“I love you back,” Cheryl said before hanging up the phone first.
Damn. Henry took a deep breath to release some tension as he tried to regain his bearings by rhythmically tapping his fingertips together.
“Henry, come out here, man, this is important!” Herbert screamed.
Sitting on the chair next to his private line, Henry wanted so badly to call his wife. Saying her name was all it took to heighten the longing and to remind him of how wrong he was for torturing her.
“Damn, Henry, would you please come out here! The FBI needs to talk to all of us!”
Henry entered the silent room that was filled with his senior staff and advisers. In the back of the room was Dirk Gallagher and his cowboy-hatted Lone Star contingency.
“Hello, Senator Davis. My name is Agent Mills and this is Agent Haggerty,” announced a slender man with long, dark sideburns. “We were asked to give you and your staff a briefing on what is going on tonight.” Looking around, Agent Mills asked, “Where is Mrs. Davis?”
“She’s in her suite with her brother,” Penelope said, looking at both agents and then Henry. “She’s not feeling well.”
“Ma’am, could you send someone down to get her?” Agent Mills requested. “It’s very important that she be here.”
Motioning with his hand for Penelope to remain seated, Henry glanced at the larger-than-usual bulge in the agent’s jacket and asked, “What’s this all about?”
“As I am sure you’ve been informed by the media, there was an attempt on the life of Vice President Steiner. According to our reports, he was injured. However, at this time he’s being rushed to an undisclosed hospital for medical attention. Now. What does this have to do with you? I’ve been advised, sir, that the threat against you has been upgraded from a level three to a five. We believe Calvin Arthur is in the city, although we do not know at this time if he is in the vicinity. It is our hope that with the extra security, he has aborted his plans. But since they flashed his photo on the news, we’ve been inundated with hundreds of phone calls throughout the night from people who have seen him, or think they’ve seen him.” For a brief moment Agent Mills broke his Secret Service monotone and said, “The threat, sir, is real. Now, this is what we would like to propose. We can get you out of here, into a service elevator and through the kitchen into a bulletproof limo. The route will literally be lined with agents and we can virtually guarantee that you and your wife will be able to get into the limo and out of this place safely.”
Weary from the taxing night, Henry leaned against a wall wearing a well-wrinkled cotton shirt with his hands in his pockets jingling coins, and said quietly to no one in particular, “Does the phrase ‘be careful what you ask for’ mean anything to anyone?” Then raising his voice, he demanded, “Mills. Who is responsible for this? Who’s behind these assassination attempts?”
“Sir,” he replied after looking at Haggerty, “we’re not at liberty to say. I can only tell you the danger is real and is now classified as a level-five threat. I’m sorry. I wish I had clearance to say more.”
Henry slowly stroked his eyebrow, and said firmly, “I’m not going.”
“What!” everyone in the room gasped collectively.
“Henry, you can’t be serious!” Herbert demanded, fearing for his brother’s safety. “I know you’re brave and all, but sitting in this room like a sitting duck and waiting for whoever or whatever to come in here makes no sense at all! What if he’s connected to some terrorist group? They could just run into the ballroom and open fire. You know how those—”
“Ahh, listen here, son,” Dirk Gallagher said to Agent Mills. “Get me an extra-large vest and about fifteen more for my folks. And let me know when our limos will be ready. We want to get on the first thing smoking out of this hellhole back to civilization.”
“Well, sir,” Agent Mills replied after a glance at Haggerty, “we don’t want to have a motorcade. That would cause too much attention, so we only arranged for two limos at the back entrance of the hotel. One for you and one for the Senator and Mrs. Davis.”
All eyes fell on Henry once again. Henry looked around at the room, then at his brother, and said softly, “Come in here a second.”
As the door to the master suite closed, Dirk Gallagher shouted, “Hell, this is his hometown. Let ’em stay. Give us his fucking limo!”
