by Ed Gorman
‘Yeah, but he was suspicious. He wondered why I was so interested. I told him because Jimmy was my friend and somebody murdered him. That’s when I had to let him rub up against my leg.’ She then started painting a verbal picture of Mrs Burkhart and David Nolan. And then she said, ‘He said he almost went up there because he could hear them shouting at each other. But just when he was putting on his shirt to leave his apartment they quieted down. He said they probably stayed about half an hour.’
‘Did he tell the police any of this?’
‘He said he didn’t tell the police anything they didn’t ask. He said his best friend was doing time in Joliet and that even though he’d run over that chick he was a nice guy when he was sober and because of that he wouldn’t tell the cops dick. That’s the word he used, ‘dick.’ Does any of this help you?’
‘A lot.’
‘I miss Jimmy. He was my best friend, Dev.’
Rusty Burkhart strode on to the stage for the rehearsal. He had the easy, comfortable masculinity of the old Western movie stars. He shook enough hands to give himself blisters and then ambled over to one of the rostrums, hefty but not fat in his charcoal shirt and jeans. He’d once claimed he was from Viking blood, which was possibly true if Vikings had worn lurid red toupees.
Jeff Ward in the flesh appeared from the other side of the stage. I wondered if he’d coordinated his outfit with Burkhart. Blue shirt, jeans, Western boots. We weren’t going to have a debate; we were going to have a hoedown.
Being pols they shook hands like old friends. Being in a photo op they smiled their asses off, too. And being single-minded about winning they started taking shots at each other with the smiles getting bigger and bigger.
Speaking to the small cadre of TV reporters and camera people standing on the floor below him, Rusty Burkhart produced some kind of document from his back pocket and waved it at them. ‘We’ll see if my friend Jeff here is willing to sign my “I Am an American” pledge tonight. That’s one way we’ll know if he’s going to do right by this country or not. A lot of people are suspicious about anybody who won’t sign this pledge. And by people I mean voters.’
They were like a vaudeville team. Now it was Ward’s turn to shine. ‘And while I’m not signing the pledge that violates many parts of our sacred Constitution, I will be reminding voters that my friend Rusty here once said that maybe God’s plan was to have sick people die if they couldn’t afford to pay for their own insurance. He hasn’t been saying that much lately.’ Ward was shaking his head like a schoolmarm who’d just uncovered a turd on the floor.
‘Not only have I not been saying it lately — I’ve never said it.’ So there. Burkhart sounded definite.
‘But there’s a tape of you saying it, Mr Burkhart,’ a young female reporter said.
‘Completely out of context. And let’s not change the subject.’ He waved his pledge again.
What we had here was similar to the weigh-in for a heavyweight champion boxing match. The fighters wanted a good crowd so they gnawed on the other guy’s ass to the delight of the press.
The last thing I paid attention to was Ward saying, ‘What Mr Burkhart is saying here is that if we got rid of the minimum wage we’d put a lot more people to work. But I don’t know many folks who’d sweat and slave for a dollar an hour.’
‘Nobody ever said anything about a dollar an hour and you know that, Congressman.’
And so on.
I went back to my work on my laptop. I didn’t know much about David Nolan so I tried to find as many short biographies of him as I could. I had no idea what I was looking for. I had one fact to guide me. He and Ward had been best friends for most of their lives. And yet he and Mrs Burkhart had not only been together some of the time, they’d visited Jim Waters a few nights before his death. There was a connection here somewhere, but what was it?
I skimmed the results of numerous Google searches before hitting one from an alumni magazine piece that spotlighted Nolan and Ward as celebrated former students. The first five hundred words focused on the politics of their time in Washington, the second five hundred words dealt with their student council activities while undergrads at the school. It was in the final five hundred words that I found what I was looking for.
