Elimination

by Ed Gorman

  Now, seated at the top of the stairs, Katherine gave me one of her wan little waves and followed it with one of her pale little smiles. She wore a simple white T-shirt, jeans, white socks and running shoes. She was colt spindly and all the more endearing for it.

  ‘It’s real stressful in there. I don’t think I could work in TV. I had to come out here.’ Her rich blonde hair gleamed in the early sunlight.

  ‘That’s because they’ve got to do a live cut-in. You don’t get any chance to do it again. There’s a lot of pressure.’

  ‘My dad always says he’s good under pressure. Mom always disagrees and I think she’s right. This guy is kind of pushy. But my dad lost his temper right away.’ She was watching Churchill bounce elegantly around the yard. ‘It’s probably nice being a dog. I know that sounds stupid but I think about it sometimes.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound stupid to me. I’ve thought of that all my life. Being a dog. A cat. A horse. Different kinds of animals.’

  ‘I love cats. I bet being a cat would be nice sometimes.’

  ‘In the first office I had we found a stray kitten. She’d lie next to my computer when I was working. And at night, when nobody else was around, I’d talk to her.’

  ‘You were afraid what people would think if you talked to her during the day, huh?’

  ‘Yeah, you know: “There goes the boss again, talking to his cat all day long.”’

  Hers was the fetching smile of her mom’s.

  ‘I wish I’d had you around when I was so sick, Dev. Thank God I had Uncle Joel and Nan. They always came to see me. I even started going to Mass and I’m not even Catholic.’

  ‘The Vatican will be glad to hear that.’

  She poked my arm with a tiny finger and laughed. It was time to stand up and go inside.

  ‘I just feel so sorry for my dad. All the pressure he’s under and he’s not holding up very well.’

  ‘I’d better get in there, honey. I’ll see you in a little while.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll want to get out of there as quickly as I did.’

  ‘I guess we’re about to find out.’

  A state trooper stood next to the massive medieval-style front door. He nodded his campaign hat at me. ‘Need to see some ID, sir. You know the Bradshaw girl so I’m sure you’re all right, but I’d still better check your ID.’

  As far back as I could remember there were front and back doors, and sliding doors in the living room that opened onto an enormous patio for parties. There would be a trooper twenty-four-seven at each of these.

  My ID checked, I walked inside.

  Some people with mansions hang framed reproductions of the masters in their hallways. Not the Bradshaws. They went for posters from their campaigns. Here was Jess in the center of a flower burst of tiny black children – she might have been a missionary in Africa; here was Jess looking lovely and stern as she visited a bandaged soldier in a hospital; here were Jess and Ted addressing a grade-school class. There were numerous others. The sole non-campaign photo was of Jess and Ted standing in front of a rear extension to their mansion, taken a year or so ago. In the background was Joel with a heavyset and heavily bearded worker. And next to Joel, almost clinging to him was an anxious Katherine.

  There was so much noise coming from one of the rooms down the hall, I imagined that the normally staid house must have felt violated. It was rough, almost angry language, the sound of a substantial crew racing to get everything in place before the unforgiving deadline.

  Jess’s assistant’s name was Nan Winters. A slender, efficient, fiftyish woman dressed in a tan blouse and brown slacks, she came abruptly out of the den where the interview was being held. She waved. We were on friendly terms.

  ‘Ted isn’t used to being pushed around like this. I almost feel sorry for him.’ The playful tone revealed the secret we shared. She loved Jess but thought Ted was a bit of a, to use her word, ‘pill.’ Technically she was Jess’s assistant, but she never protested when her legendary cooking skills were put to use.

  ‘I can’t stand being in there. Everybody’s so uptight.’

  ‘That’s what Katherine was telling me.’

  ‘She is such a sweetie. I really got to know her in the hospital. Jess and Ted were so busy they didn’t get much of a chance to visit her, so they asked me to sort of substitute. I got so I couldn’t wait to get to the hospital. It was so nice to see her get better. I raised two boys but now I have the daughter I always wanted.’

