Lewis Cole: Primary Storm Part 2

"I don't see why not. What time is it again?"

"Two p.m. At the Tyler Conference Center."

I had my hands on her hips. "Will I see you?"

"Probably from a distance, Lewis. But I'd like to know you were there."

"Then I will be."

She touched my cheek. "Two o'clock. Don't be late."

"I won't. Maybe I'll see my Secret Service agent friend."

"Maybe you will. Maybe he'll show you his gun and everything."

"Sounds like something you'd like."

That got a big smile and she got into her BMW, started it right up, and then left the parking lot, and I got a toot-toot from the horn as she turned onto Atlantic Avenue, and that's how this day started, a day before I was to be arrested for attempted murder. About halfway down the driveway, there came another blare of a horn, and I turned, half hoping and half expecting to see that Annie had come back, perhaps having forgotten something, perhaps deciding that crawling back into bed with me and seeing what Turner Cla.s.sic Movies had to offer for the day on television sounded more appealing than a campaign rally, but no, I wasn't that lucky.

A blue Mercedes-Benz convertible had stopped at the parking lot, and a man came out, clad in a long gray winter coat, gray slacks, and wearing black leather gloves. He waved and I waved back. I stopped, putting my hands in my coat pocket, as the man quickly made his way down my driveway. Any other guy wearing those kind of dress winter shoes would have taken his time walking down the slippery driveway, but Felix Tinios isn't what one would call any other kind of guy. He came down to me, nimble as a mountain goat, and gently slapped me on the shoulder as he came up to me.

"Lewis, good to see you," he said.

"And the same. Did you give anybody a wave back there?"

That confused him. "From the parking lot? Why?"

"Dumb joke, that's all. The Lafayette House has seen a number of its guests lose radios and other stuff from parked cars over the past several weeks. Rumor has it they now have the lot under surveillance. "

"Then I would have dropped trou, if I knew that."

"A lovely sight to some, I'm sure. What brings you by?"

Felix said, "Was heading down to Boston and gave you a call. No answer on your end, so I thought I'd swing by and see what's up."

"I was seeing somebody off. Didn't hear the phone."

Felix grinned, c.o.c.ked his head. "The lovely and talented Annie Wynn?"

"The same."

"Good for you. C'mon, it's too cold out here. I need a quick chat."

"What for?"

"Need your advice, that's what."

I looked at the smooth-shaven face, the thick mat of black hair, the c.o.c.ky confidence in his brown and happy eyes. Felix was originally from the North End of Boston, and told people he didn't know that well that his occupation was security consultant, but I knew him well and I knew him better. I folded my arms and I said, "You feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"Felt like the Earth was spinning off its axis. Because I thought I heard you say you needed my advice."

Felix grabbed my upper arm with a firm grasp and said, "Come on. Maybe this will be a day full of surprises."

In my house I made us both a cup of tea, and though I should have been hungry, I wasn't. We sat at the kitchen counter and Felix had his coat off, revealing a black turtleneck sweater and the usual bulk of his shoulders. He clasped the hot mug with both of his hands and I said, "Advice. What in h.e.l.l kind of advice can I give you? Spelling? Grammar? How to get an agent?"

He looked hurt by my comments. "I'll have you know that when I was in seventh grade, at St. Mary's Academy, I won a rosary for a spelling bee."

"A rosary? Do you still have it?"

"Of course."

"And do you say your rosary?"

He lifted up the mug, smiled. "Every G.o.dd.a.m.n night. Look, here's the deal. I've got a job lined up for the next couple of weeks, and I want to make sure that it won't cause any difficulties with you and yours."

"What kind of job?"

He took a slurp. "Working for one of the presidential candidates."

"Which one?"

"Senator Nash Pomeroy. From our fair sister state to the south."

I took a sip from my own tea, grimaced. The nausea down there was perking right along. Two thoughts: I hoped I didn't have food poisoning, because it sure as h.e.l.l would mean Annie would have the same problem. And I sure as h.e.l.l hoped it wouldn't keep me from this afternoon's rally.

"I knew the senator was in trouble when he lost the Iowa caucuses, but now his campaign must be really collapsing."

"Why's that?"

I resisted an urge to burst out laughing, because Felix had such a serious look on his face. "My G.o.d, Felix, your background... I mean, no offense, but how many times have you been arrested?"

"No offense taken, and trust me, I don't particularly care about the number of arrests. It's the number of convictions that matter. And that number is quite, quite low. Just so you know."

