The Goliath Run, page 3
Sam, watching the approaching Walter, shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I can’t talk to her. What the hell am I going to talk to a ten-year-old about? She talks to her mother, when she’s around. She talks to the nanny. Maybe when she’s twenty, she and I can have a conversation. What were you saying?”
“The draft.”
Sam took a drink of scotch and reached for a handful of nuts before answering. “It’s still not where it needs to be in terms of his philosophy.”
“You mean his political philosophy?”
“I don’t know that we can differentiate between how he felt personally and politically,” Sam said. “One leaches into the other. I’ll say it again—Jackson was the first president to understand Manifest Destiny. He was the first to know that it required ruthlessness, a take-no-prisoners, fuck-the-consequences attitude. And that’s not coming through in my book. All I’m seeing is some backwoods cracker who fought a few Indians and got elected president. This needs to be a political book, how it relates to what’s happening today. Do you think that any of these pissants on the left today would do what Andrew Jackson did? Do you see them booting the Cherokees out of the Carolinas? Christ, they’d be down there weaving baskets alongside them.”
“Nicole likes this draft,” Michael said tentatively.
“Nicole?”
“Your editor,” Michael reminded him.
Sam had a drink and set the glass down. “Nicole couldn’t edit a fucking grocery list.” He opened some pistachios, allowing the hulls to fall on the table. “The books until now have echoed my political viewpoints. The Lincoln book, the Jefferson book, all of them. This one is going to be no different. I wouldn’t do this otherwise. I wouldn’t put my name on the dust jacket otherwise. You’ve been with me from the start and you know that.”
Michael drank more wine, glancing at the tablet as he did. Sam could see he had an urge to turn it on, to go in to see what he had missed on Twitter or Facebook in the last five minutes. He was like a fucking teenager.
“How do we connect him somehow to Manifest Destiny? The term never existed until after he left office.”
“The idea existed!” Sam exploded. “Because of Jackson. Why don’t you get that? You and that dim-bulb Nicole? When he crushed the Seminoles in Florida, you don’t think that was Manifest Destiny? When he wiped out the Creeks? He didn’t need the fucking term.”
Michael looked around the bar. Several people were watching, drawn by Sam’s outburst. They didn’t pay a lot of attention, though, or display any alarm; presumably most of them would have recognized him.
“I’ll take another pass at it,” Michael said.
“Do that.”
“Do you want to talk to Nicole about this?”
“Why would I want to talk to Nicole?”
“See if she’s on board?”
“Nicole has been acknowledged as editor of my last five books, all of which made it to the bestseller list,” Sam said. “Her contributions to those books have been virtually non-existent yet she’s received praise for them. Trust me, Nicole’s on board. I can call her up and tell her to kiss my ass if that makes you feel better.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“That would not make me feel better.”
Sam’s driver dropped him off as the black limo was pulling up to the brownstone. Vanessa got out and started up the walkway.
“Hey kid,” Sam said.
“Hey.” She kept walking, up the steps and into the house.
Sam slapped the rear fender of the limo as it started to pull away, stopping it. Sam walked around the car as the driver, Sean, powered the window down.
“Late again, are we?” Sam asked.
“The car was in for brakes,” Sean said. “I told the guys—hey I need it by three-thirty at the latest. These guys don’t listen. What do they care?”
“Brakes. Last time it was tires.”
“Gotta keep it up,” Sean said. “The agency—they’re safety first over there. Good thing for the customer if you ask me.”
“I am asking you.” Sam knelt down, closer to Sean’s level. “Last driver we had wasn’t late once in two years. So what’s your problem, pal? You a boozer, crackhead, unable to tell time, what is it?”
“No sir,” Sean said. “None of those.”
“I think I can smell beer on your breath, son,” Sam said. “Under the Tic Tacs. Were you wetting your whistle this afternoon?”
“No sir. Like I said, the brakes were getting done. I can give you the number of the garage if you want. Hopefully they’d tell the truth.”