  I pointed to the den. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  The director was one of those guys who wore a sweater flung over his shoulders and tied at the front. He was also one of those guys who talked with his hands on his hips. He was small and masculine in an adversarial way. The den was a jungle of cables, lights, techs and miniature boxlike pieces of equipment planted everywhere like land mines.

  ‘Greg, did you notice how sweaty his face is?’ he said, irritated. ‘Please pay some fricking attention, will you?’ He was a man in bad need of a drink or a Xanax or some sex. Any one of them would do the trick.

  Greg, a heavy man dressed in a khaki shirt and chinos, sighed and shook his head.

  He stepped across all the cables and around all the equipment to reach Ted, who sat in a wing chair in front of the massive stone fireplace. I would not have put him there. This advertised the wealth of the Bradshaws, something we tried to keep secret as much as possible.

  Greg was already tamping the sweat with a cloth. Seeing me, Ted shoved Greg’s hand away and said, ‘Thank God you’re here, Dev. Will you please tell Roger that I look better in a sweater than in this piece-of-shit blue shirt? He invited himself into my closet to find it.’

  ‘Roger Hallahan.’ He jabbed his hand at me then proceeded to play bone-crusher. ‘So you’re Conrad. The way Mr Bradshaw talked about you I expected you to punch me out the second you saw me.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem,’ Ted said, ‘is that “Roger” here won’t let me wear my black sweater, remember? And he’s practically written out a script.’ He gave ‘Roger’ the kind of emphasis normally reserved for something brown the dog left on the floor.

  Now it was Roger’s turn to sigh. He had miniature Irish features that were somehow handsome all together on a large head. ‘You’re a pro, or that’s what they tell me. Mr Bradshaw is worried about his alleged belly showing. Black is wrong in a dark room like this, and the shirt he’s wearing sort of blouses at the belly so there’s not even a hint of it – not that I can see it in the first place. We never see below his sternum.’

  ‘See how he makes me sound, Dev? My wife was almost assassinated last night and he makes me sound like some vain pussy who doesn’t give a shit about it. I want to look good for her sake. I’m representing her. He has me looking like some guy who sits around in a shirt all day.’

  ‘Maybe you haven’t noticed, Mr Bradshaw, but shirts are “in” now. A lot of very powerful men wear shirts to the office and shirts to parties.’

  Finally, it was my turn to sigh. ‘Roger, how long before the network picks us up?’

  He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. He clicked the stopwatch. I could tell because the ticking was loud in the momentary silence. ‘Seven minutes and thirty-one seconds.’

  ‘How about you give me one minute and thirty seconds in the hall?’

  He was as eager to get out of the den as he would have been to get off the Titanic.

  ‘Fine.’

  I didn’t much like him but I felt professionally sorry for him. All he wanted to do was make Ted look and sound as good as possible. But, as usual, Ted was determined to get his own way.

  In the hall, Roger said, ‘You going to give me shit, too?’

  TEN

  ‘No. I agree with you. But you’ll get a better interview if you let him wear the black turtleneck.’

  ‘A turtleneck’s wrong for this and so is black.’

  ‘You know that and I know that, but he�
�s used to getting his way.’

  ‘How the hell do you put up with it?’

  ‘I go along till I have to tell him I’ll quit if he gets his way.’

  ‘There’s no time for that with this little gig.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does he give a shit about his wife? I really get the impression he couldn’t care less.’

  ‘I actually think he does.’

  ‘Well, he’s got a strange way of showing it.’ For the first time the small, beleaguered man smiled. ‘Let’s go get the fucking sweater.’

  Back in the den, I went over to Ted and said, ‘Is the sweater still upstairs?’

  ‘You did it, didn’t you? I knew you could do it.’ Then, ‘Hey, Greg, how about bringing that sweater over here?’ It was as if a six-year-old had just been handed a three-scoop ice-cream cone on a hot summer day.

