begun. As if awaking from a dream, there was Shakespeare standing only two feet away, looking over Mitch’s shoulder toward the panel’s seats. The sweat had vanished.
Control had returned along with that twisted smile.
“Going back to air,” shouted the stage manager after getting instructions from the booth. “Ten seconds. Candidates to their podiums.”
Shakespeare gave Mitch a friendly wink and headed back to his place. But Mitch didn’t move a muscle. The stage manager appeared at Mitch’s side. “Mr. Dutton. Five seconds to air.”
He walked Mitch back to his mark. Bunched in Mitch’s hand, those panties. He was afraid to look at Connie. What would be in her eyes? Truth? Hate? Goddammit, Mitch was confused.
“Three, two, one,” called the stage manager, and they were back on signal, broadcasting to thousands of interested homes.
Kevin McWorter didn’t miss a beat. “Our apologies to our viewers and candidates. I guess Mother Nature feels she has a vote in this election, too. To resume our debate format, Margot Wallace had a question concerning the issue of the candidates’ campaigns.”
“Thank you, Kevin,” started Margot. “Mr. McCann. Your campaign has been criticized by your opponent as largely negative and without any social merit. How then would you define your campaign?”
“Glad you asked, Margot,” said Shakespeare. “Ya see, I’m the dark-horse candidate. And that means I’m the little fellah who never had a snowball’s chance in hell of bein’ up in front of y’all tonight except for the good graces of some hardworkin’ folks who saw a need for an alternative voice. We call it the new, populist conservatism of the heart.”
He droned on, comparing his life to some unseen Norman Rockwell painting, and leaving Mitch off-camera to brave a look at Connie. Right over Margot Wallace’s shoulder, Connie sat in the space between stage light and studio shadows. Red dress. Dark hair. Tear stained makeup running down her face. Lower lip quivering as she mouthed to Mitch a simple, I’m sorry.
Dark Horse Page 33