“It’s Sean, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You born here?”
“Here?”
“In this country? Were you born here?”
“Yeah, I was born here.”
“But your people are Irish,” Sam said and he didn’t wait for a reply. “So you’ve got alcoholism in your family. Right?”
“I wouldn’t say that. No sir.”
Sam straightened. “You’ve got the simplest job in the world. Just do it.”
SIX
Biblical inferences aside, Sunday was not a day of rest, not on a produce farm in the middle of harvest season. The next day was the farmers market in Carsonville, and there were tomatoes and squash and corn to pick for that. There was also cultivating to do, as the recent rain had sprouted weeds, and product pricing and any number of little repair jobs that were part of the bargain when running a farm with aged equipment. Fortunately, working the Sabbath was not an issue, either for the agnostic Jo or for Henry, who worshipped only at the altar of Willie Nelson.
It was late in the afternoon when Karl arrived, driving his huge diesel-powered Dodge pickup, still wearing his suit from church earlier that day. Apparently, he hadn’t gone home after the service but he had—by his breath—gone someplace where rye whiskey was being poured.
Henry was changing the oil in the seven-ton GMC they used to transport produce to the various markets in the area, while Jo was loading the back of the truck, using a wheeled dolly to run up the ramp. She had twenty hampers of red russet potatoes ready for sale and had spent the past hour washing them in the large water trough in the shed before transferring them into baskets.
“You ever hear of taking it easy for a day?” Karl asked as he got out of the Dodge. He hadn’t noticed Henry beneath the truck.
Jo came down the ramp and passed close enough to smell the booze on him. “I was off just yesterday.”
“Off all day and couldn’t find time to return my calls?” he asked.
She’d known that was coming when he’d pulled into the driveway. He’d been leaving messages for three weeks now, ever since she had relented and gone to dinner with him on a Saturday night. She’d gone because she’d been bored and had a feeling that she needed to socialize and because he was a good-looking guy, kind of sexy in a lumbering manner, and because she realized it had been a year or more since she’d actually had dinner in a restaurant. However, the meal had been lousy and she’d discovered that she and Karl had philosophical differences significant enough that she couldn’t see herself dating him or going to bed with him, even for purely recreational reasons. Unfortunately, he hadn’t come to the same conclusion. In fact, he had managed—somewhere between the overcooked chicken and the bland apple cobbler—to develop a crush on her, one that had only grown as Jo had ignored his advances.
“I was out of state,” she said now.
“Really? Doing what?” There was a hint of jealousy in his tone.
None of your fucking business, Jo thought. “Birthday party for my goddaughter.”
“You could’ve taken me. I love kids.”
Jo had no response for that, so she went into the shed for more potatoes. He followed, as she knew he would while hoping he wouldn’t.
“Careful,” she said. “You’ll get your Sunday suit dirty. Church run a little late this morning, did it?”
“I stopped by Wayne and Shirley’s for a bit. I’m not afraid of getting dirty, Jo. I grew up on a farm. How about I help with your loading and then we can go for a bite somewhere?”
“I have too much to do, Karl.” She watched the disappointment on his face. “You realize you shouldn’t be driving, right?”
“Why the hell not?”
“I’m thinking you and Wayne cracked a seal.”
“I can drive,” he said. “That what you’re worried about?”
“I’m not particularly worried about anything. But how would you get those millions of bushels of soybeans to market if you lost your license?”
“I’d call you,” he said smiling. “You can drive a truck.”
“Not your truck.”
She went past him again, pushing the cart up and into the van.
“Millions of bushels,” he said then, catching on finally. “Is that why you don’t return my calls—because you don’t like how I farm?”
Jo was of a mind to tell him the truth, thinking it would be the fastest way to get rid of him. But she wasn’t interested in hurting him. He was just a big clumsy doofus who happened to farm a couple thousand acres he’d been handed by his father. He was using modern methods and making a lot of money in the process. Jo was of the opinion that his way was the wrong way but she wouldn’t try to convince him of it. He wouldn’t listen if she did.
