the Plan (1995) (12 page)

Lucinda came the closest to provoking any emotion. Lucinda was special to him, but he doubted if it was love as much as pride. She was his sister and she was beautiful. He took a perverse pleasure in that, as if she was the receptacle for all the beauty that had escaped him. He would not have his sister involved with somebody like Ryan Bolt.

Joseph was asleep now, and the phone rang in the bedroom. Mickey picked it up. A. J. Teagarden was calling from Providence.

"Everything's set for tomorrow," the wonk said. And then he went on to fill Mickey in on the status of the campaign.

Downstairs, Ryan and Lucinda were sitting in the living room. They had been talking about Ryan's first day in Princeton. He was trying to explain how exciting it was. There was the feeling of something about to happen. He liked the youth and enthusiasm.

"I still don't quite know what I'm doing there," he admitted, "but I'm hiring a crew to film the announcement tomorrow." He glanced at his watch. "The Film Commission said I should call back at six to get a confirmation."

"You can use the phone in Middy's office."

Ryan moved out of the living room into the darkened hall.

Joseph Alo's office was next to the den, but Mickey had been using it for almost a month. Ryan moved to the desk and picked up the phone. He heard a strange hissing sound through the receiver. He tried to punch up a line but couldn't, and saw that the phone was attached to a large, black box labeled "TelaCenturia." There was a button on the box. He reached down, pushed it and immediately heard A. J. Teagarden speaking. The voice had a strange, tinny resonance.

".... money coming in fast from the Bahamas. We're going to use it to buy TV spots in Iowa."

"Just a minute," he heard Mickey say. And then there was a click on the line. Ryan tried to get another line. This time he got a dial tone.

Seconds later, the door of the den exploded open and Mickey was standing there.

"What the fuck you think you're doing?" he said, spitting the words at Ryan.

"I'm calling this guy about confirming my film crew for tomorrow."

Mickey moved across the office, grabbed the phone, and smashed it down in the cradle. "You were listening in on my conversation."

"Calm down, will you?"

"This is my fucking office!" Mickey's voice was now controlled, but his demeanor was deadly. Ryan felt a strange energy coming off of Mickey, almost a kind of heat.

"Lucinda said I could use the phone in here." "You were on that line. What'd you hear?"

"Nothing. Just A
. J
. talking about the Bahamas or something. What's wrong with you?"

Mickey moved around the desk and got close to Ryan. When he spoke now, his voice was a deadly hiss. "You're a guest here. Okay? You're in my house. You stay outta my office. You don't listen in on my calls."

"Mickey, I wasn't listening in. I was just trying to get a line."

There was a long moment while they stood facing each other, and then Ryan put his hand on Mickey's chest and pushed him back gently. "What the hell's wrong with you? You act like something's going on here."

"Just don't spy on me."

"What's this thing . . . some kinda scrambler?"

"I do a lot of sensitive transactions. We've had some business espionage, Pop had that installed." Mickey tried to evaluate Ryan. Then his expression softened.

"Look ... I'm sorry. I guess my nerves are a little frayed. It's kinda hard watching your father die right in front of you."

"I shouldn't have been in here. I didn't know . . ."

"Naw, it's okay. You can use this phone." Mickey gave Ryan a sad smile. "The doctor just told me Pop is out of time. Maybe a month, maybe less. I just . . . I'm sorry."

He turned and moved to the side table where his open briefcase lay. He hesitated for a moment, then snapped it shut and took it with him, leaving the office and closing the door behind him.

Ryan stood for a long moment, his heart smashing against his chest. There had been a deadly glow in Mickey's dark eyes that scared him. Then Ryan dialed the Film Commission in Providence and was told that the film crew was booked. Ryan gave his own American Express card number to seal the contract. Then, as he hung up, without warning he saw the little redheaded boy again swinging high on a swing. This time, he heard a voice faintly in his memory.

"Ryan can't do this, I bet," the little boy said, pumping his knees, rocketing the swing higher and higher; then just like before, he was gone. . . . Ryan stood in Mickey's office wondering who the hell he was.

Chapter
16.

THE GOVERNOR OF RHODE ISLAND WAS ABOUT TO THROW
his hat in the ring. A. I. Teagarden was in Haze's bedroo
m i
n the governor's mansion. He had all of the campaig n l iterature and news clippings about the other Democrati c c andidates on the unmade bed. Haze's wife, Anita, wasn'
t l iving in the master bedroom. A . J
. knew she didn't slee p w ith Haze anymore; their marriage was a carefully orchestrated sham. He saw Haze, who was in the bathroo m l ooking in the mirror, checking out his pearlies.

"I've been going through all this stuff since four this morning and I gotta tell you, these guys are running on special interest platforms. Every one of them. Dehaviland, with his environmental policy; Savage, with his liberal, New Age reconstruct-the-workplace-to-fit-the-work-environment horseshit; Gulliford is Mr. Labor, Mr. Old-Time Religion. Leo Skatina has his women's issue. All of them are Washington insiders; all are drinking from the sam e p ail."

Haze came out of the bathroom, running his tongue over his teeth. "Yep." He looked at his watch--forty minutes till the press conference. He looked out at the glass enclosed rotunda where he gave most of his TV interview s a nd where the press conference would be held. There were a few news vans pulling in, not nearly as many as he expected.

"I hope I'm not gonna be singing to an empty church."

"It doesn't matter. I don't want this announcement to be too big. Since we're coming in late, I'd rather take them by surprise, hit them from the blind side at the Register-Guard debate in Des Moines tomorrow. Keep it short, stay on the message, no issues."

"Come on, A
. J
., I wanna talk about issues. I've got a great thing on immigration." He stopped because A. J. Teagarden had buried his bushy head in his hands and was groaning in mock misery.

