“Because you do crossword puzzles and I … don’t. It’s, you know, there are some people who do puzzles and some who don’t. I’m not the kind of person who knows stuff like”—Rusty gestured at the bundle of pens—“I dunno, the French word for ‘beret.’ But I bet you do.” He sighed. “I want to do a good job. But I also know I’m not the sharpest fella. People don’t think I understand that. But I do.”
Despite his better judgment, Mordecai found that admission genuinely touching. And he had no doubt Wally would do the utmost for his constituents. Maybe he wouldn’t have such a healthy skepticism of political games if the players were more like Wally.
“I’ll need to think about it. But first, tell me what role your daughter will play in this campaign.”
“Ghost? Nothing! I mean, she knows I’m doing it, but that’s it. It’s got nothing to do with her.”
“It will until the election. And after, if you win.”
“No it won’t. Not ever.” Wally shook his head. “She was one of them … have you ever heard about them child soldiers? When she was pretty young, some real bad people exposed her to the virus and then they gave her a knife and taught her…” He shuddered. “It’s not what she is, but it’s what they tried to make her. They made her do some bad stuff. Real bad. So I figure, gosh, she’s seen so many bad things in her life. She’s still just a kid, I guess I’m saying, and if I do one thing in life it’s make sure she never again gets wrapped up in grown-ups’ baloney.”
Mordecai never would have guessed the eye-rolling phone-obsessed tween he’d glimpsed a few days ago had been the progeny of a war zone. That spoke volumes about her resilience, but also spoke extremely well of her father.
What the hell. Wally wasn’t exactly a born front-runner. He needed a mentor. And how difficult could it be?
“Good answer,” he said, offering his hand. They shook.
“Cripes,” said Wally, wincing. “You’re strong.”
* * *
Ghost was haunting the kitchen when Wally emerged from his bedroom. Normally this alarmed him: when she sleepwalked, it meant she’d been having nightmares about her early childhood again. Sometimes Wally had to go through the apartment, count all the knives, and, occasionally, apologize to the neighbors. (She didn’t have many friends for sleepovers. Bubbles and Adesina were real understanding.) He tensed: she was holding something long and thin. But after rubbing the sleep from his eyes he saw it was a paintbrush, not her favorite stiletto. He relaxed.
“Whatcha doing, kiddo?”
When Ghost was deep in thought, the very tip of her tongue stuck from the corner of her mouth. Like it did now. The kitchen smelled like paint.
She leaned over the table, arms outstretched as if she were going to hug her craft project. “Don’t look! Not yet!”
“Okey dokey.” He turned his attention to the coffee pot which, once again, he’d forgotten to set the night before. He resolved to be more organized. If he got on the city council he couldn’t be the kind of guy who forgot to make coffee. He’d have to be the kind of guy who remembered coffee and made sure everybody got some, if they wanted it, but also made sure the people who didn’t like coffee got something else. Like tea, or milkshakes.
He figured the city council was like that.
Once he managed to get a cup filled he rummaged under the sink for the SOS pads and lumbered into the bathroom. He kept the door open so that he could keep an eye on Ghost, balanced the coffee on the vanity, and set about inspecting himself in the mirror for signs of rust. Every blemish got a quick scrub with lemon-scented steel wool.
When finished, he called out, “Can I look yet?”
“Wait!” He heard the scraping of a chair, and Ghost blowing on something. “Okay. You can come back now.”
She floated in the middle of the kitchen table, holding a large piece of poster board in her outstretched arms. It was blank and almost too big for her. But then she spun in mid-air to show him the other side. She’d written
GUNDERSON CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS
in puffy glitter paint.
“Oh my gosh. You made this for me?”
She bobbed up and down.
“Well now it’s official, isn’t it? This is super.”
It took a bit of rummaging to find a hole puncher and a good length of yarn, but Wally had it hanging squarely over the kitchen table by the time Mordecai arrived. The dripping had mostly stopped by then, although the “S” in HEADQUARTERS looked a little smeary.
