Dev Conrad - 03 - Blindside Read online

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’

  ‘If David should happen to call in—’

  ‘I’ll see that you get to talk to him.’

  I called my Chicago office. Howard Steinberg who runs the office when I’m gone got me up to date on all the good and bad news. The two main parties were about evenly balanced. No big surprises, either. We were still ahead where we planned to be ahead and still behind where we’d been from the start. But it was a tricky cycle this time and not even the best of polls could track the vagaries of public opinion very well.

  I was forcing my way through some new internals, still deliberately not thinking about Erin, when my office phone buzzed. The receptionist downstairs said, ‘There’s a young woman calling for you, Mr Conrad. All she said was that her name is Jenny.’

  ‘Oh, right. Put her through, please.’

  When Jenny came on she said, ‘Have you had lunch yet?’

  ‘Actually, I have had lunch. Why?’

  ‘I just wanted to talk to you. Could you stand just watching me eat?’

  ‘As long as you use the right fork for the salad.’

  ‘I know you think that’s funny but my father is big on that stuff.’

  ‘Not your mom?’

  ‘She just does what my dad tells her. Makes life easier for her, I guess. The only time they disagree is about me. My dad would already have me on death row if my mom hadn’t stopped him.’

  ‘Is that what you want to talk about?’

  ‘Now you’re making fun of me again. I want to talk to you about what we were talking about last night except then I didn’t want to talk about it.’

  I smiled. ‘I think I know what you mean.’

  ‘The secret? Jimmy’s secret?’

  ‘Right. Jimmy’s secret.’

  ‘I guess I should break my word to him. I need to help you.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘So you’ll buy me lunch?’

  ‘I’ll buy you lunch if you can wait till one thirty. We’ve got an important press conference coming up.’

  ‘Yeah. Man, they’re really on Ward’s ass. I’ve been watching the telly all morning.’

  Telly. British. Cute.

  ‘I cry every time they put Jimmy’s picture on. I can’t believe how much I miss him. I feel like I did when Roger died.’

  ‘Who’s Roger?’

  ‘My border collie. And don’t make fun of me. You live in my house, a dog’s your only chance of staying sane.’

  ‘I cried when my old tomcat Doc died.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Thirty-eight.’

  ‘Are you shitting me? You cried about a cat when you were thirty-eight? Is that really true?’

  ‘Really true.’

  ‘Wow. Maybe you’re not so bad after all.’

  ‘One thirty then. Royale Hotel. The restaurant. How’s that sound?’

  ‘You and Jimmy would’ve gotten along. Especially after you told him you cried about a cat when you were thirty-eight.’

  I actually did have a cat named Doc once. That part of the story was true. I sort of fudged the age, though. Doc died when I was eight.

  EIGHT

  While there are no punches thrown – at least not that often – press conferences are a form of boxing matches. There is a very real quest for a knockout. Under most circumstances Jeff Ward wasn’t a household name outside his district. But with my least favorite not-news network already hinting that Ward was somehow implicated in the murder, the rest of the press, their tabloid credential intact, would be all too eager to follow suit. Maybe they would’ve been reluctant if he hadn’t had the playboy image. But sex and now the death of one of his own staffers was too much to pass up.

  Both sides here were performing a script. As far back as silent films you saw a mad-dog press attacking a pompous top-hatted politician on the steps of a government building. Reporters raging in silence for the head of the man they were stoning to death with their words. The pompous politician more pompous than ever. Until the fatal question. And then, in the way of silent films, a great melodramatic seizure of some kind when the question is asked. The pol clutching his heart; staggering, then falling. His aides grabbing him. A close-up of the pol’s face as he dies. Jubilation on the faces of the reporters. All was right in America again.

  TV has turned news conferences into gladiatorial contests. They’re fun but sometimes I feel sorry for even the people I hate. I wouldn’t do any better than they did.

