Duke comes alive. “How substantial a consulting fee?”
“No,” Victoria says.
“I’m just asking.”
“No,” Victoria says. “Whoever submits those signatures is a lamb unto the slaughter. Mark my words, this ballot initiative, it’s gonna get ugly. People here. A nest of vipers. You’ll see.”
Duke clears his throat. “Fine. How about Billy?”
“Billy? Billy who? Billy, your brother? Please.” She rolls her eyes. “A meth-cooking womanizer missing a forefinger on both hands.”
“How about Jed Dixon?” Duke says.
His wife replies, “Drunken wife-beater.”
“Beau Carlyle.”
“Got a fifteen-year-old pregnant.”
“Bob Roers.”
“Atheist. And stop naming your lodge buddies.”
A burst of laughter breaks the conversation and echoes inside Duke’s office.
“Damn it. I told you.” Duke checks his watch, jumps to his feet. “Staff is back from lunch. You boys better get gone.”
Duke slides open a side door, and Andre and Brendan follow Victoria beside the concrete building, past waist-high hedges and dog shit in dead grass. The three reach the Jeep, exchange pleasant goodbyes before Victoria takes Andre aside and whispers, “Please, Mr. Ross, tell me honestly. Will this ballot initiative pass?”
“We’re optimistic,” Andre says, not because he believes so, but because that’s what he’s been trained to say. If the first rule of campaign consulting is to never guarantee victory, then the second rule is to never admit the true likelihood of defeat.
Inside the Jeep, Brendan starts the engine, saying, “I got two questions.”
Andre knows both questions and both answers. No, Victoria Boshears has never voted for her husband. And yes, Duke Boshears knows.
Chapter Five
Andre leaves the shower sweating, another frustration to which he’s grown accustomed, a bathroom by turns icebox and sauna. He stretches beside the radiator, studies his form in the mirror, pokes the moist flesh above his hip, a spot he knows should be taut, not muscled, not marbled, but lean and firm, a torso of which he can be proud. Instead he taps a soft patch that ripples like a stone-splashed pond, and, at once, he blames five days of Irish breakfasts. Perhaps he should ask Brendan to cook a low-fat alternative, or, better yet, the two could skip breakfast altogether. Andre prefers to start his day light: black coffee; crisp toast; if he has a sweet tooth, a dab of raspberry jam. But Brendan enjoys fixing these elaborate feasts full of cream and butter and salted pork, and though each meal is a culinary delight, Andre sees the oily streaks that run across his bread-sopped plate, and he wonders how the life expectancy on the Emerald Isle could possibly be eighty-one. A social worker in juvie once said Andre shouldn’t expect to live much past thirty. Now, at thirty-five, he worries each meal might bring him one day closer to that early grave.
Death is the least of his troubles. In two days, he has a scheduled call with Mrs. Fitz, a call in which she will expect a detailed progress report. And what detailed progress does her protégé have to share? Not a damn thing. Andre’s interviewed six Carthage residents, each signing a confidentiality agreement, and thus far, he has yet to find a straw man to lead his corporate-backed dark-money grassroots campaign. Yesterday, he met a candidate recommended by PISA, an eccentric English teacher with elvish ears, a dilettante wealthy not by trade but by inheritance. She owns half a million dollars in PISA stock yet chooses to spend each day teaching fourteen-year-olds the tragedy of Hester Prynne, a worn-edged copy of which she kept splayed, facedown, atop her glass coffee table. In juvie, that book nearly caused a riot. A novel about a wife who cheats on her absent man. Hester Prynne got lucky, Andre’s classmates claimed; for lesser sins, their fathers had beat their mothers black and blue. In some countries, the boys said, exotic faraway places where long-bearded men pray five times a day, a bitch who betrays her man might expect to get her face cut. A scarlet letter pinned against her breast? Shit, call that tragedy? Please. Motherfucker. Please. We’re children in prison. Let’s keep the real tragedy in perspective.
Andre, however, chose not to share that experience with the elf-eared teacher. Instead, he laid his game down flat, flirted a little, flattered a little, spoke with passion about PISA’s commitment to the environment. But the schoolteacher refused to buy what Andre wanted to sell. Over cold cucumber sandwiches and butter cookies served on bone-china plates, she railed against corporate influence in politics, raised her voice an octave as she quoted the liberal truism that corporations are not—and never shall be—people.
