Neely said, “We requested police support, but were denied. We’re not popular at City Hall.”
Freed said, “Should I wear a bullet-proof vest?”
“Soft body armor might be worth the trouble,” I said, “but, frankly, he’s going to go for a head shot.”
“And he could do it from the doorway, there?”
“At that range, he could throw a glass ashtray and get the job done.”
Simmons and Blake, no longer rolling their eyes or smirking, seemed to be convinced. Larry didn’t like me, but I could tell he was taking me seriously, too. Neely looked ashen, sick. The thought of his campaign starting off with this kind of bang didn’t seem to agree with him.
“And for God’s sake,” I said, “tighten up security at the hotel itself. I went to the desk and told the guy I was with the Freed campaign and without even asking my name, let alone to see credentials, he went along with everything I asked him and pointed to where the press conference was going to be held and you name it. Put a lid on this thing, boys. You’ve got a controversial candidate with a lot of enemies. Get on the defensive.”
Simmons and Blake swallowed, glanced at each other embarrassedly. Neely remained ashen, and Freed looked glazed. Larry was picking his nose.
“Now, gentleman,” I said, “if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the facilities. Talk this over amongst yourselves, and we’ll get into some of the specifics of revising your security plan when I get back. And I’ll give you a detailed description of the man we believe will be the assassin.”
“Let’s make that would-be assassin,” Freed said, with a nervous smile.
“That’s up to your friends here,” I said pleasantly, and left the room.
I walked out through the adjacent secretarial room and out where the waterfall gurgled by the winding staircase. I went up those stairs, and crossed the circular bar to the door that opened onto the hallway that led to Freed’s bedroom.
About half-way down that hallway, at my left, was a closed door. A closet door, one might assume. I hadn’t paid it much notice the night before, when the glow at the end of the hall had beckoned. But right now I was more interested in what was behind this door, to which I put my ear-and heard nothing. Gently, I tried the knob; locked.
But not very locked: a credit card opened it. This was a fairly quiet operation, though not a silent one, so I paused and listened for the sounds of anybody else who might be up here-a bodyguard in that room across the bar, for example-but heard nothing.
I opened the door and entered a room that wasn’t a closet, though it wasn’t much bigger than one. At right was a window; a video camera on a tripod was aimed at the window, and on a table nearby a big bulky video tape machine squatted, not a home VCR, but an industrial model. I glanced out the window and saw Freed’s bedroom. The camera was pointed directly at the waterbed with its elaborate western headboard and its black silk sheets. I didn’t remember a mirror on the wall, but there must’ve been one. The mirrors overhead must’ve been strictly for fun, not two-way video windows.
Otherwise the rumor that Angela Jordan had heard would seem to be no rumor.
Because at my left was a library of video tapes, shelves of the black plastic boxes; on the spine of each black box was a woman’s name written in bold white letters: Sheila, Jane, Sally, Heather, Clarice, thirty-some women in all.
And one tape box had the name “Angela” on its spine.
I removed it from the shelf, took the tape from the box, and put the empty box back on the shelf. Then I went to the video tape machine near the camera and pressed the eject button. I removed the tape; on the counter nearby was what I presumed was the tape’s black plastic box, which had the name “Becky” on the spine, and Becky was (if memory served) the name of the eager staffer I’d encountered at Freed campaign HQ and whose butt I’d electrically prodded last night.
I slipped the “Angela” tape in one of my suitcoat pockets, and the “Becky” tape in the other. I was surprised that Angela had actually made it onto a tape-she’d said several times that Freed had come on to her but that she’d rebuffed him-but it was an understandable lie. I don’t always tell the truth myself.
The tapes, somewhat larger than the home-machine variety, were bulky in my pockets, so I went to the kitchen where I’d left my brown leather overcoat and transferred the tapes to those deeper pockets.
Then I went back into the conference room and joined in on the discussion about how to keep candidate (and home-video buff) Preston Freed from getting blown away (as opposed to just blown) on the first day of his primary campaign.
15
Pennants flapped lazily overhead as the last few Sunday afternoon browsers strolled around the BEST BUY lot, peering in windows, perusing price stickers, kicking the tires. The day was too cloudy, too cold, to attract much business; and the sales personnel, Angela Jordan among them, had finally made a concession to the undeniable reality of winter by wearing heavy coats of various sorts over their identical red blazers. It was almost five. Quitting time.
I waited for Angela to deal with the young couple looking droolingly at a shiny silver Firebird, and when they left in a boxy little brown AMC something-or-other, talking animatedly, I figured she had another sale in the bag.
“Next trip in,” I said, “and you’ll sell ’em.”
“I think so,” she smiled. “Just hope they can afford it. I’m trying to steer them toward something a little smaller.”
“Better not let your boss hear you talk like that.”
“You don’t understand the car business,” she said. “If I treat those two right, they’ll be my customers for the next thirty years.”
We walked toward the showroom.
I said, “I’m sorry about last night.”
“No need to apologize. I understand. It’s tough enough adjusting to the single life, after divorcing somebody you don’t love anymore, let alone after… losing somebody you still do love.”
“I was hoping I could take you out for a bite of supper.”
“That’d be nice. I don’t have any plans.”
“Maybe we could take your girls along.”
She smiled; teeth didn’t come much whiter, smiles didn’t come any better. “Wish you could meet them. And you will one of these days. But my mom drove the girls into Chicago for the day for a big shopping spree. They won’t be back till nine or ten tonight.”
“How much longer are you here?”
She checked her watch. “It is five, isn’t it? I’m off as of now. Let me go back in my office and change clothes. I’m going to be pretty casual…”
I was still in the suit and brown leather overcoat. “Well, I could always change into my ninja threads,” I said.
She laughed and said I looked just fine.
I followed her into the showroom and the smell of new cars. “You got any place special you’d like to eat?” I asked her.
“Any place but the Embers,” she said, and flashed her smile and disappeared into a small office. The other sales people had either gone or were going. But sitting in his office, staring out at me, was chunky little Lonny Best in his shirtsleeves and red-white-and-blue tie. He had a filtered cigarette going. He was frowning at me.
He stood and crooked his finger, like I was a kid he was summoning.
What the hell.
I went into his office and closed the door behind me.
“What the fuck’s the idea,” he said.
“Could you be a little more specific?”
He came out from behind the desk, apple cheeks blazing, eyes hard and small and glittering. He thrust a hard
