Smoke and Mirrors (7 page)

Watching Mrs. Watson flirt outrageously with Nick, who responded in kind, Erin wondered why there were so few men
among the volunteers. Many women worked these days, and children kept others homebound, but the proportion was still out of balance. Was it because of Rosemary Marshall's strong support for so-called women's issues? That might have been a factor, but from what she had learned, the same thing was true of other candidates, including those who thought a graceful compliment was to tell women that without them men would still be walking around in skin suits. Perhaps the true explanation was that women, unlike men, were accustomed to working without pay. Funny that the idea had never occurred to her before, even after watching her mother and her mother's friends provide free labor for most of the charitable, cultural and social services of the town.

She grinned as she watched Nick plant a smacking kiss on Mrs. Watson's cheek and dodge the playful swipe of her cane. He might resent the term "court jester," but she was beginning to understand that it was an important job. Volunteers were a vital part of a campaign, especially one as poorly financed as Rosemary's. Keeping up morale could make a difference; and Nick did it superbly. It wasn't all calculation on his part, either. He was obviously delighted by the spunky old lady. When he came toward Erin she greeted him with a smile so warm he blinked.

"Hi," he said.

"Hello again. Sorry, I have no more goodies for you. This afternoon's mail was astonishingly unperverse."

"Please don't think I am attracted to you only by your collection of obscenities," Nick said.

"Oh, no. I assumed it was my efficiency, intelligence, and graciousness."

"Graciousness?" Nick hoisted a hip onto the edge of the desk and considered her thoughtfully. "You probably have bushels of it, but you haven't dumped much on me. Why don't you like me?"

"I don't even know you," Erin protested, taken aback by the blunt question.

"That's easily remedied. I'm available. Lunch, dinner, breakfast. . . . Tonight's out, though, I have to work. Unless ..." His face brightened. "Hey, that's an idea. Want to go to a football game?"

"I thought you said you had to work."

"I do. I'm covering the game."

"You're a reporter?" Nick nodded. "But the Redskins aren't playing tonight—or are they? I don't follow sports closely."

"You're absolutely right," Nick said seriously. "The Redskins are not playing tonight. And if they were, I would not be attending the game. About the only way to get tickets to regular season games is to inherit them. As for covering the game—who do you think I work for?"

The gleam of sardonic amusement in his eyes told Erin her first assumption was undoubtedly wrong. "Not the
Post?"

"The Washington
Post
is one of the country's major newspapers," Nick said. "I should be so lucky. You behold before you the sports editor of the Loudon County
Daily Sentinel.
At least I was as of this morning. My boss isn't too happy about my political activities."

"Conflict of interest?" Erin hazarded.

Nick shook his head. "Not exactly. It would be hard, even for me, to insert a political opinion into a story about a high school football game. It's a question of time. Working two full-time jobs is taking its toll. Especially," he added in a lighter tone, "of my social life. So how about going to the game with me? You can point out the niceties I might miss. I'll even buy you dinner. The affair is being catered by the ladies of the Boosters Club and some of em bake a great apple pie."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I hate football."

"Oh, come on. This isn't your ordinary boring major-league game. The Vikings are playing their arch rivals, the Demons of St. Joseph's Academy. It will be the thriller of the year. The Vikes are really up for this one, they got knocked out of the play-offs last year by St. Joe's. And"—he paused for effect—"during the time-outs I'll tell you everything you ever wanted to know about politics. Including the definition of a swing district."

"Jeff told you? I suppose I asked him some dumb questions, but I didn't think he would laugh at me behind my back."

"Oh, hey, it wasn't like that. Everybody knows you haven't had any political experience, you made no secret of that; he wasn't making fun of you, he was impressed by your intelligence and quickness to learn. ..." Nick broke off. "What am I doing defending a rival?" he demanded dramatically. "Never mind Jeff, I'm just as knowledgeable as he is, and I'm almost as good-looking. I can teach you a lot, baby. What do you say?"

"Well ..." Erin told herself it would be foolish to refuse. Keeping on good terms with co-workers was only common sense. Nick could be irritating, bossy, chauvinist (that word again!), but he did have his moments. "Why not?"

Nick dropped to one knee, snatched her hand, and raised it to his lips. "Thank you. Thank you! The gracious enthusiasm of your response overwhelms me. You have made my day. Your ineffable condescension—

"Oh, get up! I have to finish adding up these checks."

"I go, but I will return. In half an hour?"

"Okay."

Erin went back to work, fully aware of the curious, amused, and frankly envious stares that had been focused on them. She couldn't help wondering about the reason for his persistence. Nick might be one of those men whose interest is piqued by a woman's indifference, but he would never be hard up for female companionship—not around campaign headquarters, at any rate. Talk about your ready-made harems. . . . And surely it was not a coincidence that she had been favored, that same day, by attention from both Joe and Jeff. Rosemary must have passed the word: "Give the kid a pat on the head, I can't be bothered."