  As soon as the network morning show began, three different monitors telecast the proceedings. There was three minutes of news leading with Jess’s story, then back to the chirpy personas of the hosts, and then the chief host wiped both the silly grin and lusty gaze away (the substitute hostess was a true babe) and said, ‘In addition to mass murders and terrorism, our country now has to turn a serious eye to the possibility of political assassination. Last night in Danton, Illinois, an unknown shooter attempted to assassinate Congresswoman Jessica Bradshaw as she left the building where she’d just debated her opponent on television. Fortunately the three shots did not find their target, but they certainly left the congresswoman and her staff, including her husband, concerned for her safety. As they did, I might say, the entire country.

  ‘Here now from the Bradshaw home is Ted Bradshaw, a man well known in Washington for his political skills, where he works closely with his wife in fighting for the legislation they believe in. He is considered a role model for the modern Congressional spouse. Good morning, Mr Bradshaw.’

  ‘Ted is fine.’

  In the vast universe all eyes were focused on him and the black turtleneck that – surprise! – only seemed to enhance the bulk of his little tummy. Even through the screen you could feel the emanations of ecstasy that must be putting him in heart-attack range.

  I’m on network TV!

  Fortunately, he wasn’t bad at fake solemnity. And mixed in with the fake solemnity there was no doubt some honest solemnity. He loved Jess; he feared for her. And always pressing on the edges of his consciousness were thoughts of her someday Senate run. Imagine the kind of respect he’d get at the D.C. parties when he was the hubby-wubby of a senator.

  The interview was pretty good. Host and guest were both practiced at said fake solemnity. They discussed how the local police had joined the state police and an FBI agent to search for the shooter, and said that the congresswoman was resting and was under twenty-four-seven state trooper protection.

  Then the questions: what is this country coming to? Wasn’t it wonderful that House members from both sides were overwhelming her with praise? Was the murder attempt the inevitable result of our gun culture? When will the congresswoman be back on the campaign trail? What is this country coming to?

  Then it was over.

  Roger Hallahan stepped in and said, ‘You did a good job, Mr Bradshaw. Thank you. And give my best to your wife.’

  ‘Change your mind about the turtleneck yet?’

  I felt sorry for Hallahan. Ted not only had to be right, he had to punish you for not having agreed with him.

  ‘Yeah,’ Hallahan said, a familiar weariness in his voice, the weariness that all operatives feel working with the Ted Bradshaws of politics. ‘Yeah, you looked great.’

  I left the den abruptly. It was too early in the day for the ass-kissing Ted would require. I have a rule about that. No ass-kissing before ten-thirty. Before then it causes acute acid reflux.

  In the hall, I found Nan. ‘You happen to know where Jess is?’

  ‘I just fixed her two eggs, toast and coffee, and she’s sitting alone on the patio. I’m sure she’d love some company.’

  She was wearing sandals, jeans and a crisp, white short-sleeved blouse. The breakfast Nan had prepared for her was down to a single half-slice of toast. A delicately sculpted silver coffeepot was next to her on the table. The beautiful blue of cigarette smoke coiled up from a tiny faux Mandarin-style ashtray. There was a symphony of morning birds and the cool, thin shadows of early morning. It was so idyllic, it was easy to forget that the woman sitting here had almost been shot to death less than twelve hours ago.

  ‘Don’t ask me how I’m feeling.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘But please sit down.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘You’ve noticed the cigarette?’

  ‘I’ve noticed the cigarette. Hard to miss.’

  ‘First one in eighteen years. Since I was in college.’

  ‘I’d say it’s well deserved.’

  ‘How do you like the coffee? Nan made it.’

  ‘It’s very good.’

  There was an atonal quality to her voice. Almost as if she’d been drugged. And maybe she had.

  ‘How did Ted do?’

  ‘You didn’t watch?’

  ‘I was too afraid for him. It’s not easy for him, living in my shadow.’

  ‘He did very well.’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

  What the hell. ‘I don’t hate him.’