‘Most reports about the friendship of the two men omit the year they didn’t speak to each other. Even now they are reluctant to discuss it. This happened in 1993 according to some of their close friends. But even they aren’t sure what caused the rift. What ended their disagreement — subject still unknown — was that they were seated near each other at a homecoming football game. Ward claims that Nolan came over to him and offered his hand; Nolan insists it was Ward who came over and offered his hand. Whatever, the friendship was renewed.’
Precedent. What had happened back then? And did it have any bearing on their recent falling-out?
By the time I was finished Burkhart and his people had left the stage. Ward stood by the podium he’d been assigned, talking to a member of the TV crew. As I walked over to them, Ward was pointing to a light placed directly above him. ‘I’m not trying to tell you your job, Jason, I’m just saying why don’t we light it up and take a look. I don’t want to pull a Dick Nixon here. Remember the first Kennedy-Nixon TV debate?’
If Jason remembered reading about the debate, it hadn’t made a big impression. He just shrugged. ‘Congressman, I’ve been lighting these debates for years now. I think I know what I’m doing.’
‘How about humoring me? How about setting the lights the way I want right now, then we’ll tape me at the podium and look at it. Fair enough?’
Jason didn’t even try to look happy. ‘I guess so, Congressman. Why don’t you go over and get in place, then, and I’ll start lighting the stage.’
‘I really appreciate it, Jason. You’re a good man.’
As soon as Jason was out of hearing range, Ward said, ‘That fucker has no idea what he’s doing. I wanted to bring my own lighting man. But the old fart who oversees these debates said we had to use the same people. Burkhart doesn’t care. He looks like a bear and people like him that way.’
‘You’ll look fine.’ Then: ‘Why did you and Nolan have a falling-out back in 1993?’
He’d been distracted by two men lugging the moderator’s desk on stage. But when I spoke he whipped around and said, ‘What the hell kind of question is that? I’m supposed to be prepping for a debate tonight, remember? Staying calm and focused. And you bring up some old nothing bullshit like that?’
We were starting to get an audience. His voice was high, strident.
‘Keep your voice down. There’re reporters here.’ I spoke so only he could hear. ‘I just asked you a question.’
‘Well, un-ask it. This isn’t the time or place.’
Over the speaker Jason said: ‘Congressman, would you take your place at the podium, please.’
It was as if a starting pistol had been fired. Ward broke away and walked double time to the stage. Nobody up there was going to ask him any questions about why he and Nolan had not spoken for a time back then. In fact, since this was only a rehearsal of sorts, nobody was going to ask him any difficult questions of any kind. He took his place behind the podium.
The smile and charm came with light-switch speed. The reporter and her crew moved in for the same kind of shots they’d gotten with Burkhart. Ward knew better than to try any diva routines about the lighting. The press would love a story about his vanity. While a good number of men probably envied his success with women, there was something a bit unmanly about it when the cocksman was wealthy and obviously pampered. A courtesan rather than a warrior. That wasn’t his problem alone. Senator John Kerry had after all gone out and bought himself several thousand dollars’ worth of hunting gear for a photo op that made him look like a member of Nerds Gone Wild. I’m told there is a photo somewhere of a rabbit giving him the finger.
I was soon back at work on my laptop. I wanted to know more about the rift between Ward and Nolan but Mot
her Google wasn’t yielding much. I switched over to my other campaigns. Updates. Scuttlebutt. One of our candidates had been shouted down by two men in an open meeting. Our campaign runner there was sure they were hired to do so by none other than Sylvia Fordham herself, who was running the opponent’s campaign. She was sure she’d seen these two at other open meetings.
She snuck in without me seeing her. But when I looked up there she was, the back of her anyway, eight or nine rows ahead of me. Mrs Teresa Burkhart. Her coiffure was unmistakable, as was the way one of her husband’s campaign staffers served her coffee — with great trepidation if I interpreted her body language correctly. The young woman turned out to be none other than Melanie, the pretty teenager who’d tried to have me thrown out of Burkhart headquarters. I recognized her when she glanced my way. She recognized me, too, and immediately bent to inform her employer of my presence.
