by Ed Gorman
Somewhere during all this Kate came to the office. She’d spent the morning with Warren at a breakfast fund-raiser, then accompanied him on an inner-city school visit. Warren was very good with kids. And most of them took to him. If it were earlier in the election I’d have seen this visit as a photo op. But we were past that now. Now was the time when both sides took off the scabbards and went in heavy for disemboweling each other.
When it was just about time for a lunch break, Kate shared with us, as she did so often, new photos of her daughter, who, at three years of age, was a gleaming being of otherworldly splendor. Just like her mom. For all Kate’s fashion and record of breaking hearts, only her daughter truly seemed to matter to her. But as wonderful as these moments were for Kate, they were miserable for me. I always thought of how much time I’d spent away from my own daughter and wife. The man who’d fathered Kate’s child, whom she’d met on a fling in London, hadn’t been the type she’d wanted as a husband or as a father. She had no resentment of him. She preferred being a single mother anyway.
After the photo display with all the oohs and ahhs, Kate came over to me at my desk. I’d turned back to work. She put her hand on my shoulder. “How’re you doing?”
I put my hand over hers. “Better than I should be, given the internals.”
She leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “You’re a good man, Dev. I wish you’d let yourself believe that once in a while. You judge a lot of people, but you judge yourself harshest of all.” Then to cover that sticky compliment, she turned to the eavesdropping group and said, “Dev gave me one of his speeches yesterday about what a royal shit he is. But he’s a good man, isn’t he?”
Billy led the applause. My cheeks got warm. Laura knew how to whistle real loud and man she did so real loud right then.
“Thank you, everybody. And thank you especially to Kate, who bullied you into it.”
Everybody laughed and then started hurrying out the door to lunch.
I called our oppo group and spoke with a man named Neal Walsh. He was the one who’d found our secret weapon. I’d asked him to get me printed evidence of what he was claiming.
“It wasn’t easy, Dev. But I got the page we need.”
“And there’s no doubt about it.”
“None. In fact I got two different pages. You’ll see what they are. I’d rather not discuss them over the phone.”
“Can you overnight them to me?”
“They’re already on their way. You think you’ll use them?”
“I’m drinking Maalox trying to decide.”
“You run the idea past Nichols?”
“I’m meeting him for lunch in half an hour.”
“It’d take some balls. But the beauty is, it’s mixed in with so many other things, we can always claim that we didn’t realize the significance of it. You know, we thought what was interesting was another bit of information on the page.”
“Yeah. But my gut’s still in knots.”
“Well, you can always not use it. I mean, I know the risk here. Pols overshoot all the time and the public feels sorry for the other guy.”
“Exactly. Anyway, Neal, thanks. Talk to you later.”
I was getting ready to go when Teresa came in. She was wearing a brown suede coat, a white blouse, a rust-colored skirt, and brown leather boots that came to her knees. With her blond hair combed out, she resembled one of those older models who always attract me far more than the anorexic nineteen-year-olds.
“I stopped by for some flyers. I’m visiting hospitals this afternoon. There are voters there, too.” She smiled. “I’ll hit every floor except the morgue.”
“Maybe a couple of them aren’t really dead.”
“I guess I don’t have to ask about your taste in movies, Dev.”
She walked around, touching desks and chairs as she did so. “God, Dev, how many campaigns have you and I been through? And you’re not even forty-five yet. If you asked me for a count, I couldn’t tell you. They all blur together.”
“I’m starting to get that way myself. A blur. This is all I’ve done since I was in high school.”
She smiled. “I remember you told me one night that you got into politics to get laid. Did that ever come true for you?”
“Only twice. And I had to use a gun and a bag of cash both times.”
She smiled again. “That sounds like something Phil would have said. He knew how charming it was for a man of his looks and wealth to be self-effacing. When we first met him we both thought it was just an affectation. That he was really this arrogant rich guy who was sleeping his way through the Gold Coast. But when we got to know him, we knew he was being sincere.” She tried to put a twinkle in her next words and she came close. But not close enough. “He was like you, Dev. He hated himself.”
“I don’t hate myself.”
“Sure you do. You won’t admit it to yourself, but you do. You think you’re a very bad guy. And Phil was that way.” She laughed. “My husband could use a little bit of that.”
“And speaking of your husband, I need to go meet him for lunch.” I got my coat. As I was shrugging into it I said, “You knew Wylie pretty well. Did he really have a reason to kill himself?”
“If he was drinking—which he did more and more I’m told, we’d lost touch with him after he left—he’d get despondent sometimes. Again it was mysterious to everybody around him. What could a man like him have to be despondent about? But it was always with him if you knew how to recognize it. People said he loved to laugh and he did, but when you watched his eyes they never seemed to be happy.” She took a deep breath, exhaled. “That was a long answer and not helpful in any way. To answer your question, Dev, knowing what I know of him, he probably was suicidal deep down. But you make it sound as if it might not have been suicide. Or you’re hinting at that, anyway.”
