"Mickey Alo is dangerous. He looks like the Pillsbury dough boy but scary as shit. Just listen to him. He's got an agenda. We don't wanna run him off. I'm not sure this is a done deal, he could be looking at other guys. . . ."
"Lame ask, you something."
"Shoot."
The Iowa Caucus is in a month. . . ."
"Twenty days."
"How the hell're we gonna go in there and make a showing? Nobody knows who I am. I've got no farm policy, no strategy, no message. . . ."
"I can handle it. Believe me, I know what to tell those Jo-Bobs. I've been polling Iowa half my life. I worked two national campaigns in that state while you were still a DA."
"He's gonna want things. .. ."
"Everybody wants something," A. J. said, flatly.
They pulled up at the deserted gas station ten miles out of town that Mickey had picked for the meeting. Al turned off the engine.
"What're we doing here?"
"You haven't dealt with these SpaghettiOs. They thrive on bullshit. For all I know, they're gonna swoop in here in a hot-air balloon wearing Porky Pig masks."
They showed up in a rented motor home, a big, blue and white thirty-seven-foot Winnebago with New York Tony driving.
"See," A. J. said. "We're in a gangster movie."
They got out of the car and New York Tony opened the RV door to admit A. J. and Haze Richards. As soon as they were inside, New York Tony had the rig moving again. Mickey Alo was seated in the small dining booth and didn't bother to get up. Teagarden made the introductions.
"Haze, this is Mickey Alo." Haze shook his hand but didn't sit; instead, he held on to the cabinetry as the vehicle moved along.
"This is a pleasure," Haze said, feeling pretty good already. Mickey Alo was ugly. He knew it was foolish, but he'd learned that his looks gave him a psychological advantage over unattractive men.
"I hope you're enjoying the great state of Rhode Island," he said, turning up the hundred-kilowatt smile. "Sit down and stop grinning at me," Mickey said to the governor of Rhode Island. "I'm not a fucking broad." "I beg your pardon?"
"I don't want an autograph. Okay?"
"Okay," Haze said, feeling diminished as he sat down.
"Not there. Sit over there." Mickey pointed to a chair across from him. Haze moved to it and sat. A. J. knew there wasn't much he could do to steer events; he just had to pray and let the chips fall.
"I run an organized-crime family. . . . My father is the boss of the New Jersey mobs. I'm his consigliere. We deal in things that are deemed to be illegal by the government. Me an' some friends in several states have decided to become politically proactive and see if we can change some of the shit that's buggin' us."
"Such as . . . ?"
"Such as we want to overturn the RICO Act."
"That's a congressional act. It's not easy to rewrite legislation like that You'd need two thirds of the House and Senate."
"We want the Supreme Court to overturn it."
"How do you figure that's going to happen?"
"If we elect you President, we expect to help you with Supreme Court nominations. I have an actuarial table on the sitting court that says just on age probabilities alone, four members should retire or be in the ground in the next year or two. I put you in the Oval Office, I want you to pick the guys I want."
"You can't control the confirmation process."
"We'll worry about that when the time comes. The justices I select will have good legal backgrounds. They'll be middle-of-the-road . . . easy to confirm. They just won't like the RICO Act"
"Once they're in, how you gonna guarantee they'll vote the way you want?"
`They're gonna vote the way I say because, if they don't, I'm gonna kill everything they give a shit about, right down to their pets and goldfish."
There was a long silence. A. J. cleared his throat. "What else?" Haze said, his voice a whisper.
"You neuter the Justice Department Slow them down, replace the attorney general with somebody who isn't gonna be so contentious."
Haze could feel twinges of fear. A. J. had been right. It's the singer, not the song. . . .
"Also, I want a new head of the FBI."
"Anything else?" Haze wanted to loosen his tie. He was sweating. For some strange reason, he thought he felt heat coming off Mickey.
"That's it. Everything else, you do exactly the way you want. Foreign policy? I could give a shit. Urban renewal . . . ? Bomb the fucks into the Stone Age or give them a block party. I don't care. Everything else is yours, but you fuck with me on what I want, I swear I'll take out your heart with a butter knife."
