Vidal Brown held a press conference at the airport the morning after the election, just before they left on a charter flight for New Hampshire. Haze stood behind him, looking pleased. Also on the platform were Bud and Sarah Caulfield, who hadn't seen Haze, except on TV, for almost a week.
"And now," Vidal said, "I'd like to present to you the man from Providence, Rhode Island, who is destined to bring Providence to America. . the next President of the United States, Haze Richards!"
Haze stepped forward on the small luggage platform that they were using as a makeshift stage. TV cameras panned and zoomed; his smile was washed in a halogen glow.
"Thank you. I want to thank the Iowa voters for their support." He turned to the ruddy farmer standing to his right. "And I want to promise Bud and Sarah Caulfield I'll be back. And when I get here, I intend to have legislation pending that will help them. We're about to take this country back and we're gonna do it for Americans like the Caulfields." Sarah reached out and grabbed hi s h and.
Japanese cameras recorded the event.
"Governor Richards," a reporter called from the crowd. "Bud Renick and Tom Bartel have issued an invitation for you to come to New York and talk to them about the deadlocked Teamster negotiations. Is that something you're planning to do?"
"I intend to go to New Hampshire and fulfill two days of my campaign schedule; then I'll go to New York on Tuesday, if I'm still invited, and I'll see what I can do to help fix that situation."
A. J. had timed the meeting so the Teamster victory would guarantee New Hampshire. He thought the afterglow should last for two weeks if they worked the media right. The late momentum should carry them through Super Tuesday.
They boarded the plane and took off at four in the afternoon. Iowans waved good-bye till the plane was out of sight.
By the time they landed in New Hampshire, Brenton Spencer was already reporting the evening news. "A bombshell exploded in the Democratic presidential primary today as a small-time underworld player on trial for contract tampering in New York testified that Leo Skatina had made promises to the mob." The shot switched to a courtroom videotape where a street villain named "Too Fat" Jack Vasacci was sitting in a paneled witness box, his jowls dripping sweat on Armani lapels. "So we calls this guy in Albany who could get the job done."
"And who was the man in Albany?" the prosecutor's voice said, off camera.
"His name was Christopher Delco. He's an aide to Senator Leo Skatina."
"And this man told you, you had the freeway contracts sewed up before the bids were filed?"
`That's what Deleo said. He said it went all the way to the senator for approval."
The shot switched back to Brenton Spencer, who looked solemnly into the camera from his anchor chair on the Rim. "The senator had no comment. As a matter of fact, he was unavailable today. His press secretary said that Mr. Deleo was no longer an aide of Senator Skatina, and that the testimony given under oath in the federal courthouse was totally untrue. He said further that Skatina as a U. S. senator was not involved in the issuance of state contracts. We'll be tracking this story as it develops."
Haze watched the late report from his suite at the Manchester House in Manchester, New Hampshire. He smiled as Leo Skatina was damned by the unsubstantiated charge.
He had no idea that A. J. had arranged the whole thing.
Chapter 30
JOURNEYS
He had been struggling to breathe and the oxygen bottle wouldn't help. Penny had called the doctor, but he hadn't arrived yet. Joseph Alo's lungs were filling slowl y w ith fluid. He was drowning from the inside. He had trie d t o cough, but the pressure on his chest was too severe. He c losed his eyes and wished the Lord would take him.
The priest from the Trenton archdiocese arrived at noon and entered the dark room that had the sweet smell of death and medicine. He kneeled by the bed and said a prayer of contrition. As he held Joseph's hand, the dying Mafia don opened his eyes and looked at the priest whom he'd never seen before.
The priest knelt and began the anointing of the sick. He put some holy oil on Joseph's forehead, then anointed each of Joseph's palms. "May the Lord who frees you from sin, save you."
Joseph did not view his excesses as sin. He had simply fought to provide for his family. He had taken on a world that showed him no mercy from the time he was a child, and now he lay in a bed, listening to his lungs filling, knowing he was at the very end.
