Bagmen (A Victor Carl Novel) (18 page)

CHAPTER 29

POLLS

H
ave you seen the latest polls?” said Tom Mitchum in a hotel suite high in a tower just off the Parkway. He was standing at the window, looking out over his boss’s fiefdom, his jacket off, his suspenders tight. “The numbers aren’t pretty.”

“Maybe your pollster could jazz up the charts,” I said. “Add some color, use a better font.”

“What Tom is trying to say,” said the Congressman, giving me the stare and speaking slowly, as if I were a Frenchman, “is that we’ve lost ground despite your much-appreciated efforts.”

“I’m doing what I can with the tools I have,” I said.

“Do more,” said Ossana DeMathis, standing in the corner with a drink in her hand. I turned my chin toward her and kept my eyes flat. That was how we were playing it, per her instructions, like nothing more than business associates, and since she was higher up in the organization, her instructions held. But there was a harshness in her voice I didn’t like, a sense of overweening authority. I don’t mind taking orders from someone I’m screwing—sometimes I actually like it—but I prefer it to be in bed.

I had been summoned to the suite to give a report on my activities. Politicians just love their hotel suites. Parked by the door was a service cart, with the leavings of a meal scattered across its linen-covered surface: half-eaten club sandwiches, a gnawed pile of bones, an empty bottle of Perrier. I hadn’t been invited to the party portion of the afternoon. I wasn’t the kind of employee you lunched with; I was the kind of employee you instructed to enter the hotel through the rear entrance. As for me, my only thought on looking around the room was that politics would be so much simpler without the politicians.

“So where are we on your efforts?” said Mitchum. “Tell us about your progress.”

My progress?

I could have waxed about my descent into the shadowy netherworld where the gears of politics and money brutally mesh, about my journey into the inferno with my guide Stony Mulroney, about how Maud had ferried me across the River Stinks, and about how I’d finally found a world where the grit and grime matched the darkness at the root of my soul. Oh, I could have gone on and on, and bored them all to tears, but no one in that room, including me, was interested in metaphysics. And so instead I told them about the labor leader, about my run-in with Hanratty, the community sports organizer, about the ward leaders I had reached, the election judges, the opinion makers and local columnists.

“I’ve gone through the list Ossana gave me,” I said. “We’re right on track. And I’m setting up an anti-Bettenhauser demonstration that should move the needle on those polls of yours.”

“What kind of demonstration?” said the Congressman.

“Tom told me what Bettenhauser said in response to the most recent school shooting. I paid the local NRA guy to picket Bettenhauser’s environmental speech next week.”

“You should have cleared that with me first,” said Mitchum. “I’m not sure it’s so wonderful to emphasize that Bettenhauser is pro–gun control and pro-environment at this point in the race.”

“It’s all in the packaging,” I said. “We have to make sure the news reports show him as a divisive figure, an anti-gun crazy and a climate-change crazy at the same time. A daily double for your base.”

“What does someone like you know about our base?” said Ossana.

“More than you would think,” I said cheerfully. “One could say my whole career has been nothing but base.”

“Maybe I should follow up with a speech about the need to reach across the aisle and build consensus,” said the Congressman. “That always goes over well.”

“Let’s wait until after the primary to start reaching for the middle,” said Mitchum. “How are you set for financing, Victor?”

“That’s a problem,” I said. “I told you about Mrs. Devereaux’s unhappiness. She’s cut off the spigot until you can convince her that her priorities are being looked at.”

“I’ll talk to her,” said Mitchum.

“That won’t do it. She wants to talk to the Congressman himself. What is it that she’s after, anyway? She made it sound pretty specific.”

“That’s not your concern,” snapped Ossana. “Just do what you need to do to keep her happy.”

“I don’t know if I’m man enough to keep her happy,” I said. “I think six matadors and a stable of bulls aren’t man enough to keep her happy.”

“She is a feisty one all right,” said the Congressman. “You find anything on Bettenhauser?”

“I’ve got a man on it who says he’s found something interesting. I’ll get you the details when I can.”

“We don’t want the details,” said Mitchum. “We need deniability. Any dirt you find, give it to Sloane.”

“Sloane? You trust that dirtball?”

