the Plan (1995) (8 page)

As they walked out of the governor's mansion, Haze thought, as usual, that A
. J
. looked as if he'd slept in his clothes, but Teagarden was brilliant. They moved into the parking lot and got into a white Chevy, a state plainclothes car with "G" plates. A . J
. drove the car erratically, never watching the road, looking over at Haze as he talked.

"Jesus, watch where you're going. We're gonna end up as hood ornaments on a bus," Haze exclaimed.

"Mickey Alo is dangerous. He looks like the Pillsbury dough boy but scary as shit. Just listen to him. He's got an agenda. We don't wanna run him off. I'm not sure this is a done deal, he could be looking at other guys. . . ."

"Lame ask, you something."

"Shoot."

The Iowa Caucus is in a month. . . ."

"Twenty days."

"How the hell're we gonna go in there and make a showing? Nobody knows who I am. I've got no farm policy, no strategy, no message. . . ."

"I can handle it. Believe me, I know what to tell those Jo-Bobs. I've been polling Iowa half my life. I worked two national campaigns in that state while you were still a DA."

"He's gonna want things. .. ."

"Everybody wants something," A
. J
. said, flatly.

They pulled up at the deserted gas station ten miles out of town that Mickey had picked for the meeting. Al turned off the engine.

"What're we doing here?"

"You haven't dealt with these SpaghettiOs. They thrive on bullshit. For all I know, they're gonna swoop in here in a hot-air balloon wearing Porky Pig masks."

They showed up in a rented motor home, a big, blue and white thirty-seven-foot Winnebago with New York Tony driving.

"See," A
. J
. said. "We're in a gangster movie."

They got out of the car and New York Tony opened the RV door to admit A
. J
. and Haze Richards. As soon as they were inside, New York Tony had the rig moving again. Mickey Alo was seated in the small dining booth and didn't bother to get up. Teagarden made the introductions.

"Haze, this is Mickey Alo." Haze shook his hand but didn't sit; instead, he held on to the cabinetry as the vehicle moved along.

"This is a pleasure," Haze said, feeling pretty good already. Mickey Alo was ugly. He knew it was foolish, but he'd learned that his looks gave him a psychological advantage over unattractive men.

"I hope you're enjoying the great state of Rhode Island," he said, turning up the hundred-kilowatt smile. "Sit down and stop grinning at me," Mickey said t
o t
he governor of Rhode Island. "I'm not a fucking broad." "I beg your pardon?"

"I don't want an autograph. Okay?"

"Okay," Haze said, feeling diminished as he sat down.

"Not there. Sit over there." Mickey pointed to a chair across from him. Haze moved to it and sat. A
. J
. knew there wasn't much he could do to steer events; he just had to pray and let the chips fall.

"I run an organized-crime family. . . . My father is the boss of the New Jersey mobs. I'm his consigliere. We deal in things that are deemed to be illegal by the government. Me an' some friends in several states have decided to become politically proactive and see if we can change some of the shit that's buggin' us."

"Such as . . . ?"

"Such as we want to overturn the RICO Act."

"That's a congressional act. It's not easy to rewrite legislation like that You'd need two thirds of the House and Senate."

"We want the Supreme Court to overturn it."

"How do you figure that's going to happen?"

"If we elect you President, we expect to help you with
Supreme Court nominations. I have an actuarial table on the sitting court that says just on age probabilities alone, four members should retire or be in the ground in the next year or two. I put you in the Oval Office, I want you to pick the guys I want."

"You can't control the confirmation process."

"We'll worry about that when the time comes. The justices I select will have good legal backgrounds. They'll be middle-of-the-road . . . easy to confirm. They just won't like the RICO Act"

"Once they're in, how you gonna guarantee they'll vote the way you want?"

`They're gonna vote the way I say because, if they don't, I'm gonna kill everything they give a shit about, right down to their pets and goldfish."

There was a long silence. A
. J
. cleared his throat. "What else?" Haze said, his voice a whisper.

"You neuter the Justice Department Slow them down, replace the attorney general with somebody who isn't gonna be so contentious."

Haze could feel twinges of fear. A
. J
. had been right. It's the singer, not the song. . . .

"Also, I want a new head of the FBI."

"Anything else?" Haze wanted to loosen his tie. He was sweating. For some strange reason, he thought he felt heat coming off Mickey.

"That's it. Everything else, you do exactly the way you want. Foreign policy? I could give a shit. Urban renewal . . . ? Bomb the fucks into the Stone Age or give them a block party. I don't care. Everything else is yours, but you fuck with me on what I want, I swear I'll take out your heart with a butter knife."

Haze wondered if the thermostat in the motor home was set too high.

"Here's the deal ... I finance you for President of the United States, I control media coverage to maximize your success. I buy you the office with cash from my illegal operations. I don't care what it costs. . . My busines s m akes billions a year, but I can't spend it in prison. You do these few things I want. Simple, clean, no chance of misunderstanding. That's the deal."

"I need some time to think it over."

"You know right now whether this works for you or it doesn't. You tell me in thirty seconds or the offer is off the table."

A
. J
. Teagarden had to admire the way Mickey was handling it. Mickey had proven to Haze that he wasn't a man to fuck around with, that he was a man who would push the limits of the game. They were already onto a new playing field, treacherous but so full of promise that it was startling it hadn't happened before.

"Deal," Haze said, his voice shaky.

"We'll be in touch. A
. J
. will be the conduit for our communication."

When they pulled back into the empty filling station, not more than ten minutes had elapsed.

Haze and A
. J
. got into their plain wrapper and drove back to town. They didn't speak. It was best to leave everything unsaid. They had just witnessed each other's corruption.

