Neely nodded. “Yes-at the insistence of myself and his top advisors. If we’re to make our move into the political mainstream, to become the viable third party that we are already starting to become, to leave the stigma of the so-called ‘lunatic fringe’ behind, Preston Freed must emerge from his fortress and do battle in the corrupt outside world.”
Arch as that sounded, Neely was right: there was no place in the scheme of things for an armchair politician. And, of course, as I well knew, the threat to Freed’s life was a real one, even if it didn’t have anything to do with the Soviet Union, even if the mob connection was only tangential.
“Does Freed have any enemies in the business community?”
“Certainly,” Neely said.
“Anyone specifically?”
He paused. Then, rather reluctantly, he said, “One does come to mind. You have to understand that the Democratic Action party’s policies represent neither the left nor the right, as conventionally defined. Some of what we stand for is thought of as conservative, and yet Preston Freed was first thought of as a leftist, and in fact led a splinter group out of the old SDS, during the ’60s.”
“Meaning?”
“One of Preston’s best friends, closest advisors, who’d been with him since those early days, became… frankly… disenchanted with some of the party policies, as we have become more aligned with what are seen as ‘right-wing’ ideologies.” His voice seemed weary. “It’s a loss to us all, that one of the movers and shakers of our party should go over to the other side.”
“The other side?”
He nodded. “The Democrats. Of course, it would be no better if it were the Republicans. But in George’s case, it was the Democrats… he’s made sizable donations, been active in fund-raising and so on.”
“You don’t mean George Ridge, the real-estate guy?”
“Well, yes I do… let’s say nothing more about it. All great causes suffer setbacks. But with Preston going high profile for this primary push, we can overcome anything.”
He walked me to the door. Put a hand on my shoulder. “The thing of it is, Jack-if I may call you Jack-Preston is a charismatic public speaker. His personal magnetism is, frankly, our secret weapon. It’s worked before.”
“Germany, for example,” I said, pleasantly.
And I smiled and patted him on the shoulder, and moved through noisy, bustling Zombie Central and out into the cold but real world.
10
The Embers Restaurant was in Moline, just off 52nd Avenue, near South Park Shopping Center and not far from the airport. A two-story, brown-shingled, rambling affair in the midst of its own little park, the Embers was perched along the Rock River like just another rustic, if oversize, cottage. I left the black, “like-new” Sunbird in a nearly empty lot (it was late afternoon-before the supper hour) and briefly wandered the pine-scattered grounds, noting a teepee and a totem pole, a white pagoda bird bath, a statue or two of a Catholic saint, stone benches, wooden picnic tables, and a bright red sleigh awaiting snow. Along the gray river, with a well-travelled overpass bridge looming at left, was a cluster of gazebos with red-canvas roofs; there was even a band shell. Here and there plaster animals, deer mostly, were poised in plaster perfection, to make you feel close to nature.
This was just the sort of oddball, cobbled-together joint that went over well with tourists and locals alike. As the former owner of the Welcome Inn, I felt at home.
An awning covered the lengthy astro-turfed walkway up to the entrance, which was the back door of the place really, and a narrow wood-paneled hallway, decorated with ducks-in-flight prints and various signs (“Casual dress required,” “Home of Aqua Ski Theater”), led to an unattended hat check area where I left my overcoat, with stairs to the right and a bar to the left.
I went into the bar, which opened out onto a dining room with a river view. The Embers interior was just as studiedly rustic and quaint as the grounds. The ceiling was low and open-beamed with slowly churning fans, and there were plants and ferns here and there, though a Yuppie joint this was not. The barroom walls were populated with stuffed animals-small ones, birds and fish mostly. If the Bates Motel had had a restaurant, this would have been it.
A youngish blond guy with glasses and a white shirt was working behind the bar. “We’ll be serving dinner in about half an hour,” he said.
“Fine. I’ll wait.”
“You can sit at the bar, or the hostess will be here in a moment and seat you.”
“Fine,” I said, noncommittally.
A couple of businessmen were sitting at the bar having drinks, munching peanuts. I noted several ashtrays cradling Embers matchbooks like those I’d found in the dark blue Buick.
I sat at a small round table near the big brick fireplace; a fire was going, and the warmth was all right with me. The afternoon had grown colder.
On the hearth was an aquarium, about two feet tall and four-and-a-half feet wide. In the tank swam a fish, silver, and a foot and a half long. He had a very sour expression. He would glide slowly to one end of his tank, make a swishing turn and glide to the other end of the tank, make a swishing turn and you get the idea. I supposed his life was no more meaningless than anybody else’s.
“He’s from the Amazon River,” somebody said.
I looked up. It was the blond bartender; he’d come over out of boredom or to take my order or something. He was perhaps twenty-five years old. The fish tank’s lights reflected in his glasses.
“Amazon River, huh,” I said.
“Notice the little goldfish down toward the bottom of the tank? They’re his supper.”
This fish tank sort of summed up everything anybody needed to know about life.
“I guess that makes him King Shit,” I said.
“Guess so,” the bartender said. “Till we come in some morning and he’s belly up. Can I get you anything?”
“Well, it won’t be fish.”
“I mean, from the bar. We aren’t serving dinner…”
“Till five, right. Just a Coke. Diet, with a twist of lemon.”
He nodded and went briskly back behind the bar. I got up and went and took the glass of Coke from him, to save him another trip. I sat two stools down from the businessmen and sipped my soda and said to the bartender, “This place been here a while?”
“Thirty-five years,” he said. “Original owners are still associated with the place.”
“Associated with it? You mean they don’t own it anymore?”
“No. They just manage it. Some flood damage a few years ago hit ’em hard, and a local businessman bought ’em out.” He made a clicking sound in his cheek and shook his head.
“Something wrong?”
“Well, I don’t know what’s going to happen now.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not from around here, obviously, but d’you see the papers today?”
“Sure.”
“That fella that was shot? Ja read about that?”
“I’m vaguely familiar with the story.”
“He owned this place.”
I fingered a book of matches in the ashtray. “No kidding. What sort of guy was he?”
“Okay,” he shrugged. “He wasn’t around all that much. This was just another investment, I’d guess. One of many.”
I lit a match, studied the flame.
“You want some cigarettes?” the bartender said.