“Not really. It’s just that everything I’ve heard about him—all the glamour, I guess—it just seems odd that he’d kill himself. That’s all. If the police and the ME say suicide, so be it. What the hell do I know?”
She walked up to me and gave me my second kiss for the morning. Right about the same spot on the cheek Kate had planted hers.
I held the door for her and we walked out to our respective cars together.
Clean, soft breeze that touched the face lovingly, filled the nostrils with air that wouldn’t dare be full of pollutants but likely was anyway.
“You have any idea who Wylie was seeing lately?”
She cast her eyes to the right of me, into the middle distance, as if balancing the effects of telling me or not telling me. “Maybe I’d better not say.”
“Now there’s an answer.”
“What does it matter, Dev? He’s dead. Why drag somebody else into it?”
“You’re protecting somebody.”
“Yes. Somebody I value very much.” She moved toward her Volvo. “I need to go.”
“Teresa, I’m not happy about this.” Then I said, “Why did Phil and Warren have their falling-out?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure myself. All I know is that they went drinking one night and Warren came home with a bloody mouth. And the next time I saw Phil in the office he was packing up his things. And he had a black eye. I asked both of them what happened and they both said that they’d just had a disagreement over policy matters.”
“And you believed them?”
“Of course I didn’t believe them. But it didn’t seem that important. People come and go all the time in political campaigns.”
“But they were friends. Good friends, from what I hear. That’s different than ending a business relationship.”
She opened the door of her car. “Well, maybe you can get Warren to tell you the truth. I couldn’t. And poor Phil’s beyond helping anybody. He obviously couldn’t even help himself. I’ll talk to you later, Dev. I need to get going.”
“Why did you and Phil Wylie part company?”
I thought he might gag on the Perrier he’d just started to swallow
. He gulped it down and said, “We’re falling behind in the election and you want to talk about Phil Wylie? What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Fair question, isn’t it?”
“Sure it’s fair. But since we met here at my club, I thought we were going to talk serious business. Not the past.”
The club was one of those old-fashioned men’s deals where all the leather chairs squeaked and the fireplaces blazed even in summer, the way Nixon’s did in the White House of his years. Why Robert R. McCormick himself, old robber baron and longtime right-wing power behind the Tribune, had probably farted in the very chair I was sitting in now. I was having the salmon and Warren was having the chicken salad.
“So what happened?”
“What happened was very simple. We had a disagreement over policy.”
“What policy was that?”
“What the hell is this, Dev?” A passing waiter gave us a look. Warren leaned forward, spoke in a lower voice. “It was over affirmative action. He thought I should push it harder, I didn’t. It was a stupid argument, really. But it got heated and he said a lot of things he’d been wanting to say and then I said a lot of things I’d been wanting to say and all of a sudden it was all gone. Our friendship, our working relationship, and any trust we had in each other. It was painful as hell, believe me. I loved the guy and I think he loved me. He was my best friend. And it was over and it was irreparable and we both knew it. Now, is that good enough?” He sat back in his chair, angry. “It started out very much like this conversation, Dev. He pushed me too hard and I exploded and then I pushed him too hard and he exploded. Now, is that good enough for you?”
“Yes.”
He laughed. “Good. Because I was about to put those vaunted boxing skills of yours to the test.”
“Yeah, that’s all we need this week, a candidate with a busted nose and bruises all over his face.”
“You’ve got a lot of confidence for somebody approaching middle age.”
“I still work out on the bag two or three times a week. I can handle myself. Nothing more. Now, let’s get down to business.”
The waiter came. We turned him down on dessert but both requested small glasses of wine. While we waited I reminded him of what Walsh had come up with a while back.
“I thought that was pretty much off the table. Too risky.”
“All I’m saying is there’s a way to bring it up.”
“And how would that be?”
“His new commercial implies that you’re not physically fit enough to stand for office. So we challenge him to release his total medical history. And we’ll reveal yours.”
He grinned. “That is some pretty devious shit.”
I grinned back. “It sure is.”
“You really think we should risk it?”
“If we make the challenge, then we have ourselves a new issue. We know he can’t afford to release it because if he does, then his records will show that Mr. Family Values was treated for gonorrhea three years ago. So he can’t release it, but we release yours and then start hammering on him twenty-four/seven to release his. And of course somehow somebody in our office will let it slip that Lake had a problem a few years back. And the press’ll be all over him.”
“I really appreciate how you fight for me.”
I said it in such a way that he might finally understand it and quit flattering himself that I was his champion. “It’s your voting record, Warren. Personally I think you’re a piece of shit.”
He gave a little start and said, “Well, fuck you.”
“You lie to everybody around you. Nobody is ever sure what’s going on with you. And I’m tired of it. Damned tired of it.”
His face was flushed with real rage. “You think I have to sit here and listen to this shit?”
The passing waiter did a double take this time. So did the gentlemen sitting at the small tables in the center of the restaurant area.
Our voices dropped again.