In the motor home, New York Tony closed the door.

"Looks like we got a candidate," Mickey said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he opened the cabinet behind the table, unplugged the video camera and removed the tape that had recorded the entire negotiation.

Chapter
10.

"HELLO," HIS VOICE WAS SHAKY.

"Who's this?"

"It's Ryan Bolt."

"Jeez, Ryan, didn't sound like you, buddy. It's Mickey."

"Mickey." He smiled. "Where the hell are you?" Acting now, pretending, needing to be somebody else for a while.

"I'm out here at the Bel Air. Got the presidential cottage. I ran a recon mission by the pool. They put out a bunch a' easy targets. Got twenty-five-year-old skin laying around, half-naked, on chaise lounges. We could score wearing Nixon masks."

"It's just, my car's in the. shop. I'm kinda stuck out here," Ryan hedged.

"I'll send a car for you. Stay where you are. The Mick has a tank rolling." And Ryan was listening to a dial tone.

"Fuck." He was too screwed up to leave. Too full of anxiety, but Mickey hadn't given him a choice. Then he thought maybe what he needed was to fight through it . . . to be with somebody like Mickey who tasted life. Maybe it would take his mind off the mess his life had become. He remembered, Mickey could make stuff happen.

The Bel Air Hotel was a Hollywood aquarium where white swans drifted lazily in the landscaped lakes. Wealthy studio whitefish had private cottages and schooled out by the swimming pool waiting for their divorces to become final. Occasional agents prowled the restaurant, dorsals hissing, little pieces of insincerity stuck in their teeth.

New York Tony had driven Ryan there in a black stretch limo and led him to the presidential cottage which was up behind the pool.

Tony knocked on the door. . . . "Me," he said gently and, in a moment, the door opened and Ryan was looking at the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. She was in her late twenties with glossy black hair. Her eyes were green and iridescent, her olive skin like natural silk. She was in a tennis outfit and it showed off her exquisite tan legs. Ryan thought, What is Mickey doing cruising the pool with this goddess on hand?

"Ryan?" she seemed to know him.

"Yes . . ." his voice fight, stomach acid still flowing like sewer runoff.

"It's me, Lucinda. Mickey's sister. Don't tell me you've forgotten me completely?"

"Lucinda . . ." he finally said, his mind desperately grabbing at rungs on a memory ladder.

"Yeah. We met when I was just a kid. I can tell you this now." She smiled. "Back then I had a terrible crush on you."

He tried for a rakish grin and missed.

"Come in. Mickey's on the phone."

She led him into the antique-laden room. New York Tony stood by the door. Mickey was on the phone, his back to them. He was wearing a polka-dot shut and Bermuda
shorts, with sockless loafers.

"Okay, check that out and get back to me." He hung up the phone, turning, his round cherubic face changing gears completely as he broke into a grin.

"Hey, Ryan. . . . Sis turned out pretty good, no?" "She certainly did." Ryan was having trouble taking his eyes off her.

"She's on her summer break." Mickey put his arm around his little sister.

"You aren't still in college?" Ryan asked.

"I graduated from Sarah Lawrence and I'm doing my doctorate in psychology at UCLA."

"I couldn't get her to go to Harvard." Mickey grinned.

"After the damage you did to the family name, they'd have had me under twenty-four-hour surveillance," she joked.

"Hey, come on, I wasn't that bad . . . Was I that bad, Ryan?"

"You were awful." Ryan smiled, remembering a couple of lost weekends when they'd met occasionally in New York during their college years.

"Gotta go, got a tennis lesson at one. Good to see you, Ryan." She stopped in front of him, holding out her hand, looking into his eyes. . . . And then she was gone.

"Come on," Mickey said. "Let's get lunch. I made a reservation in the hotel dining room."

The maitre d' led them to the best table.

"Hey, Ryan, don't take this the wrong way, but are you okay?"

"Sure. Why?"

"You look fucked-up. You're not doing drugs, are ya?" "No. Come on. . . . You nuts?"

Mickey hadn't changed at all, Ryan thought. Always right to the point with no bullshit. He still had that force of personality that drew people to him.

"Lucinda is beautiful," he said, trying to change the subject.

"Yeah, she's a sweetheart. She counsels kids who can't get their belts through all the loops. Spends hours with them."

The maitre d' himself brought the menus and pulled out a pad to take their orders.

"Hey, Claude... . You 'member those vongole I had here two months ago? With the angel-hair . . . ?"

"Vividly, sir." Claude grinned. "We sent ten gallons to your mother, airmail."

"Can ya whip us up some a' that . . . for two? And the real dry chardonnay, the Acacia." Claude left, bowing out in reverse.

He had ordered for both of them as if what Ryan wanted didn't matter, and somehow it was okay.

"So, how's everything going with you?"

"Tearing up the field," Ryan lied.

"I know a few guys out here and the word I been gettin' is you been stepping on your rep." Mickey frowned. "I hear you're packing an attitude and when they see you coming, they drop the blinds. I'm thinking that doesn't sound like the old wide receiver, so I figured I'd look you up." He was smiling but his eyes weren't. "What's the play?"

"Since Matt died, nothing has worked quite right. I'll punch through it." Ryan remembered how Mickey had flown out when Matt died. He'd lived in the Bel Air guesthouse and handled everything for Ryan. He even picked out the clothes Matt was buried in.

The food came and Mickey ate savagely while Ryan picked at his plate.

"Look, I don't wanna get in your face, man, so if I'm outta line, tell me, but if you wanna change of venue, I maybe have something set up that could work for you. . . . Take you away for a while."