After he walked into the bedroom, Henry went over to the stereo, turned it up loud, and returned to his brother. Leaning close to his ear, he said, “Isn’t this Kafkaesque? I mean, is it just me? When has there ever been an assassination attempt that was leaked to the press beforehand? When have there been two attempts in one day? Herbert, maybe I am just stressed, but something is going on. I can feel it.”
Herbert looked at Henry with his eyebrows drawn closer to each other. “What are you saying? You think it’s a setup? Why would they set you up?”
“Why was King or X set up? Were John and Bobby’s deaths coincidences?” he whispered in his brother’s ear. “Change is always harder than doing the same old thing. Maybe what we’re trying to do is too much for this country to handle.”
Herbert looked confused as his brother walked back across the room, turned off the stereo, and opened the door. “Guys,” Henry said, “I want a few of my top people to take my limo and get out of here. Ed, you and Penelope are free to go. You can do most of your work from the phone.”
“Sir, it would really make us feel more comfortable if you and Mrs. Davis would—”
“Enough, Mills. I’m not going and now I’m extending the invitation to my people.”
“Listen, guys,” Dirk Gallagher shouted to the agents above the milling voices in the room, “when you’re ready to stop fucking around in here, just let me and the lady know. We’ll be in our suite.”
“What a fuck’n ass!” Herbert murmured.
“What did you say to me, son?” The large Texan bristled. “Fuck you and everything that favors ya!”
“Herbert!” Henry shouted, grabbing his brother’s balled-up fist. “He’s drunk. Don’t sink to that level. Ed, Penelope, find a few others and get out of here.”
“No,” Penelope said. “I’m here no matter what.”
Ed looked at Penelope and then back to Henry. “Sir, I really think you should get out of this place. A level five is as serious as it gets.”
“Do me a favor, Ed. Get in the limo and go home to Heather. Okay?”
Ed looked at Henry and back again at Penelope before nodding his head yes. Looking ashamed, he said, “Jeez Louise, guys, I have a family at home, two kids in college, and a mortgage. I can’t take this chance.”
“Ed,” Henry said as he walked across the room and placed both hands on his press secretary’s shoulders. “There’s no need to apologize. You have been with me through thick and thin. Do me a favor. Find about eight or nine more people and stuff them in that thing and get out of here. Okay? Please . . . do this for me,” he said with a smile. “It’s late and I’m tired, but I think this is for the best.”
As Henry walked back toward the inner room, Penelope and Herbert followed him. “Herbert, do me a favor,” Henry said without looking back. “Have someone get some fresh granola up here and turn on those televisions! We’ve got an election to win. And, Penelope?” Henry said, rubbing his thumb slowly over his thick black eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“Get my wife on the phone. Please?”
HENRY
Nineteen ninety-five. It was the year before a presidential election year and the year after we won reelection to the U.S. Senate. I basically ran unopposed, as a Republican state representative from the Panhandle put up token opposition.
Although I was leading, according to Mason-Dixon’s statewide polls, I campaigned harder than I had in my first run for office. This time we wanted to win 75 percent of the vote, which would give us a mandate and thrust the name Davis in the forefront of the presidential hopefuls in 2000.
The Republican candidate was a forme
r TV reporter and played well to the camera. When Herbert negotiated with his campaign manager for a statewide televised debate, Herbert agreed to do something I would have never authorized. My opponent and I were to sit on the stage, with just a moderator who would toss out a subject such as “the economy,” and we would have a true debate with no time limits. Two friends of mine in the Senate called and asked why I would take such a chance when I was already leading my opponent two-to-one in the polls. I concealed my concern by telling them I thought this was what the people of Florida wanted to see. Although this format was reminiscent of the Lincoln-Douglas debates and I was honored by my brother’s belief in me, Abe didn’t have a satellite feed that could send any of his mistakes instantaneously around the globe.