“I trust his unabashed desire for a story,” said Mitchum. “He’d eat dog shit if it got him the front page. Just make sure it’s the dog shit we want him to eat.”

“All right. Tom, Ossana,” said the Congressman. “Why don’t you leave Victor and me alone for a few moments?”

“You don’t think it’s better if I stay?” said Ossana.

“No, I don’t,” said the Congressman, with a straight razor in his voice. He sat there without looking at his sister, and I spied something on her face just then, a stain of anger that was more real and intimate than any emotion I had seen spill across her face in our nights of wanton sex. The emotion was so raw it was hard to look at, like I was stealing something. I turned my face away until she stalked out after Tom Mitchum and slammed the door behind her.

“My sister is . . . quite protective of me,” said the Congressman.

“It must be nice. I’m an only child.”

“In some ways you’re lucky. I’ve been questioned about the Shoeless Joan murder by that Detective McDeiss. The police know you met with her.”

“Yes.”

“How did they know that?”

“Somebody led them to me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Damn inconvenient. I refused to answer any questions, but McDeiss promised he’d be back with an immunity offer to make me talk. Is there anything I need to know?”

“Just tell the truth.”

“He’ll want to know what she was blackmailing me with.”

“Yes.”

“Did she say anything when you met with her?”

“No.”

“Nothing about her secret?”

“No.”

“Did she give you anything?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Good. Hopefully, they’ll solve the thing before he gets back to me. Now this is what I really wanted to talk to you about.” He leaned forward, twisting one hand in the other. “Have you heard from Miss Duddleman? She doesn’t answer my calls, she’s not at her home when I stop by . . .”

“I don’t want to be the one to break it to you, but maybe she’s moved on.”

“She couldn’t, not so easily. You don’t know what we were together. She wouldn’t just go off without telling me, or at least having a scene of some sort.”

“She does love her scenes.”

“I want you to find her for me, Victor.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a—”

“I can’t work, I can’t function. I don’t care about the job, the election, anything. I want you to tell her that. Have you ever been in love?”

“You’re married.”

“What does that matter?”

“She’s half your age.”

“She makes me feel half my age. I’m not asking for your permission, Victor, I’m asking for your help. You’re the only one who can get through to her. Find her. Talk to her. Make sure she’s okay. Tell her I am desperate to see her, to touch her. Tell her that I love her.”

“You want me to tell Amanda Duddleman that you love her?”

“If that’s what it takes for her to return my calls. If she doesn’t want to see me anymore, I’ll have to accept that. I’ll move on. But, Victor, I need to know.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll talk to her?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“But don’t get your hopes up. She’s an independent one, that Duddleman.”

“I know. I know. It drives me crazy.”

“No arguments on that.”

On the way out of the suite, bag in one hand and hat in the other, I was stopped by Ossana with a palm on my chest. She pulled me into a bedroom, closed the door, kissed me hard. I let her, but I didn’t join in the party.

“I guess he doesn’t know about us,” I said when my mouth was free.

“No, of course not. No one can know.”

“I understand. I wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

“Oh, Victor, you’re hurt. How charming.”

“I’m not hurt, I’m just trying to figure out your whole screwy family.”

“Don’t be impertinent. What did my precious brother want?”

“It’s private.”

“It’s my brother, there’s nothing private between us.”

“Except me fucking you.”

“Don’t be crude.”

“I thought that’s what you liked. If you want to know what he asked me, ask him.”

“But you can’t tell me.”

“No.”

“You have rules.”

“Yes.”

“You can screw me, but you can’t confide in me.”

“Precisely.”

“Lawyers.”

“Trained to infuriate,” I said, putting on my hat.

CHAPTER 30

THE GOODS

I
’m in Stony’s car for a stakeout,” I said.

“The black Lincoln,” said Hump.

“What else would I drive?” said Stony.

“And Stony’s wedged between the steering wheel and the seat like a great suited Buddha. I see these two huge thermoses, one green, one silver, each the size of a rocket ship.”

“What on earth were you doing in Stony’s car for a stakeout?” said Maud, sitting back, the smoke from her cigarette failing to mask her incredulity. Rosen’s was quiet, neat and empty, except for our corner banquette table, which was covered with empty lowballs, overflowing ashtrays, hats, always hats, and the usual choking cloud of smoke. The Brotherhood was in session.

