been best friends for most of their lives. And yet he and Mrs Burkhart had not only been together some of the time, they’d visited Jim Waters a few nights before his death. There was a connection here somewhere, but what was it?
I skimmed the results of numerous Google searches before hitting one from an alumni magazine piece that spotlighted Nolan and Ward as celebrated former students. The first five hundred words focused on the politics of their time in Washington, the second five hundred words dealt with their student council activities while undergrads at the school. It was in the final five hundred words that I found what I was looking for.
‘Most reports about the friendship of the two men omit the year they didn’t speak to each other. Even now they are reluctant to discuss it. This happened in 1993 according to some of their close friends. But even they aren’t sure what caused the rift. What ended their disagreement — subject still unknown — was that they were seated near each other at a homecoming football game. Ward claims that Nolan came over to him and offered his hand; Nolan insists it was Ward who came over and offered his hand. Whatever, the friendship was renewed.’
Precedent. What had happened back then? And did it have any bearing on their recent falling-out?
By the time I was finished Burkhart and his people had left the stage. Ward stood by the podium he’d been assigned, talking to a member of the TV crew. As I walked over to them, Ward was pointing to a light placed directly above him. ‘I’m not trying to tell you your job, Jason, I’m just saying why don’t we light it up and take a look. I don’t want to pull a Dick Nixon here. Remember the first Kennedy-Nixon TV debate?’
If Jason remembered reading about the debate, it hadn’t made a big impression. He just shrugged. ‘Congressman, I’ve been lighting these debates for years now. I think I know what I’m doing.’
‘How about humoring me? How about setting the lights the way I want right now, then we’ll tape me at the podium and look at it. Fair enough?’
Jason didn’t even try to look happy. ‘I guess so, Congressman. Why don’t you go over and get in place, then, and I’ll start lighting the stage.’
‘I really appreciate it, Jason. You’re a good man.’
As soon as Jason was out of hearing range, Ward said, ‘That fucker has no idea what he’s doing. I wanted to bring my own lighting man. But the old fart who oversees these debates said we had to use the same people. Burkhart doesn’t care. He looks like a bear and people like him that way.’
‘You’ll look fine.’ Then: ‘Why did you and Nolan have a falling-out back in 1993?’
He’d been distracted by two men lugging the moderator’s desk on stage. But when I spoke he whipped around and said, ‘What the hell kind of question is that? I’m supposed to be prepping for a debate tonight, remember? Staying calm and focused. And you bring up some old nothing bullshit like that?’
We were starting to get an audience. His voice was high, strident.
‘Keep your voice down. There’re reporters here.’ I spoke so only he could hear. ‘I just asked you a question.’
‘Well, un-ask it. This isn’t the time or place.’
Over the speaker Jason said: ‘Congressman, would you take your place at the podium, please.’
It was as if a starting pistol had been fired. Ward broke away and walked double time to the stage. Nobody up there was going to ask him any questions about why he and Nolan had not spoken for a time back then. In fact, since this was only a rehearsal of sorts, nobody was going to ask him any difficult questions of any kind. He took his place behind the podium.
The smile and charm came with light-switch speed. The reporter and her crew moved in for the same kind of shots they’d gotten with Burkhart. Ward knew better than to try any diva routines about the lighting. The press would love a story about his vanity. While a good number of men probably envied his success with women, there was something a bit unmanly about it when the cocksman was wealthy and obviously pampered. A courtesan rather than a warrior. That wasn’t his problem alone. Senator John Kerry had after all gone out and bought himself several thousand dollars’ worth of hunting gear for a photo op that made him look like a member of Nerds Gone Wild. I’m told there is a photo somewhere of a rabbit giving him the finger.
I was soon back at work on my laptop. I wanted to know more about the rift between Ward and Nolan but Mother Google wasn’t yielding much. I switched over to my other campaigns. Updates. Scuttlebutt. One of our candidates had been shouted down by two men in an open meeting. Our campaign runner there was sure they were hired to do so by none other than Sylvia Fordham herself, who was running the opponent’s campaign. She was sure she’d seen these two at other open meetings.
She snuck in without me seeing her. But when I looked up there she was, the back of her anyway, eight or nine rows ahead of me. Mrs Teresa Burkhart. Her coiffure was unmistakable, as was the way one of her husband’s campaign staffers served her coffee — with great trepidation if I interpreted her body language correctly. The young woman turned out to be none other than Melanie, the pretty teenager who’d tried to have me thrown out of Burkhart headquarters. I recognized her when she glanced my way. She recognized me, too, and immediately bent to inform her employer of my presence.
After the soul-saver had left the side of Mrs Burkhart, but not before she scowled in my direction of course, I closed my laptop and traveled down the aisle. I seated myself directly behind Teresa Burkhart. The way her neck and shoulders tensed, I knew she was aware of me. I said nothing for a few minutes. Two or three times she started to turn around and face me then thought better of it.
‘I see the most beautiful woman in the world sitting out there,’ Burkhart boomed from his podium. He waved to his wife and sent her a bashful-boy grin.
She raised a fawn-colored glove and waved.
The man overseeing the debate, whom Ward had referred to as an ‘old fart,’ was a former governor from the other side named Will Carney. We should all look like such old farts as Carney did at seventy-eight or thereabouts. He crossed the stage briskly, a tall, slender man in a blue windbreaker, white shirt, chinos, and white Reeboks. He had a headful of curly silver locks that any Roman senator would have envied and a voice as imposing as a general’s sounding the call to war. It was nice to see how much he intimidated the two candidates. He told them the kind of debate he wanted tonight; the kind, he said, ‘they owed the public, given all the bullshit in the air this election cycle.’ I took this to be criticism of some of the wilder and woolier candidates of his own party.
He had one major failing, did ex-Governor Will Carney, and the press and political cartoonists had always enjoyed bringing attention to it. Once he started talking he never wanted to stop. You needed ten armed guards to drag him off the stage. And he’d still be talking as they dragged him.
Today was no different. He got so intensely involved in talking about the kind of debate this state deserved — he’d been a pretty good governor: honest and inventive and willing to work with our side — that the initial surge of surprise and pleasure he’d brought with him now became weary resignation. When was this old fart ever going to shut up?
I decided now was as good a time as any.
‘You’re in a lot of trouble. And maybe I can help you. But I’m sick of chasing you around. You call me if you change your mind. But you don’t have much time.’
I didn’t give her a chance to say anything. I just stood up, my laptop under my arm, and started to walk out of the auditorium.
In the lobby a harried-looking Lucy Cummings was hanging up her coat. When she saw me she rushed over, breathless. ‘God, I’m sorry I’m late. I had to set things up with this caterer for the party after the debate tonight. He wanted all this fancy food. I told him there’d be a cross section of people there so to keep it simple.’ She crossed her eyes. I appreciated her making me laugh. It felt good. ‘I think I offended him. He said that his clientele always wants sushi. I told him that most of the union guys would probably prefer little fried pieces of shrimp. He said maybe I should go to Red Lobster. Actually, that sounds pretty good to me. I love Red Lobster.’ Then: ‘God, here I am running my mouth off and Jeff’s in there alone.’ She touched my arm. ‘Bye.’
Ed Gorman
Dev Conrad — 03 — Blindside
TWENTY
When I got back to my hotel Sylvia Fordham was sitting in the lobby in her best Audrey Hepburn pose. The
