FROM Indianapolis, the Mann tour heads to Little Rock, Oklahoma City, and Santa Fe. I follow, but I do not attend another rally, nor do I check into the same hotel as Mann and his entourage. But I do stand in front of the television and parrot the words of his speeches over and over until I have the lines memorized. I begin to understand how little of a political stump speech is improvised. He’ll add a joke with local flavor to the beginning of each speech, something to let the crowd know he’s interested in their city, their state, their problems. Then he’ll transition into the same lines he’s already used a thousand times. I understand his ennui. It is damn near impossible to bring passion to weightless words.
When I reach Santa Fe, I head for the La Fonda, a pueblo-style Spanish hotel on the plaza. A sign above the door indicates it is the “Inn at the End of the Trail,” but that is a lie. The trail isn’t anywhere near its end, not for me. I check in and wait for a knock on my door.
Pooley arrives three hours later. I have taken the opportunity to work in a light nap, and I feel refreshed when he steps into the room. He is holding a thick manila envelope. His expression is sober.
“What’d you find out?” I say once we ask after each other’s health.
“One piece of the puzzle. They definitely hired two other assassins for this job besides you. Shooter number two is a Spanish contract killer named Miguel Cortega. He worked a little out of New York and Chicago before he made his way to D.C. Who knows what he did before crossing the Atlantic.”
“You familiar with him?”
Pooley shakes his head. “I went through some back channels to pull the name, called in a chit I had with William Ryan out of Vegas. He made some calls and gave up Cortega.”
Ryan was a high-level West Coast fence who repped both sides: acquirers and killers. Pooley and I had worked with him once before and were both impressed with his professionalism.
“Had Ryan used him before?”
“Twice. Both long-range sniper shots and both confirmed kills.”
“A drop man.”
Pooley nods. “Looks like it.”
“Does Cortega know he’s been tripled, or is he in the dark like I was?”
“I told Ryan to tread lightly. He can’t be sure, but he thinks he’s running blind right now.”
“Does he know if Cortega has a kill date, or is he going to make a move upon opportunity?”
“The assignment is to drop the candidate the week of the convention, same as you.”
I let out a deep breath. “Well, that’s good at least. He’s a pro, so he won’t jump the gate early. Which means I still have some time to set the table.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Go on.”
“Shooter number three. I don’t have a name, but I know who his fence is.”
“Who?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Who is it, Pooley? Jesus.”
“Vespucci.”
I looked at my friend long and hard as that name engulfed me like a poisonous cloud. I hadn’t heard it out loud in so long, I had sometimes wondered if that dark Italian was still in the game. I guess he is, and some strange part of me feels . . . what is it . . . pride? Pride that I have a chance to prove myself to that old bastard again? Pride that I will take out one of his men and complete the assignment out from under him? Pride that he will have to face the fact I am still alive? Or am I confused and the emotion I feel, for the first time in a long time, is fear?
Pooley coughs into his hand. “I know his name brings yet another personal connection into this mission, but I think it’s better you have all the cards in front of you.”
“Of course it is.” I snap out of my reverie and meet Pooley’s eyes to let him know I’m back, focused. “But you don’t know who he put on the job?”
“I tried to get the information but I met a brick wall. I don’t know what power that old Italian wields, but he has a lot of tongues afraid to wag.”
“Okay, good work, Pooley.”
He smiles. “This assignment sure is stirring up some echoes.”
“Yeah.”
“There’re plenty of other jobs out there. You can drop off and we wouldn’t miss a beat.”
I shake my head. “This one’s mine, Pooley. And there’s a reason it’s mine, even if that reason is a little gray right now.”
“You’re getting philosophical on me.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to your ramblings then,” he says with a smirk.
“Can you do a couple of things for me before you head back to Boston?”
“Anything.”
“I want a new car, an SUV, something bigger.”
“Done.”
“And I want you to stop by Mann’s local headquarters. Tell ’em you’re a contractor, you handle special events all over the country. See what kind of process they have for securing bids on Mann events. See if they use a local or a national company. Someone puts up the risers, someone coordinates the kids and the construction workers and the cops and the soldiers to stand behind him. I want to know who and how they get the job.”
“You got it. It’ll probably be late tomorrow, Friday at the latest.”
“Do what you got to do. Take the spare key on the dresser. I’ll stay here until I see you again.”
He starts to leave, then stops, and turns to face me, holding up that envelope. “I almost forgot. Here.”
“What’s this?”
“Some more research I pulled. Don’t ask me how. It’s a . . . what’s the word . . . addendum to the initial material. I think it’ll help you focus.”
“Why do you say I need focus?”
“It’s in your eyes, Columbus.”
I am sitting in a booth in McDonald’s, the most American of fast-food restaurants. I read recently that Abe Mann likes to eat quarter-pounders here, a page he stole from Bill Clinton’s playbook. By eating greasy burgers at a popular fast-food chain, he can give off the impression he is “one of us,” a true “man of the people,” not some stuffy aristocrat who sits for five-hundred-dollar haircuts and windsurfs on the waves outside his mansion in Nantucket. His handlers are playing their cards deftly; Mann’s numbers continue to rise in the polls and his press has been favorable. He is on auto-pilot, careful not to make a mistake this close to the convention, not with his nomination at stake, and so his campaign is as lifeless as the burger on the tray in front of me. We are both on missions, headed for the same spot on the map.
A brown dog is loitering in the parking lot outside the window. He doesn’t appear to belong to anyone, at least not anymore, and he is skittish, like he’s taken too many kicks to the ribs and isn’t going to let it happen again. He is sniffing by the Dumpsters across the lot, but whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it.
I open the envelope Pooley handed me and slide out a stack of papers. It’s another jigsaw puzzle, only this one is already put together, all the pieces lined up and fitted in place. Newspaper clippings and hotel receipts and bank statements and official testimony and diary entries, all presented succinctly and chronologically to tell a complete story. How Pooley put this together, or, more likely, who gave it to him, are questions for which I’m not sure I want the answers. It turns out my mother, LaWanda Dickerson, isn’t the only woman Abe Mann removed permanently from his life.
HER name was Nichelle Spellman. She was a senior vice-president of regional planning