He closed his eyes and he was a boy again. He was lying on his back in a beautiful green field. He was listening to the birds singing. The breeze was cool and strong. . it ruffled his thick black hair. He had so much ahead of him, his life was just starting. And then, an old man in white robes and a long flowing gray beard leaned over him, taking the sun away.
"Are you ready?" the old man said to Joseph, the boy. "For what?" Joseph's voice was the high soprano of his youth.
"Your next journey. I will help you up, but you must go alone."
As the old man offered his hand, Joseph reached up to take it.
In the bedroom, the praying priest became aware that Joseph's hand had just risen above his head. It seemed to be reaching out for something, but then it dropped slowly back to his side.
The priest looked over, but Joseph Alo had passed on.
While Joseph Alo took his last journey alone, Haze Richards began a much shorter one, accompanied by a hundred reporters. It started on the rail platform in downtown Manchester. He said a few solemn words about the need for a unified country before he got on the train. It was the way A. J. wanted it. A common man going into the jaws of certain defeat to help a nation he loved. He took the two-hour train ride into Manhattan with the skeptical press in the seats all around him. Pod people whispered behind their hands, saying he had almost no chance to succeed. Haze sat with his briefcase on his lap, looking out the train window. The rushing Connecticut landscape played like a travelogue with broken sprockets. He wasn't focused on the scenery.
He was imagining what it would be like to actually achieve his dream-what it would be like to be the forty-third President of the United States of America.
Chapter 31
RECKONING
Brenton Spencer had been feeling terrible for a week. He had almost no energy and it was beginning to show on his newscasts. He couldn't sleep because hi s h eadaches were getting worse, waking him up in the middle of the night. He would stagger into the bathroom o n u nsteady legs, close the door so his wife, Sandy, wouldn't h ear, and throw up in his decorator-approved black ony x t oilet. He had made an appointment to see his doctor bu t h e was. Dreading the visit. Something was terribly wrong.
The day that Joseph Alo died, his lead story was Haze Richards's trek to New York. He carried the story on the five o'clock newscast, using a field remote from reporter Doug Miles. Brenton sat at his anchor desk on the Rim, his concentration shot, while a worried Steve Israel talked him through the newscast with the ear angel.
"Come on, Brenton, you're up in five. Stop drifting. You've got to tag the remote," Steve was saying as the B-roll footage of Haze on the train platform was concluding. The floor manager gave him four fingers, then three, two, then pointed at Brenton who looked into the center camera, reading his copy in the lens TelePrompTer.
"Haze Richards has begun a train ride to New York in what is viewed by most as a futile attempt to solve one of the most complicated labor issues in America. He will be staying in Manhattan tonight at an undisclosed location and, in the morning, will try his hand at unlocking the snuggle between America's truckers and the businesses that employ them." Then Brenton seemed lost as his copy ran out.
"Throw it to Hal," Steve coached.
"And now to Hal Reed for a campaign update," Brenton said.
While Hal was rattling on about local races, Brenton was wondering if he had brain cancer. What was causing these headaches? He got the broadcast back five minutes later for the last story, which was a brief reference to Joseph Alo's death. Steve Israel had elected
to give it a light play for reasons that Brenton could only guess.
"Come on, Brenton, your copy's up," Steve said, and as Brenton read the lens TelePrompTer, a file shot of Joseph Alo was Kyroned over his shoulder.
"Joseph Alo, the founder of the national chain of steak houses known as Mr. A's, died at two-thirty this afternoon in his New Jersey home," he read. "Doctors say he had suffered briefly from a pulmonary respiratory disease. He was seventy-three." No mention was made of his alleged mob connections.
Ryan and Kaz watched the newscast on a black and white TV that was bolted to the dresser in the dingy hooker hotel. Neither one of them said anything until after Brenton Spencer finished his closing. Both were lost in their own thoughts. Ryan was worried about Lucinda, wondering where she was, how her father's death would affect her, how he could find a way to get in touch.
"I need to get out of this room for a while," Ryan said, looking over at Kaz.