Rosemary made her appearance shortly before five-thirty. She looked like Her Majesty paying a flying visit to the workhouse, swathed in rainbow chiffon, white-gloved to the elbow, glittering with jewelry. The man who was with her wore tails and carried a top hat and stick. His brown hair, worn in a vaguely old-fashioned style, with a dip or wave on one side, showed not a trace of gray, and his sharp-cut features would have been attractive if the curve of his long thin lips had not resembled a perpetual sneer instead of a smile. He surveyed the cluttered room and the motley assortment of volunteers with an air of looking down, not from his actual height of six-two or -three, but from the lofty peaks of Olympus. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but Erin couldn't remember where she had seen him.

Looking like a daintily dressed doll next to her tall escort
("Send no money now, the Fund will bill you only $79.98 per month"), Rosemary made the rounds, smiling impartially on all and addressing an occasional greeting to a favored and flattered worker. Erin received the greatest mark of favor—a full pause, an outstretched hand, and a friendly "How is it going?"

"Fine," Erin answered. "Some of the letters are—uh—very interesting."

Rosemary's escort laughed. "Is that what you've been doing, you unfortunate infant? My commiseration. You may find them interesting now, but I assure you, the maudlin outpourings of the illiterate public will soon pall."

He reached for the S basket. Erin wasn't surprised that he had selected that one; his low, murmurous laugh had given her the necessary clue to his identity. Philips Laurence, commentator, columnist, and moderator of a television talk show, and the man for whom Fran reserved her choicest epithets. He called himself a neoconservative; Fran called him, among other things, a Fascist reactionary. What on earth was he doing with Rosemary Marshall, when he opposed almost every issue she supported?

"Your love of the common man is notorious, Philips, ' Rosemary said. "Didn't your mother ever teach you it's rude to read other people's mail? If you dare quote any of those letters—"

"Hate mail isn't worth quoting," Laurence said lazily. "Most consist of a nice derangement of epithets and a singular paucity of imagination." He tossed the letters carelessly onto the desk.

They fluttered and fell in a disorderly pile; Erin made a grab for a sheet of paper that was about to slide off the desk. Rosemary bent over to study one of the papers more closely.

"There is no statute of limitations ..." she began. "Good God. What's that all about?"

"Nick said something about right-to-lifers, " Erin offered.

"I suppose that's it." Rosemary grimaced.

"My poor darling." Laurence put his arm around her. "You're too sensitive. The effusions of clods like this writer aren't worth your notice. Philips will get rid of the nasty thing." Using only the tips of his fingers, he folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. "See? All gone. "

"Throw it in the wastebasket," Rosemary said shortly.

"And contaminate the office? I'll find a handy trash can
outside."

"Philips, you can be a real pain in the posterior sometimes," Rosemary snapped. "Stop treating me like a frail little southern
lady."

"But, darling, you are."

"Like hell I am. Where's Joe? I told him to be ready at five-thirty."

The office door opened and Joe emerged. He looked mildly exasperated, probably because someone had forced him to stop working and get dressed up. The results were splendid; he wore a tuxedo that fit him reasonably well, he was freshly shaved, brushed, and combed; there was not even a cigar in evidence. Nick followed him out. Catching Erin's eye, he went through an extravagant pantomime, clasping his hands and fixing an adoring gaze on Joe's back, then wiping his brow and staggering, as if to suggest that the effort of producing the resplendent effect had worn him out.

Rosemary's lips quivered, but she kept her face straight. "Very nice, Joe. You really can look like a gent when you try."

Joe came to a dead stop and fixed a stony glare on her escort. "What the hell is he doing here?"

"Now, Joe—"

"It's all right, Rosemary, ' Laurence said gently. "I'm well accustomed to Joe's diamond-in-the-rough manners. Sorry to spoil your evening, old chap, but I'm attending this function too."

"So long as you paid, " Joe grunted. "Come on, Rosemary, shake a leg."

Instead of offering his arm he grabbed hers and towed her toward the door at a pace that made her break into an undignified trot. Laurence followed, smoothing his gloves onto his fingers with voluptuous care. He was smiling smugly, as well he might; his cool control had made Joe look like an ill-bred boor. Surely there was something stronger than political antipathy there. . . .

Nick joined her at her desk, but continued to glower at Laurence's retreating form until the door closed behind it. How much of
his
antipathy was personal? Erin wondered. His dedication to Rosemary and/or the causes she supported was obviously intense,
but there was more to it than that; he looked like an overprotective father who harbored the direst suspicions about his daughter's date.

"Talk about your unholy alliances," he muttered.

"You mean Rosemary and Mr. Laurence?"

"Who else? Haven't you read his column—watched his show?"

"Uh . . . occasionally. I gather he's a trifle conservative."

"He's so right-wing he'll drive all the way around the block rather than make a left turn. You didn't see today's column, where he said the homeless should thank God they're freezing on the streets of an American city instead of living in a one-room apartment in Moscow?"