In response to a firm but unaggressive knock, Ghost drifted across the apartment, settled on the floor as she rematerialized, and opened the door. Mordecai stood outside, holding a valise.
“Good morning, young lady. I believe we’ve met. I’m Mordecai.” He offered his hand. Instead of taking it, she curtseyed (where in the heck did she learn that?) and stepped back, motioning him to enter. The boards creaked under him. Wally was glad their apartment was on the ground; he was hard on floors, too.
“You helped Dad. I’m Ghost.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Hi, guy!” Wally waved from the kitchen.
Mordecai joined him, gaze flicking back and forth between Wally and the sign hanging over his head. For a moment, the look on his face got real hard to read. But then he said, “You, uh, have some…” and gestured at his head.
“Nuts.” Wally tore a paper towel from the dispenser. It came away from his forehead smeared blue and stippled with red and green glitter.
He pushed out a chair for Mordecai. But the other man took one look at it and said, “I’d better stand. That’ll break if I sit in it.”
Wally stood. “Here. Take mine. I got the same problem sometimes.” His chair was reinforced. “I insist.”
Once at the table, Mordecai got down to business. From the valise he produced a sheaf of papers, a laptop, and one of the pens that Wally had given him.
“First things first. I went to City Hall yesterday to file your intent-to-campaign form. Here’s the receipt for your check. I can send you a digital scan if you’re doing your campaign accounting electronically. Or should I just give these things to your accountant?” In response to Wally’s blank look, he added, “Or maybe you have a dedicated file for expenses?”
“Oh, sure.” Wally thought about it for a moment. Then he reached over and pulled the empty cookie jar off the counter. “Stick it in here. This’ll work.”
When the crinkling stopped, Mordecai cleared his throat. “Given this is a low-level affair, I think it’s unlikely that anybody is going to come back later and demand to audit your campaign books. Not for something that’ll run its course from start to finish in a few weeks. That kind of thing is usually reserved for big campaigns with official fundraising organizations. And even if there were enough time for the entire process, I’m guessing you don’t want to go through the hassle of filing for a 503(c).”
Wally didn’t get the joke, so he just nodded. “Anything more than 100 sounds pretty expensive.”
“Uh-huh.” Here Mordecai gave the cookie jar a meaningful glance. “Nevertheless, and just in case, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to use an accounting system that’s a little more official. If you see what I mean?”
“Oh, sure. Good thinkin’, pal!”
Wally slid the jar closer and, using Ghost’s paintbrush, covered the word “cookie.” Then in red glitter paint he wrote “money” on the lid. He beamed at his campaign manager over the newly created and very official Money Jar. “I knew you’d be the right fella for this job.”
“Time will tell.” The next set of papers Mordecai produced was fringed with about a dozen yellow adhesive tags. “Okay, speaking of the financials, next is your conflict of interest statement and disclosure forms. By signing these you’re asserting that you don’t own or are invested in any ventures that would directly benefit, financially, from your being on the city council. In other words you’re not doing this to secretly make yourself rich.”
Wally could understand the need for this. He’d
seen first-hand dictatorships where the folks in charge got rich while their people had it real real bad. He stole a glance at Ghost, bobbing in a corner as she played on her phone.
“That’s easy. Where do I sign?”
They were still going through the disclosure forms when Darcy arrived, phone to her ear. She gave Ghost a wink as she entered, saying, “Yes, I’ll hold.”
“This is quite a sight,” she added, and then to Mordecai, “Nice to see you again. Welcome to Wonderland.”
Mordecai gave her a friendly nod. “Ma’am.”
She sniffed. “It’s ‘Miss,’ thank you very much.”
She helped herself to a coffee cup and, filling it, said, “Yes hi good morning, I recently met one of your staff members and he gave me his card”—this she punctuated with a meaningful glare at Wally—“but I’m afraid I lost it. If he’s there could you put me through to a Randall?”
Mordecai tucked the signed disclosure forms away, and replaced them on the table with minutes from every city council meeting of the past eighteen months.
“We don’t have to go through these right now, but it would be a very good idea to study them. They’ll give you a good sense of how the council operates, what the major issues have been, and where the various councilors come down on those issues. You’ll see who work with, and against, each other. Knowing the lay of the land will give you a leg up.”