In the three days since Kaz had brought him there, he'd never left the bed except when Kaz helped him to the bathroom, which was down the hall. That trip was a twice-a-day adventure that left him light-headed. Ryan's life had been slowed to a crawl. He had counted the water-stained tiles on the ceiling of the room several hundred times, malting pictures out of the jagged brown shapes. A Rorschach nightmare that was warping him. He found that The Mechanic was rerunning at four A. M. on channel 6. He watched it twice, trying to regain some of the excitement he had once felt for the Emmy-winning show, but it seemed dull and shallow to him now. His own pretentious dialogue echoed insincerely across a landscape of personal excesses. Kenetta had dropped by once and changed the dressing. After she had finished, she smiled at him and told him he was doing great Then she and Kaz had gone into the hall and whispered. When Kaz came back, he had avoided Ryan's eyes. Now Ryan just wanted to get out of the stifling, cum-stained hotel room.
"The doctor said you're not supposed to get up."
"Fuck it." Ryan sat up, carefully swinging his damaged leg off the bed and resting it on the floor. He tried to stand and put weight on the leg, but as soon as he did, it collapsed under him. He fell awkwardly back on the bed as Kaz ran and grabbed him.
"I'm getting outta here for a while if I have to crawl. You can help me or you can watch." His leg didn't have the sharp pain of a few days ago, but it never stopped aching. He was afraid he'd lost a lot of muscle that he'd need to walk. Kaz helped him up and looked at the heavy bandage on his leg, hoping Ryan hadn't broken the stitches loose.
They avoided the prying, vacant eyes of the resident hookers by moving out the back through the narrow, dirty corridor. Kaz left Ryan leaning on the doorjamb as he went and got the car, brought it around, and helped Ryan into the front seat. The cold January night air perked Ryan up.
They drove around Trenton until Kaz found a bleeding meat joint that was empty and out of the way. Kaz helped Ryan out and got him into the back booth of the diner. They ordered rare steak and coffee while a waiter set th e t able. After he left, they took stock of each other.
"I may not be the smartest guy on the planet, but I don't figure you came outta that stand of trees and blew up Mickey's driver because you needed target practice. I also don't think you're taking care of me because you want a career in nursing."
"Why don't you keep talking and I'll tell you when you stop making sense."
Ryan filled him in on how Mickey had approached him., how he'd decided to get out of Hollywood and give his battered career a rest. He told Kaz about going to work in Princeton for Malcolm Rasher, about the confrontation in Joseph's study, and the overheard conversation between A. J. and Mickey during which A. J. mentioned cash from the Bahamas. He told him about Haze Richards and the Republic Airlines flight. . the tape Rellica shot and the man who attacked him in the Savoy. He ended with the troubling argument with Mickey in the boathouse and the feeling that he'd overplayed his hand. When he was finished, Kaz sat there digesting it all.
"What's your connection with Mickey's sister?" "She's a friend. I've known her since I was fifteen, she was seven."
"Bullshit. You've got a case on her," Kaz said.
"Mickey is probably going to take over now that his father is dead," Ryan said, trying to change the subject.
"So the Alos are trying to put Haze Richards in the Oval Office. . Ain't that a fucking nightmare?" Kaz thought for a minute. "A campaign would be a great laundry; the money can't be traced."
Ryan picked up his coffee. It was cold.
"When you saw the story about Haze going to the Teamster meeting, you said A. J.'s fingerprints were all over this. What'd you mean?"
"A. J. Teagarden doesn't let Haze do anything where he doesn't already know what the result is going to be. If Haze is going to New York to try and solve that strike, thenyou can bet its already a done deal," Ryan said.
"Mickey could set that up easy."
They sat in silence and thought about it.
"Y' know what doesn't figure?" Ryan finally said, bringing Kaz back from his thoughts. "Here, we got Brenton Spencer, this prime-time network anchorman who's got this bulletproof TV persona, always in control. He's hosting a nationally televised debate and, because one of the candidates calls him to task for his attitude on stage, he completely loses it. I don't buy it. People like Brenton Spencer don't act on random emotions. I think Spencer may be in on it."