Haze wondered if the thermostat in the motor home was set too high.
"Here's the deal ... I finance you for President of the United States, I control media coverage to maximize your success. I buy you the office with cash from my illegal operations. I don't care what it costs. . . My busines s m akes billions a year, but I can't spend it in prison. You do these few things I want. Simple, clean, no chance of misunderstanding. That's the deal."
"I need some time to think it over."
"You know right now whether this works for you or it doesn't. You tell me in thirty seconds or the offer is off the table."
A. J. Teagarden had to admire the way Mickey was handling it. Mickey had proven to Haze that he wasn't a man to fuck around with, that he was a man who would push the limits of the game. They were already onto a new playing field, treacherous but so full of promise that it was startling it hadn't happened before.
"Deal," Haze said, his voice shaky.
"We'll be in touch. A. J. will be the conduit for our communication."
When they pulled back into the empty filling station, not more than ten minutes had elapsed.
Haze and A. J. got into their plain wrapper and drove back to town. They didn't speak. It was best to leave everything unsaid. They had just witnessed each other's corruption.
In the motor home, New York Tony closed the door.
"Looks like we got a candidate," Mickey said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he opened the cabinet behind the table, unplugged the video camera and removed the tape that had recorded the entire negotiation.
Chapter 10.
THE JOB OFFER
"HELLO," HIS VOICE WAS SHAKY.
"Who's this?"
"It's Ryan Bolt."
"Jeez, Ryan, didn't sound like you, buddy. It's Mickey."
"Mickey." He smiled. "Where the hell are you?" Acting now, pretending, needing to be somebody else for a while.
"I'm out here at the Bel Air. Got the presidential cottage. I ran a recon mission by the pool. They put out a bunch a' easy targets. Got twenty-five-year-old skin laying around, half-naked, on chaise lounges. We could score wearing Nixon masks."
"It's just, my car's in the. shop. I'm kinda stuck out here," Ryan hedged.
"I'll send a car for you. Stay where you are. The Mick has a tank rolling." And Ryan was listening to a dial tone.
"Fuck." He was too screwed up to leave. Too full of anxiety, but Mickey hadn't given him a choice. Then he thought maybe what he needed was to fight through it . . . to be with somebody like Mickey who tasted life. Maybe it would take his mind off the mess his life had become. He remembered, Mickey could make stuff happen.
The Bel Air Hotel was a Hollywood aquarium where white swans drifted lazily in the landscaped lakes. Wealthy studio whitefish had private cottages and schooled out by the swimming pool waiting for their divorces to become final. Occasional agents prowled the restaurant, dorsals hissing, little pieces of insincerity stuck in their teeth.
New York Tony had driven Ryan there in a black stretch limo and led him to the presidential cottage which was up behind the pool.
Tony knocked on the door. . . . "Me," he said gently and, in a moment, the door opened and Ryan was looking at the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. She was in her late twenties with glossy black hair. Her eyes were green and iridescent, her olive skin like natural silk. She
was in a tennis outfit and it showed off her exquisite tan legs. Ryan thought, What is Mickey doing cruising the pool with this goddess on hand?
"Ryan?" she seemed to know him.
"Yes . . ." his voice fight, stomach acid still flowing like sewer runoff.
"It's me, Lucinda. Mickey's sister. Don't tell me you've forgotten me completely?"
"Lucinda . . ." he finally said, his mind desperately grabbing at rungs on a memory ladder.
"Yeah. We met when I was just a kid. I can tell you this now." She smiled. "Back then I had a terrible crush on you."
He tried for a rakish grin and missed.
"Come in. Mickey's on the phone."
She led him into the antique-laden room. New York Tony stood by the door. Mickey was on the phone, his back to them. He was wearing a polka-dot shut and Bermuda shorts, with sockless loafers.
"Okay, check that out and get back to me." He hung up the phone, turning, his round cherubic face changing gears completely as he broke into a grin.
"Hey, Ryan. . . . Sis turned out pretty good, no?" "She certainly did." Ryan was having trouble taking his eyes off her.