“Because of his other line,” I said. “His investigation line.”

“Stony has an investigation line?” said Miles Schimmeck. “The man hasn’t spied his own pecker in twenty years.”

“Just because I haven’t seen it doesn’t mean I don’t know where it is or how to use it,” said Stony.

“He told me he took a course,” I said.

“In using his pecker?” said Miles.

“Investigations, you ninny,” said Stony.

“Did he try to sell you a new bathroom, too?” said Maud.

“Yes, actually.”

“Don’t take him up on that.”

“’Twas just that once,” said Stony.

“When it comes to toilets,” said Hump, “once is enough.”

“So these two huge thermoses, right?” I said. “And I’m thinking, that’s a crapload of coffee. There’s no way we can drink that much in a single night. And then he tells me, he says—”

“‘Only one of them thermoses is for the coffee,’ ” said Hump.

Our laughter rose sharply and lingered until it devolved into a fit of coughing. Liquor was swallowed, empty glasses were slammed on the table, cigarettes were lit, more Sazeracs were ordered.

“You don’t got to tell me about them thermoses,” said Hump. “Stony and me, we had business together one night in Atlanta.”

“A contractor on the lam who ate the salad and disappeared,” said Stony. “I brought in Hump to make my point.”

“Stony said it was easier to drive than to fly. Longest damn drive of my life.”

“That was a four-thermos drive,” said Stony.

“Well?” said Maud to me.

“Well, what?” I said.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I might not be great at toilets,” said Stony, “but I always get my man.”

He had left the school with a glance behind him, like he was skipping out for a bout of truancy. The kind of look you give before you hide behind the trees and pull out a doobie. But he wasn’t a kid planning on stoning away his afternoon; he was Tommy Bettenhauser, AP civics teacher and congressional candidate, sneaking out for something else.

“Hold on to your hat,” Stony had said, and off we went.

We trailed him from far behind, so far behind I was sure Stony would lose him. “Pour me some coffee there, Road Dog. From the green thermos.” And I did as we jerked from lane to lane, and Stony only spilled some of it on his tie as we kept moving.

“Road Dog?”

“Another of my daddy’s rules,” said Stony. “If you forget a name, just hand out a nickname. No one ever forgets a nickname. You look like a dog I once saw on the side of the road. Ergo.”

“You forgot my name?”

“Well, you have two first names. How the hell am I supposed to remember which is which?”

“Ergo.”

“That’s right, ergo. Now keep your eyes peeled. I don’t want to lose him.”

He drove us through the wilds of West Philly, all the way east into an old industrial section, which was on its fifth bout of redevelopment. I looked left and right, peering past the van ahead of us, all the time looking for Bettenhauser’s car and seeing nothing. I had severe doubts about Stony’s technique—he seemed constitutionally unable to keep Bettenhauser’s blue Prius in sight—but he kept moving forward, until he parked on the left side of a busy one-way street and waited for a truck to pass us by before pointing down and across the road.

A blue Prius. And Tommy Bettenhauser, stepping out. Being greeted with a hug by a pretty woman with thin arms and pale-blonde hair.

“Well done,” I said.

“Hand me the camera in the glove compartment.”

It was a digital SLR with an absurdly long zoom lens. Stony turned it on, unlocked the lens, zoomed it out, and started snapping.

“Who is she?” I said.

Click, click.

“Do we know the relationship?” I said.

Click, click.

Arm in arm, Bettenhauser walked with the woman toward the open front door of a row house not far from where he’d parked. Halfway in, he looked back over his shoulder as if searching for ghosts.

Click, click.

The door closed behind him.

“And now,” Stony had said, “we wait. Do me a favor, Road Dog, and hand over the silver thermos.”

“What did you get out of it, your little surveillance?” said Maud.

“Photographs,” said Stony. “A lovely couple, all hugs and kisses. Printed out in grainy black and white to give the snaps a nicely sordid quality. Nothing spells vice like black and white.”

“I got to give you credit there, Stony,” said Miles Schimmeck. “You always had an eye. Who are you slipping them pictures to?”

