Lucky Bastard (33 page)

1
On the day after the primary, Jack and Danny lunched on pizza in the conference room of Miller & Adams, which had been converted to Jack's campaign headquarters.

Glowing with happiness, Jack said, “Okay, let's talk about the general election.”

Danny did not reply.

Jack said, “Onward and upward to final victory, just like in high school. Dan, what would I do without you?”

Danny said, “You're about to find out. I'm going to have to withdraw as campaign manager.”

Jack had just taken a bite of pizza. He spat it into his hand and said, “What?”

“Cindy,” Danny said. “She says she'll walk if I'm part of making you attorney general.”

“What does she think you've been doing for the last six months?”

“She thought you were going to lose. I guess she didn't count on the Mafia pushing you over the top with a skeet-shooting contest.”

Jack said, “Mafia, my ass. You did it, just like in high school.”

“That was then. This is now, and you don't need anybody,” Danny said. “You're going to wipe up the floor with F. Merriwether Street. And that's the problem. Cindy was supposed to run the women's side of Merriwether's campaign. But thanks to you, he dumped her.”

“What does that have to do with me? Or you?”

“Come on, Jack. You're responsible for everything bad that's ever happened in her life, so why shouldn't you be responsible for this?”

“Okay, she's been dumped by that asshole. Why does that mean you have to dump me?”

“Because Cindy says she'll leave me if I choose you over her one more time. She means it. I can't live without her. End of story.”

“Is this permanent?”

“No, just this once,” Danny said. “She works for Street's father, for Christ's sake. She's the apple of old Street's eye. I can't do it to her.”

“Danny, this is a blow. What am I going to do?”

“Win. Run against anybody but Merriwether Street and I'll be right beside you. But I can't help you this time.”

Jack said, “Dan, how can you do this to me after all these years? I need you.”

“Not as much as I need Cindy.”

“That bitch!” Morgan said when she heard the news. “
She
needs Danny more than you do. That's what this is really all about. She cuts his meat, buttons his buttons, polishes his shoes, says his prayers with him, kisses his fucking wounds—”

Jack was genuinely shocked by this last phrase. He said, “Morgan, for God's
sake—
”

“No wonder she's turned into a Republican. She's anti
-abortion
, for Christ's sake. You know what she said at a rally of her stupid fat women? She said, ‘These left-wing harpies who are pushing for abortion are the same ones who used to spit on American soldiers and call them baby-killers.' Now, that's
vile
!”

Morgan's face was a mask of anger and contempt, as it always was when someone on the other side touched a nerve. Jack himself believed it possible that a comparison of mug shots of Movement chicks spitting on returning soldiers in the seventies and of present-day prochoice militants might turn up some matching faces. This did not seem to be the moment to voice this thought, so he said, with a glint of humor, “I had no idea Cindy was so eloquent.”

“Eloquent? Dangerous!” Morgan mimed a pompom girl leading a cheer. “‘
He is peaches, he is cream, he is the captain of our team. Adolf! Hitler! ‘ray! ‘ray! ‘ray!'
Maybe somebody should fuck Danny's mind straight for him.”

Though Jack was used to Morgan's outbursts, he was staggered by the spitting rage she was in now. He said, “Like who?”

She batted her eyes in a parody of pompom girl flirtation. “Why do you ask?”

Jack said, “Morgan, don't even think about it. I mean that.”

Morgan said, “Oh really? You're a good one to talk, Greasy Gus.”

2
Even without Danny at his side, Jack was elected in November. He ran a colorful, witty campaign that made F. Merriwether Street look even more clumsy and dull than he actually was. Street, who sang bass in his church choir, always led a rousing chorus of “God Bless America” to end his rallies. Morgan retched.

Jack said, “Forget it. He's asking them to vote for America, not him.”

“Then we need a song that tells people to vote for you.”

Jack laughed. “What about ‘Jack, Jack, Jack, Coo-coo-too-goo-rooga'? It was my high school campaign song. Danny thought it up.”