"Maybe in your world arrests don't matter, Felix, but this is politics. Any hint of scandal with the campaign and... well, h.e.l.l, it can't matter to them, because you've said you've been hired."

"That I have."

"Doing what? Security? Driving around the candidate?"

"Nope." Another sip of tea. "Oppo man."

"What?"

"Oppo. Opposition research. You've heard of that, I'm sure."

"Sure. Digging up dirt on the other guys. Sounds beneath you, Felix."

"Maybe so, but it's good money ... and can I tell you a secret?"

"Sure."

He made a point of looking around, and again, I was going to laugh, but that look on his face... It was a different look, a hesitant one. "Here's my secret. Tell anybody and... well, I know you. You won't tell anyone. Thing is, Lewis, I don't know why, but this winter is slowing me down. Get up in the morning, the usual aches and pains I got, they don't disappear like they used to. Working out... the thought of starting up a cold car and driving out to the gym in the morning, when it's so G.o.dd.a.m.n dark... I don't know, maybe I'm getting old. More often than not, I stay home instead."

I tried to keep my voice innocent. "Getting old is the secret I should be keeping?"

"No," he said, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng at me. "Slowing down is the secret you should be keeping. And a lawyer acquaintance of mine, we were talking a couple of weeks ago, said that the Pomeroy campaign needed some help. Wondered if I could do it, and he mentioned the money, and it's good money for work that mostly involves talking. This winter, talking I can handle. The other stuff... well, there's always spring."

"Yeah, you can count on that. So. What's the advice you're seeking?"

He put the mug down on the counter. "Okay. Maybe it isn't advice. Maybe it's just rea.s.surance. I like Annie. I like you and Annie together. It's a good thing, something good you've needed for a while. But I don't want her p.i.s.sed at me --- and through me, you --- because she's working for the Hale campaign and I'm working for the Pomeroy campaign."

I nodded. "A sweet att.i.tude, but I don't think it'll make a difference... except, well, there's two other candidates besides Hale and Pomeroy. Congressman Wallace and General Grayson. Who will you be doing the opposition research on? If it's Wallace or Grayson, I doubt she'd care. If it's Hale, she might be p.i.s.sed no matter what I say."

That made Felix smile again. "I'm doing oppo research on Senator Pomeroy."

"Hold on. The campaign that's hiring you, they want you to dig dirt up on their own guy?"

"Sure," he said.

Despite my nausea, I had to smile. "Come on, you've got to tell me more. It doesn't make sense."

"On the contrary, it makes a lot of sense. n.o.body --- especially a guy running for president ---wants to come forward and expose his warts and imperfections. They hide, they shade, they ignore. Just ask what happened to McGovern back in 1972 when he went shopping for a vice presidential candidate, and his first selection turned out to be a guy who went through electroshock therapy treatment for depression. And people who back candidates --- the guys with money, the guys with power --- they don't want surprises. When you're this close to getting nominated for the most powerful office on the planet, they want to make sure everything is vetted. They don't want something to blow up in their faces at the very last minute, ensuring that their investment has gone for nothing. That's what I'll be doing, Working as if I were one of Pomeroy's opponents, instead of coming from his own campaign."

"You've been reading up on political theory?"

"Theories I learned came from the streets, my friend." He finished off his tea and said, "So. We okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine. Go ahead and do your oppo research. And by the by, here's one bit of advice."

"All right. I'm in a good mood, I'll take it."

I raised my tea mug in his honor. "Make sure you get paid in advance, or at least on a regular basis. In politics, bills sometimes get lost, sometimes get ignored, and more often than not, never get paid when the campaign is over. There's lots of horror stories about car rental agencies and photocopying centers and other small businesses still looking to get their bills paid years later. Make sure you get paid first, Felix."

"Thanks for looking out for me."

"Nice to be on the other end for a change."

Felix declined my offer to walk him back up to his car, which pleased me, because by the time he left my home, I wasn't feeling so hot. My face felt warm and the tea seemed to slosh around in my stomach, and even though I had skipped breakfast and didn't feel like lunch, I still wasn't hungry at all. Instead I was achy and I took a couple of aspirin, chased then down with a swallow of orange juice, and went back to the living room. I started up the fire from last night and stretched out on the couch, a thin comforter across my legs. I picked up a copy of Smithsonian magazine and started to read, and when my eyes felt thick, I decided to rest them.

For only a while, I thought. For only a while. I slowly came to later, feeling groggy, feeling out of place. When I saw the living room ceiling, I realized what had happened and sat up, and then held on to the couch cus.h.i.+ons for support. My head was spinning and then it calmed down. Well.