After the soul-saver had left the side of Mrs Burkhart, but not before she scowled in my direction of course, I closed my laptop and traveled down the aisle. I seated myself directly behind Teresa Burkhart. The way her neck and shoulders tensed, I knew she was aware of me. I said nothing for a few minutes. Two or three times she started to turn around and face me then thought better of it.
‘I see the most beautiful woman in the world sitting out there,’ Burkhart boomed from his podium. He waved to his wife and sent her a bashful-boy grin.
She raised a fawn-colored glove and waved.
The man overseeing the debate, whom Ward had referred to as an ‘old fart,’ was a former governor from the other side named Will Carney. We should all look like such old farts as Carney did at seventy-eight or thereabouts. He crossed the stage briskly, a tall, slender man in a blue windbreaker, white shirt, chinos, and white Reeboks. He had a headful of curly silver locks that any Roman senator would have envied and a voice as imposing as a general’s sounding the call to war. It was nice to see how much he intimidated the two candidates. He told them the kind of debate he wanted tonight; the kind, he said, ‘they owed the public, given all the bullshit in the air this election cycle.’ I took this to be criticism of some of the wilder and woolier candidates of his own party.
He had one major failing, did ex-Governor Will Carney, and the press and political cartoonists had always enjoyed bringing attention to it. Once he started talking he never wanted to stop. You needed ten armed guards to drag him off the stage. And he’d still be talking as they dragged him.
Today was no different. He got so intensely involved in talking about the kind of debate this state deserved — he’d been a pretty good governor: honest and inventive and willing to work with our side — that the initial surge of surprise and pleasure he’d brought with him now became weary resignation. When was this old fart ever going to shut up?
I decided now was as good a time as any.
‘You’re in a lot of trouble. And maybe I can help you. But I’m sick of chasing you around. You call me if you change your mind. But you don’t have much time.’
I didn’t give her a chance to say anything. I just stood up, my laptop under my arm, and started to walk out of the auditorium.
In the lobby a harried-looking Lucy Cummings was hanging up her coat. When she saw me she rushed over, breathless. ‘God, I’m sorry I’m late. I had to set things up with this caterer for the party after the debate tonight. He wanted all this fancy food. I told him there’d be a cross section of people there so to keep it simple.’ She crossed her eyes. I appreciated her making me laugh. It felt good. ‘I think I offended him. He said that his clientele always wants sushi. I told him that most of the union guys would probably prefer little fried pieces of shrimp. He said maybe I should go to Red Lobster. Actually, that sounds pretty good to me. I love Red Lobster.’ Then: ‘God, here I am running my mouth off and Jeff’s in there alone.’ She touched my arm. ‘Bye.’
Ed Gorman
Dev Conrad — 03 — Blindside
TWENTY
When I got back to my hotel Sylvia Fordham was sitting in the lobby in her best Audrey Hepburn pose. The lovely naif lost in a world of sensationalism and sin. The dress was a simple blue number that modestly revealed the slender but comely body. She sat on a couch reading the National Review. I curbed my desire to take a match and set it on fire.
She pretended not to notice me when I sat down next to her.
‘You look very nice today, Sylvia. How about going upstairs with me?’
Her gaze rose from the magazine and settled on me. The smile was playful. ‘I knew you’d come around someday. Even as much as you hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you, Sylvia. I just think you’re a reprehensible threat to our republic.’
‘Well, if that’s all-’ The smile remained.
‘So what happened to last night’s big announcement?’
‘You feel like a drink?’
‘It’s early.’
‘Then you get Kool-Aid or something. I’m having a drink.’
And so she did. We were tucked away in a booth in the hotel bar. It was dark enough to get lost in. You needed a coal miner’s lighted hat to get around. The waitress appeared out of the gloom as if she’d stepped from another dimension. I had coffee and Sylvia had a double Scotch straight up. If I didn’t know her, it would be easy to have one of those eight-hour crushes on her. She really was beautiful and quietly sexual.