“They’re not mine to slip,” said Stony.

“Stony told me I ought to give them to the press,” I said. “That I should let some daring reporter do the dirty work so I could sit back and let the scandal rage without my fingerprints.”

“Too iffy,” said Miles. “Some editor with scruples might spike the whole thing.”

“An editor with scruples?” said Maud. “I heard of one once.”

“He was riding a unicorn,” said Hump.

“Aubrey,” called out Stony. “Five more.”

“Give them to the wife,” said Miles. “That always delivers the biggest bang. And then you get the leaving-the-race-for-the-good-of-the-family speech, which never fails to crack me up.”

“The wife angle works unless she’s a regular Patti Page,” said Hump, “who decides to stand by her man.”

“I hate that standing-by-their-man nonsense,” said Stony. “There ought to be a law against that.”

“It was Tammy Wynette,” said Maud.

“Who the hell cares?” said Miles.

“Mr. Wynette.”

“One copy to the wife, another to the newspaper, a third to some TV weather-chick looking to be taken seriously by the news director,” said Miles. “Cover all your bases. That’s old school.”

“What’s new school?” I said.

“Just give it to a PAC,” said Maud.

Miles and Hump and Stony grumbled at the suggestion even as they nodded in acquiescence.

“Let those fat bastards turn it into a commercial,” said Maud. “Let them blast it twenty-four-seven over the airwaves until the public can’t bear the sight of it or him.”

“That way,” said Hump, “it don’t even need to be true.”

“And your boss can pump up all self-righteous,” said Miles, “and deny he had anything to do with it.”

“It’s too damn easy,” said Stony. “The Big Butter takes all the art out of it.”

“It’s a crime, what they done to the business,” said Miles. “Before them we was like Briggsy said, princes of the city. Now it’s scraps from the scrap heap for us if we’re lucky. It ain’t the same as it was.”

“What is?” said Hump.

“Me,” said Miles. “I’m the same. I got the same hair I had when I was sixteen.”

“Just not as much of it,” said Stony.

“I got plenty still,” said Miles, serious as all hell as he rubbed a hand over that precious comb-over. “One thing I always had was a good head of hair.”

Aubrey brought over the drinks and there was quiet as the barman laid them one by one before us. Stony raised his glass in a toast and we joined in.

“To Miles’s hair,” he said.

“To Miles’s hair,” we said back.

“Long may it wave,” said Stony.

We assented, we drank, Miles Schimmeck looked around, wondering what all the fuss was about.

“My hair, it ain’t wavy,” he said.

“Sure it is, Miles,” said Hump. “It’s waving good-bye.”

“A bunch of stinking kidders,” said Miles before he took a long inhale from his cigarette. “Hey, Hump, remember a few years back, one of your ward boys was having a problem with his landlord. His family was staring an eviction in the face. Out on the street in the middle of the winter.”

“I remember.”

“Turned out this guy’s landlord was having trouble with a court case. One slim envelope in the right hand and everyone’s problem was solved. And we got a record turnout in that ward the next election. That’s the way the game used to be played. That’s the way the city used to work.”

“Anyone in my territory had a problem,” said Hump, “they went to their ward leader, who came to me.”

“And we took care of things for each other,” said Miles.

“Indeed.”

“But not no more,” said Miles.

“We don’t matter like we did,” said Maud. “When the Big Butter can pour Wall Street money into any race it chooses, the little guys get forgotten. Why waste capital on a single worker here or a single family there when there are batches of television ads to run?”

“It’s the new American way,” said Hump, “and it counts us out.”

“Stop your whining and look alert,” said Stony. “We’ve got company.”

And there he came, walking past the rows of empty tables, pointing at Aubrey the barman as if Aubrey were a dear personal friend he was spotting from the red carpet, sucking his teeth and sauntering toward us as if we were his bestest pals in all the world. We snatched up our drinks to fortify ourselves as he came closer. With orthopedic shoes, schlumpy jacket on a schlump of a frame, thick tie, ink-stained fingers, yellow teeth, he was a form of life even lower than the lice crawling through his thinning hair.

Harvey Sloane, ace reporter, and like a rocky-road addict, always looking for a scoop.