by Ross Thomas
Shartelle thought a moment. “I don’t, Sir Charles. All I know is how people react. I think I know what they want because I believe everyone wants essentially the same thing—a sense of being, if you get right down to it. I’m betting a reputation that I’ve taken considerable pains to build that people, given a choice, will choose what will cause them the least pain. No majority that I’ve ever known of has voted for personal sacrifice. It may have ended up that way, but they didn’t vote for it to begin with. No, they vote for those candidates who they think will cause them the least pain—either economic or social or emotional.”
Blackwelder nodded. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Pragmatic, to say the least.” He rose. The interview was over. “If there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please let me know.” He moved around the desk to shake hands with us. “I can only give you one word of advice, gentlemen. Don’t stay in Albertia too long. West Africa, especially Albertia, has a way of getting into a man’s blood. It’s an unlovely spot, God knows, although during the harmattan it’s not bad farther north. Cooler, you know. But there’s something about this country that creeps into the very marrow and keeps drawing one back. Ju-ju, perhaps—eh, Ian?” Duncan smiled dutifully. “Well, goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” we said. Sir Charles Blackwelder walked behind his carved oak desk and sat down. When we reached the door, I glanced back. He didn’t seem to have much to do.
Once outside, Duncan offered cigarettes which both Shartelle and I accepted. “Haven’t seen the old boy so talkative in weeks,” Duncan said. “I’m glad you chaps could drop around—although Upshaw here doesn’t do much talking.”
“He’s just courteous to his elders, Mr. Duncan,” Shartelle said.
“Well, I suppose you’ll be wanting to get back or I’d invite you to have a cup of tea.”
Shartelle glanced at his watch. “We have an appointment at eleven-thirty. We’ll make it another time.”
Duncan walked us to the Rolls-Royce where the same liveried driver held the door. We said goodbye and shook hands. The driver closed the door with a solidly-satisfying Rolls- Royce thunk and ran around to the wheel. We started the drive back home. Shartelle gave his usual close attention to the street scene. “I gotta get down here, Pete, and sort of sniff around. Get too far away from it sitting out there in the house. Got to josh around with them, find out what they’re thinking.”
“Do it this afternoon. I’m going to be writing.”
“Might. Might just.”
“Wonder what Dekko wants?”
“Reassurance, probably. Just a little conversation.”
“Maybe he’ll stay for lunch.”
Shartelle grunted. “Ought to give the man more credit than that.”
“You’re right.”
Although we were back at the house by a quarter-past eleven, Chief Dekko was already there, comfortably seated in one of the chairs, a glass of squash in his hand. He had on a fresh set of robes. This time they were orange with white embroidery.
Shartelle watched the Rolls drive away, a little regretfully, I thought. “They do it up nice, don’t they, Pete?” he had said on the way back. “You and me walking down that long, long room to where that nice old man sat behind that fancy desk. And that aide-de-camp just bellering out our names like we were junketing senators. You could have heard him over in the next county. I like it. I swear I shouldn’t, but I like it.”
“All we needed was a little music when we started down the room.”
“Maybe ‘Dixie’ played in march time with a big brass section.”
“I’d settle for that.”
Dekko rose when we came into the living room and gave us a warm smile. “I am early and you are on time. That is good. How was Sir Charles?”
“He looked well, Chief,” Shartelle said.
“How does he think the election is going—or did he offer an opinion?”
“He asked us more than we asked him, I’d say. He didn’t seem to have spotted any trend—one way or other.”
Dekko nodded his big, fine head. “I was talking to Chief Jenaro last night after he left you. I understand that you have arranged for two helicopters so that the Leader and I may visit more villages and towns.”
“And separately,” Shartelle said. “You’re running for Premier of the Western Region. Wouldn’t do much good if Chief Akomolo went to the center and became Federal Premier unless you had your own spot carved out here in the West.”
Dekko nodded. “Then you think I should confine myself exclusively to the West?”
