by Nic Tatano
“Okay, so Becker and David Gold meet in college, both political science majors. Both get jobs as aides in Washington, then a few years later Gold decides he wants to run for some local office in New York and asks Becker to run his campaign. Anyway, the party has some sort of exploratory committee looking for candidates and Gold is supposed to meet with them. But that night Gold has the flu and rather than cancel he asks Becker to deliver his speech. The party falls in love with Becker and asks him to run. He tries to get them to run his friend instead but they want him since Gold really has no personality. Anyway, Gold has blamed him ever since for basically stealing his career.”
“Did Gold ever go into politics? I mean, did he run for something else?”
Tyler nods. “He tried, ran a couple of times but his anger came through and eventually the party told him to get lost. Now he works for some watchdog organization and every chance he gets he puts out something negative on Becker. I met him once. He’s a sad, bitter guy. But as far as his own political career goes, the point was moot, as he doesn’t have one tenth the appeal Becker does and he’s not exactly telegenic. Short, fat and losing his hair. He never would have gone anywhere in politics. The Senator even offered him a job but Gold thinks that would be demeaning.”
“So he’s our biggest enemy?”
“Enemy’s the wrong term. He’s simply a major thorn in our side, wants us to fail. You’ll meet him eventually and he’ll try to turn you against Becker.”
“How will I meet him?”
“Oh, trust me, he’ll show up as a heckler or do something disruptive at some point.”
But I’m not waiting for “eventually.” I need to know right now.
***
I walk over to the mailboxes to see if our mystery guest has sent any snail mail my way when I see Ripley heading toward me from the break room, beaming. I know something good has happened as our eyes connect. “Okay, spill.”
She hands me an envelope. I open it and see something that looks very familiar.
Ripley,
One of the higher-ups in the campaign wishes to meet you. Dinner is at Carriage Trade at six. Ask for Mister Ferguson. Keep this confidential.
-Frank
I slowly nod as I hand it back to her. “So, Frank is apparently the campaign pimp and it’s your turn with the mystery higher-up.”
“Except we both know who that is. So he wants to play the field.”
“At this point, who the hell knows? But good luck tonight.”
“I’m betting he spends one of those three halves of the evening talking about you.”
“And men say we’re hard to figure out.”
“Hey, Twitter Girl!”
Senator Becker’s voice cuts through the chatter and I see him waving me into his office. “The master beckons,” I say, as I head toward him. He smiles as I arrive at his office door. “What can I do for you, Senator?”
“Come on in,” he says. I enter the office and he closes the door behind me, then moves behind the desk. “I just hadn’t had a chance to tell you what a great job you did in New Hampshire and over the weekend. You not only put the nail in Hensler’s coffin, you buried the guy and his followers at sea.”
“Sir, it’s easy when they do most of the work for me. I mean, talk about hanging curve balls over the middle of the plate.”
“Yeah, really. And remember, when it’s just you and me, please call me Will.”
“Sorry, I keep forgetting. Twitter Girl’s always good for me.”
He leans forward, drops his voice a bit. “One more thing… I, uh, wanted to say how much I enjoyed having dinner with you the other night.”
“Yeah, I had a good time.”
“And I hope we can do it again. Just the two of us. If, you know, that’s okay.”
And his look tells me Sam may be right about his lack of experience with women. I haven’t seen this body language since high school. Slump shouldered, hands in pockets, a shy boy asking a girl to dance.
“Sure, I’d like that, Sen— I mean, Will.”
He exhales audibly like he’s relieved at not getting shot down and smiles at me, not the famous smile America knows, but one that includes his eyes locking with mine and going deep into my soul.
Damn, I get an amazing shiver. The most eligible man in the country is interested in me.
I think.
And probably my best friend.
I think.
I’m totally confused.
Welcome back to high school, indeed.
***
The phone rings shortly after nine, and I see it’s Ripley checking in with the latest breaking news on Becker. “You’ve reached Twitter Girl. For mixed romantic signals, press one.”
Beep. “You called it,” she says.
“Let me guess… the three halves again?”
“Yeah, it’s the weird math formula for which there is no answer key. Half the time talking shop, half on a date, half talking about you.”
“Kisses, hugs, pre-marital hand holding?”
“No, no and no. At this point two straws in a chocolate shake at a malt shop would pass for romance. Sweetie, I don’t get it.”
“I don’t either. Maybe we’re ignoring him too much?”
“Nah, that’s not it. I’m beginning to think your brother’s theory is on target.”
“By the way, he called me in his office today and asked me out again. At least I think he did.”
“What do you mean you think he asked you out?”
“He said he had a good time and asked if I was okay with having dinner with him again, just the two of us.”
“Ah, that’s something. So he’s interested in you.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe he just wants a woman to talk to and he’s got a void in his personal life. The campaign is pretty much dominated by men, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I guess that’s possible.”
“Anyway, if the pattern follows, the next time he sees you he’ll ask you out to dinner again.”
“Maybe so.” Heavy sigh. Long pause.
“What, Ripley?”
“I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s, I don’t know, something not right about this guy.”
“So, you dropping out of the Becker sweepstakes?”