So, where does this leave him? In a world of hurt. Without a straw man, he can’t begin to collect the fifteen hundred signatures needed to appear on the ballot. But, more important, until he finds a straw man, Andre can’t begin to sketch the contours of this small-time, humiliatingly simple campaign. These types of issue-centric initiatives, they have absolutely nothing to do with the actual issue. Voters have neither the time nor the expertise to weigh the costs and benefits of a complicated policy proposal. Instead, voters cast their ballot based upon instinct, based upon their gut. And that’s why the straw man becomes essential, because a good straw man can make a voter believe that a ballot initiative, no matter how large or small, is a matter of life or death. Rename a city park. Tax a tin of tobacco. Change the day on which the city hauls away the trash. The best straw man, like midnight television commercials warning about the dire consequences of dull kitchen knives, can bring a fresh, sharp urgency to the most inconsequential issue.
Andre worries that he’s wasted the past six days, and, crossing the hall to his bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist, he fears that he’s exhausted his straw man options. He has one last candidate to meet: Tyler Lee, the latest recommendation from Duke Boshears. Tyler manages a local bikini bar popular with tourists and locals alike. Victoria Boshears swears that Tyler is the perfect choice, that Tyler is popular and reasonable, and for these reasons, she’s set a meet, noon today at the Gray Wolf, the bikini bar where Tyler works. Andre has his doubts—no, more than doubts; about any nominee of Duke Boshears, Andre’s mistrust is as solid as stone—but unless Andre finds a straw man, like in the next forty-eight hours, this campaign will surely be his last, and he’s sickened by the thought that, for a second campaign in a row, he will have embarrassed both himself and his mentor.
Brendan calls, “Breakfast is ready,” and Andre smells the orange zest of Brendan’s fresh-baked soda bread. Andre falls naked against his bed. He’ll need another moment before he’s ready to face the day.
* * *
On the front door of the Gray Wolf is a poster of a plump, inebriated-looking toddler, winking, wearing a bowler and suspenders, who clutches a glass of wine. The poster reads: MUST BE 21 OR AWESOME TO ENTER. Inside, past the bat-wing doors, is a ballroom styled like a gunfighter saloon: muted murals of the Old West, whiskey barrels and chandeliers, spittoons and cacti set against the walls. An American flag hangs over a player piano. The rebel flag hangs, a tad higher, above the picture-frame stage, on which Andre imagines a string of can-can girls singing, kicking, arm in arm in a chorus line.
“We don’t open till four,” says a bespectacled lump behind the varnished-mahogany bar. He’s practicing serving a standard shot, pouring from a nippled liquor bottle while spelling Mississippi aloud. “Come back later.”
“Are you Tyler?”
“Tyler!” The bartender spills on the bar. “See what you made me do? Tyler!”
“Are they here?” A baritone echoes from an office behind the bar. “Shit. Give me one more minute. Get them a beer, on the house, and the good table.”
The bartender’s busy wiping his mess, so Andre and Brendan claim a table beside a dusty mural of pistol-wielding soldiers circling Indian braves. In the pastel background, near the horizon, a cavalry stampedes a tepee, while brown-skinned women in buckskins, babies clutched to their breasts, flee. White infantrymen—front and c
enter, with bayonets and torches—appear strong, powerful, the braves scared, cowardly, defeated. Brendan runs his palm across his face, groaning, says, “Christ. I suppose it could be worse. It could be dogs playing poker.”
Brendan unpacks his messenger bag, removes a fat folder of forms, two dozen in all, including a confidentiality agreement, a liability waiver, and consent to investigate each detail of the signatory’s life. From behind the bar appears Tyler Lee, a hulk with a mastiff’s head. He’s not fat nor obese, just huge, solid, like he should be chasing Jack down a beanstalk. Up close, he’s recently shaved, a fact betrayed by his irritated nicked skin, fresh razor burn, and a sliver of prickles missed around his ear.
“Did he get y’all a beer?” Tyler studies the table. “Numb nuts, I said to . . . Never mind. What would you like? We got a couple imports on tap.”
“We’re fine,” Andre says. “You have time to talk?”
“You’re Mr. Ross? Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Tyler offers his sweaty paw, which Andre shakes quickly, as though he’s slipped his hand inside the cage of a bear. Tyler says, “Nice to meet ya, brother. Real nice. Sure about that beer?”