The night of the debate the moderator walked between us and said the two words that made my opponent’s eyes twinkle. “Affirmative action.” The state representative looked in my direction and began his well-rehearsed response. “As you know, Senator Davis, I have come out staunchly against affirmative action. I think it’s absurd and illogical to use discrimination . . . to show that discrimination . . . no matter how it is presented, is wrong. I don’t believe you have children, but Fanny and I have a little grandboy who just turned four. I’ve said from the beginning that one of the reasons I am running for this office is to leave behind a better world for him. One day we will have to explain to his generation why we have government-sanctioned discrimination.” And then he paused dramatically and spoke to me while turning toward the camera. “So please explain it to me as if I were a four-year-old. Why do you see the need for such a measure in our country at this time?”
As he finished, there was thunderous applause, although the moderator had advised beforehand that there should be no show of support from the audience. I waited for them to quiet, looked into his eyes, and gave him a respectful nod of the head. Then I turned toward the camera and said, “I thank you for asking that question, Representative Edwards, because it is one of the most important issues facing our generation. I feel the only way to explain it is like this. I am sure you would agree that historically people of color in this country have been disadvantaged in many ways. Let’s look at sports since the World Series just ended.
In baseball you have one player from one team facing nine from the opposition on the field. Now, the batter must earn his way on base. If he hits the ball and does not make it to first, he’s out. Point-blank, end of discussion. But if by chance there is a tie . . .” And then I paused and looked at my opponent. “If there is a tie, Representative Edwards, since it was nine players on the field against one in baseball, the batter is viewed as being disadvantaged and the tie goes to the runner. The affirmative action laws as they are written will not—and I repeat because this is often overlooked—will not give anything to anyone who has not earned it. But if there is a tie between two applicants in terms of qualifications, what it does give is an opportunity for women and people of color to simply stay in the game.”
When I backed away from the microphone, the applause was so loud there was a squeal in the audio and I knew a mandate was a distinct possibility.
After my victory, I went up to New York City for a meeting with JFK Jr. and the editorial staff of George magazine as well as Newsweek and Black Enterprise. Herbert also made sure he got me back in front of Tim Russert and Meet the Press. As badly as I did the last time in town, I did well this time. I was comfortable with the questions and Russert shook my hand afterwards and asked if I could do the show again the Sunday before the next general election.
Leaving Rockefeller Center, I walked down the street and a few people recognized me. A couple even wanted autographs, but in a city so used to celebrities, most people just walked on by.
Then I noticed a lady standing in front of a department store across the street. She moved slowly, and as I saw her scratch her backside, it was obvious she had not bathed in some time. I looked at my watch and saw that I had some time before the limo would pick me up and take me to the airport to fly out to the West Coast. I went to a diner, bought a couple of sandwiches, and walked back outside to find the homeless woman asking a tall blond for money. The lady wore a designer cowboy hat, faded jeans, and had one of those dogs that was not much bigger than a rat with a bad perm, and it was wearing a gold-tone collar around its neck. I realized at that moment that we live in a society where pets are treated better than people. All of a sudden I lost my appetite.
I stood to the side out of the way of the flood of people walking past me and watched as this lady asked each and every individual entering and exiting the boutique for change. As they past, they’d step by as if they were deaf or they would pat their pockets and shrug their shoulders to save their own conscience. As I watched, she must have addressed twenty people, and not one gave her a red cent.
I crossed the street to get a little closer to her. I just wanted to hear what she was saying to these people to cause some of them to make the faces they were making. She looked to be in her mid forties and her skin was pale. Not like a white person who’s sick, just a yellowish, white-fish, eggshell pale. She wore a windbreaker over several sweaters, although it was a warm day in Manhattan, and one shoulder of the windbreaker ironically draped off of her like a rich woman’s mink, exposing the dirty lining inside of it. She wore Burberry polyester pants, she was barefoot and walked with a limp. Between prospects she scratched her head furiously as if she was trying to get something out of her hair, and when she pulled her fingers out she smelled them. I thought, My God, how dirty do you have to be to smell whatever is in your hair?
As I stood at a newspaper stand in front of the store next door so as not to make eye contact with her, I listened closely to what she was saying.
