Twitter Girl

by Nic Tatano

  However, my “shock and awe” campaign to get even with Wheeler the Dealer is already underway after Tyler happened to mention the guy is an incurable chocoholic. My brother, who enjoys exacting revenge on those ne’er-do-wells who dare play with his sister’s emotions, whipped up a batch of Ex-Lax brownies with enough laxative to give anyone a free colonoscopy prep. That’s the shock part. I placed them in a decorative basket with red, white and blue ribbons and bribed a room service waiter to have them waiting in Wheeler’s hotel room. So far our “public relations” guy is nowhere to be found, as I overheard another Schilling staffer say he was staying in today as he was a bit “under the weather.” I did swing by his hotel room, tapped on the door, said, “housekeeping” and heard him yell, “come back later” followed by the sound of repeated toilet flushes.

  And that’s the… wait for it…

  Awwwwww…

  Then of course, I cover my tracks.

  @TwitterGirl

  #IowaPrimary

  Love the hospitality here! Found a basket of delicious brownies in my hotel room! Sugar high!

  But things are a little different this time in the wilds of Iowa. There’s no debate, simply tomorrow’s primary. (Known in Iowa as a “caucus” for some odd reason, and trying to explain it would take too long and not make much sense to you since it doesn’t make any sense to me either.) So this time I’m not waiting around for a candidate to make a gaffe. I’ve got my tweets at the ready, scripted and with a specific schedule that will allow me to sit back, relax and watch the carnage. (Of course I’m always at the ready to throw more gasoline on the fire if necessary if there are any breaking gaffes.) Tyler, who also wants to get even with Wheeler, came up with the strategy and Frank already approved my tweets. While Senator Becker is making a last minute swing through the state along with the rest of the contenders, I’m going to make Governor Schilling waste all of her time doing something else.

  Denying a rumor.

  Of course I had to enlist some help to start said rumor so the origin cannot be traced back to me. One of my old co-workers and poker buddies, Kevin Frost, despises Governor Schilling almost as much as he hates the current President, as she has a tendency to treat photographers as the hired help.

  So as I walk through the hotel coffee shop which is filled with nothing but media people, I see Kevin reading a newspaper while eating breakfast. He looks up, spots me, stands up and waves. “Hey, Cassidy!”

  All eyes in the coffee shop turn for a moment as I quickly move toward him and give him a quick hug. “Hi, Kevin, how’s life on Air Force One?” I say in a louder than normal voice, at the level of those annoying people who discuss their sex lives on a cell phone while in a restaurant.

  He replies in the same fashion. “Not bad, lotta frequent flyer miles. You enjoying your new gig?”

  “Yeah, it’s a lot of fun.”

  “So, what’s Becker think about Schilling dropping out?”

  Everything comes to a screeching halt in the place as all heads turn toward us. Now it’s time for my best Academy Award performance as my eyes widen and I raise my voice. “Excuse me? Schilling’s dropping out?”

  “That’s the rumor I overheard in the lobby. Figured you’d know for sure.”

  “Hadn’t heard anything but let me check it out.”

  I pull out my cell phone as the place suddenly clears out. No one wants to be scooped on this.

  @TwitterGirl

  #IowaPrimary

  Rumor has it Governor Schilling is dropping out. Trying to confirm. Stay tuned.

  Of course now the New Jersey Governor will have to spend the rest of the day denying rumors and doing so without the help of her chief strategist, who is stuck in the shitter.

  By the time she gets things straightened out, a lot of voters will actually think she’s out of the race. And not bother voting for her.

  ***

  @TwitterGirl

  #IowaPrimary

  Big win for Senator Becker! Thanks Iowa, will miss the brownies!

  I’m feeling no pain as I lean back in the soft leather chair in Becker’s suite. It’s a party atmosphere after a huge victory, and the staff is watching the political commentary on television about the outcome. Of course, the big story isn’t that Becker won, which he was expected to do, but that Governor Schilling came in fourth after running second in the polls here a few days ago. Most of the experts are attributing it to the rumor about her dropping out, which also resulted in a bonus as she got so tired of answering questions yesterday she bit one voter’s head off and showed her true colors. Senator Becker played his role perfectly, sticking up for the Governor by saying the rumor was no doubt floated by the President’s campaign in an effort to fracture our party. And Kevin the photographer stuck to his story about hearing it in the lobby “from a bunch of advertising people” he didn’t recognize.

  Meanwhile, Jack Wheeler never emerged from his hotel room. Sometimes, revenge is a dish served with chocolate.

  So Twitter Girl is unscathed after getting even.

  Meanwhile, back to the other campaign involving my romantic interest. Or, the man I think is my romantic interest. Becker has been making eye contact with me ever since he arrived in the suite after making his victory speech. He’s sipping a beer, tie loosened, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, looking tired but happy. I, of course, have been smiling back at him after said eye contact. Though we haven’t had our “second date” I’m thinking it’s on his agenda.

  And if he’s “sweet on me” (love that old term) I’d like to know tonight instead of waiting for the next available date on Becker’s dance card, which might be awhile.

