Quarry's vote q-5

by Maxallan Collins

  “And available?”

  “Yes. I can probably make an appointment for you, for then.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” I dug for my billfold in my inside suitcoat pocket, removed a business card. “My name is Ryan, and I’m president of the company. I’m sorry for the confusion I’ve caused.”

  “That’s fine, Mr. Ryan,” she said, coldly pleasant. “And might I ask the nature of your business with Mr. Ridge?”

  “I’d like to invest some money,” I said.

  Her smile disappeared; she didn’t frown, but she definitely was not smiling.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said.

  Why?

  “Well,” I said, “I really would prefer to discuss it with Mr. Ridge.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she kept them narrowed as she examined the business card. Then she stood and twitched her cold pleasant smile and said, “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Certainly,” I said.

  She left the reception area and I glanced around some more, wondering why anyone in a real estate office would be confused that I wanted to invest. But then this was the damnedest real estate office I’d ever seen. It was more like a doctor’s reception area, or a lawyer’s. Where were the prominently posted photos of houses with their detailed listings? Where were the eager-beaver agents, in their fucking blue blazers, scurrying after my (after anybody’s) business?

  Nothing here but this big fat gilt-framed photo of George Ridge, and an attractive, icy receptionist. I walked over to look toward where she’d gone; down to the left was a hallway off of which were a few offices. The place smelled new, smelled of money, yet it was small for a real estate operation, particularly one that had (as the late Mr. Werner had told me) made George Ridge a millionaire.

  Finally she came back, a small woman with a nice body under that blazer and skirt, not that I cared. She gave me the phony smile and a hard appraising look from the money-green eyes.

  “Mr. Janes will see you,” she said.

  I gave her a phony smile back. “And who is Mr. Janes?”

  “He’s a vice president with the company. He’ll be able to help you.”

  “I’d like to see Mr. Ridge.”

  “He’s out of the country.”

  “Who’s on first?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Janes. Point me to him.”

  She walked me there; she was wearing Giorgio perfume. Linda had used that. Expensive fucking shit.

  The office was small and rather bare. Janes was a young, thin, pockmarked man wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a big smile. I’d seen a lot of smiles today, but this one I almost believed.

  “Mr. Ryan,” he said, grinning, pumping my hand, like we were long-lost buddies. “Sit down. Please.”

  A chair opposite him was waiting.

  His desk was filled with paperwork and he was in his rolled-up shirtsleeves, his tie loose. He had a coffee cup, from which steam rose like a ghost.

  “Excuse the mess,” he said, and sipped the coffee. “Can I have Sally get you a cup?”

  “No thanks. Kind of you, though.”

  “Excuse my appearance. I don’t generally deal with the public on Saturday. I’m only working because half our staff is on the road this week, and I’m up to my armpits in alligators.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  He put the coffee cup down and folded his hands on top of some of the paperwork and leaned toward me, his eyes tightening, his smile tightening. “I understand you’re looking for an investment opportunity.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Sally tells me you’re the president of your own company.” And he grinned, and shook his head, as if amazed, as if it was all he could do to keep from saying, “Gosh.”

  And the hell of it was, he seemed sincere.

  “Frankly,” I said, “all I did was hand Sally… is that your receptionist’s name?”

  He nodded, but added, “She’s an executive assistant, though.”

  “Executive assistant. Sorry. Anyway, I just handed her my card, is all. She doesn’t know any more about my business than you do, but in point of fact I’m president of an auto parts outfit in Milwaukee. My secretary was supposed to have called and made an appointment for me to talk with Mr. Ridge, but there was a screw-up somewhere.”

  He laughed. “These things happen.”

  Christ, this guy made Up with People seem glum.

  “At any rate,” he said, “investment opportunities.”

  “Yes.”

  “You do understand we’re a privately held company, not offering any stock.”

  Huh?

