night, I was dubious. But when I saw him on TV, I had to agree. The Shmuck had done himself proud. I guess he was feeling more confident that my investigation was bearing fruit and he wouldn't go down for the murder. His confidence showed.
"I cannot begin to tell you how thankful I am," he pronounced, looking grave but forceful, "that my friend Jacob Burns and his family have not been hurt. I would hate to see Jacob's two young boys suffer because of their dad's heroic efforts to save me from this malicious, politically motivated accusation of murder.
"I hope that tonight's terrible near-tragedy will convince the police of what I've been saying all along: I am an innocent man. And I hope the voters of our 22nd District will understand exactly what's going on here. The powers that be want to wreck my campaign. So they're destroying my reputation and threatening me with life in prison. I ask you: is this the kind of behavior you want to condone in this great democracy of ours? If you believe in our country, in truth, in justice, then please remember your cherished beliefs come Election Day."
Will looked good, better than I'd seen him since the campaign began. His hair was combed for once, and the camera angle made his proboscis a little less imposing than usual. He sounded good, too. It was a powerful speech.
Andrea and I looked at each other, and we were both thinking the same thing. Was it possible?
Was it possible that my old college buddy, liberal, Jewish, Democratic Shmuckler that he was, would actually get elected to the United States Congress?
8
I tossed and turned all night long, dreaming about faceless dark figures and large black guns. Every time I woke up and heard a car slink along in the early a.m. darkness, I wondered if it was the shooter coming back for another try.
On the other hand, the kids must have been really knocked out. Derek Jeter didn't walk in his sleep, or if he did, we didn't find out about it. And Bernie Williams didn't pee in his bed, either. We would definitely have found out about that .
The boys slept until seven-thirty, which is late for them. Then they came into our bed and cuddled. Happily it was Saturday, so no one had to rush off anywhere. Andrea read the boys two chapters of Greatest World Series Thrillers, and I was reading them yet another chapter—they're insatiable—when the phone rang. Probably some early-bird-gets-the-worm buzzard.
I grabbed the phone. "Yeah," I growled.
"This is Jeremy."
Huh? "Jeremy who?"
"Jeremy Wartheimer."
"Oh, right. How you doing?" And why are you calling me before eight a.m. on a Saturday, I wanted to ask, but didn't. No sense in alienating Andrea's colleagues. At least, not until she got tenure.
"I was calling to ask if you've read my screenplay yet."
Talk about pushy. "No, but I'm looking forward to it."
Actually, of course, I'd thrown his screenplay away, but there was no way I could tell him that. Maybe the next time he called, I'd simply pretend to have read it already. I could spew forth all the inanities that Hollywood producers spew when they're pretending to have read something, like: "Interesting work... A lot of good stuff in it… Reminds me of The Godfather..."
"So when do you think you'll read it?" Jeremy pressed.
I had to fight not to blow up at him. "Hey, cut me some slack. If you saw the TV news last night, then you know I've been kind of busy."
"I never watch TV. When you read my screenplay, you'll understand that I consider television an imperialist tool of the ruling classes."
What a turdball. My kids were wriggling around on the bed, impatient for me to get back to their book. "I have to get off the phone now. I'll read your screenplay as soon as I can—"
"Bullshit. You're not gonna read it."
"Sure, I will."
"No, you won't. I saw you throw it in the garbage in McCracken Hall."
Oh, God. "Listen, Jeremy, I'm—I'm sorry," I stuttered. "It's just I'm under a lot of pressure right now, and, um, look, why don't
"I cannot begin to tell you how thankful I am," he pronounced, looking grave but forceful, "that my friend Jacob Burns and his family have not been hurt. I would hate to see Jacob's two young boys suffer because of their dad's heroic efforts to save me from this malicious, politically motivated accusation of murder.
"I hope that tonight's terrible near-tragedy will convince the police of what I've been saying all along: I am an innocent man. And I hope the voters of our 22nd District will understand exactly what's going on here. The powers that be want to wreck my campaign. So they're destroying my reputation and threatening me with life in prison. I ask you: is this the kind of behavior you want to condone in this great democracy of ours? If you believe in our country, in truth, in justice, then please remember your cherished beliefs come Election Day."
Will looked good, better than I'd seen him since the campaign began. His hair was combed for once, and the camera angle made his proboscis a little less imposing than usual. He sounded good, too. It was a powerful speech.
Andrea and I looked at each other, and we were both thinking the same thing. Was it possible?
Was it possible that my old college buddy, liberal, Jewish, Democratic Shmuckler that he was, would actually get elected to the United States Congress?
8
I tossed and turned all night long, dreaming about faceless dark figures and large black guns. Every time I woke up and heard a car slink along in the early a.m. darkness, I wondered if it was the shooter coming back for another try.
On the other hand, the kids must have been really knocked out. Derek Jeter didn't walk in his sleep, or if he did, we didn't find out about it. And Bernie Williams didn't pee in his bed, either. We would definitely have found out about that .
The boys slept until seven-thirty, which is late for them. Then they came into our bed and cuddled. Happily it was Saturday, so no one had to rush off anywhere. Andrea read the boys two chapters of Greatest World Series Thrillers, and I was reading them yet another chapter—they're insatiable—when the phone rang. Probably some early-bird-gets-the-worm buzzard.
I grabbed the phone. "Yeah," I growled.
"This is Jeremy."
Huh? "Jeremy who?"
"Jeremy Wartheimer."
"Oh, right. How you doing?" And why are you calling me before eight a.m. on a Saturday, I wanted to ask, but didn't. No sense in alienating Andrea's colleagues. At least, not until she got tenure.
"I was calling to ask if you've read my screenplay yet."
Talk about pushy. "No, but I'm looking forward to it."
Actually, of course, I'd thrown his screenplay away, but there was no way I could tell him that. Maybe the next time he called, I'd simply pretend to have read it already. I could spew forth all the inanities that Hollywood producers spew when they're pretending to have read something, like: "Interesting work... A lot of good stuff in it… Reminds me of The Godfather..."
"So when do you think you'll read it?" Jeremy pressed.
I had to fight not to blow up at him. "Hey, cut me some slack. If you saw the TV news last night, then you know I've been kind of busy."
"I never watch TV. When you read my screenplay, you'll understand that I consider television an imperialist tool of the ruling classes."
What a turdball. My kids were wriggling around on the bed, impatient for me to get back to their book. "I have to get off the phone now. I'll read your screenplay as soon as I can—"
"Bullshit. You're not gonna read it."
"Sure, I will."
"No, you won't. I saw you throw it in the garbage in McCracken Hall."
Oh, God. "Listen, Jeremy, I'm—I'm sorry," I stuttered. "It's just I'm under a lot of pressure right now, and, um, look, why don't
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