“When I say I’m busy, I mean it,” she said instead. “You know it’s just Henry and me here.”
Karl, touchy under the booze and the rejection, was growing irritable. “Where is the old pothead anyway, if you guys are so busy?”
“Under the truck, you fucking Kraut,” Henry barked.
Jo tried not to laugh. At that point, Karl decided to depart the field. As he was driving away, Henry slid out from beneath the engine, a dripping oil filter in his hand. He watched the diesel pickup disappearing down the county road.
“You shouldn’t encourage him.”
“For Chrissakes,” Jo said and went back to work.
SEVEN
Sam had a drink as he considered what he’d just heard. They were sitting at a corner table in the clubhouse, having just come in off the course. It was late afternoon and the PGA stop was on the big screen against the far wall.
“And who told you this?”
“Ann McCoy,” Burt replied. He was looking at the menu.
“She told you he was supporting Welles?”
“According to her, he’s introducing him at an event this week.”
“Why would he back Welles?” Sam asked.
Burt put the menu aside and took a drink of rye. “You’re going to have to ask him that. He’s out on the course.”
“I will ask him.”
“Don’t say you heard it from me,” Burt said.
When Paul Sinclair came in a half hour later, Sam called him over and bought him a beer.
“How was your game?” Sam asked.
“The front was bad,” Paul said. “The back was okay.”
“What did you shoot?”
“Eighty-five. You?”
“Seventy-seven.” Sam saw Burt’s eyes widen at the lie but Sam ignored him, leaning forward for the rock glass of liquor. “You didn’t happen to see Ben Rourke out on the course?”
Paul shook his head slightly, not happy with the question, it seemed.
“But you obviously know Ben,” Sam said. “You both have been members here forever. You know each other.”
Paul nodded.
Sam settled back, his drink in both hands. “Burt here tells me you’re supporting this yahoo Welles for Congress.”
Burt shook his head, pissed at the betrayal. Sam smiled at him. Don’t roll your fucking eyes at my score.
“I am supporting him,” Paul said. He’d ordered a light beer and now he took a drink. His hand shook slightly as he raised the glass. He looked thinner than Sam remembered. Something frail about him these days. “But I don’t consider him a yahoo.”
“Do you consider him a liberal?”
“I consider him a capable man, Sam. I’m not interested in labels. That’s more your game.”
Sam sat looking at the older man for a moment, his head cocked. “Why would you suddenly decide to back a young, black, liberal candidate who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground? You’ve been a die-hard party man all your life.”
“Your research is faulty, Sam. I was a registered Democrat in my twenties.”
“Sure. But then you smartened up.” Sam smiled at Burt before turning back to Paul. “And now you’re dumbing down. But you’re not a stupid person, Paul. Why are you pretending to be?”
Paul bristled. “Anybody who disagrees with you qualifies as a stupid person, Sam. Isn’t that right? If we all just acquiesced to your greater intellectual capacities, the world would be a better place. Isn’t that how it is?”
“Pretty much,” Sam said. “That doesn’t explain why you’d endorse this—whatever the hell he is. Community organizer—isn’t that what they call them? That’s what they called the one from Chicago and he became president. Took us eight long years to send him packing.”
“The two-term limit sent him packing.”
“Whatever did it, he’s gone. And now you’re backing another one.”
“Careful,” Paul said. “Is that what this is about?”
“This is about you switching sides, Paul,” Sam told him. “Tell you the truth, I’m just interested in this on a human nature scale. Why are you doing this? You feeling guilty about being old and rich, like Buffett?”
“I’m not as rich as Buffett,” Paul said. “Even you are not as rich as Buffett. And I’m not particularly guilty about anything. I pay my taxes, I give to charity. I don’t even lie about my golf score.”
“You’re a fucking saint,” Sam said.
“And I don’t curse for shock value,” Paul added.