  The laugh was the first sign of her usual self. ‘Was that supposed to be diplomatic?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  She took a deep drag of her cigarette. The pack had been depleted by several smokes. ‘I wish Ted had a little of you in him and I wish you had a little of Ted in you. He can be a child a lot of the time, but there’s a sweetness to him.’

  ‘Tell me where they sell it and I’ll buy some.’

  She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. ‘But you’re a lot more reassuring than he is. Tell me not to be afraid. I’m feeling a little bit paralyzed right now.’

  ‘When I get the chance to speak to the chief of police—’

  ‘You’ll get that chance in a few minutes. He’s on his way out here to talk to me.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So what about me being so afraid?’ She watched me again.

  ‘I’m glad you’re afraid. That means you’re taking this seriously. And that means you’ll do everything the police and the state troopers tell you to do. I was afraid you’d insist on going right back to walking rope lines again. Shaking hands. Meet and greets.’

  ‘They tell me I’m pretty good at it.’

  ‘You’re excellent at it. But we’re going to change your schedule so you’re in situations where security can really protect you. Every appearance will be indoors until further notice. I can guarantee you they’ll insist on that.’

  I saw the chief of police through the glass doors. He was even more military in person than he had been on the screen. He moved in quick, certain steps.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Congresswoman. I’m sorry I have to put you through this.’

  ‘Chief Showalter, this is my friend and campaign manager, Dev Conrad.’

  He had a hard, calloused hand. This morning he wore a white button-down shirt under a black leather jacket of the fashionable kind. Gray slacks and black loafers completed the attire. And being a cowpoke, he still wore that damned white Stetson. He at least took it off now in deference to the lady. Cowpokes are nothing if not polite.

  He then introduced the appealing Detective Karen Foster, who’d stood silently by him in his TV interview. Today the suit was an autumn brownish-red. She shook hands with Jess and then with me. I liked to think that she held my hand a little longer than necessary because she thought I was downright irresistible.

  Showalter did the talking for the next five minutes. He advanced a few theories which didn’t sound plausible, said that he had even more officers going over the area where the shooter had stood now
that it was daylight, and assured Jess that the shooter would be identified and apprehended. He wisely didn’t put forth a time when this miracle of detection was going to take place.

  Meanwhile, Detective Foster kept watching me. Not just looking at me, watching me, as if she thought I was going to do something suspicious. At least I wasn’t foolish enough to interpret the scrutiny of those dark eyes as reflecting any romantic or sexual interest in me. But then she smiled at me. She hadn’t spoken a single word since talking briefly with Jess. Then the watching. And now the smile. Neither Jess nor Showalter seemed to notice it. I luxuriated in it.

  Showalter was still the man in charge. He’d started lifting his Stetson up and then setting it back down. Maybe he was lonely without it.

  ‘When I talked to the congresswoman earlier, Mr Conrad, I told her about the information you left with my office this morning. We’re following it up right now.’

  ‘I hope I’m not wasting your time.’

  ‘I Googled you. Since you were an army investigator you should know how these things go. This could be nothing but I need to follow it down. I had an officer at the Skylight at seven o’clock this morning. The day man wasn’t much help. He gave my man the home phone number of the night bartender but says the night man shacks up with different female customers, so he wasn’t sure he could contact him until he showed up for work.’

  ‘That’s almost funny,’ Jess said.

  ‘You should see the kind of women who hang out down there. My people have to go there six, seven times a week.’

  ‘Just think if she actually knew something,’ Jess said.

  Nan walked on the patio bearing a second coffeepot that appeared to be identical to the one on the table.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Jess, Abby and I need to get working on your schedule for the next couple days,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you as soon as we have something ready. And if you don’t like it, obviously we’ll change it.’

  ‘You really need to leave?’

  ‘I do. And the chief here will have plenty of questions to keep you busy.’

  Then Ted was there. In his mind he was accepting a Daytime Emmy Award for Best Performance before Eight A.M.