  The television commentators wrap up their analysis and the room starts to clear out. Becker doles out handshakes and back slaps as people leave the suite. Within a few minutes the only people left are me and Frank.

  “Great job, guys,” says Becker, as he closes the door. “I cannot believe the damage we did to Schilling.”

  I widen my eyes and put on my best playing dumb face. “Why Senator, whatever do you mean?”

  He laughs as he turns to Frank. “You think she’s toast, Frank?”

  He shrugs as he tosses an empty beer bottle into the trash. “After that little outburst which has already gone viral, could be. No one wants someone with a hair trigger temper in the Oval Office. But I think she’ll stick for a few more rounds. She’s definitely off the short list for VP.”

  “Well, I’ve learned one thing,” says Becker. “Don’t get on Twitter Girl’s bad side.”

  I drain what’s left of my wine. “Hell hath no fury like a woman stalked.”

  Becker notices we’re both out of booze. “Refill, guys? One for the road since no one’s driving?” He looks at the bar. “Still got a half bottle of wine and a few beers.”

  “I’m fried,” says Frank. “Gonna hit the hay.”

  “Well, I never let wine go to waste,” I say as I hold out my glass. “Kids are thirsty in some foreign country. Hit me, Senator.”

  Frank says goodnight and leaves as Becker refills my glass, then sits down on the couch opposite me. “I must say, I’m amazed at what you and Tyler came up with.”

  “Well, I cannot take all the credit since it was Tyler’s idea. But I think I did implement the plan with a certain flair and a little help from a friend in the media who will go unnamed.”

  “You really used Ex-Lax brownies on Wheeler?”

  I shake one finger at him. “Senator, plausible deniability, remember?”

  “Guess he’ll be hiring a food taster.” We both share a laugh as he leans back on the couch. “You’re an amazing woman, Cassidy.”

  “Why thank you, Senator.”

  “Call me Will, please.”

  “Sorry, keep forgetting. But I’m really just an average girl.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I tuck my legs underneath me and sip the wine, which is taking me past buzzed to a level Ripley calls truth serum. As in, I’d better shut the hel
l up unless I want to play all my cards in front of this man. “You’re the amazing one, Will Becker.”

  He waves his hand. “Nah, I’m just an average guy.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  He sits there, staring at me with a longing look, and if he wasn’t running for President I’d jump his bones. But this “relationship” (if it exists) will be a marathon, not a sprint, just like the campaign. I need to tread carefully, slowly, and not scare him away. “I heard you had dinner with Ripley the other night.”

  “Yeah, she’s terrific. Smart gal.”

  Time for a little fishing. “You two look good together.”

  “Hell, I think she’d make any guy look good.”

  “She is a traffic stopper. Ripley’s a real sweetheart, too.”

  “Why are we talking about her, Cassidy?”

  Hmmm. An opening. Oh, what the hell, I’m tired of trying to figure this out. “I just figured, you know, you might be interested in her. Romantically. She’d be really good for you.”

  “I… uh… was sort of hoping you might be really good for me.”

  ***

  Between the booze and finding out the Senator thinks I might be good for him and wants to have dinner with me later this week, I’m practically floating down the hallway toward my room. It’s a little after eleven.

  Midnight back east.

  Meanwhile, is he still up?

  I open the door, pull my tablet out of my purse and check my email. I scan the dozens of congratulatory messages and find the one I’m looking for time stamped two minutes ago.

  I hit the FaceTime button, tap his number and wait.

  Tyler’s smiling face fills the screen. “There she is! Congrats!”

  “Tyler, you know the whole thing was your idea. You’re the one who deserves the accolades.”

  “Fine, we’ll share, but you fired the bullets. I just loaded the gun. Do we make a great team, or what?”

  “We do. I saw that you had just emailed me so I knew you were still up.”

  “Yeah, I get kinda wired on election nights.”

  “It’s the same when you anchor the late newscast. Can’t go to sleep for a few hours.”

  I really wanna talk to him about my twenty minutes alone with the Senator, but realize it’s probably not a good idea to do that over the Internet even though nothing happened.

  So we talk about everything but.

  An hour later, the battery on my tablet goes dead.

  I want to continue our conversation, but it’s wheels up tomorrow morning at seven.

  Besides, I’ll see him tomorrow.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  @TwitterGirl

  Senator Becker has laryngitis today, so you biased media people better not put words in his mouth!

  Yep, after countless speeches in below zero weather, Will Becker’s vocal chords raised the white flag and surrendered. His doctor has put a medical gag order on him, telling him not to utter a single word for twenty-four hours. While he’s in the office, he’s not available for his campaign stops today and Frank has dispatched his Deputy Campaign Manager Roberta Willis as a stand-in. She suggested I tag along, since up till now I’ve been pretty much confined to hotels, back rooms and offices. Plus it’s a gathering at a men-only exclusive golf club, and she didn’t want to be the only woman. (However, when Becker gives talks at female-only organizations, it’s fine to let him fly solo since the women won’t be looking at anyone else anyway.)