I stood up, checked the time. It was 1:40 P.M.

The campaign rally for Senator Hale was at two. If I was lucky, it would be a fifteen-minute drive to the Tyler Conference Center and I wouldn't be late. If I was lucky. It felt like a mighty big hope. I coughed, headed out to the closet to get my coat. I supposed I should have stayed home, but I promised Annie that I'd be there, and my plan was to drive out to the rally, slide in and stand in the rear, applaud at the proper places, wave to Annie if possible, and get home and get to bed.

Some plan. The Tyler Conference Center is on the west side of Tyler, almost right up to the border with Exonia, home to Phillips Exonia Academy. It's a small hotel with conference rooms, within a five minute drive from Interstate 95, and it serves as a convenient meeting place for businesspeople out of Porter and Boston and Nashua who need to meet without fighting a lot of traffic jams and traffic lights.

But the fight seemed to be here today. Once I got within a half mile of the center, traffic had slowed, b.u.mper to b.u.mper, and I felt like I was suddenly transported into downtown Boston on a Monday-morning commute. I couldn't remember the last time I had been stuck in traffic in Tyler, except during the middle of summer at the beach. But not at this end of town. There were plowed mounds of snow on each side of the road, and I checked the dashboard clock and saw I had exactly five minutes to go before the official start of the campaign rally.

Some cars in front of me were pulling off to the side, and I decided to give up, too. I managed to squeeze into a spot and got out, locking the Explorer behind me. The cloud cover was still there, there was a sharp bite to the air, and my throat and chest hurt. Just slide in and slide out, I thought. Enough to make an appearance, and then time to go home. And then let my bed and sleep work their magic.

I slogged my way to the conference center, a four-story hotel with a low-slung building off to the right, a banner saying WELCOME SENATOR JACKSON HALE AND SUPPORTERS flapping in the breeze above the main entrance.

And the supporters were there. Scores of them. The parking lot was full of people holding up campaign signs, most of them for Senator Hale, but there were a few brave others working for his three opponents. These folks were getting jeered at by some Hale supporters, but in a relatively good-natured way. Three large buses were by the rear entrance of the building, diesel engines grumbling, Senator Hale signs hanging off their sides. I moved through the crowds, working my way to the entrance, and I stopped. The crowd was just too d.a.m.n thick. Some people were chanting, "Go, Hale, go! Go, Hale, go! Go, Hale, go!" Their voices were loud in the cold air. I moved away from the crowds by the entrance, about ready to give up, when there was a tug at my arm.

"Looking for something, Mr. Cole?"

I turned, smiled. The voice and face were a welcome sight. It was a woman about my age from the Tyler Police Department, wearing green uniform pants, a knee-length tan winter coat with sergeant's stripes on the sleeves, and the typical officer's cap, which looked very out of place upon her head.

"Detective Sergeant Diane Woods," I said, raising my voice.

"How very nice to see you."

"The same."

"Out of uniform today?" I asked, making a sly joke, since I hardly ever saw her in her official dress uniform.

"In uniform, on detail, making a nice piece of pay per hour. What's up?"

"Trying to get into the rally and not having much success." She smiled. "Didn't know you had such a burning interest in politics."

"Well... "

The smile remained. "Perhaps you have a burning interest in someone involved in politics."

"Perhaps," I replied. "But right now, I have a burning interest in getting inside to the rally. But that crowd isn't moving."

"That's right. But why go through the main entrance?"

"Excuse me?"

She reached up and gently tapped me on the cheek with a gloved hand. "Silly man. Lovemaking on a regular schedule is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up your mind. You're obviously not used to all that attention and it's scrambling your thinking process."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you're a magazine columnist. You have a press ID issued by the New Hamps.h.i.+re Department of Safety. Go through the press entrance."

"Oh."

"Come with me."

I followed Diane as she maneuvered her way through the crowd and went to a side door that was offset by a set of orange traffic cones and yellow tape. There was an older, beefy man with a red beard at the door, holding a clipboard, and when I turned to say thanks to Diane, she was gone. From my wallet I took out my press identification badge, which has my vital stats and a not-so-bad photo of me taken a couple of years ago by the same people in the state who do driver's license photos.

The bearded man, who had the nervous energy of being part of a process that might make his boss the most powerful man in the world, looked at my identification and me and then the list. For just a moment, there seemed to be a flash of understanding on his face, but I was mistaken. He shook his head.

"You're not on the list."