“What are you going to say to Ben Rourke when you see him?” Sam asked. “He could walk in here any minute. How long have you known Ben—thirty years? How you going to tell him you’re backing his opponent? Or do you and Ben have a problem?” Sam hesitated, watching Paul. “Sonofabitch, that’s it. You and Ben have a problem.”
Paul stood up. “I would thank you for the drink but that might suggest that I enjoyed it.”
Sam sat there drinking for a couple hours, thinking that Ben Rourke might come in. He played a round most Sundays when he wasn’t down in Washington and the fact was that he wasn’t in Washington all that much these days. After a half-dozen single malts, Sam gave up. However, as he walked out of the clubhouse heading for the parking lot, he spotted the Congressman himself on the putting green, standing over some alignment gizmo with arrows pointed toward the target hole. Ben was wearing bright red pants and a black Callaway shirt. His broad face was ruddy, the face of a man who spent time outdoors. Or drank a lot.
“That thing will be tucked away in the corner of your garage in a week,” Sam said as he approached.
Ben smiled without looking up. “With all the others.” He putted the ball and missed then glanced at Sam. “One of these days I’ll put it all in a yard sale. Everything must go.”
Sam was drunk enough to dispense with the small talk. “What’s going on with Sinclair?”
“What do you mean?” Another stroke, another miss.
“He’s supporting this Welles kid.”
“So I hear.” Ben missed again and gave up.
“Do you know why?”
Ben regarded the face of his putter a moment, as if it might be the source of his woes. “Officially I have no idea why Paul Sinclair would turn on me. But off the record, between you and me, Sam?”
“Yeah.”
Ben shook his head. “Well, shit. Helen and I had a little thing once, twenty odd years ago. And I mean little. We fucked in their pool a couple of times when Paul was gone on business. She thought there was more to it than that. Women, right? I think she saw herself down in Washington, rubbing shoulders. She was pretty upset when I told her that wasn’t happening. But she got over it.”
“And now Paul finds out.”
“That’s it.”
“How?”
“How do you think? She told him. She went into rehab, you knew that?”
“No. I don’t know the woman. I’ve seen her around here a few times, that’s all. She always looks like she has a stick up her ass.”
“She’s fun in a swimming pool,” Ben said. “Or was anyway. But now she’s in AA and you know how they got that thing about making amends.”
“She spills to Paul and he decides he’s going to help get you voted out of office.”
“Apparently so.” Ben tossed a ball onto the green and addressed it, ready to try again. “He could just wait. One more term and I’m packing it in anyway. Why wouldn’t he just wait?”
“Because there’s no revenge in waiting,” Sam said.
“True.” Ben drained the putt, dead center.
“There you go,” Sam told him. “You worried about Welles?”
“Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have been. Things have changed though. The district is thirty-eight per cent minority now. Black and Hispanic. Those people are voting these days.” He gestured toward the clubhouse, the bastion of rich white folks. “Whereas sometimes these people forget to. I’d like one more term, Sam. Take my pension and ride off into the sunset.”
“You’ll be okay,” Sam told him. “As long as you don’t figure on making any money playing golf.”
EIGHT
There were just three of them in the boardroom downtown, the headquarters of the American Broadcast Network. Neil Nesmith was standing by an old-fashioned white board, on which he’d just written a half-dozen names in red marker. Nesmith in his wrinkled dress pants and short-sleeved shirt, his lank brown hair worn long and looking somewhat greasy, as if he washed it once a week. Jack McGuire was at the table, leaning back in his chair, one hand on the cup of coffee resting on his stomach. He’d finally given up on the comb-over a couple of years ago and now his hair, what was left of it, was cropped close. Bobby Holmes stood by the windows, looking down onto West Fifth forty floors below. Traffic was stopped dead, not an unusual occurrence. Bobby was waiting for Jack to take the lead. In fact, Bobby had been waiting on Jack, in a more general sense, for a few years now. But Jack was hanging in; he’d be eighty in December.