"She's on her summer break." Mickey put his arm around his little sister.
"You aren't still in college?" Ryan asked.
"I graduated from Sarah Lawrence and I'm doing my doctorate in psychology at UCLA."
"I couldn't get her to go to Harvard." Mickey grinned.
"After the damage you did to the family name, they'd have had me under twenty-four-hour surveillance," she joked.
"Hey, come on, I wasn't that bad . . . Was I that bad, Ryan?"
"You were awful." Ryan smiled, remembering a couple of lost weekends when they'd met occasionally in New York during their college years.
"Gotta go, got a tennis lesson at one. Good to see you, Ryan." She stopped in front of him, holding out her hand, looking into his eyes. . . . And then she was gone.
"Come on," Mickey said. "Let's get lunch. I made a reservation in the hotel dining room."
The maitre d' led them to the best table.
"Hey, Ryan, don't take this the wrong way, but are you okay?"
"Sure. Why?"
"You look fucked-up. You're not doing drugs, are ya?" "No. Come on. . . . You nuts?"
Mickey hadn't changed at all, Ryan thought. Always right to the point with no bullshit. He still had that force of personality that drew people to him.
"Lucinda is beautiful," he said, trying to change the subject.
"Yeah, she's a sweetheart. She counsels kids who can't get their belts through all the loops. Spends hours with them."
The maitre d' himself brought the menus and pulled out a pad to take their orders.
"Hey, Claude... . You 'member those vongole I had here two months ago? With the angel-hair . . . ?"
"Vividly, sir." Claude grinned. "We sent ten gallons to your mother, airmail."
"Can ya whip us up some a' that . . . for two? And the real dry chardonnay, the Acacia." Claude left, bowing out in reverse.
He had ordered for both of them as if what Ryan wanted didn't matter, and somehow it was okay.
"So, how's everything going with you?"
"Tearing up the field," Ryan lied.
"I know a few guys out here and the word I been gettin' is you been stepping on your rep." Mickey frowned. "I hear you're packing an attitude and when they see you coming, they drop the blinds. I'm thinking that doesn't sound like the old wide receiver, so I figured I'd look you up." He was smiling but his eyes weren't. "What's the play?"
"Since Matt died, nothing has worked quite right. I'll punch through it." Ryan remembered how Mickey had flown out when Matt died. He'd lived in the Bel Air guesthouse and handled everything for Ryan. He even picked out the clothes Matt was buried in.
The food came and Mickey ate savagely while Ryan picked at his plate.
"Look, I don't wanna get in your face, man, so if I'm outta line, tell me, but if you wanna change of venue, I maybe have something set up that could work for you. . . . Take you away for a while."
"What are you talking about?"
"There're these guys. We do a little business sometimes, and they're miming a guy for President of the United States. . . . I was talking to my friend and he said they needed somebody who could produce a documentary. I know that's chickenshit stuff to a guy like you, with Emmys and everything, but if you're looking to get a little air between you and these L. A . hairbags, I could make a call."
"Documentary?" Ryan said. "I never did a documentary." His heart was racing. Something irrational told him to take it . . . to get the hell out of here. All the memories, the shadow dreams. The self-centered sameness of his life was crushing him. He'd been heaping one lie on top of another to stay afloat, hoping everyone else he knew failed so he might win. He'd never been that way before. He knew that he had somehow poisoned himself. . . .
"You still with me?" Mickey asked, bringing him back. "Like I said, it isn't my boogie, but I know I could set it up. Tell you what . . . I gotta stay out here for a day and fix some things for Pop. I can set it up tonight and we'll fly back to New Jersey tomorrow. I'll introduce you to these guys."
Ryan was frozen with indecision. Mickey read him.
"What happened to you, man? What happened to the guy who used to run fucking Z patterns in front of rabid linebackers? You're sitting here with a complexion gray as spoiled meat. The Mick has gotta pump some voltage in t' you."
Something about Mickey's energy stirred old feelings.
"Why not," he finally blurted. "Make the call."