“Hell no. Besides, if there really is something wrong with him, who better than me to fix him? However, I do think Sam needs to meet him.”
CHAPTER NINE
@TwitterGirl
Marvin Hensler has head X-rayed during routine physical. The X-rays showed nothing.
Frank’s pecan crusted chicken salad barely hits the table when his cell rings. He looks at it and shakes his head. “Dammit, gotta go.”
“What?” I ask.
“Got a fire to put out back at the headquarters.”
“You need my help?”
“Nah, I got this.” He flags down a waitress and hands her his plate. “Can you box that up for me? I can’t stay.”
“Certainly,” she says.
“See you back at the office. Save your receipt and the campaign will reimburse you,” says Frank.
“No problem,” I say, as he puts on his coat and takes off. Which leaves me alone in the busy Manhattan restaurant, so I pull out my tablet and start searching for something to read while I attack my pastrami sandwich. No sooner than I take a big bite than I’m interrupted.
“Excuse me, you’re Cassidy Shea, right?”
I look up and see a handsome guy in a business suit about forty sitting alone at the table across from me. I put my finger up as I quickly chew, wipe the mustard from my chin, then take a sip of ice cold creme soda and swallow. “Last time I checked.”
“I thought so. I really miss seeing you on TV. Loved your stories.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“That series you did on organ donation brought tears to my eyes. I think you’re the only network reporter with a heart.”
“Well, thank you, but now I’m
a former network reporter. Still have the heart, though. The network let me keep it since they basically have no use for such things.”
He laughs a bit. “Well, you’ll get another gig. You’re too talented.”
“I already got a new job.”
“Oh, really? What network? I’ll be sure to watch.”
I shake my head. “Not on TV. I’m working for Senator Becker’s presidential campaign. Doing my Twitter Girl thing. I get paid to be sarcastic till November.”
“Hey, that’s terrific. Good for you.”
The guy has a warm smile and pale blue eyes framed by thick dark brown hair. A lean, boyish face. Sort of a cross between handsome and cute. Probably because he’s a cute guy wrapped in a thousand dollar suit. Oh, what the hell. “If you’d like to join me for lunch, my boss got called away. And I hate eating alone.”
“Hey, can’t pass up that invitation.” He smiles, picks up his plate and slides into the seat opposite me, then extends his hand. “Jack Wheeler.”
“Nice to meet you, Jack. So, did your lunch companion get called away as well?”
“Nope, flying solo today. Sometimes I like to get away from the office by myself to clear my head. Helps me think.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m taking you away from work.”
“Much rather talk to you. And it’s nothing that can’t wait.”
“So waddaya do, Jack Wheeler?”
“Public relations.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“Depends on the client, and right now I’ve got one that’s taking all my time. Gotta no-win situation that needs damage control.”
“Well, as a former member of the media, I can only advise you that no comment is the worst thing you can say. When someone gives us that we only dig deeper.”
“Yeah, I know from previous experience. Unfortunately my client didn’t take that advice. Anyway, like I said, I’d rather talk to you.”
And talk we do. And talk. And talk.
The conversation is easy, not forced, we have a lot in common. Lets put it this way; a half hour later I have only finished half of my sandwich, and it’s killer pastrami on to-die-for rye bread with hot mustard. It’s one of those conversations where you can’t get what you want to say out of your mouth fast enough. And, news flash, the guy actually looks as if he’s listening to me instead of giving me the usual guy-tuning-out-girl-yes-dear-bobblehead.
“So, are you liking politics?” he asks, as I give the waitress my credit card and ask her to wrap the rest of my sandwich. (I aint leavin’ food this good. Like my mom said, kids are starving in some foreign country. And they probably wouldn’t like pastrami anyway.)
“Only been doing it a few weeks. It’s different than news. More cutthroat. But I think I’ve hitched my wagon to the right star.”
“Yeah, Becker seems like a slam dunk. Love to see the idiot in the White House get his walking papers.”
“Wouldn’t we all.”
“So, your job is to basically do the social networking thing?”
“Just Twitter. I’m supposed to simply launch sarcastic comments at the opposition when they say or do something stupid.”
“Sounds like fish in a barrel with politicians.”
“So far, it has been.”
“And when you’re not being sarcastic, what do you do for fun?”
He looks at me differently than Will Becker did. With the Senator it was simply a casual question. With this guy… I can tell he’s definitely interested in me. “Being sarcastic is fun. For me anyway.”
“I meant when you’re off the clock. Surely a household name like yourself has a full dance card.”
Okay, now he’s asking if I’m available. “Well, I like to travel, go to ballgames, binge watch shows on Netflix, play poker. But my dance card does have some openings.”
“Might there be an opening for dinner and a show some night?”
I shoot him a slight smile. “Oh, I think I can fit you into my schedule—”
“Wheeler! Hey, Wheeler!”
A familiar voice interrupts me as I turn to see Tyler heading toward our table, not looking happy, eyes locked on Jack.
I turn back to Jack. “You two know each other?”
He slumps into his chair as he rolls his eyes and exhales a heavy sigh. “Uh, you could say that.”