Andre likes that the guy’s trying, but he already worries that this colossus might not be up to the task. He’s wearing a black clip-on tie beneath a crimson vest, an outfit that makes him look like a croupier. Is this Tyler Lee’s idea of class, or is this the uniform he’s required to wear to sling drinks in this white man’s fantasy saloon?
“Punk’s the owner’s nephew.” Tyler spins and straddles a chair that Andre fears might collapse. “But if he drops a bottle of champagne, guess whose paycheck suffers.”
“We represent—”
“Miss Vicki, she clued me in,” Tyler says. “Washington, DC. The land sale. Gold mining. The ballot thing. Referendum. Yeah, brother. It’s wild. Real hush-hush. Like secret-agent stuff.”
Andre doesn’t mask his irritation. Yesterday, when he spoke on the phone with Victoria, he emphasized the need for discretion, said that he required anonymity for as long as possible. She swore she understood, promised, in her soft, honeyed tone, that she wouldn’t share more than necessary. Andre says, “This meeting is just an initial introduction. We have other partners under consideration.”
Brendan sends a look: We do?
“Cool, brother. I know the game.” Tyler scratches the top of his head. “But I’ll tell ya what, you won’t find no one . . . you won’t find no better partner that’ll work harder for you. Brother, I’ll tell you. Right now, I got like four jobs. I manage here. I haul pulp. I got my own landscaping business. I got all kinds of stoves in the fire.”
Andre Ross does not consider himself prone to snap judgments—that, he believes, is the exclusive province of small-minded men and exceptionally beautiful women—but, sitting here, eyes fixed on Tyler Lee’s nervous grin, Andre wonders whether holding four minimum-wage jobs is an accomplishment about which a forty-year-old man should boast. Andre strives not to be petty. Tyler Lee has the right attitude, and this interview, thus far, has gone better than all the others. But something about Tyler makes Andre uneasy.
“I’ll level with you.” Tyler leans close. “Miss Vicki, she says if I work with y’all, then her husband will hire me on his crew. Brother, that would be big for me and my kids. I’ve wanted to work for the Boshears, brother, I don’t know, about my entire life.”
Andre realizes why he dislikes Tyler. This giant, in his tight vest and cheap tie and black pants, looks like a juvie correctional officer. Put a brown baseball cap on his head, put a heavy Maglite in his hand, and Tyler Lee could easily pass for one of those illiterate brutes, lucky to have a union job, with a little power and a big grudge. Andre still has nightmares about those sinister fucks, assholes who got their jollies practicing cruelty, power-seeking yellow-eyed sadists who got a literal hard-on, watching, laughing, rejoicing, as young boys suffered.
“Thank you, Mr. Lee.” Andre’s on his feet. “We should go.”
“What? Already?” Tyler Lee seems to sense his opportunity slipping away. “Did I say something? I mean, sometimes I say stuff. My wife says I shouldn’t talk so much. I didn’t mean to offend. I have a lot of respect for black people.”
Andre and Brendan exchange a bemused stare.
“Wait, brother, I can be someone else. I can be anyone else. Just give me a chance. I have references. They’ll tell you I work real hard, and I’m loyal, and I’m—” A clacking interrupts Tyler’s plea. A busty redhead, probably not yet twenty, nears, wearing royal purple: panties, bra, and rhinestone heels. Her upper thigh bears a tattoo of an eagle clasping a serpent.
“Tyler, Sarah Beth’s wearing purple again.” She grips her breasts. “I told her fat ass to change, and she said that you said she could wear—”
“Amber Lynn,” Tyler says.
“I have seniority. Purple is my color. You need to tell her—”
“Amber Lynn!” Tyler slams his fist against the table, with a force so strong that Brendan’s papers fly through the air and scatter across the floor. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of business? I’ll tend to your shit when I got time. Now go. Go! Now!”
Andre sneaks a glance at Brendan, whose slack-jawed face shines like that of a six-year-old boy who swears he saw a superhero fly across the sky. Andre wants to laugh, wants to pat Brendan’s head and say, Careful, kiddo. Girls like this, they’re more trouble than they’re worth. Their self-esteem is about as strong as their last compliment.
“Please. Sit. Come on, brother. Just for a beer.” Tyler falls on his knees, collects the papers, shouts at the bartender, “Two beers. The Guinness we put on tap this morning.”