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “Mr. Ridge will, I’m sure, appreciate your interest, but that’s just the way it is. You’re not the only one who’s been so inspired by Mr. Ridge’s program, or impressed enough by the growth of our company, to make such an inquiry.”

  “Perhaps we’ve got our wires crossed…”

  “Have we?”

  “Isn’t this a real estate office?”

  He seemed puzzled. “In what sense?”

  “Well, in the sense of offering properties for sale. Houses, land. You know. Real estate.”

  And now he was amused. He laughed like a bad impressionist doing Burt Lancaster. “You don’t think Mr. Ridge actually sells real estate, do you?”

  Well, that answered one question: who was definitely on first.

  “What exactly does Mr. Ridge sell?”

  “Why, advice, of course.” He sat up. “Is that all you’re interested in?”

  I smiled, shrugged.

  He smiled ruefully, shook his head. “My apologies. When Sally informed me that you were the president of your own company, that you’d had an appointment with Mr. Ridge that had somehow fallen through the cracks, that you wanted to invest with us… boy, is my face red. Excuse me.”

  He rose and left the small office.

  I just sat there wondering what the fuck this was all about. I wondered if the son-of-a-bitch would be so cheerful if I let him suck on the nine-millimeter a while.

  Then he entered and we exchanged shiteating smiles and he sat and handed me across a tan book about the size of a dictionary, only it wasn’t a book: it opened up into a carrying case for a dozen cassettes.

  “The whole program is there,” he said.

  “Program?”

  “Everything you’ll need to know about no-money down real estate. How to take advantage of distressed properties. The creative use of credit cards. That is how George Ridge became a millionaire by the time he was thirty.”

  No money down real estate! Is that what this was?

  “You don’t sell real estate here,” I said. “You’re strictly in the business of selling books, tapes. Putting on seminars. How-to stuff.”

  “Certainly. Surely you knew that.”

  “Of course,” I said. “But I was under the impression that you were also in the real estate business proper.”

  He shook his head no. “Not at all.”

  I didn’t blame them. This scam was much safer.

  “I was also under the impression that Mr. Ridge was available for private consultation.”

  “You desire direct advice on investing?”

  “That’s right. Excuse me, but I can’t talk to a goddamn tape.”

  And I patted the tan carrying case.

  He nodded, eyes narrowing, seeing the wisdom of that. “You’d like to sit at the feet of the guru of real estate, so to speak.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

  “I can understand your desire. And from time to time Mr. Ridge does do personal consulting. But it is expensive. He’s a very busy man.”

  “I know. I understand he’s in Canada, at the moment.”

  “Yes, Toronto, with two of our other top people.”

  “And he’ll be back, on Tuesday?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d still like to arrange an appoint
ment. Even fifteen minutes of his time would be appreciated.”

  Janes stood, increased the wattage on the smile, extended his hand. “I’m sure Sally can arrange that. Just tell her I’ve given my okay.”

  “You’ve been very helpful. What time Tuesday is Mr. Ridge getting back from Canada?”

  “Oh, he isn’t getting back on Tuesday. He’s flying in Monday night.”

  That’s all I wanted to know.

  “As I say, you’ve been very helpful,” I said, and left him and his positive attitude behind.

  I stopped at the desk of the “executive assistant” and told her Janes had approved an appointment, and made one for eleven o’clock Tuesday morning. Fifteen minutes was all I got, but what the hell. I’d make and keep my own appointment with him, Monday night, when he arrived by plane from his Canadian seminar.

  On my way out I paused again to stare at the portrait of George Ridge.

  A friendly looking, slightly heavy-set man of about fifty, a smile cracking his well-lined face.

  It had to be a recent picture. He had looked much the same when he came to my A-frame to offer me that million-dollar contract.

  9

  I dropped the rental Buick off at the airport, where I stopped in to check available flights to Toronto. There was nothing direct-all flights had O’Hare connections, with return trips likewise routed through Chicago. That meant anybody coming back from Toronto Monday night could be on one of half a dozen flights offered by a trio of small, shuttle-service airlines. This would make it easy for me to be on hand to welcome George Ridge home.