  All of us inside headquarters were tense. We stood at the front windows staring out at the press. I recognized the network reporters as well as the not-news reporter who was going to fry us for sure. Right now the camera people were shimmying and nudging into position for the best shots. The men and women vying for news stardom were checking their clothes and their makeup and their hair. The security people we hired were now in place around the narrow rostrum from which Ward would speak and take questions. The police were helping with the surging reporters. They doubtless enjoyed shoving the press around.

  Everybody around me started applauding. Ward was downstairs now, talking with the staffers. He wore a very conservative blue suit, a white shirt that could blind you, and a tie more appropriate for a funeral than a press joust. On one side of him was Mrs Ruth Watkins. On the other was Sister Louise.

  Mrs Watkins was smoking a cigarette and hacking. She was maybe five feet tall and around seventy-five years old. The baggy black dress made her appear shriveled. The voice said cigarettes and whiskey. In a crisis you go with what you can get. ‘I don’t know why the hell I can’t smoke out there. I smoke everywhere else.’

  Lucy was her handler. ‘We won’t be out there that long, Mrs Watkins. I promise you, you can smoke the second the press conference ends.’

  ‘Well if it goes very long I’m just gonna light up.’

  ‘The big thing,’ Lucy said, her patience admirable, ‘is to be sure about what we discussed. You told us you saw him many times growing up and you always liked him.’

  Hacking, Mrs Watkins said, ‘I did like him but I always felt sorry for him, too. He was such a weird kid. Everybody always made fun of him. Even my two kids. They did it real bad one day and I beat their asses, you can bet on that.’

  ‘Remember we agreed to leave out the ‘weird’ part, Mrs Watkins. And I wouldn’t mention beating your kids.’

  Mrs Watkins had a hell of a good cackle in her. ‘Honey, I’m old but I’m not an idiot. I know what you want me to do when we get out there. I’m supposed to put poor Jim in a good light. And I intend to. The poor kid loses his folks and then people pick on him all his life. Some life that was.’

  Kathy was talking to the nun. Sister Louise appeared to be about as old as Mrs Watkins, a plump woman with a gentle face and a very gentle speaking voice. ‘I just want to tell people about all the help Jim gave me at the soup kitchen. People always asked for him if they had a problem.’ She hesitated. ‘I won’t say this on TV but I think this made Jim feel wanted and needed in a way he’d never been before. He was always smiling when he was at the center. Smiling and laughing. But when I’d have coffee with him somewhere else during the day – well, he never looked or sounded very happy.’

  Now that he was coiffed and all shined up, Ward nodded to me. ‘Well, how’s all this looking to you? We’ve only got about five minutes before it starts.’

  I didn’t want to tell him that when Mrs Watkins first started talking I thought we might be in trouble. But now that I’d heard her out she was going to be fine, with or without her cigarette. Same for Sister Louise. ‘They’re the best kind of people to have with you. They’re not lying or exaggerating. They’re just saying what they believe.’

  ‘Neither one of you is with the Mexican drug cartel, are you?’ Ward joked.

  The nun smiled. Mrs Watkins looked confused.

  Ward had moved closer to Kathy. He spoke way too loud. ‘I don’t know why all this shit has to happen to me.’

 
; Apparently Mrs Watkins, busy lighting up another smoke, hadn’t heard him. I wondered what she would have done if she had.

  When Ward turned back to the nun, Kathy made a face at me. I believe the word she was mouthing was ‘asshole.’

  I walked up front again. The reporters had replicated. Now our security people had joined the police in shoving everybody back away from the rostrum. Nobody seemed intimidated by the slicing wind or the scent of rain I smelled every time somebody opened the front door.

  ‘The old man told me you’re good at this,’ Ward said, coming up next to me. ‘I can be a bit of a jerk sometimes and I apologize for that. I appreciate you rounding up those two. They’re good TV.’

  ‘This still won’t be easy.’

  ‘I’m about ready to vomit and that’s not an exaggeration. I don’t know if the old man told you but my plan is to run for Senate after this next term – if I win. So this race is important to me for a lot of reasons.’

