even come by tonight, if I can find a babysitter for my granddaughter.”
“Okay. Let me know, soon. I think . . . this is all very troubling.”
—
LIKELY GOT OFF THE PHONE and felt himself creeping around the store, waiting for a hand on the shoulder. Nothing happened. He bought a roll of Bounty paper towels and a pack of paper plates and slunk out the doors, heading back home.
Checked around the parking lot for watching faces; scanned the rearview mirror in the car. At home, walked from window to window . . . Nothing. That didn’t mean they weren’t out there.
EIGHT
T he Hotel Blackhawk was an older building in downtown Davenport—excellent name for a city, Lucas thought as he parked the truck—with a political bustle going on in the streets around it, cars and buses jamming things up, the sound of a band somewhere nearby, a police siren off in the deepening twilight. He’d come up along the Mississippi, and could still feel the presence of the river as he walked across Third Street to the hotel.
He’d called Norm Clay on the way north and Clay said that a woman named Sally Rodriguez would be waiting for him in the lobby with a campaign badge. “She’s short, brunette, gorgeous, and unavailable,” Clay said.
“I’ve heard rumors of a thing called campaign sex, which doesn’t count,” Lucas said.
“So have I, but I don’t get any,” Clay said. “Anyway, I told her to look for the big guy in an expensive suit with a black eye. Call her five minutes before you get here. She’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Lucas did that and found Rodriguez sitting in the lobby, talking on a cell phone: she held a hand up to him and pointed at the chairnext to hers. Lucas sat and Rodriguez said into the phone, “. . . can tell Mary Lou that she can go fuck herself, that Mike’s going to win the election and the presidency and the next time she’ll get an interview is in the late 2040s. I’m going now.”
She clicked off without saying good-bye and smiled at Lucas and said, “Straightening out a TV station’s priorities.” She was as good-looking as advertised, wore a deep-red dress with matching shoes, lipstick, and nails.
“Does it do any good?” Lucas asked.
“Oh, yeah. TV people love it when politicians treat them like they’re important and respected. I’d told them that we’d give them an exclusive five minutes with Mike, but she didn’t want to talk about the gun issue, because it had been done to death. What’s the first question they asked? ‘Will you require gun registration if you’re elected?’ I catch a raft of shit from Mike, and now the producer catches a raft of shit from me.”
As she spoke, she was digging into a leather bag and produced a laminated card with a neck loop that said, at the top, “The Mike Campaign, 2016,” and at the bottom, in small green letters, “All Venues,” with a smiling shot of Bowden in between.
“Norm told me to give you this and I’ll ask you not to abuse it—it gets you into everything and there aren’t many like it. Don’t loan it to anyone.”
“I’ll use it carefully,” Lucas said. “And probably not much.”
“Good,” she said. Her phone rang and she looked at it and said, “I’ve got to take this. Mike’s up in the main ballroom right now . . .”
“Gotcha,” Lucas said. He held up a hand to say good-bye as she clicked on the new call, walked over to the main desk, gotdirections to the ballroom. On the way, he hung the laminated card around his neck, spotted one of Bowden’s security guys, and went that way, to introduce himself.
“Norm told us about you,” the guy said. He grinned, gestured at Lucas’s black eye, and said, “Looks like you walked into a door.”
“Yeah. Door. Lots of doors around. I want to look at the crowd, see how you do things. I’d like to talk to your other guys, too.”
“You go on. I’ll call Dan Jubek, he’s the boss, and tell him you’re coming. He’ll be standing at
“Okay. Let me know, soon. I think . . . this is all very troubling.”
—
LIKELY GOT OFF THE PHONE and felt himself creeping around the store, waiting for a hand on the shoulder. Nothing happened. He bought a roll of Bounty paper towels and a pack of paper plates and slunk out the doors, heading back home.
Checked around the parking lot for watching faces; scanned the rearview mirror in the car. At home, walked from window to window . . . Nothing. That didn’t mean they weren’t out there.
EIGHT
T he Hotel Blackhawk was an older building in downtown Davenport—excellent name for a city, Lucas thought as he parked the truck—with a political bustle going on in the streets around it, cars and buses jamming things up, the sound of a band somewhere nearby, a police siren off in the deepening twilight. He’d come up along the Mississippi, and could still feel the presence of the river as he walked across Third Street to the hotel.
He’d called Norm Clay on the way north and Clay said that a woman named Sally Rodriguez would be waiting for him in the lobby with a campaign badge. “She’s short, brunette, gorgeous, and unavailable,” Clay said.
“I’ve heard rumors of a thing called campaign sex, which doesn’t count,” Lucas said.
“So have I, but I don’t get any,” Clay said. “Anyway, I told her to look for the big guy in an expensive suit with a black eye. Call her five minutes before you get here. She’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Lucas did that and found Rodriguez sitting in the lobby, talking on a cell phone: she held a hand up to him and pointed at the chairnext to hers. Lucas sat and Rodriguez said into the phone, “. . . can tell Mary Lou that she can go fuck herself, that Mike’s going to win the election and the presidency and the next time she’ll get an interview is in the late 2040s. I’m going now.”
She clicked off without saying good-bye and smiled at Lucas and said, “Straightening out a TV station’s priorities.” She was as good-looking as advertised, wore a deep-red dress with matching shoes, lipstick, and nails.
“Does it do any good?” Lucas asked.
“Oh, yeah. TV people love it when politicians treat them like they’re important and respected. I’d told them that we’d give them an exclusive five minutes with Mike, but she didn’t want to talk about the gun issue, because it had been done to death. What’s the first question they asked? ‘Will you require gun registration if you’re elected?’ I catch a raft of shit from Mike, and now the producer catches a raft of shit from me.”
As she spoke, she was digging into a leather bag and produced a laminated card with a neck loop that said, at the top, “The Mike Campaign, 2016,” and at the bottom, in small green letters, “All Venues,” with a smiling shot of Bowden in between.
“Norm told me to give you this and I’ll ask you not to abuse it—it gets you into everything and there aren’t many like it. Don’t loan it to anyone.”
“I’ll use it carefully,” Lucas said. “And probably not much.”
“Good,” she said. Her phone rang and she looked at it and said, “I’ve got to take this. Mike’s up in the main ballroom right now . . .”
“Gotcha,” Lucas said. He held up a hand to say good-bye as she clicked on the new call, walked over to the main desk, gotdirections to the ballroom. On the way, he hung the laminated card around his neck, spotted one of Bowden’s security guys, and went that way, to introduce himself.
“Norm told us about you,” the guy said. He grinned, gestured at Lucas’s black eye, and said, “Looks like you walked into a door.”
“Yeah. Door. Lots of doors around. I want to look at the crowd, see how you do things. I’d like to talk to your other guys, too.”
“You go on. I’ll call Dan Jubek, he’s the boss, and tell him you’re coming. He’ll be standing at
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