the Plan (1995) (22 page)

"Trucking wages and mileage fees affect the cost of goods. It's an expense that's passed on to the consumers. It directly affects the economic viability of our products in the world marketplace."

"Haze, stay out of it. You don't know shit about it. Let Mickey do the thinking. All you gotta do is take the credit."

Haze reached out and poked A
. J
. in the chest.

"Don't you ever humiliate me in front of my staff again.

Don't ever treat me like that again." 'or...?"

"Or you're gone. I'll replace you."

"And who will do your thinking for you?"

"I will."

"I've known you since you thought it was funny to blow up Coke cans with firecrackers. Lemme tell you something, bubba. . . . You'd have trouble thinking your way out of a parked taxi. If it wasn't for me, you'd be nothing. If you wanna throw me out of the campaign just so that piece of ass outside thinks you're hot shit, then go ahead, but you won't be going to the White House."

A
. J
. turned and walked out of the room.

The Iowa Caucus results came in slowly that night because of a problem with the counting machines, but it was clear by nine o'clock that Haze Richards had done extremely well . . . and he'd done so at the expense of the Democratic front-runner, Leo Skatina. The headline in the next morning's Register-Guard was: RICHARDS ON THE MOVE

GOVERNOR 25 PERCENT

It was a huge showing. He had gone from nowhere to second in just twenty days, a seemingly impossible task. The networks were already beginning to call it 'The Iowa Miracle."

"Who is this political phenomenon and why did he strike such a chord in Iowa?" the NBC newscast said.

UBC declared Haze Richards the candidate to watch. Steve Israel included man-on-the-street interviews from Des Moines and Cedar Rapids, choosing only the ones that gave Haze the best boost. A UBC exit poll estimated, without any hard data to back it up, that had the Iowa Caucus taken place a week later, Haze would have actually won. In the last two days, Haze had acquired a press contingent of almost a hundred pod people and blow-dries. They were now following him around in two Greyhound StratoCruisers.

Vidal Brown held a press conference at the airport the morning after the election, just before they left on a charter flight for New Hampshire. Haze stood behind him, looking pleased. Also on the platform were Bud and Sarah Caulfield, who hadn't seen Haze, except on TV, for almost a week.

"And now," Vidal said, "I'd like to present to you the man from Providence, Rhode Island, who is destined to bring Providence to America . . . the next President of the United States, Haze Richards!"

Haze stepped forward on the small luggage platform that they were using as a makeshift stage. TV cameras panned and zoomed; his smile was washed in a halogen glow.

"Thank you. I want to thank the Iowa voters for their support." He turned to the ruddy farmer standing to his right. "And I want to promise Bud and Sarah Caulfield I'll be back. And when I get here, I intend to have legislation pending that will help them. We're about to take this country back and we're gonna do it for Americans like the Caulfields." Sarah reached out and grabbed hi s h and.

Japanese cameras recorded the event.

"Governor Richards," a reporter called from the crowd. "Bud Renick and Tom Bartel have issued an invitation for you to come to New York and talk to them about the deadlocked Teamster negotiations. Is that something you're planning to do?"

"I intend to go to New Hampshire and fulfill two days of my campaign schedule; then I'll go to New York on Tuesday, if I'm still invited, and I'll see what I can do to help fix that situation."

A
. J
. had timed the meeting so the Teamster victory would guarantee New Hampshire. He thought the afterglow should last for two weeks if they worked the media right. The late momentum should carry them through Super Tuesday.

They boarded the plane and took off at four in the afternoon. Iowans waved good-bye till the plane was out of sight.

By the time they landed in New Hampshire, Brenton Spencer was already reporting the evening news. "A bombshell exploded in the Democratic presidential primary today as a small-time underworld player on trial for contract tampering in New York testified that Leo Skatina had made promises to the mob." The shot switched to a courtroom videotape where a street villain named "Too Fat" Jack Vasacci was sitting in a paneled witness box, his jowls dripping sweat on Armani lapels. "So we calls this guy in Albany who could get the job done."

"And who was the man in Albany?" the prosecutor's voice said, off camera.

"His name was Christopher Delco. He's an aide to Senator Leo Skatina."

"And this man told you, you had the freeway contracts sewed up before the bids were filed?"

`That's what Deleo said. He said it went all the way to the senator for approval."

The shot switched back to Brenton Spencer, who looked solemnly into the camera from his anchor chair on the
Rim. "The senator had no comment. As a matter of fact, he was unavailable today. His press secretary said that Mr. Deleo was no longer an aide of Senator Skatina, and that the testimony given under oath in the federal courthouse was totally untrue. He said further that Skatina as a U
. S
. senator was not involved in the issuance of state contracts. We'll be tracking this story as it develops."

Haze watched the late report from his suite at the Manchester House in Manchester, New Hampshire. He smile
d a
s Leo Skatina was damned by the unsubstantiated charge.

He had no idea that A
. J
. had arranged the whole thing.

Chapter
30.

HE HAD BEEN STRUGGLING TO BREATHE AND THE OXYGEN
bottle wouldn't help. Penny had called the doctor, but h
e h
adn't arrived yet. Joseph Alo's lungs were filling slowl y w ith fluid. He was drowning from the inside. He had trie d t o cough, but the pressure on his chest was too severe. H
e c losed his eyes and wished the Lord would take him.

The priest from the Trenton archdiocese arrived at noon and entered the dark room that had the sweet smell of death and medicine. He kneeled by the bed and said a prayer of contrition. As he held Joseph's hand, the dying Mafia don opened his eyes and looked at the priest whom he'd never seen before.

The priest knelt and began the anointing of the sick. He put some holy oil on Joseph's forehead, then anointed each of Joseph's palms. "May the Lord who frees you from sin, save you."