“Holy smokes,” said Wally. The stack was over an inch thick. There sure was a lot of reading to do.
“Oh, by the way, I think this will help when you’re reading those.” Next from the valise Mordecai produced a little booklet titled Robert’s Rules of Order. “City council meetings are run according to a particular method,” he said, tapping the booklet. “It’ll seem strange at first but you’ll get the hang of it.”
Wally leafed through the booklet. (Rules for holding a meeting? Gosh.) “Huh. Meetings of the Committee are done differently. People just yell at each other.”
Meanwhile, Darcy listened to a voice that was only faintly audible to Wally in bits and pieces. But whatever she heard, it made her face twist up in confusion. “Are you sure? Huh, that’s so weird. I could have sworn he said his name was Randall. Can you hold on a sec while I check to see if I jotted it down correctly?”
Then she cupped her hand over the bottom of her phone. “Psst, hey, Mr. Politician, what was this guy’s name? The one from the JADL?”
Wally concentrated. “I’m pretty sure it was Randy. Or Randall? Yeah, that sounds right.”
Darcy frowned and, still looking at him, uncupped the phone. “Well, ‘Randall’ is what I scribbled here. Would you mind checking one more time? Please?”
Wally’s wristwatch started to beep. “Aw, heck.” Across the apartment, he called, “Hey, kid, we gotta go,” and across the table he said, “I’m real sorry, fella, real sorry, but I gotta take her over to the school. Her scout troop is selling cookies. Fundraiser for a camping trip. Ghost volunteered to help unload the truck.”
“No I didn’t,” she objected. “You volunteered me.”
Wally winced. She’d been “volunteered” for the experiment that killed all of her friends and turned her into a killer ace, too. “But you’re excited to go camping, right?”
“I already know how to live outdoors.”
Yeah … she did. Wally was pretty sure that nobody else in her troop could survive in the jungle on her own for weeks. Maybe he’d chosen the wrong activity for her.
“I’ll only be gone half an hour. Promise.”
Darcy, still on the phone, nodded, mouthing, “Of course.” Mordecai said, “This sounds important. You guys go. I’ll keep working on your calendar while you’re gone.”
* * *
After the door closed behind Wally and Ghost, Darcy looked up from her book. “I have to say, you deserve an award for how well you’re taking all of this in stride.” She nodded at the Campaign Headquarters sign and the Money Jar.
“It’s definitely an interesting challenge.”
“Well, Wally’s lucky to have you on his team.”
“What about you?”
“You mean why didn’t I step up and offer to do what you’re doing? Two reasons. First, I’m a cop and there’s this thing called conflict of interest. Second, I didn’t want to.” She pointed at the Money Jar. “That’s pretty much exactly how I figured this would go down.”
“That’s not very supportive.”
“Don’t get me wrong. Wally is probably the best human being I’ve ever known. But he can be a lot.”
Mordecai sighed hard enough to make his chair groan. She wasn’t wrong. “I’m getting that.”
“But he’d fight tooth and nail and rivet for his constituents. It really is too bad he’s going to lose. And that is where my job will come in.”
“Lose?” Mordecai scoffed. “Miss, I have not begun to flex these yet.” He curled his arms, making his legendary muscles bulge until the stitching in his shirt sleeves complained. Even the floor creaked.
They shared a laugh.
* * *
The campaign strategy discussion continued over a pile of take-out containers. Darcy had sprung for the meal and, after Mordecai explained to Wally how it was a good idea to categorize things, the receipt had gone into the Money Jar with “campaign contribution: Darcy” scrawled on the back.
Even when he didn’t understand everything, Wally never wavered in his attentive listening. Mordecai could tell he was taking it all very seriously. He found that encouraging.
Working down the checklist on his laptop, Mordecai said, “Okay. Next item. While I was at City Hall, I called up all the other intent-to-campaign forms that had been filed.” Mordecai pulled up a digital scan he’d taken with his phone camera. “The first and, as of yesterday afternoon, so far only other person to join the race is a Jan Chang.”
