“Nah, I want to interview him, not bust him. I mean, eventually, we’ll call the FBI, and when they grab him, my story and the interview will be ready.”
“That’s pretty neat,” Teddy said, “but first you’ve got to find the guy.”
“That’s where you come in,” Ned said. “If you can point him out to me, it’ll be worth ten grand of the Inquisitor’s money.”
“That’s pretty inviting,” Teddy said, grinning. “And when do I get the money?”
“It’s in the safe at my hotel. You show me the guy, I’ll talk to him, and we’ll go back to the hotel for your money.”
“Fair enough,” Teddy said.
“Okay, where did you see him?”
“Right here, in this restaurant,” Teddy replied.
Ned’s eyes went left and right. “Holy shit! Is he here now?”
“He certainly is,” Teddy said.
“Where?”
“You’re looking at him.”
Ned spilled his wine. Then he fished out the photo and compared it to Teddy. “Similar,” he said.
“How about without the wig, the fake eyebrows, and the glasses?” Teddy said.
“That’s a wig?”
“It certainly is.” Teddy lifted a corner of the hairpiece, then stuck it back.
“I can’t believe my luck,” Ned said.
“I guess you’re just a lucky guy.”
“Wait a minute. Tell me the name of the girl who took the photo.”
“Darlene Cole,” Teddy said without hesitation.
“Son of a bitch, you are Teddy Fay.”
“Shhhh,” Teddy said. “Finish your wine-we can’t talk here.”
Ned tossed back his drink and ordered the check. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, pitching some money onto the table.
A couple of minutes later they were walking down a path high above the canal that was lit by streetlamps, two of which were dark, because Teddy had thrown rocks at them before Ned had arrived. “Okay,” Teddy said, stopping and leaning on the steel rail between the path and the canal, “let’s talk turkey. If you’re giving Darlene ten grand, I want fifty grand for the interview.”
“Look,” Ned said, “I’ve only got twenty-five thousand with me, but I’ll send you the other half, I swear.”
Teddy regarded him for a moment. “I believe you,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“God, I don’t know where to start,” Ned said.
“That’s because you’re drunk,” Teddy replied. “Take a few deep breaths.” He watched as another big tanker approached where they stood.
Ned began taking deep breaths.
“Oxygen, that’s what you need,” Teddy said.
Ned stopped taking the big breaths. “Jesus, I’m dizzy. I think I’m going to throw up.”
Teddy took him by the shoulders and spun him around. “Over the rail,” he said.
Ned leaned over the rail and vomited.
Teddy had a quick look around: nobody on the path, nobody on the foredeck of the tanker. He drew back, and, as Ned straightened up, Teddy struck him hard in the back of the neck with the edge of his hand. Ned collapsed onto the rail, and Teddy helped him over and watched him as he fell, struck his head on a crane on the foredeck, bounced off some pipes, then fell between them.
Teddy ambled away. Ned wouldn’t be found before morning, if then, and by that time the ship would be at sea, and nobody would know when Ned Partain joined the cruise.
Then he remembered the photograph; it was still in Ned’s pocket. And the negative was probably in the editorial offices of the National Inquisitor. Either that, or his old girlfriend Darlene, if she was smart, still had it.
Teddy unlocked his scooter from the rail outside the restaurant, started it, and headed back to Panama City.
He had a lot to think about.
32
Will sat on Air Force One and watched a tape of his opponent’s first campaign speech. The man looked good: He had gray-streaked blond hair and wore a well-cut suit that complemented his tan, but there was nothing new in the speech. He turned to Moss Mallet, Tom Black, and Kitty Conroy.
“It’s the same old speech,” Will said. “I’m liberal, liberal, liberal, and he’s more conservative than John Birch, Barry Goldwater, and Ronald Reagan put together.”
“You’re right,” Moss replied, “but believe it or not, this speech did him a lot of good. For the first time, he’s attacking you instead of his two opponents, and the guy looks great, you have to admit.”
“I don’t want to date him,” Will replied. “I want to kick his ass in the election. How do we do that?”
“We’ll attack his voting record, which is direly conservative,” Tom said.
“Is that going to help us with independents and slightly liberal Republicans?”
“Sure it is,” Tom replied. “In a lot of ways he’s what they don’t like about the Republican Party.”
“Except,” Moss said, “the electorate has always been partial to good-looking blond guys, like Jack Kemp and Dan Quayle.”
“Kemp never got the nomination, and Quayle ended up as the poster boy for dumbness,” Will pointed out.
“Yeah, but Quayle got elected, and more important, he didn’t keep the first Bush from winning.”
“So are we going to mount a campaign against Spanner’s being pretty?”
“We won’t have to do that,” Moss said. “Every time he makes some sort of bone-headed remark, they’ll remember Dan Quayle.”
Will sat back in his chair. “Didn’t Quayle have something like a three handicap?”
“Something like that,” Tom replied.
“Do you have any idea how much practice it takes to have a three handicap?”
“A lot,” Tom agreed.
“But he found time for it while he was in the Senate. Find out what Spanner’s handicap his. God, I hope he’s a scratch golfer. We could really make something of that.”
“Who would that matter to?” Kitty asked.
“To everybody who doesn’t play golf, or who plays but doesn’t have time to practice to a low handicap,” Tom replied. “Plus everybody who doesn’t play golf and hates people who do. We could do a commercial with some guy who has a low handicap and ask him how much time he practices to stay so good. He’d say something like, ‘Oh, at least four hours a day,’ and I think people would get the idea.”
“I like it,” Will said. “I had a sixteen handicap before I was a Senate aide, and I had to play at least four times a week to keep that.”
Kitty was banging away on her laptop. “Here we go,” she said. “Bill Spanner is a member at Congressional and Burning Tree. His handicap is listed as nineteen.”
“Never mind,” Will said.
Martin Stanton was on television in Los Angeles with a room full of high school students, answering their questions.
A skinny kid stood up and said, “I’m confused. Last week you were governor. How’d you get to be vice