Tyler arrives, folds his arms and stares at Jack. “Well, well, well, isn’t this an interesting lunch pairing.”
“Hello, Tyler,” says Jack, in a monotone.
I look up at Tyler. “So how do you two know each other?”
Tyler answers while still staring at Jack. “Uh, didn’t he tell you? He’s my counterpart for a certain governor from New Jersey.”
I turn back to Jack with both eyebrows raised. “Oh, really? You sorta left out that little detail about your client.” I look back at Tyler. “He said he worked in public relations.”
“C’mon, Wheeler,” says Tyler, “if you wanna spy on us why don’t you just plant a volunteer in our headquarters? That’s more your style anyway. Though it didn’t work the last time.”
Jack is turning beet red and looks at me like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Cassidy, I really was only interested—”
“Beat your feet, Wheeler,” says Tyler.
I glare at Jack. “I’d take his advice if I were you.”
“Fine. Listen, about that dance card of yours—”
“Get. Lost.”
My almost dinner-and-a-show date gets up and leaves.
Tyler looks at me quizzically. “How the hell did you end up eating lunch with him?”
“Frank got called back to the office right after the food got here, Jack started chatting me up from the next table, we were both eating alone and I invited him to join me.”
Tyler shakes his head as I grab the bag with the rest of my lunch and stand up. We start to walk out of the place. “I’m surprised Frank didn’t notice him.”
“He had his back to the guy.”
“Can’t believe he was stalking you. But that’s typical of Wheeler.”
“By the way, no nickname for him?”
“I have one, but not in front of a lady.”
“I’m no lady, I’m Twitter Girl. C’mon, I can handle it.”
“It’s too crude and you have too much class. But he’s known as Wheeler the Dealer in political circles.”
He holds the door open and we walk out into the cold and bright sunshine.
“Well, I owe you one, Tyler.”
He puts on a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses as we head down the street, and for the first time since I’ve met him he’s not the upbeat ball of positive energy who’s the life of the campaign office. He looks serious, jaw clenched, as he power-walks down the street. “Just be careful, T.G. Nothing is as it seems in politics.”
Nothing is as it seems.
I stop dead in my tracks, grab his forearm and turn to face him. “What did you say?”
“You gotta be careful in this business. Nothing is off the table and people will use every trick in the book—”
“No, no, when you said nothing is as it seems. What did you mean by that?” I study his face. Is Tyler my mystery contact?
“I mean the rules don’t apply because there are no rules. Don’t take anything at face value. Play your cards close to the vest.”
“Oh.” His expression offers nothing, no clue, though I cannot see his eyes. If he’s my contact, which doesn’t make much sense anyway, he doesn’t have a tell.
We start walking again. “Just be careful who you trust, that’s all.”
“I trust you, Tyler. Thanks again for protecting me from that guy. He had just asked me out to dinner and I was about to accept. I don’t need my heart broken again.”
“Yeah, and that’s what would have happened. He would have been the perfect boyfriend till the convention, then dumped you.”
Tyler’s got his hands in his pockets so I curl one hand around his elbow and rest
it on his forearm.
The guy reminds me a lot of my brother. Looking out for me, wanting the best for me, protecting me. Tyler Garrity makes me feel safe, like he would never let anyone hurt me.
And apparently there are a lot of people in politics who would like to do just that.
***
I head for Frank’s office the minute we get back to the campaign headquarters and tap on his door. He’s eating the lunch the waitress boxed up and gestures toward the chair in front of his desk. “C’mon in.”
“Did you get your fire put out?”
“Thankfully, it didn’t turn out to be anything serious.”
“That’s good.”
“So what’s up?”
“I had lunch with Jack Wheeler after you left.”
His eyes widen and the eyebrows go up. “And you did this because…”
“Frank, I had no idea who he was. He was sitting right behind you all along. We started talking after you left and I invited him to join me at my table because I hate eating alone in a restaurant and he seemed like a decent guy. He told me he worked in public relations. Thankfully Tyler happened to come in and told me he worked for Governor Schilling.”
Frank’s eyes narrow as he looks to the side. “That sonofabitch. The bastard was stalking us. How did I not notice him?”
“You had your back to him and Twitter Girl had your undivided attention. She has that effect on people.”
“Thank goodness we didn’t talk about anything confidential.”
“Anyway, Frank, the guy hit on me after lying about who he was. I wanna get even.”
“With him or his candidate?”
“I guess the road to him goes through his candidate.”
“Fine, the primary is in two days. We need to knock her out anyway, may as well do it early. But be careful, we don’t want any sexism charges. She is the only woman in the race. The term bitch is off the table.”
“Don’t worry, Frank. I know the rules of a good catfight. The only kick-ass bitch in Iowa this week will be me.”
CHAPTER TEN
@TwitterGirl
#IowaPrimary
Governor Schilling driving through Iowa. So used to paying tolls she keeps tossing quarters out the car window.
Yeah, I started out with a cute, fun little tweet to lull the Schilling camp into a false sense of security. In a few hours I’ll start carpet bombing the Internet with all sorts of snarky comments that will make them feel like they slept in itching powder. Might file them under #Don’tLieToTheRedheadBitch.