Morgan said, “You mean, ‘Gentleman Jack, the hot dog man, he can make love like no one can'?”

“Get some new words.”

“You're crazy.”

“No. It's a catchy tune.” He grinned. “And the subliminals are good. Or don't you remember?”

“Fuck you.”

But Morgan asked one of her people, a professor of creative writing, to come up with new words for the lively, salacious old song. Two days later the woman, holding her nose, handed her the new lyrics:

Jack, Jack, Jack! He's our candidate!

Jack, Jack, Jack! Let us demonstrate

That Jack, Jack, Jack does not hesitate

To win! Win! Win!

Let's hear it for Jack, the man who wins!

Let's hear it for Jack as the future begins!

Let's do it for Jack, we wish he was twins!

Ohio needs Jack, and everyone wins!

Jack, Jack, Jack!

The song caught on at once. Morgan taught the anthem to Jack's ever-growing crowds, and in no time everyone could sing the words and dance to them as he strode into a rally. “Jack, Jack, Jack!” became the “Ruffles and Flourishes” of Jack's political career.

Jack became the youngest attorney general in the history of the state. Just as he had predicted, the governor and nearly everyone in the party apparatus outside Cleveland forgot that they had ever wanted him to lose. A star had been born. Everyone wanted to be one of the original band of brothers and sisters. Jack welcomed all comers, and especially all wise men bearing gifts.

“It was the song that did it,” Danny said. “Voters like an alpha male.”

“What's an alpha male?” Jack asked.

“The head chimp who gets to bang all the females while nobody else gets any.”

“Jeez, is that what they elected me to do?”

“Not yet,” Danny said. “But when you run for president, all you have to do is change the words a little.”

Jack threw an arm around his friend. “The song is you,” he said. “Don't forget that. I'll tell you what really made the difference, and that's what you did with Fats Corso.”

“Shhh,” Danny said. “Cindy might be listening.”

Thanks to Danny's work behind the scenes, Corso had played a role in Jack's victory. Not long after Jack won the primary, Fats Corso came to see Danny. F. Merriwether Street's grand jury was winding up its investigation, and the media had just reported that Jack and Morgan had been called as witnesses in connection with the shotgun attack on their bungalow.

Soon after dark the doorbell had rung. Cindy went to the door and found Corso on the front step. He was on crutches, but otherwise he was his unmistakable self: silk suit, white shirt, white-on-white tie, white fedora. He was alone. He swept off his fedora and said, “Very sorry to disturb, but I'd like a word with Attorney Miller.”

“Which one?” Cindy said.

Corso flushed. “No offense,” he said. “But your husband is the one I want to talk to.”

“Please come in.”

Corso seemed surprised by the invitation, but he followed, fedora in hand. In the living room, sitting on the sofa, his damaged leg stretched out before him in its cast, Corso accepted the weak American coffee that Cindy offered. With a last warning look at Danny, she withdrew.

In his hoarse voice Corso said, “Attorney Miller, from what I understand, you're not only Jack Adams's partner but his best friend, maybe his only one.”

“We go back a long way,” Danny said. “What can I do for you?”

Corso said, “Give him a message from me. The shotguns? I didn't do it. It wasn't me. It wasn't nobody connected to me.”

“Then who did do it?”

“If I knew the answer to that question I'd tell you, but I've got no clue. I've asked all around. It was nobody I know. And I don't have no enemies who hate me enough to do something like this to me.”

Fats Corso's sincerity was transparent. Still, Danny said, “With all due respect, Mr. Corso, I think Jack is going to find this hard to believe.”

Fats waved a hand, pinky ring flashing. He said, “Listen to me. Nobody I know in this town or any other town where I know people had a thing to do with shooting up Jack Adams's house. Me and my friends don't do things like that, violate a man's home. It's against the rules. You understand what I'm saying to you?
Nobody
knows who done it.”

Danny said, “Mr. Corso, let me be frank. As far as I know, you're the only enemy Jack has got in the world.”