  An airport shuttle bus dropped me at the Blackhawk Hotel, but I didn’t go up to my room. I didn’t even go into the lobby. Instead, I stopped in at the DEMOCRATIC ACTION PARTY NATIONAL CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS, which was located in one of the street-level storefronts that were a part of the hotel’s eleven-story building.

  A banner in the window wondered PRESTON FREED-WHY NOT A REAL PRESIDENT? and so did several other smaller red, white and blue posters, without obstructing a view of the bustling activity within the modest boiler room set-up: two rows of half a dozen banquet tables on either side, with staffers manning (though more frequently womaning) the many phones, all of which were red, white or blue. The patriotic color scheme extended to the various posters on the white walls, which pictured Freed himself, a smiling, boyishly handsome man in his vague forties, with rather long stark white hair. On one side wall, where it could be viewed from the street through the front window, a large color portrait of the candidate revealed eyes that were spookily light blue in a well-tanned face. He was wearing a tan suede jacket and a riverboat gambler’s string tie and looked, in the massive color blow-up, like a cross between Big Brother and Bret Maverick.

  The busy campaign staffers were mostly young, between twenty and thirty, closer to twenty in most cases. It surprised me, somehow, though it shouldn’t have. Vietnam-era relics like me have trouble believing the stories about a conservative younger generation, but here was the proof, as clean-cut and persistent as those Mormons who periodically show up at your door.

  And so many of these zealots were young women. Girls. They weren’t wearing blazers, like Angela at Best Buy and Sally at Ridge Real Estate; but they were color coordinated, like their phones, blouses of red, white or blue, skirts of the same; the designer label on these threads, if there were one, would most likely read Betsy Ross not Betsey Johnson. The men-boys-wore white shirts and red or blue ties and navy slacks.

  There was almost constant movement, the living flag of the Freed campaign headquarters seeming to constantly wave as its individual components would gesture animatedly during the phone solicitations, or hop up eagerly from a seat to consult another staffer, often one of those with a computer, one per banquet table. Girls and boys with faces full of no experience, as pretty and handsome as a collection of Barbie and Ken dolls come to life, they were enough to make you wake up screaming from the American dream.

  By the front window, in the small, eye-of-the-hurricane reception area, were two tables of Democratic Action party literature, one of which bore a communal coffee urn, styrofoam cups and a plate of cookies. I nibbled a cookie, a Lorna Doone, and thumbed through some of the campaign literature-much of it railing against the “Drug Conspiracy”-and overheard a phone solicitation by a pretty, bright-eyed blonde, of perhaps twenty.

  “Your savings will be safer with us,” she was saying, with the utter conviction of the very young. “You mustn’t trust the banks-their collapse is imminent… I understand your concern… yes, unless Preston Freed is elected President, you can rest assured that your Social Security checks will stop within eighteen months. Your contribution is much appreciated, but I must stress that we can protect your savings as well.”

  I felt fingers tap my shoulder and I turned. A willowy redhead with a faint trail of freckles across her nose and dark blue eyes and red full lips was extending a hand for me to shake. She was in a red blouse and a blue skirt.

  “Becky Shay,” she said. “Volunteer for Democratic Action.”

  “Jack Ryan,” I said, shaking her hand. “Holdout for Creative Skepticism.”

  Her smile glazed and so did her puppy-dog eager eyes, as she tried to sort that out.

  I let go of her hand and said, “I’m just giving you a bit of a hard time. I’ll tell you frankly-I picked up some literature on your party, at O’Hare, and read it on the plane coming here. I’m interested. I want to hear more.”

  The glaze melted away. “Where shall I start?”

  “Anywhere you like.”

  She gestured toward the table of literature. “I’d suggest you pick up some of Mr. Freed’s position papers. They are far more eloquent than I. And no contribution is necessary-though it is appreciated.”