“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a spare dollar?”
“No, I just spent my last buck,” the man who wore a silk navy ascot replied.
“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a spare dollar?”
Walking so fast he almost tripped, the next prospect ran out into traffic to hail a taxi.
“Ladies, I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a spare dollar?”
“Bish, please!” the woman said as she and her friend with a bag full of clothing laughed. “Get your ass a spare job.”
“Yeah, take yo po white-trash ass down to the damn welfare office,” her friend said with a laugh as they walked away.
And then Henry noticed a blind double amputee in a wheelchair with a tin cup extended and a crudely written sign hanging from his neck that read, “I thank my God every day that you can see.” One of the ladies almost walked into him as the other said, “Shit, these muttas coming out the cracks in the pavement today, child. You can never find a decent can of Raid when you need it. Can you?”
The homeless woman never changed expression as she asked the next person and the next person and the next the same question and got the same result.
“Ma’am?” I said, walking up behind her. “Here’s a dollar.” She looked at me and her eyes showed a joy I had not seen in them previously. “I also have an extra sandwich. You can have it under one condition.”
“What?” she said, awaiting the catch to my kindness.
“You have to sit over here with me and eat it.”
“That’s all? You don’t want no head . . . or nothing?”
As the words came out, I was glad I had not eaten, because I would have lost my lunch. “Aha, no. I just want a little company.”
As we sat, I smelled her. Let’s just say I can only use a phrase I once learned from a Kansas farmer. She smelled like urine in a rusty bucket. But I sat and talked to Ora for half an hour.
She was only twenty-seven, had no children, but was once married. She and her husband had had a house in Iowa and a Chevrolet wagon with wood on the side. They were married for two years, but fell into credit card debt, which eventually bankrupted them. One night she left and came to New York looking for stardom on Broadway, wher
e she got involved in drugs. “Tits,” as she called them. “I think I smoked up a little bit of my brains too,” she said. She was very proud of the fact that she had kicked hard drugs all by herself and was not tricking anymore. “I still smoke, though,” she said. “I don’t even consider weed tits. But I ain’t crazy. A great man named Oscar Wilde wrote, if you destroy the thing you love”—she took pleasure from the surprise in my eyes at her knowing the quote—“the thing you love destroys you. I know I done destroyed me some weed, so there you go.” And then she looked around for a potential beggee.
“I shot heroin before I even smoked weed. First time I was out turning, this bitch came up and asked if I had any shit. I told her I snorted and then she said she didn’t have time for that. A little while later, I saw her in the alley shooting it in a vein in her waist. She said all of her other veins were too messed up. I swore up and down right then and there I would never do any drug I had to shoot in my body. Well, I got to the point where I shot in my arms, fingers, thighs and then between my toes, and then my waist, and then the only place I could do it was to shoot it in right in my neck. After doing it like that for a while . . . I thought I should stop.
“And I would do enti-thang . . . you hear me? Enti-thang to get a buzz in dem days. I used to trick for Jacksons. That would buy me about two packets and I was using about eighteen or nineteen of dem packets a day. That just tells you how much I had to turn. Sometimes the men wouldn’t have a Jackson, so I did it for ten and a few times even five or a Washington. It didn’t matter ’cause I had to have dem snaps.
“You know something?” she continued, as she vehemently scratched her head again and then the back of her neck. “I been called so many names, when someone says ‘ho,’ ‘white trash,’ or ‘cracker bitch,’ I look around like it’s my name. I guess regular people get upset with that kinda stuff, but I don’t. I’ve had people pour hot coffee on me while I was sleeping in the rain, I have had people spit on me just for the hell of it, look at me and run as if I were a monster or something or cover their kid’s eyes as if I were contagious as they pass by me. I used to have feelings; not anymore. That’s the first thing you lose when you live on the street.” She looked at the entrance of the store as a tall black man came out carrying a tennis racket over one shoulder and a white girl on his other arm.
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