Joseph did not view his excesses as sin. He had simply fought to provide for his family. He had taken on a world that showed him no mercy from the time he was a child, and now he lay in a bed, listening to his lungs filling, knowing he was at the very end.

He closed his eyes and he was a boy again. He wa
s l
ying on his back in a beautiful green field. He was listening to the birds singing. The breeze was cool and strong . . . it ruffled his thick black hair. He had so much ahead of him, his life was just starting. And then, an old man in white robes and a long flowing gray beard leaned over him, taking the sun away.

"Are you ready?" the old man said to Joseph, the boy. "For what?" Joseph's voice was the high soprano of his youth.

"Your next journey. I will help you up, but you must go alone."

As the old man offered his hand, Joseph reached up to take it.

In the bedroom, the praying priest became aware that Joseph's hand had just risen above his head. It seemed to be reaching out for something, but then it dropped slowly back to his side.

The priest looked over, but Joseph Alo had passed on.

While Joseph Alo took his last journey alone, Haze Richards began a much shorter one, accompanied by a hundred reporters. It started on the rail platform in downtown Manchester. He said a few solemn words about the need for a unified country before he got on the train. It was the way A . J
. wanted it. A common man going into the jaws of certain defeat to help a nation he loved. He took the two-hour train ride into Manhattan with the skeptical press in the seats all around him. Pod people whispered behind their hands, saying he had almost no chance to succeed. Haze sat with his briefcase on his lap, looking out the train window. The rushing Connecticut landscape played like a travelogue with broken sprockets. He wasn't focused on the scenery.

He was imagining what it would be like to actually achieve his dream--what it would be like to be the forty-third President of the United States of America.

Chapter
31.

BRENTON SPENCER HAD BEEN FEELING TERRIBLE FOR A
week. He had almost no energy and it was beginning t
o s
how on his newscasts. He couldn't sleep because hi s h eadaches were getting worse, waking him up in the middle of the night. He would stagger into the bathroom o n u nsteady legs, close the door so his wife, Sandy, wouldn'
t h ear, and throw up in his decorator-approved black ony x t oilet. He had made an appointment to see his doctor bu t h e was . D
reading the visit. Something was terribly wrong.

The day that Joseph Alo died, his lead story was Haze Richards's trek to New York. He carried the story on the five o'clock newscast, using a field remote from reporter Doug Miles. Brenton sat at his anchor desk on the Rim, his concentration shot, while a worried Steve Israel talked him through the newscast with the ear angel.

"Come on, Brenton, you're up in five. Stop drifting. You've got to tag the remote," Steve was saying as the B-roll footage of Haze on the train platform was concluding. The floor manager gave him four fingers, then three, two, then pointed at Brenton who looked into the center camera, reading his copy in the lens TelePrompTer.

"Haze Richards has begun a train ride to New York i
n w
hat is viewed by most as a futile attempt to solve one of the most complicated labor issues in America. He will be staying in Manhattan tonight at an undisclosed location and, in the morning, will try his hand at unlocking the snuggle between America's truckers and the businesses that employ them." Then Brenton seemed lost as his copy ran out.

"Throw it to Hal," Steve coached.

"And now to Hal Reed for a campaign update," Brenton said.

While Hal was rattling on about local races, Brenton was wondering if he had brain cancer. What was causing these headaches? He got the broadcast back five minutes later for the last story, which was a brief reference to Joseph Alo's death. Steve Israel had elected to give it a light play for reasons that Brenton could only guess.

"Come on, Brenton, your copy's up," Steve said, and as Brenton read the lens TelePrompTer, a file shot of Joseph Alo was Kyroned over his shoulder.

"Joseph Alo, the founder of the national chain of steak houses known as Mr. A's, died at two-thirty this afternoon in his New Jersey home," he read. "Doctors say he had suffered briefly from a pulmonary respiratory disease. He was seventy-three." No mention was made of his alleged mob connections.

Ryan and Kaz watched the newscast on a black and white TV that was bolted to the dresser in the dingy hooker hotel. Neither one of them said anything until after Brenton Spencer finished his closing. Both were lost in their own thoughts. Ryan was worried about Lucinda, wondering where she was, how her father's death would affect her, how he could find a way to get in touch.

"I need to get out of this room for a while," Ryan said, looking over at Kaz.

In the three days since Kaz had brought him there, he'd never left the bed except when Kaz helped him to the bathroom, which was down the hall. That trip was a twice
-
a-day adventure that left him light-headed. Ryan's life had been slowed to a crawl. He had counted the water-stained tiles on the ceiling of the room several hundred times, malting pictures out of the jagged brown shapes. A Rorschach nightmare that was warping him. He found that The Mechanic was rerunning at four A . M
. on channel 6. He watched it twice, trying to regain some of the excitement he had once felt for the Emmy-winning show, but it seemed dull and shallow to him now. His own pretentious dialogue echoed insincerely across a landscape of personal excesses. Kenetta had dropped by once and changed the dressing. After she had finished, she smiled at him and told him he was doing great Then she and Kaz had gone into the hall and whispered. When Kaz came back, he had avoided Ryan's eyes. Now Ryan just wanted to get out of the stifling, cum-stained hotel room.

"The doctor said you're not supposed to get up."

"Fuck it." Ryan sat up, carefully swinging his damaged leg off the bed and resting it on the floor. He tried to stand and put weight on the leg, but as soon as he did, it collapsed under him. He fell awkwardly back on the bed as Kaz ran and grabbed him.

"I'm getting outta here for a while if I have to crawl. You can help me or you can watch." His leg didn't have the sharp pain of a few days ago, but it never stopped aching. He was afraid he'd lost a lot of muscle that he'd need to walk. Kaz helped him up and looked at the heavy bandage on his leg, hoping Ryan hadn't broken the stitches loose.