“Attorney Miller, I wish I knew how I got to be his enemy, because I didn't do the other, with the cop and the girl, neither. She's a crazy kid, a born hooker just like her mother. She just wanted to hump a cop, so she knocked on the window of the first parked cruiser she saw. She told me that herself. It never crossed my mind to set Gallagher up. You think I didn't know what would happen if I tried? I don't care how many cops Gallagher—who's a fucking liar by the way—said was on the pad, the cops would never stand for something like that. And now look. As God is my witness, on the grave of my mother, that's the truth as I know it.”

Danny said, “Mr. Corso, thanks for stopping by. I'll give him the message.”

Corso slumped in undisguised despair. He said, “Let me explain something to you, counselor. I'm no kingpin. I run a few girls, control the numbers, own the cigarette machines and the jukeboxes, make a few loans, use a little muscle. Years ago you could make a living doing what I do. Not anymore. Nobody needs girls. Every college broad does things for free that you used to could only do in Tijuana. Now these crazies who marched against the war when you were over there fighting are getting elected to office—no offense, I name no names, but I'm trying to be honest with you—and they're talking about setting up a state lottery. If they actually do this, which I used to think could never happen in a state like Ohio with all those Protestant churches, there goes the numbers game. So why me? It makes no sense. I can't figure it out.”

“I'll tell Jack what you said,” Danny replied.

As soon as Corso's white Cadillac, a replica of his former vehicle minus the remote starter, was out of sight, Danny got into his own car and drove to the downtown hotel where Jack and Morgan were staying.

Jack was exuberant. “Old Merriwether will never try Corso while the campaign is going on. If we can pressure Fats into copping a plea, admitting he shot up my house, I win.”

Danny said, “Jack, he says he didn't do it.”

“What difference does that make? This is his way out.”

“You believe him?”

“Of course not. I just want to get some benefit from the situation. Plus screw Merriwether.” Jack's mind was racing. He said, “Okay. Call Fats. Tell him to pick a felony, any felony, and plead guilty. He can't possibly be sentenced until after the election. I'll see that he doesn't get too much time and doesn't go to a bad place. He can make his own living arrangements inside. I won't oppose parole. And I'll never bother him again. All he has to do is admit before the world he tried to intimidate me and failed.”

“He may be reluctant to do that, Jack.”

“Talk to him. Tell him I
know
he did it, and I'll have to tell the grand jury that.”

Later that week Morgan, then Jack, appeared before the grandjury and identified three of Corso's most trusted musclemen as the thugs who had blown the Adamses' simple little young-marrieds' house to smithereens. Their testimony was immediately leaked to the media. The newspapers ran a story identifying one of the accused underlings as Frank “Bang-Bang” Russo, so called because his weapon of choice was a pump-action shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot.

Indictments were returned, and a short time afterward F. Merriwether Street announced that he had accepted a plea bargain from Fats Corso. Jack kept his part of the deal. Corso was given ten to twenty years in prison. Although no one in the media made a point of this—even at this early stage in his career, Jack was far too valuable a source ever to be embarrassed—Corso had every prospect of parole within three years.

“Justice has been done,” Jack told the media. “The important thing is, Fats Corso's empire of crime has been smashed. Now we'll move on and make sure he has a lot of old friends to keep him company in prison.”

One of the unexpected consequences of the Corso affair was the humanization of Morgan Adams. She won the admiration of all, and perhaps even some votes for her husband, for the way in which she handled the night of terror through which she and Jack had lived together. During the campaign she went everywhere with Jack. Although she was still something of a frump by middle-class standards, she seemed softer, more feminine, less shrewish than before. Nicer to Jack. Always beside him on the hustings, she gazed at him with adoration as he spoke; they held hands in public, even hugged. Everyone noticed it.

On an interview show in Cleveland, Morgan was asked by the host, a locally famous, elderly spinster journalist from another era, if she and Jack were planning a family.

“Oh my goodness, Dorothy, we don't have time to
plan
,” Morgan answered. “But I hope every single night that it will just happen.”

“Did you say, ‘every single night'?” the old lady asked.