"Why don't we talk to him and find out?" Kaz replied, realizing he finally knew what his next move should be.
Chapter 32
FOOL'S ERRAND
The press had been milling there for hours, adding their gum wrappers and cigarette butts to a sidewalk already littered with beggars and pigeon shit. A. J.'s plan had been for Haze to go in alone and emerge from the room a few hours later, victorious.
Haze moved into the old building on East Fifty-seventh Street. The press swarmed. Sun guns went on, directional mikes were unsheathed like Wilkinson swords, questions were fired in an overlapping flow of hyperbole and skepticism.
"No comment," Haze said to the clattering motor-drive lenses. "I'm trying to find Bud Rennick."
A door opened and Bud stuck his massive head out. Camera lenses focused.
Shutters grabbed milliseconds of pictorial truth.
Bud grabbed his jacket, put it on as Tom Bartel came out of the same room and joined him in the hall.
"Anybody expecting me?" Haze asked dryly. CNN had elected to go with the story live and their "on-site" producer was pushing his cameraman forward.
"We're live," he was saying as if his fellow newsmen cared. "Outta the way."
"Come on in," Tom Bartel said, shaking Haze's hand. They moved into the room and closed the door, leaving the press in reportus interruptus.
The high-ceilinged conference room was a rectangular war zone. Paper cups, empty Winchell's boxes and crumpled yellow legal sheets littered the battlefield, dead reminders of the struggle. The room had been cleared of business agents and lawyers for Haze's visit.
"We have a deal," Bud said. "I caved on all Tom's points."
"I'm a happy — camper," Tom Bartel said, grinning.
Haze sat down at the table, opened his briefcase, and took out a deck of cards. He finally grinned. "Anybody wanna play gin rummy?"
Two hours later, they walked out into the glare of the TV cameras. Bud put up his hand for quiet over the din of shouted questions.
"Excuse me, excuse me. . be quiet. We have a statement." They waited until the news crews settled down.
"We've reached an accord," Tom Bartel said. "We've signed a tentative agreement, which I'm sure we'll be able to get ratified within hours by the association."
A loud gasp went up from the pod people and the liveat-fives.
"Speaking for the Teamsters," Bud concluded, "I want to say that we're happy. I've been empowered by my board to accept this tentative agreement and I'd like to tell the brotherhood … Get back in your trucks, guys, this thing is over."
Through it all, Haze said nothing. He stood
between them, looking grateful.
"Governor Richards, Governor Richards. . Stan Hooks, CBS Business Report," a tall, bald reporter yelled. "What did you bring to these negotiations to produce this amazing result?"
"I didn't settle this dispute, I want to make that clear. I simply brought to the table some new cards and an open mind," he said truthfully. "This was not a dispute where labor and management couldn't come to terms. This was simply an example of ending the divisiveness and malting good things happen because good people on both sides of the issue are trying diligently to solve problems. I was glad to be part of it. I believe America can work again if we let it."
In his park-view room in the Sherry Netherland Hotel, A. J. watched the live coverage on CNN while he ate his room-service lunch. He had a smile on his face and pasta sauce in his beard.
"Un-fucking-believable." He grinned at the TV screen.
Chapter 33
CHECKING THE BOX
They started showing up at noon. Sad-faced visitors in black suits with silk shirts and hand-painted ties. First to arrive were the Medinas. With his son beside him, the don from New York sat in the back of his maroon., custom-made Rolls-Royce with the bulletproof door panels. His two creepy Vietnamese bodyguards were riding in the front seat.
Bart "the Doctor" DiAgusta arrived at one, with his wife and three sons. They'd flown commercially from Chicago. The Doctor had made his name by dismembering his enemies with a chain saw in a sixties business dispute with the New York Colombos. He rolled down the window in his rented limo and looked at the two Alo guards under the supervision of Pulacargo Depaulo, who was a cousin of Mickey's and fresh off the boat.
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