‘I can’t believe this. Here I’ve got the best piece of evidence I’ve ever had against an opponent and I can’t use it. This is really bullshit, Dev.’
‘I can say the same, Sylvia. Remember that. But you haven’t told me about last night.’
The waitress must have been wearing track shoes. She reappeared out of the vortex in what seemed like seconds. After she was gone again, Sylvia said, ‘I’d usually go ahead on my own with something like this — I just assumed Rusty would be happy with taking Ward down this way. But when I went out to his place and told him about what I’d set up with the TV station he blew up at me. He finally told me the truth about the blackmail, how he was being shaken down the same way Ward was. He said absolutely no way did he want me to run the clip.’ A sigh followed that Bette Davis would have considered too dramatic. ‘When I write my memoirs I’m going to mention this incident as the most perfect takedown I ever had — and couldn’t use.’ Then: ‘Now what I want to know, since we’re sort of in this together, is who’s blackmailing them?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m beginning to suspect who but I don’t want to say anything until I know more.’
‘And you’re still covering up the fact that Nolan’s missing?’
‘You’ve got spies everywhere.’
‘Everywhere.’
‘Was Jim Waters one of yours?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
‘That means he wasn’t.’
‘If you say so.’
‘This is like third grade.’
‘I had a great time in third grade.’
She waved for another drink. ‘The debate tonight should be interesting. They’re both up there going through the motions when the only thing either of them wants to talk about is how the other guy went to this whorehouse all the time.’
I’d never known her to be giddy but she was close to it now. She was a killer but at least she had a sense of irony. I’ll bet neither Hannibal nor Genghis Khan had a sense of irony.
After she sipped her freshener, she said, ‘Our internals say we’re neck and neck.’
‘Same here. Margin of error.’
‘Well, it’s going to be interesting to see what you do next, Dev.’
‘I’m sure you’ll come up with something that’ll degrade all the standards of taste and decency.’
‘I’ll try but doing it isn’t as easy as it looks. I wish I was as much of a bitch as people think.’ The way she was playing with her glass, twisting it around, I realized she was stalling. I’d wondered why she’d come to my hotel. I had pretty much surmised by now that Burkhart had been afraid to run
the video of the prostitute talking about Ward because then Ward would run the video about Burkhart. It was nice that Sylvia had confirmed it for me but it was unlike her to be so friendly and offer so much information.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I need to get upstairs. Work to do, Sylvia. I’m sure you’ve got a lot of work, too.’
So of course she got down to it. ‘Why the hell are you chasing after Burkhart’s wife?’
‘We’ve talked a few times, so what?’
‘About what?’
‘She’s a nice woman. I like talking to nice women.’
‘She’s a conniving bitch.’
‘Really? Gosh, I didn’t get that impression at all.’
‘Look, asshole, what’s really going on with you two?’
‘Ah, the Sylvia Fordham I know and love. “Asshole” is pretty mild for you.’
‘I have a right to know.’
My laugh penetrated the darkness like the beacon of a lighthouse. ‘You do? And by what right would that be?’
‘Because Rusty’s my candidate and anything that affects him affects his wife. And it’s very strange that you and his wife have been seen talking together at least twice.’
I wondered if she knew about Mrs Burkhart and David Nolan. Their meetings.
‘Why don’t you ask Mrs Burkhart if you’re so interested?’
‘Because I’m asking you.’
‘Look, Sylvia. I meant what I said. I have a lot of work to do and I know you do, too. Tonight’s the big night for both sides. There’s a lot of prep still to be done. There isn’t much point sitting here trying to find out something from me when I don’t have anything to tell you.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘I met her a few times completely by accident and we did our best to be civil about the campaign. That’s all.’
‘You’re already lying. The girl at campaign headquarters said that you came there specifically asking to see Mrs Burkhart.’
‘I remember asking if that was Mrs Burkhart. She’s a good-looking woman. But I did not ask to see her.’