“No. Now I don’t mean to flatter you, Chief, nor do I mean any disrespect for Chief Akomolo, but you make a hell of a fine appearance, one that will help the ticket in general. I want you to get as much exposure as you can. That’ll mean a dozen, maybe fifteen speeches a day.” He smiled at the big Albertian. “I think you’re stout enough to stand that for six weeks.”
“Now about the speeches—” Dekko began.
“Pete?”
“You’ll have a basic speech tomorrow morning,” I said. “This will be written especially for you—tailored to your style and method of talking or speaking. If read in its entirety, it should take approximately an hour. But it will be so written that sections of it can be used as five-minute, fifteen-minute, and half-hour speeches. You’ll probably be using the five- and fifteen-minute speeches more than anything else.”
“That’s true,” Dekko said.
“After you give it a few times, it will become your speech. You will memorize it, not consciously, but you’ll soon find that you won’t have to refer to the text. You’ll also find phrases that are particularly appealing not only to you, but to your audiences. So you’ll begin to edit the speech to suit your audience. I would say that you have a keen audience sense, so you’ll be constantly editing. However, the speech is always there if you find yourself in hostile territory and want to go on record.”
Shartelle nodded towards me. “He’s a pro, Chief.”
“It sounds as if you have been giving its preparation a great deal of thought, Mr. Upshaw.”
“I have,” I lied.
“The campaign starts officially on Monday,” Chief Dekko said. “I merely wanted the opportunity to chat with you for a few moments. As you realize, the outcome is of grave importance.”
“It has our complete attention,” Shartelle said. “I think that both you and Chief Akomolo should devote all of your time to the task of active campaigning. The details—the mechanics of electioneering should be left to us. That’s why you’ve hired us. In Chief Jenaro and Dr. Diokadu, I think we have two invaluable associates.”
Chief Dekko gave Shartelle a long, steady look. “You are a most reassuring man, Mr. Shartelle. And a most glib one. I don’t trust many men completely. Yet I trust you. And Mr. Upshaw,” he added politely.
“I believe we merit that trust, Chief. We’re down here to help win you an election. I think we have a good chance.”
“Do you really? Why?”
“Because things are developing,” Shartelle said. “It’s part of the mechanics of the campaign and I’d rather you get out and let the folks get a good look at you than concern yourself with what you pay us to worry about.”
Dekko nodded. There was the finality of agreement in his nod. “That makes much sense.” He rose. I asked him to stay for lunch. He declined—a bit hastily, I thought.
“We’ll be in touch with you in the morning with the speech,” I said. “You’ll also have ten- to fifteen-minute speeches on each of the key issues. I think I can get those to you by Saturday.”
Dekko gave us a half-salute and bounded down the steps to his car. He moved fast in the noonday sun. Shartelle sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I swear, Pete, I’m turning into a morning drinker, but there’s nothing I’d like better than a tall gin and tonic. You want to yell?”
I yelled for Samuel and he gave me an answering “Sah,” from the depths of the kitchen. He came out in his kh
aki uniform; he reserved his whites for serving meals and tea.
After he served us the drinks and we both had long sips, Shartelle said: “I think we’d better get Jimmy Jenaro and Doc Diokadu over here about teatime. I want to start it.”
“The whipsaw?”
“Yes.”
“We’d better get Duffy on the phone for the buttons, too.”
“That’s going to take some doing.”
“Let him worry about it,” I said. “It’s cool in London.”
“Let me try that phone,” Shartelle said. “I think I got me an idea.”
He picked up the phone and waited for the male operator to come on. “How you today, sir, this is Mr. Shartelle…. That’s good.… Now how’s your family? … That’s fine…. Yes, my family’s fine, too…. Now I’d like to make a long distance call to London, England…. Think you can handle that for me? Why, that sure is good of you…. I bet you do handle a lot of them…. Now I want to call Mr. Padraic Duffy at this number.” Shartelle gave the operator the number. “What’s your name? All right, Mr. Ojara, now if you’d just get me that number in London and call me back? Fine. Now I want to make a local call before we do that—is that all right? Fine.” He gave the operator Jimmy Jenaro’s number. He made the appointment for five o’clock that afternoon. Jenaro said he would reach Dr. Diokadu. Shartelle hung up. He turned to me and grinned. “When I get through with the Albertian telephone system, Petey, we’re going to have the best service in the country.”