  The sight of Ward in the window made some of the reporters go crazy, the way caged dogs would be if you were to run a steak along the metal links imprisoning them. In this case they wanted to vampire him.

  ‘We about ready yet?’ Mrs Watkins snapped somewhere behind me.

  At least he saw the humor. ‘Boy, she’s one hell of a character, isn’t she?’

  ‘I kind of like her.’

  His expression indicated that I was one strange guy. ‘You trying to get into her knickers?’

  But then Lucy was there. ‘It’s time.’

  May God have mercy on our souls, I thought as we all shuffled toward the front door.

  The press conference lasted forty-eight minutes. Mrs Watkins and Sister Louise were the early winners. They were good TV: Mrs Watkins’ crackling voice that became more sentimental when she spoke at length about Jim Waters and Sister Louise’s exuberance when she talked about all the people he helped at the shelter and how much they relied on him for their needs. You couldn’t always predict how the media masters would edit an event but I didn’t see how they could cut the relative and the nun completely.

  Then came the questions for Ward. Most of us are actors. We know which face to put on at any given moment. And how to sound appropriate. This isn’t necessarily insincere. If a person is weeping in front of you, you want to look suitably concerned. You put on the concerned mask.

  I guess when you’ve been told all your life that you are one fabulous guy it’s difficult to not sound fabulous even when you’re trying to convey sadness. Ward gave it a good try – nobody had cared about Jim Waters more than he had; nobody knew as much about Jim’s dream of an America that would someday live up to the aspirations of our forefathers – but it had a hollow quality. It was the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am of goodbyes. I got a second opinion from the cold hard stare Kathy kept on him. She didn’t seem to care for fabulous any more than I did.

  The questions mostly ran to the obvious. Had the police ruled out a random robbery and murder? Had anybody around Waters noticed his mood being different in the past few days? Did Waters ever tell any of the other staffers that he was afraid of anything? The man from not-news was of course the first to storm the castle. ‘Some people are saying (translated: my bosses who want a scandal are saying) that Waters might have known some secrets about your campaign that you were afraid might be made public.’

  ‘So you’re calling me a murderer? At least have the guts to use the word because that’s what you’re implying.’

  ‘I didn’t call you a murderer, sir.’

  ‘You did by innuendo.’

  ‘I just wondered if you wanted to refute all the whispers.’

  ‘The whispers in your mind, you mean? From the big boss back in New York?’

  ‘So you don’t want to speak to that? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying you’re not a reporter. You’re a flack for Burkhart. And that you’ve invented these so-called ‘whispers’ so you can help Burkhart in the election. Why don’t you ask Sister Louise here or Mrs Watkins if they think I had anything to do with Jim’s death?’

  Mrs Watkins hobbled over to the rostrum and said, ‘If my husband Norm was still alive he’d come down there and kick your ass for saying such a thing.’

  Whoops of delight sounded loud and merry on this day of drizzle and chill. A media hero was born. An ass-kicking old lady who had put a hack reporter in his place.

  Even Kathy was smiling. Our glances met. She looked snug and happy in the blue Burberry she wore.

  In a single sentence Mrs Watkins had changed the shape and tenor of the press conference. Since there’d been little of news value in Ward’s remarks the interest went to the old lady who provided good TV. As much as not-news was a disgrace to the profession, the other networks weren’t in truth always much better. There’s a great deal of sloppy, inaccurate, biased news available at the dinner hour every night across the board.

  Ward knew how to play it. For the rest of the conference he kept his arm around Mrs Watkins’ shoulder. Maybe he was trying to keep her from lighting up. That would spoil the TV image somewhat. Good grannies don’t smoke.

  Half the remaining questions were directed at her and she was ready for them. She was tart and crotchety and funny. And at the end sentimental one more time about her Jim. She had saved Jeff Ward’s ass.

  When it was all over, we went back inside where Joan Rosenberg was offering fresh, hot cookies and rolling a smart cart with two fresh pots of coffee on it.