  “What’s the ‘Drug Conspiracy’?”

  “A complex alliance between the banks, certain governments and the crime syndicate.”

  “Oh. What are they conspiring to do, exactly?”

  “To fatten themselves off the masses.”

  Everything this kid said sounded prerecorded; it was like hearing the robot Lincoln at Disneyland give the Gettysburg address: patriotic and hollow.

  I leafed through a booklet. “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with ‘international Zionists,’ by any chance?”

  “Certainly. You’ve heard of the Illuminati?”

  “Sure. I have all their records.”

  She ignored that; trying to kid her was like kidding a nun about the virgin birth.

  She went on with the catechism: “The forces of evil are gathering. Only Preston Freed can lead this country out of the darkness.”

  “We’re talking your basic good versus evil here.”

  “Precisely,” she said. “The future of humanity is at stake.”

  I gestured with the booklet, nodded over at the two tables piled with them. “I see a lot here about what’s wrong about America. And let’s grant that there is a lot wrong. But what does your party intend to replace all of that with?”

  “Common sense,” she said, with a smug little smile.

  Yeah, that oughta do it.

  “Well,” I said, smiling back, “you’ve given me a lot of food for thought. Suppose I wanted to make a contribution?”

  Her smile widened, the smugness evaporated. “Why, that would be wonderful…”

  “I mean a sizeable contribution. Of a thousand dollars or more.”

  She touched my arm. “You’d immediately become a member.”

  “A member?”

  In a hushed, pious voice she intoned: “Of the Democratic Action Policy Committee.”

  “I never dreamed,” I said.

  She just smiled.

  “But I’d like to know how my money would be used,” I said. “Where it would go.”

  She frowned a little, as if that were a concept that had never dawned on her.

  I pressed on. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Freed’s campaign manager. If I’m going to make
a contribution of this size, I want to go straight to the top.”

  She thought about that.

  “It’s only common sense,” I said.

  She nodded, and went down the aisle between the rows of tables. I followed, but when we reached a closed door at the rear, she turned and raised a forefinger and narrowed her dark blues to tell me not to follow her into the office. She wasn’t in there long, however.

  Smiling, she ushered me in, and shut the door behind her, leaving me in a conference room where the walls were covered by a huge, much marked-up calendar, several arcane charts and various large maps-one of the United States, another of Iowa, another of New Hampshire, another of various Iowa counties and communities. Sticking pins of various colors in the Davenport map, as if it were a flat voodoo doll that controlled the city, was a man in his late forties in shirtsleeves and loosened tie. He did not wear the glee club apparel of his young staff, however; his pants were gray, and went with the gray suitcoat slung over a chair at the conference table. He had salt-and-pepper hair, longish but receding, and was well-fed but not fat, with a fleshy, intelligent face.

  He put one more color-coded pin into the map, and turned a steel-gray gaze on me, as well as a practiced smile, a sly smile unlike those of the Night of Living Conservatives bunch in the outer room.

  “You’re Mr. Ryan,” he said, and shook my hand. “I’m Frank Neely, campaign manager.”

  “A pleasure, Mr. Neely,” I said. I gave him one of my business cards. “I’m doing some business in the Quad Cities and wanted to stop by. I knew Preston Freed’s national HQ was located here, and I was anxious to get a first-hand look.”

  His smile remained, but his eyes turned wary. “Becky indicated you were a… fresh convert to our cause.”

  “Frankly no,” I said, smiling back, taking the liberty of sitting at the conference table. “I’ve followed Preston Freed for some time. I only pretended to be a novice, so I could test the mettle of your staff. I can’t say I was much impressed.”

  “Really,” he said with concern, remaining wary and on his feet.

  “Becky, if that’s the name of the young woman who greeted me, is a good-looking kid. But her line of patter is strictly rote. She’s like a damn tour guide.”