“Yeah,” I said, “I know you have to sit here and listen to this shit because I’m the only hope you have. And if you don’t know that, you’re dumber than I think you are. And that story you told me about Phil Wylie? No way, pal. I buy the fact that you had an argument that ended your relationship. But it sure as hell didn’t start out over some small policy point. It was about something that meant something to both of you on a personal level. And I’m going to find out what it was.”
“What if I insist that you stop wasting time on Phil?”
“Then fire me, Warren. I’ve already told you I’m quitting the day after the election. If you want to fire me now, fine.”
“What the hell brought this on?”
“Are you crazy? What the hell do you think brought it on? I’m waiting for some piece of information you haven’t given me to blow us out of the water. To hear it mentioned at a Jim Lake press conference. You just don’t grasp the concept of trust, Warren. Not on a personal level or a professional one.”
I stood up and threw my cloth napkin on the table.
“I’ve got things to do. I’ll talk to you later. Right now I’m too sick of your face to sit here anymore.”
CHAPTER 23
My cell bleated just as I swung into the headquarters’ parking lot. Billy said: “Beth got sentimental this morning. Wanted to stop by her father’s office. The woman down the hall, this exporter, said that she’s been holding some of Greaves’s mail. I put it on your desk.”
“I appreciate that, Billy.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Beth. It made me look bad when you just showed up at her apartment. I’m just glad I still have a job.”
The mail turned out to be junk with one exception, a bill from something called Shadows, International, which was pretty damned melodramatic for a Chicago firm that had bought the cheapest envelopes and letterhead I’d ever seen. Not only was the paper already yellowed, it was also streaked down the center with a printing malfunction of some kind.
Shadows, International sent Greaves a bill for $425.17 for “client observation.” That meant following somebody—hence, being someone’s “shadow.” Clever. The dates of this observation put the work done at two weeks previous. The “client” who was followed was not listed. The bill was signed in sprawling fashion by “Kenny Tully.” I had no idea who he was, but now I had his address and phone number. The rest of Greaves’s stuff I pitched in the wastebasket.
Gabe was first back from lunch. “Just caught the new Lake TV spot. You were right. Same audio track. Visually they’re not that impressive.”
“No, but they do the job.”
“Lake’s a scary guy.”
This was something Gabe would say. But was he saying it now to cover the fact that he’d stiffed Warren’s Diet Pepsi in order to stop Warren from winning?
He sat down at his computer.
I tried the number of Shadows, International. I got a scratchy answering machine. I didn’t leave a name or number.
Laura came in wearing a new tailored gray coat. She even modeled it, giving us a twirl. “I decided to treat myself.”
“You done good,” Gabe said.
“You sure did.”
“Thanks, guys. I appreciate being appreciated.”
This should have been said happily. But the tone was somber. I remembered her tears of the other night. Her great grief. Because it had come so soon after Warren’s performance at the debate, I wondered if she’d been part of it in some way. Stupid, yes, but I had to suspect everybody because only somebody close to Warren could have done it.
Midafternoon I got the call I’d been waiting for. Money was being sent from Washington to our campaign. We’d have what we would need for the final two weeks. I should have run down to the liquor store and come back with three bottles of champagne. But my lunchtime anger at Warren was still with me. I was sick of him. I just wanted the campaign to be over. I wanted him to win because people like Lake needed to be stopped.
By four o’clock I’d tr
ied Shadows, International three times in all and got the answering machine each time. I was thinking of driving over there when our door opened up and Detective Sayers, the dapper black gentleman, walked in. He didn’t need to say anything. He just nodded at me. I got up and walked over to the coat tree. “I’m finishing up for the day,” I told everybody.
They were all watching Detective Sayers. They didn’t know his name, but they certainly knew his profession. He had that unmistakable cop air of superiority and impatience. I followed him out the door. “Anyplace we can sit down and have some coffee?”
“Right down the street.”
The coffee shop closed at six. They didn’t get a rush-hour business. The counter man was already cleaning the grill. The place had that lonely closing-up feeling.
Sayers had coffee and a bagel. “This’ll be dinner until about nine o’clock. You having anything?”
“Just the coffee. I’ll be having a five-star meal in about forty-five minutes or so. Unless you’re planning to put me in jail.”
I assumed that would draw some kind of humorous response from him. It didn’t. And that bothered me.
We started in on our respective coffees and he said, “How long have you known Nichols?”
“Any particular reason you’re asking?”
“You know how uniformed people have ticket quotas? They have to hand out so many for a time period?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, detectives have question quotas. We have to ask so many a day or we get our asses kicked when we get back to the cop shop.”
“Makes sense to me. And you guys should get your asses kicked a lot more than once a day.”
“So how long have you known him?”
“He’s been a client of the place where I work for a long time. Ten years at least. I’ve worked with him off and on for five, six years. Why?”
“You trust him?”
“He’s a politician.”
“That’s cute but it’s not an answer.”
“I trust him, yes. I wish I knew why you were asking me these questions.”
“You were with him in the dressing room when his drink was queered, right?”