"He didn't say that."

"Oh yes, he did. " Nick glowered even more darkly. "I can't believe people take that jackass seriously. And I can't figure out why he's supporting Rosemary. I guess it's like they say—politics makes for strange bedfellows."

"Or the reverse?"

It took him a few seconds to understand what she meant. "Good God, no!" he exclaimed indignantly. "At least... I hope to hell not."

"Why? She's a woman, not a two-dimensional campaign poster."

"Well, yeah, sure, I guess. ..." The idea seemed never to have occurred to him. "But not . . . Look, Erin, it's nothing like that. You don't understand the way these things work in Washington. You can call somebody a Comsymp and a lecherous cretin in public—Laurence has done it—and invite him out for a drink afterward, and he'll say, sure, why not? It has to be that way. If politicians took insults personally, there'd be bleeding bodies all over Capitol Hill."

"I don't think I'd be so detached," Erin admitted.

"I'm not very good at it myself. I hate people who have the goddamn gall to disagree with me!"

Erin laughed and after a moment Nick's scowl faded into a sheepish grin. "Which is why I'm an enthusiastic volunteer instead of an up-and-coming political reporter. Ah well, I'm learning; I haven't slugged Laurence yet, and believe me, that has required
considerable self-control. My car's over there. . . . Damn. Another parking ticket."

"At least they didn't tow you."

"There is that. Wait a minute. The door sticks some. ..."

The door looked as if it were about to fall off. The car was an ancient Dodge whose original green had faded to a dusty indeterminate gray. Nick wrenched the door open, helped Erin in, and, after a prolonged struggle, managed to shut it again.

The drive was hair-raising, in every sense of the word. The window on Erin's side wouldn't close. Nick was apologetic. "The part costs sixty bucks, and that doesn't include labor. I meant to look for it in a junkyard, but I haven't had time. . . . Oh, hey, sorry about that. The catch on the door to the glove compartment doesn't hold very well. ..."

Perched on a sagging bench in the bleachers, watching the Vikings devastate their hapless opponents from St. Joe's, Erin realized with some surprise that she was enjoying herself. Her supper had consisted of a country ham sandwich and a Coke; the portly person seated next to her was the father of the Vikings' quarterback, and whenever he bounded to his feet to cheer a completed pass, the plank seat slapped Erin's posterior. But the night air was cool and crisp, the ham sandwich was excellent, and the portly person's enthusiasm was rather touching. Nick kept running back and forth from the seat beside her—to the bench, to the trailer manned by the mothers of the Boosters Club.

During halftime she joined him on the sidelines, at his request. Among the people to whom he introduced her, with transparent pride, was a sports reporter from a local TV station. "What are you doing out here?" Nick asked. "Thought you'd been promoted to news reporting."

"Dave called in sick," the round-faced youth explained morosely. "You know how it is. Listen, you got any openings for a media man in the campaign?"

'We haven't got any openings, period. Here." Nick reached in his pocket. "Have a button."

The youth allowed Nick to pin the campaign button to his shirt. "Keep me in mind, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, old buddy. Gotta run now; Erin is dying to meet some of the players."

"I'm not, you know," Erin remarked, as he led her away.

"Never pass up an opportunity to do some work for your candidate," Nick said. "Some of the players are eighteen and they all have relatives who vote—or should. Smile and look pretty—that won't be hard—and tell them all how wonderful Rosemary Marshall is."

Most of the players were too concerned with the game to listen to Nick's political lecture. Those who did promised him— leering amiably at Erin all the while—that, sure, they'd vote for Marshall, why the hell not? Only one objected. He was an extremely large eighteen-year-old, who would have made two of Nick. Instead of being intimidated by the bulk looming over him, Nick fell on him like a piranha on a whale. "How can you vote for a man who helped promote Virginia's massive resistance to integration when he was in the state legislature and who said, as recently as 1984, that he had no regrets about doing it?"

The large young man was no match for Nick in rhetoric; when it dawned on him that he was losing the argument, he cocked an enormous fist and Erin prudently retreated behind one of the other players, a rangy black youth who had been introduced as the star tight end. He was pleased to see her, but showed no desire to prevent the imminent annihilation of Nick; in fact, he and the other players cheered the debaters on. Erin was relieved when the coach finally intervened with a firm "Knock it off, you guys. We got a game to play. Carson, don't waste your energy. Get the hell outta here, Nick, what's the idea of bugging my guys?"

"They're ahead twenty-one to zip," Nick reminded him. "Great job, Coach; how about an interview?"

"Later, maybe. Get lost."

"Right." Nick seized the ham-sized fist of his antagonist and shook it vigorously. "Great talking to you, bro. That's what this country is all about, right? Honest disagreement and discussion, the heart of democracy. You just think over what I said—"

Erin took him firmly by the arm and led him away. They were followed by the jeers and cheers of the players.

"Why do you do that?" she demanded.

"Do what?"