“Guinness?” Brendan says. Irish stout. Half-naked redheads. The kid may never leave. Brendan says, “On tap?”
“We’re a bikini bar.” Tyler puts the papers in a nice neat stack. “We’re not licensed to show tits. But the customers start buying the girls shots and, well, the owner doesn’t care. The sheriff, shit, that fat boy buys the first round. Every Friday and Saturday night, I have at least one drunk buck-naked Barbie either crying on my shoulder or puking on my boots. Brother, I’ve had this job for six years, and that shit got real old real quick.”
Andre is amused. Drunk buck-naked Barbies crying on his shoulder or puking on his boots. That must be the chorus to a country-western song. But then again, isn’t that the spirit of Motown and the blues?
“Listen.” Tyler turns his body square with Andre. “I ain’t the smartest guy in Carthage. I don’t pretend to be. But I’ve lived here my whole life, and I got lots of good ideas. And I’m good with people. And I will work my ass off for you. I only need a chance.”
In a perfect world, Andre would like a better straw man than Tyler, but Andre is not rich with options. So either he can hire this giant, or in two days’ time, he can disappoint Mrs. Fitz. Because she will ask, Why not this Tyler Lee?, and he will answer, Because he reminds me of a prison guard, which is an answer that she will not accept.
* * *
Two hours later, Brendan drives west, deep into the temperate rain forest and up a steep Appalachian ridge. They’re headed to the thousand acres that PISA hopes to own, which Andre wants to see. The mountainside is lush yet dank, an ecological anomaly where a sharp, rapid ascent transforms moist air into mist and rain. The Jeep crawls along this gravel road, weaves between a stand of shortleaf pines, and soccer plays on the radio.
They reach the highest point in Carthage, a frosted tableland marked by an obelisk, inscribed on its face: MOUNT KUKA, ELEVATION 3,552 FEET. Andre opens his door, steps into the thick, wet air, and, all at once, a sense of wonder touches his chest. He’s not a man easily impressed by landscapes—you’ve seen one mountain, you’ve seen ’em all—but, staring down into the dell where PISA wants to mine for gold, he finds himself in awe. He imagines this place in the spring. Brambles, stone mounds, fields of crimson clover. Mother Nature must have spent centuries forming this valley, round as a bowl, blessed with rich black
soil that nourishes groves of chestnut trees.
Brendan sniffles, clears away a tear.
“Sorry,” Brendan says. “Reminds me of the midlands in Ireland.”
Andre doesn’t know what to say, so, back in the Jeep, he chooses silence. The next few minutes neither speaks as they bump along the dell’s outer rim, a scenic route with cascading waterfalls and caves and trees older than any man. On the dell’s opposite ridge, the road descends like a staircase, steep sudden slopes that ease into level plains. The Jeep cruises across each step, passing campsites and hunting lodges, and reaches the base of the mountain, which presents a fork in the road. The kid chooses the route that leads beneath an open arched gate, where a cobblestone path circles a straw cottage, behind which, set apart by a post-and-rail fence, tower two huge greenhouses that look extraterrestrial.
“This market got great reviews online.” Brendan opens the door. “Think they sell rhubarb?”
“Hold up one second.” Andre grabs for Brendan, missing by an inch, watches the kid hurry inside. Shit. Andre unfastens his seat belt and prepares for the inevitable. Brendan took one look at the valley and wept. What happens once he realizes the likely fate of this roadside shop? The mines. The cyanide. The closure of this mom-and-pop operation is the best-case scenario. The worst case is both Mom and Pop getting a rare, mysterious cancer that kills slowly, the kind for which doctors always have a name but never a cure.
Outside the cottage, a sandwich board reads: We’re 100% Natural. No genetically modified seeds. No pesticides. No hormones. Inside, the cottage is snug and quaint, the pine-plank walls bearing awards, plaques, framed certificates, and newspaper articles, each paying tribute to this modest organic market that offers a surprisingly vast selection. Front and center are potato-filled barrels, one of which bears a label: Perfect for wild game stew. Trust us! These Red Bliss Potatoes are most a-peeling. Andre cringes—what self-respecting black man doesn’t loathe a pun?—but he imagines that upper-class tourists would love this place.
The Coyotes of Carthage Page 6
