His smile remained, but his eyes turned wary. “Becky indicated you were a… fresh convert to our cause.”
“Frankly no,” I said, smiling back, taking the liberty of sitting at the conference table. “I’ve followed Preston Freed for some time. I only pretended to be a novice, so I could test the mettle of your staff. I can’t say I was much impressed.”
“Really,” he said with concern, remaining wary and on his feet.
“Becky, if that’s the name of the young woman who greeted me, is a good-looking kid. But her line of patter is strictly rote. She’s like a damn tour guide.”
He laughed, and finally sat, crossed his legs, ankle on knee.
“It’s a problem,” he said. “These kids are very enthusiastic, and very hard workers. They come into the party alert and questioning, but they get so indoctrinated, after a while, that they become, well, rather single- minded.”
“They should be able to discuss the issues, not just parrot the party line.”
“I couldn’t agree more. What’s your interest in the Democratic Action party, Mr. Ryan?”
“I just like what Preston Freed stands for. I represent a loose, informal group of businessmen from my community. We want to contribute several thousand dollars to the party-perhaps as much as ten.”
He raised his eyebrows.
I raised one of mine. “But I want to make sure we wouldn’t be pissing our money away.”
He gestured around his little war room. “Do you think we’d make this effort if we didn’t think it would amount to something?”
“Well, frankly, you yourself are probably well paid. Most professional campaign managers are. And your staff is obviously fresh out of college, looking for meaningful work, taking on a low-paying position for the experience and out of belief in a cause. Kids right out of college who haven’t figured out, yet, that you can’t deposit a cause in the bank.”
He nodded, smiled wryly.
“And I would imagine some of your staff are college kids, drawing on the various campuses in the area… Augustana, St. Ambrose, Palmer…”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Most of the area colleges allow political science students to work on campaigns for academic credit.”
“So,” I said, “I see that it’s extremely possible for me to be pissing my and my associates’ money away by donating to your party’s election efforts. We might be better off supporting conservatives within the Republican party. Candidates who actually have a chance of winning.”
“You’re underestimating us, Mr. Ryan,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve been at this for a long, long time. This will be our third Presidential race. In our first attempt, we gathered less than 80,000 votes in the national primaries. But last time around, we racked up a quarter of a million. And this year? Anything is possible.”
“Except victory.”
“You’re not a fool, Mr. Ryan, nor am I, and certainly Preston Freed is anything but a fool. Victory is a practical impossibility.” He raised a forefinger in a lecturing gesture. “However, we’re undoubtedly going to be putting on the strongest third-party candidacy since George Wallace in 1968.”
“You’re anticipating that Preston Freed will become a kingmaker, at the Democratic convention.”
“We do anticipate that. Who can say what victories will come from that? And we can look forward to the next election. If our rate of growth continues, the next time around Preston Freed will be a viable candidate, and the Democratic Action party will be a third, vital, major party.”
“All of this from a storefront in Davenport, Iowa.”
“Don’t be deceived, Mr. Ryan. This is only the first stop on the primary trail. We’re getting an early start. The Iowa precinct caucuses January twenty-first sound the opening gun of the presidential race. But we’re running now. Our candidate will begin making public appearances next week. Our volunteers, our staffers, will cover every county in Iowa, door-to-door and by telephone.”
“And then on to New Hampshire.”
“On to New Hampshire. And at least a dozen more primaries after that, and we’ll be purchasing radio and TV spots in each of those states. Beyond that, we’ve already purchased four half-hour national television broadcasts.”
“I’m starting to feel encouraged.”
“You should feel encouraged. And the presidency is only the most visible aspect of our strategy. I don’t have to tell you that where the Democratic Action party has made strides is in local and state government-we’ll field thousands of candidates in those races, and we’ll win a good share. We’ve done it before.”
“You sure made a mess out of Illinois state politics not so long ago.”
That made him grin. “Thank you. I had a certain small hand in that. We’ve had similar successes in California, Texas, Maryland and Oregon.”
I stood and offered him my hand. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Neely. I’ll be talking to my fellow business people, back in Milwaukee. My report will be favorable.”
His grin went ear to ear as he shook my hand. “I’m very glad to hear that. You will not, I assure you, be pissing any money away. All of you gentlemen will be welcome members of the Democratic Action Policy Committee.”
I looked forward to getting the secret decoder ring.
“I had hoped,” I said, “considering this is the national headquarters and all, to get to meet the candidate himself. Have a little one-on-one discussion, however briefly.”
Neely shook his head and his smile turned regretful. “I wish that were possible. Mr. Freed doesn’t drop by here often. In fact, not at all. And these headquarters, despite the ‘national’ designation, are strictly for the Iowa effort. We have a suite of offices upstairs, in the hotel, for our executive staff; and the actual command center is at the Freed estate.”
“Not far from here,” I said.
“Not far from here,” he said, “but I’m afraid Mr. Freed doesn’t meet with individuals often… although once we know the exact size of your contribution, well. But do keep in mind, Preston Freed is a political genius, and like all geniuses, he has his eccentricities. He’s a bit of a recluse.”
“Isn’t that unusual for a political candidate?”
“Frankly, it is, and I’ve had to work on Preston to get him to come out and ‘press the flesh’ in these primary campaigns. You must understand that there are many people who would like to see Preston Freed dead.”
“Such as?”
“The Soviets.”
I managed not to laugh, and merely nodded with concern. “I can see that.”
“And of course, the Mafia.”
“The Mafia?”
“Certainly. You’ve read the Freed position paper on the Drug Conspiracy?”
“Oh yes. The alliance between the banking community and the crime syndicate.”
He shook his head somberly. “It’s all around us. Infiltrated like a spreading cancer. Did you see the papers today?”
“Actually, no.”
“A local businessman was murdered just last night-by a syndicate assassin, it’s thought.”
“That’s shocking.”
“I know it is. Apparently this man-who I thought was a respectable member of the community, hell, we belonged to the same country club! — had a long history of ‘mob ties,’ as the QC Times put it.”
“Disgraceful.”
“Well, then you can understand why a man with the strong views and the bitter enemies of a Preston Freed would choose to fight from within a fortress, so to speak. In the last campaign, Preston made no public appearances, restricting himself to radio and TV speeches.” Disgust twisted his mouth. “The Reagan administration ruled that we do not qualify for Secret Service protection, which shows you that our enemies are not restricted to Russians and Sicilians.”
“But now Freed plans to get out among the voters.”