“I believe you. But before Duffy gets on the line, I’ve got an idea.”
“Good.”
“Buttons are fine—but we need something else. Something useful, but cheap.”
Shartelle nodded. “Combs won’t quite make it down here because of the length of the hair. What you got in mind?”
“Folding credit card holders—the plastic kind with the candidate’s message stamped on in gold.”
“Not bad—but why?”
“Samuel was showing me some of his letters of reference this morning. Albertians apparently set great store by them. But he had no place to keep them—except his tin box. Now everybody has something—a driver’s license, a tax receipt, letters of reference. Just imagine letting one of those credit card holders—the ten-paneled jobs—drop down to show off your important papers.”
“How many, Pete?”
“They can’t be as plentiful as the buttons.”
“Right. Sort of premiums for the good boys.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How many?”
“Say a million? They cost about two, three cents each, I remember.”
“How much you reckon they weigh?”
“Ounce?”
“Million ounces—” Shartelle stared briefly up at the ceiling. “Okay. I got it.”
The telephone rang five minutes later. It was long distance from London. Shartelle held it while the operators talked back and forth. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Ojara,” he told the Albertian end.
“That you, Pig? … Yes, I can hear fine…. Yes, everything’s going just swell…. Now, look, Pig, the reason I called is we need some supplies. You got your pencil? Fine. Okay, I need ten yards of seersucker delivered to Jimmy Jenaro’s tailor in London. You can get it from a mill I know down in Alabama.” He gave Duffy the name of the mill. “No, that ain’t all, Pig. I got some more…. You got your order pad ready? Okay. I want ninety-four tons of buttons and thirty-one tons of plastic credit card holders all printed up fancy.” He held the phone away from his ear. From across the room I could hear the squawk.
“Why, Pig, I guess you’ll have to get them in the States … and you better get that fancy art director of yours to draw me up some nice-looking buttons. I don’t want no teensy ones that you have to squint up to see. I want me some aggressive buttons that just jump out at you The slogan’s ‘I Go Ako’…. He don’t like it, Pete.”
“Tell him the Leader thought it up.”
“Old Chief Akomolo thought it up himself. Well, now, Pig—I like it, Pete likes it, and Chief Akomolo likes it. So I don’t give a damn whether you like it or not. I want the party symbol on that button, too—the rake and the hoe thing…. Well, if you can’t get them in England, I tell you what to do. You get that art director to take the next plane to New York. When he gets to New York you tell him to call one of the brothers up in Rochester and place two million with them. Then place a million with Pittsburgh and another two million with Los Angeles. Flying Tigers will start moving west to east, picking up the Los Angeles stuff first because they usually print faster. Now I want those buttons here by the end of next week—at least partial shipment. And you tell that art director of yours to tell each one of those jaspers that Clint Shartelle ain’t never going to buy another button from them unless they bust their ass. You hear, Pig? Now how about the folding credit card cases? Okay. You’ll take care of that…. Why, everything’s just smooth as grease, Pig. We’re visiting around and Pete’s writing speeches and everybody is just as happy…. You ever check out those boys from Renesslaer who’re operating up north? Okay. We should get it today then. One of them has what name? Wait’11 I tell Pete. No—everything’s fine. We’ll be in touch if we need something. Goodbye, Pig.” He hung up. The phone rang almost immediately.
Shartelle picked it up. “It went through very fine, Mr. Ojara. I certainly appreciate your efforts…. I’d say you’re about the best long distance operator I’ve come across…. Thank you again.”
He sighed and hung up the phone. Then he chuckled. “Duffy’s checked out the opposition that’s up with old Alhaji Sir. You know, the four boys from Renesslaer.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. It just makes me feel sort of old.”
“What?”
“One of them is named Franchot Tone Calhoun.”