He turned the screen around so Wally could see. There was no photo but the forms, of course, had her address.
“I oughta go introduce myself.”
Darcy shook her head. “That’s noble, but I know from direct personal experience with her that it won’t go over the way you’re expecting.”
“I sure would like to shake her hand. Just so she knows me and knows I won’t be mean or anything.”
(“Yeah, but what about her,” Darcy muttered.)
“I think it’s a great idea,” said Mordecai, surprising them both. “Perfect way to set the tone for the next few weeks. And because you’re the one taking the initiative, it makes you look good. Even better that you do it informally, without a press release, so people can’t accuse you of a publicity stunt. It’s just two people shaking hands and promising a clean fight. Like boxers before a match.”
“Yikes!” Wally shook his head. “I’m not gonna punch her or nothing like that!”
“Well that’s even better,” said Mordecai, standing. “And if we walk over there, you can meet and interact with your future constituents along the way.”
“Oh, most of ‘em already know me.” Wally clanged a knuckle against his forearm. “I’m the metal guy.” He paused for a moment, the look in his eyes momentarily going distant. Then he returned from wherever he’d gone. “Ooh! That should be our slogan! ‘Vote for the Metal Guy.’”
“Hmm. Let’s not settle on it just yet, in case we have other ideas we like. But I’m glad you’re thinking about slogans. Now you’re thinking like a politician,” said Mordecai. “We should settle on one in the next day or so, so we have time to get it printed on your signs.” He nodded at the Money Jar. “That’ll be another campaign expense, by the way, and one of your larger ones.”
“I hope the jar is big enough.”
“But anyway, the people of Jokertown might know and think of you as Rustbelt, founding member of the United Nations Committee for Extraordinary Interventions—”
“Gosh, I’d forgotten the whole name.”
“—and Rustbelt, champion of the Jerusha Carter School, and Rustbelt, local dad.”
(“And Rustbelt, menace to parking meters,” said Darcy.)
“But they don’t yet think of you as Rustbelt, city councilor. That’s what we want. When people think of you, we want them to associate you with the guy who’s going to listen to their concerns. The guy in their corner.”
“Okay, but like I said, I ain’t gonna punch nobody.”
“That’s for the best, I think.” Mordecai zipped his laptop into the valise. “Let’s hit the pavement, team.”
They were almost out the door when Ghost, who had ridden the subway back with her troop leader, said, “Wallywally, your special hat.”
“Cripes, I almost forgot! I got the perfect thing for being a politics guy.” He disappeared into his bedroom and emerged a moment later with a gray silk top hat perched on the iron dome of his head. An elastic chin strap hooked under Wally’s jaw kept it from sliding off. “Snazzy, huh?”
Mordecai looked him up and down. The combination of denim overalls and opera hat was undeniably eccentric, but it wouldn’t merit a second glance in Jokertown.
“You know what?” Darcy said, her mouth curling into a rare smile. “I kinda love it.”
* * *
The seven-block stroll to Jan Chang’s brownstone took forever because Wally—to his credit—embraced his public debut as a candidate and paused to shake practically every hand, foot, fin, frond, trunk, tentacle, cilium, stalk, pseudopod, antenna, mandible, gill, and claw they passed on the street. (It did go a little more smoothly once they convinced him to stop bellowing, “WALLY GUNDERSON FOR CITY COUNCIL!” every thirty feet.) And he chatted with anyone and everyone. But it was a pleasant spring day, and the cherry trees on Bleeker sweetened the breeze with a blizzard of white petals.
While Wally discussed PTA drama with a fellow parent from the Jerusha Carter School, Mordecai turned to Darcy.
“So. Police officer, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm. The thin blue line, that’s me.”
“What’s your beat?”
“If that’s your roundabout way of asking if I work the Jokertown precinct, the answer is yes. And it’s okay to call it Fort Freak. Everybody does. But it’s not okay to call me a meter maid, even though everybody does that, too. I’m a parking enforcement officer.”
Hammer and Tongs and a Rusty Nail Page 3