"Don't pull that shit, A
. J
. I've seen that routine a hundred times."

"We're going to run above the issues," A
. J
. said, taking his meaty hands down and looking at Haze. "I don't wanna talk about the issues. You talk issues, I'm the fuck outta here."

"What else can we talk about?"

"We're gonna run on the message. The message is:

Haze Richards feels the anger, America! He feels the frustration! He feels the disenchantment, the alienation, the sense of loss. And you know why he feels it? He feels it because he's one of you! Haze Richards is a fucking American citizen before he's anything else and, like every American, he is angry about all these special interest gurus . . . angry because, damn it, all these guys have been bought. Haze Richards never spent a day in Congress, never had a lobbyist buy him a free meal . . . never cut a deal with special interests that he had to pay back. Haze Richards is pure, man. He is the only goddamn candidate in this race who hasn't been bought."

"You kidding me?" Haze said, thinking back to the meeting in the motor home.

"Okay, but that's what you're going to say. You're gonna lead the second revolution in America, Haze. A revolution for the discontented. You're gonna make Americ
a w
ork again, goddammit. And if you say a word about abortion or gay rights, I'll fucking kick your sorry ass off the stage."

There was a silence in the room.

"If you do this the way I tell you," A
. J
. said, softly, "I'll get you into the White House."

Ryan had taken a cab to Providence early that morning and met his camera crew. A tall, Oriental girl with a bodybuilder's physique, a plain face, and long black hair stepped up to him with a bone-crushing handshake.

"I'm Rellica Sunn," she said, grabbing the fifty-pound Beta-cam in one hand, her shoulder muscles flexing in a sleeveless shooting vest that held camera equipment. The temperature was in the mid-thirties and this girl was walking around in Palm Springs clothing. Standing with her was a narrow-shouldered sound man with a Naga unit and a directional mike.

"Ryan Bolt," he said, introducing himself.

"Quite a party; what's going on?" Rellica asked.

"I think Governor Richards is going to announce for President."

"Of what?"*

"Funny."

The announcement was short and Ryan got blanket coverage. Haze stepped to the podium at exactly eleven o'clock and looked out over the crowd of friendly faces that A
. J
. had paid to show up as window dressing.

"I detect, in America today, a sense of loss and frustration . . . a sense of profound anger. The American dream, for many of us, has died. We no longer have a national purpose. We are reflections in a fractured mirror. We are fighting with each other and tearing the fabric of our nation to shreds. Why is this happening?" His voice rang in the rotunda. "Prices have gone up. Our GNP is down. Blacks and whites are rioting. Our products are inferior. We are losing out to foreign interests. In World War Two, we had a goal . . . and we won that war. The war we fight toda y i s no less a war . . . no less about preserving America. But we are losing this war. It's called the war of economic survival. I don't think America is about losing. I'm mad, like all of you, because we've become second-rate. I'm mad that our system of government has been stolen by special interest groups. I want to take America back. I want to make America work for you. This is your country and mine. Let's stop being angry. Let's change things." He took a long moment and looked at the cameras with resolution. "With that as my goal, I am announcing my candidacy for President of the United States."

The national big feet and local blow-dries packed up their equipment and got back in their vans as Haze moved off the rotunda into the statehouse.

"How did it go?" Haze asked A
. J
.

"Truthfully, you were all over the road. Riots? The economy? GNP? Don't bring up issues unless asked, then you shift back to the message. But it's a start."

Republic Airlines had twenty seats roped off for the Haze Richards campaign. They were all in the back of the 737.

Ryan and Rellica just managed to make the flight. To save money, they had sent the sound mixer home. Ryan could run the Nagra recorder. Rell said she'd work with available light. They shook hands to seal the deal. They buckled their seat belts and were off to Des Moines.

Ryan knew where the plane was headed but had no inkling where he was going.

Chapter
17.

NIGHTLY NEWS WITH
BRENTON SPENCER

"LOOK UP," THE MAKEUP LADY SAID, AS SHE APPLIED Brenton's eyeliner. They were in his office on the Rim a few minutes before "Air."

Brenton's office was on the east side of the floor. White pile carpet, oak walls, and abstract art fought for center stage with a roomful of steel-and-glass furniture. The interior glass wall was fitted with electronically controlled drapes so he could close off the Rim if he needed privacy. He had an array of TV screens built into the far wall so he could monitor the other network news shows and a computer bank that was hooked into a Nexus program to update breaking stories worldwide. Brenton usually kidded with Cris from makeup but tonight he was distracted.

As he was getting ready for his broadcast, he went over some of the copy he had been given on the Haze Richards announcement. He had looked at the file film on the governor earlier in the day, and noted that Haze Richards was extremely handsome, a growing requirement in American politics. United States political campaigns had become beauty contests where men with capped teeth and two -
hundred-dollar haircuts claimed to be just plain folks--the only tangible result of this that Brenton could see was America had the best-looking Presidents with the best haircuts in the world. The governor from Rhode Island fit the profile perfectly. Haze Richards had nothing in his back-story to recommend him. He amassed an undistinguished voting record while in the Rhode Island State Legislature; he'd gone right on some issues, left on others. The pattern continued after he became governor. He seemed, to Brenton, to be externally directed, a man who would chase public opinion.

"Little lip gloss?" Cris asked as she put some on with a Q-Tip. She was finishing the touch-up when Steve Israel, VP of the nightly news, stuck his twenty-nine-year-old bald head in, unannounced, and said, "You're on in two minutes."

Brenton heaved out of the chair, grabbed some aspirin for his dull headache, and winked at Cris.

"Break a leg." She smiled.

"Only if you'll nurse me back to health," he said, his heart not in the interplay, his temples throbbing.