Chapter
17
After a lunch of fried liver, fried potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and some kind of pudding that Shartelle and I scorned, I gathered up Dr. Diokadu’s white papers, picked up the Lettera 22, and isolated myself in the back, far bedroom, the one that had the outside entrance. I read the papers over quickly again. Then I ran the points through my mind, looking for the lead—the news nugget that a reporter would start his story with. When I found it, I pounded out a two- page story—straight AP style. That served as an outline, and it would also serve as a news release the first time the speech was given in its entirety.
I adjusted another mental screw, and recalled Akomolo’s speech patterns, his phrasing, his favorite consonants. He said p’s well—so I decided to use a lot of p’s—populace, progressive, practical, primary, purposeful, and paramount. I discarded paramount. Nobody would know what it meant. Use people instead. When Chief Akomolo spoke, he paused slightly on the p’s—giving them a soft, plopping sound that wasn’t at all unattractive.
He also liked short sentences. Or at least he spoke in them. So I would write his speech in short sentences. I decided to vary them from nine to twenty words. None would be longer. Because he spoke in a rather pedantic manner, he would have to use active verbs—words that would say more than the sayer.
I adjusted the mental screw some more, tuning in Chief Akomolo, and started to write. I wrote steadily for two hours and then stopped and went back into the kitchen for coffee. On my way back, I noticed a note from Shartelle that read: “Gone to town to pluck a grass root or two. Be back by 4:30 or 5.”
I went back to the far room, sipped the coffee, and started banging away at the typewriter again. The speech flowed easily and I heard Akomolo saying it as I wrote. That always helps. I wrote twenty pages in five hours. I spent another half hour editing. That was it. The speech was done. I picked it up and carried it into the living room. Shartelle was back, stretched out in a chair, a tall drink in his hand.
“How were the grass roots?” I asked.
“Just tolerable, Pete.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Iced tea. I stopped by our one and on
ly supermarket and picked up a package of the instant stuff.” He held up his hand in warning. “Don’t worry, boy, I was loyal to the firm; I bought the right brand. Then I got me some fresh mint from a mammy trader and I sneaked back into the kitchen while old Samuel was off on his afternoon siesta and mixed us up a jugful. You want a glass?”
“I’ll get it,” I said. “Where’d you put it?”
“Sit down, boy, and rest yourself. I heard that typewriter clacking away and I wouldn’t have disturbed you for the world.” Shartelle went back into the kitchen and returned with a glass of tea. “Not bad with the fresh mint in it,” he said. “Now when old Samuel comes in with the regular tea, we’ll just pretend to drink some.”
“That’s what I like about you, Shartelle,” I said. “You’re hard as nails.”
I tried the tea. “Not bad. Here, you want to read this?” I handed him the press release and the speech.
“Been looking forward to it,” he said.
Shartelle read faster than any man I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some who can clip off 3,500 words a minute. I had written twenty pages. It would take fifty minutes to deliver the entire thing if it were read at a normal pace. Because he spoke slowly, it would take Chief Akomolo longer. Shartelle read it in three minutes. When he got through, he shook his head in admiration.
“You’re some speech writer, Petey. Why, I could hear the old chief up there just a-ploppin’ his p’s as pretty as you please. And the lead’s good, too. It ought to get him some mileage.”
“What did you think of the agricultural section?” I asked slyly. Nobody could read that fast.
“The direct subsidy plan is presented in a much clearer fashion than Doc Diokadu has it in his white paper. You got it down so clear and plain that anybody can understand it, if he can understand English. It’s a damned good speech, Pete. One of the best the speeches I’ve come across in a long time.”
“Thanks. Where’d you learn to read that fast?”
“Why, when I was living with my daddy, he used to follow the market pretty close when he had something to follow it with. And he subscribed to all the papers—I mean all: The Wall Street Journal, The Journal of Commerce, Barron’s, The New York Times, The Chicago Tribune, and all the farm magazines, ’cause he studied the futures right smart, too. Well, my job was to read them for him and clip out anything that might be of interest. Now I just didn’t read fast enough for all that. So there was this ad in Doc Savage? How to read faster and better in ten easy lessons?” There were those rising inflections again. I nodded.