"I can tell you, now you've said yes, you're saving my ass on this, buddy." Mickey grinned. "I promised these guys I'd find somebody to do this film, and here I end up with Emmy-winning Ryan Bolt. . . . They're gonna shit."
Ryan felt himself blushing, and Mickey looked at his watch.
"I gotta go. Could you do me a favor? I promised Lucinda I'd take her to dinner before this came up. Would you get me off the hook and take her for me?"
"Sure."
"Tomorrow, you and me and Lucinda fly on my dad's jet back to Jersey. It'll be old times."
It was happening so fast, it was all Ryan could do to hang on.
They were sitting on the porch of the bungalow in the yellow sunset. She had changed since her tennis lesson and was wearing shorts and a silk blouse. She was breathtakingly beautiful. There was something so sweet, so simple about her that Ryan felt he was in the presence of royalty. He felt recharged by the light in her green eyes.
Without warning, he heard himself say, "I've been having a terrible time lately. I've been acting irrationally. I'm having . . ." He stopped. Why was he telling this gorgeous girl this? He sounded like a complete head case.
"You have anxiety attacks?" she said, finishing his thought.
"Yes, dreams where I'm chased by dark, evil presences that I can't identify."
"You've pushed your shadow away."
He looked at her. She was staring into his eyes, completely invested in him.
"Whafta you mean?"
"I'll give you a book . . . it's called Meeting the Shadow. It's a lotta Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell, but it's fascinating. What it says is, if you deny your dark side, you will stifle yourself. Everybody has a devil in them. These kids I'm working with are so angry, they could almost kill. I try and get that darkness out. I try and get them to confront it. Maybe you have something in your past that you've repressed. If you could find out what it is, it would fire you."
"Repressed, you mean something in my past that I don't even remember . . . ?"
She nodded.
"And it has something to do with Matt?"
"It could, but Matt is in your conscious. The shadow is in your subconscious. Losing Matt could be stirring it up . . . like sediment coming up from the bottom."
He looked at her for a long beat. They were sitting here in this artificial lily pond with white swans, in the middle of a riot-plagued city, breathing smog and talking about
his psychotic tendencies, yet somehow it seemed perfectly normal.
"Will you marry me?" he joked.
"If you'd asked me when I was seven, the answer would have been yes."
They sat in silence for a long moment.
"Do you ever think of Rex?" she asked suddenly, her face strangely blank.
"Yes, occasionally." He wondered why she had asked. "That was the weekend we met," she finally said.
Chapter 11.
GETAWAY
THE LEAR WAS ALREADY OUT OF THE HANGAR WHEN Elizabeth pulled her Ghia through the gates that were manned by a field attendant.
"I still think you should stick around," she scolded Ryan. "Just 'cause Marty Lanier didn't like the rough cut doesn't mean you can't get an order. What am I supposed to tell Freddie Fredrickson when he calls?"
Fredrickson was the president of the TV Division at Universal. He and Ryan had been allies until the roof caved in on Ryan's career and now Fred glowered at him like temporary office furniture.
"They're not gonna call. I'm dead, Elizabeth. They just haven't put the headstone up yet.* You know it, I know it.
She had parked in the heat by the side of the hangar.
"Look, Ryan, I got an offer from Mel Thomas. He's doing the new Judd Hirsch series. They want me to start next month. I told them I couldn't leave you, but . . ."
"Liz, take the job," he instructed her. "We shouldn't go down together."
"I feel like I'm deserting you."
"I deserted myself, hon. You gotta look out for yourself."
She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
"You know how much I care for you?"
"Me, too. Take the job, Elizabeth. It'll make me feel better."
Lucinda was seated in the back of the plane, her feet up on the gray upholstered seat, as Ryan came aboard smiling.
"Hi," he said, waving at Milo, the pilot, and moving back to join her. She was wearing jeans and a work shirt; a blue blazer lay on the seat next to her. He moved her jacket and sat down.
"Where's Mickey?" he asked, looking around. "He has to stay over two more days."
She reached into her purse. "I got something for you," she said and pulled out a paperback book. The title was "Meeting the Shadow."
the Plan (1995) Page 6
