years.
“Raines put it all together. This whole racetrack thing.”
“Why?”
“You?ll have to ask him that,” said Dutch.
“This Raines a stand-up guy?”
“I couldn?t say different. What I hear, old Harry?s gonna be governor one of these days.”
“You mean because of the racetrack?”
“I guess that?s part of it.”
“What?s the rest of it?” I asked.
“It?s a long story,” he said. “Worth a dinner.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“About whether Harry Raines is going to be governor or not?” “I think the sun rises in the east and
sets in the west,” he said. And that was the end of that.
LEADBETTER’S LEGACY
The rain had turned into a driving storm by the time we got to Dutch Morehead?s war room, which
was in a small, rundown shopping center in the suburbs, a mile or two from the center of town.
Lightning etched in purple monochromes a shabby, flat, one-story building that had once been a
supermarket. Its plate-glass windows were boarded over and the entire building was painted flat
black.
“Looks like Gestapo headquarters,” I said.
“Psychological,” Dutch grunted.
A less than imposing sign beside the entrance announced that it was the SPECIAL
OPERATIONS BRANCH. Below it, even less imposing letters whispered DUNETOWN
POLICE DEPARTMENT. I had to squint to read that line.
“Nice of you to mention the police department,” I said.
“I thought so,” Dutch said.
“What exactly does Special Operations Branch mean?” I asked. “I?m not real sure myself,” he said. “I
think they just wanted to call us the SOB?s.”
A moment later Dutch roared like a lion demanding lunch. “That sorry, flat-assed, pea-brained
sappenpaw!” he said, curling his lip.