  I went over and shook Sister Louise’s hand and then I went over – I had to wait in line – and gave Mrs Watkins a hug. I had to be careful not to get burned by the cigarette she had dangling from her lips.

  NINE

  Jenny Conners was late, giving me plenty of time to catch up with my other campaigns.

  According to the internals we were starting to pull away slowly in Madison, though we should already have been at least double our lead by now. One race was still virtually tied and the fourth one appeared to be coming our way. We’d made up four points in the last few days thanks to an opponent who said that when he was elected he would ban non-Christians from running for office and would make homosexuality illegal. He said he was doing this on direct orders from the Lord, who was apparently busier than hell this election cycle. And it was clear by now that the Lord had no more time for progressives than that not-news network did. Maybe he was a stockholder.

  So far my people in Chicago hadn’t had much luck in identifying the true owners of the Pellucidar Corporation. Its first address was a PO Box outside of St Louis. Its present address was a PO Box in Boca Raton, Florida. The man listed as the CEO didn’t Google, either. A mystery corporation and a mystery CEO. And a very good-looking blonde driving a car that the corporation was paying for.

  I logged on to various local media outlets to see if anybody had filed any stories about the press conference so far. Only one had. The headline on that one was ‘Gritty Granny at Congressman Ward’s Press Conference.’ Under a photo of Mrs Watkins grinning, the line was ‘Wishes husband was still alive so he could kick reporter’s a**.’ As I’d hoped, they didn’t get to the murder of Jim Waters and Ward’s possible involvement until the third graph. What was more important anyway? A homicide affecting a political campaign or a gritty granny?

  Essentially Ward got the kind of pass on the Tribune website that would warm the black American Express card of any consultant. They didn’t lead with Granny but four graphs on there were three different pics of her and a few colorful quotes she’d given out after the press conference was officially over. Gritty grannies were a gold mine.

  I could imagine Sylvia over at Burkhart’s putting a cyanide capsule under her tongue. Though knowing Sylvia, she’d probably use a suppository.

  I knew Jenny was here when the people at the table across from my booth raised their heads, quit talking, and began gaping at something approaching them. I was on the wrong side of the booth to see what they were ogling but I found out soon enou
gh.

  She looked pretty much the same as last night except now her black dress had silk sleeves down to just above her wrists. Despite trying to hide her attractive face and body in Goth she succeeded in being a beguiling figure anyway.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I went to church and said some prayers for Jimmy.’ She didn’t wait long to pounce. ‘You look like you want to make one of your smart-ass remarks. If I go to church it’s my business.’

  ‘Glad to see you, too, Jenny.’

  ‘My father says how can I be a Catholic and worship the devil? Hello. Goth people don’t worship the devil. That’s Satanists. Have you ever noticed that people who belong to country clubs are really dumb shits?’

  ‘I take it your father belongs to a country club.’

  ‘His home away from home, as he likes to say. My mother’s there even more than he is. He says she’s a booze hound; of course she says the same thing about him. I haven’t seen either of them sober after seven at night since I was fourteen years old.’

  ‘You’re nineteen. You could always move out.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m pretty spoiled. I mean, I could try to bullshit you but that’s the truth. And my mother wants me to stay even if my dad does try to throw me out every once in a while.’

  ‘Are you close to your mother?’

  ‘Are you kidding? She likes to have me around so she can bitch at me. She’s a real drama queen. When I was sixteen she found my birth control pills. She claims she had a slight stroke because of them and made my father call an ambulance. She was in the hospital for a week until her doctor said that there was a flu epidemic going on and they’d have to move her on a gurney to the parking lot if she didn’t leave on her own. My father still tells that story. I always liked it, that picture of my mother on a gurney in the parking lot. You know, rain and snow and all that. She’d have a fifth of gin with her of course.’

  She could wear you out with words. In self-defense I waved to the waitress.

  I had coffee; she had the Caesar salad.