  It’s a luncheon on what is known as the “rubber chicken” circuit, so named because group meals often consist of some nondescript poultry dish that was cooked hours ago and set up under a heat lamp during which time it has become vulcanized like a steel-belted radial. My mouth waters for that pastrami I had last week as I do my best to slice into my entree with a dull knife that probably wouldn’t even cut butter. I’m sitting next to Roberta at the head table listening to her talk politics with the disappointed high rollers who though they’d be sitting next to Becker. Most of them are old, white haired guys who probably never heard of Twitter, much less Twitter Girl, so they probably think I’m some secretary. Of course that hasn’t stopped them from leering at both of us.

  My mind wanders as Roberta basically gives rehearsed stock answers to questions almost verbatim to the responses I’ve heard her give on the Sunday morning news shows. She’s so rehearsed on everything and has a tendency to spin even the simplest question. I can only imagine a conversation with the man in her life:

  Guy: So, you in the mood?

  Roberta: It depends on your definition of mood. From your perspective it might be different from what I perceive it to be. According to our latest focus group, women who have to be asked if they’re in the mood usually aren’t.

  Guy: (grabbing TV remote): Guess I’ll watch the game.

  I’m trying to process the conversation I had with Becker in his suite last night, and unfortunately Tyler called in sick so I haven’t been able to get his opinion on things. Considering his condition, I was worried it was something serious so I called him but it turned out he just has a really bad cold and decided to work from home.

  Anyway, Roberta wraps up her talk and everyone gets up for what will be about an hour of meet-and-greet around an open bar, which should take the leering up to groping stage. I take the opportunity to head toward the rest room, though unfortunately it probably doesn’t have a shower which would enable me to wash off all the slime from the people I’ve met so far. The ladies room is dark since I assume it rarely gets used, so I have to turn on the lights, and because it’s empty I can kill some time in here. An hour with that crowd and you’ll have to dust me for prints.

  Then the door opens and a middle-aged guy walks in.

  I put up one hand to stop him. “Uh, hello, this is the ladies room. See any urinals in here?”

  He doesn’t say anything, turns and locks the door.

  Oh shit. My pulse spikes. “What the hell?”

  He puts up his hands. “Calm down, I only want to talk to you, Cassidy.”

  I don’t recognize him. Short, fat, male pattern slug. “You can talk to me outside.” I stretch to my full height, fold my arms and look down at him. “Unlock that door right now or I’ll kick your ass. For good measure I’ll use the taser in my purse on your balls and you can join the Vienna Boys Choir.”

  He doesn’t back up. “I’m David Gold.”

  The name hits the pause button on my anger for a moment. “Oh.”

  “You’ve heard of me.”

  “I’ve been briefed. We could talk outside if you want.”

  “No. Roberta will see me.”

  I don’t like his tactics but this is an opportunity I’ve been waiting for. “Fine. What’s on your mind?”

  “Becker’s hiding something, Cassidy. Something big.”

  “And that something big would be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a lotta help.”

  “You’re a journalist.”

  “Former journalist.”

  “It’s in your blood, don’t deny it. You people are all the same. You need to find it.”

  “Find what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you find it?”

  “I’ve tried. But you have access now to a lot of stuff I do not.”

  “Are you the guy who’s been texting me?”

  He furrows his brow and if he’s faking he sure doesn’t look it. “What are you talking about?”

  I can tell it’s not him. I shake my head. “Nothing. So how the hell am I supposed to dig up this something big if you don’t even tell me where I should start looking? If I’m going to find the needle you have to give me the location of the haystack.”

  “I don’t know where to start looking. But I know when.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The year 2005. I’ve tracked his every move but things don’t add up about that year.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mis
sing time, missing money, things like that.”

  “Missing time? What, he was abducted by aliens?”

  “I’m being serious, Cassidy. The guy has always kept a strict itinerary but that year has a lot of blank spots. This country needs an honest man in the White House, and he’s not it.”

  “I understand you were his best friend once.”

  “Once. Till he sandbagged me.”

  “Not what I heard.”

  “You as a reporter should know there are two sides to every story. And in this case there are three.”

  “Three?”

  “Unfortunately the one person who could help you is dead. His wife.”

  ***

  The steam from the pizza box mixes with my breath as I shiver on the front step. I see a figure moving toward me through the beveled glass front door and know heat is a few seconds away.

  Tyler Garrity opens the door wearing a robe, offers a smile to go along with bloodshot puffy eyes and invites me in. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

  “Hey, you’re sick, you live alone, you need to feed a cold. And you need to feed it with a shrimp scampi pizza from Rastelo’s.”

  I crack open the pizza box, he looks inside and smiles. “Looks great, but I can’t smell a thing.”

  “Smells as good as it looks,” I say, as I take off my coat and hang it on an old fashioned wooden rack that’s behind the door.

  He leads me into the living room, beautifully decorated with antiques. The TV is on and the coffee table features a box of Kleenex while a nearby waste basket is filled with used tissues. “Excuse the mess,” he says, as he plops down on a red leather sofa.

  I look around and take in the decor, which is not what I would expect from a bachelor. “Damn, Tyler, this place is gorgeous. Did you hire a decorator?”

  “Nah, did it all myself. Everything in the house is from an auction or garage sale. Old furniture was built a helluva lot better than the new stuff, and most of the new stuff is flimsy particle board from China.”