Myron headed back to his car and called Arthur Bradford’s office. His «executive secretary» told him that the «next governor» would be in Belleville. Myron thanked her and hung up. He checked his watch and started on his way. If he didn’t hit any traffic, he’d make it in time.
When he hit the Garden State Parkway, Myron called his father’s office. Eloise, Dad’s longtime secretary, said the same thing she’d said every time he’d called for the past twenty-five years: «I’ll patch you through immediately, Myron.» It didn’t matter if Dad was busy. It didn’t matter if he was on the phone or if someone was in the office with him. Dad had left instructions long ago: when his son called, he was always to be disturbed.
«No need,» Myron said. «Just tell him I’ll be dropping by in a couple of hours.»
«Here? My God, Myron, you haven’t been here in years.»
«Yeah, I know.»
«Is anything wrong?»
«Nothing, Eloise. I just want to talk to him. Tell him it’s nothing to worry about.»
«Oh, your father will be so pleased.» Myron was not so sure.
Arthur Bradford’s tour bus had red and blue stripes and big white stars. «Bradford for governor» was painted in a hip, slanted font with 3-D letters. The windows were tinted black so none of the great unwashed could look in on their leader. Quite the homespun touch.
Arthur Bradford stood by the bus door, microphone in hand. Brother Chance was behind him, smiling in that the-camera-might-be-on-me, gee-isn’t-the-candi-date-brilliant mode of the political underling. On his right was Terence Edwards, Brenda’s cousin. He too beamed with a smile about as natural as Joe Biden’s hairline. Both of them were wearing those goofy political Styrofoam hats that looked like something a barbershop’s quartet might sport.
The crowd was sparse and mostly old. Very old. They looked distracted, glancing about as if someone had enticed them here with the promise of free food. Other people slowed and meandered over to take a look, not unlike pedestrians who stumbled across a fender bender and were now hoping a fight would break out. Bradford’s handlers blended into the crowd and passed out big signs and buttons and even those goofy Styrofoam hats, all with the same hip «Bradford for governor» lettering. Every once in a while the interspersed handlers would break into applause, and the rest of the crowd would lazily follow suit. There was also a sprinkling of media and cable stations, local political correspondents who looked visibly pained by what they were doing, wondering what was worse: covering yet another canned political speech or losing a limb in a machinery mishap. Their expressions indicated a toss-up.
Myron eased into the crowd and slid up toward the front.
«What we need in New Jersey is a change,» Arthur Bradford bellowed. «What we need in New Jersey is daring and brave leadership. What we need in New Jersey is a governor who will not cave in to special interests.»
Oh, boy.
The handlers loved that line. They burst into applause like a porno starlet faking an orgasm (er, or so Myron imagined). The crowd was more tepid. The handlers started a chant: «Bradford… Bradford… Bradford.» Original. Another voice came over the loudspeaker. «Once again, ladies and gentlemen, the next governor of New Jersey, Arthur Bradford! What we need in New Jersey!»
Applause. Arthur waved at the common folk. Then he stepped down from his perch and actually touched a chosen few.
«I’m counting on your support,» he said after each handshake.
Myron felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around. Chance was there. He was still smiling and wearing the goofy Styrofoam hat. «What the hell do you want?»
Myron pointed at his head. «Can I have your hat?»
Still smiling. «I don’t like you, Bolitar.»
Myron mirrored the smile. «Ouch, that hurt.»
They both stayed with the frozen smiles. If one of them were female, they could have hosted one of those Hard Copy rip-offs.
«I need to talk to Art,» Myron said.
Still smiling. Best buddies. «Get on the bus.»
«Sure thing,» Myron said. «But once inside, can I stop smiling? My cheeks are starting to hurt.»
But Chance was already moving away. Myron shrugged and hopped on board. The carpet on the bus floor was thick and maroon. The regular seats had been ripped out and replaced with what looked like lounge chairs. There were several overhead televisions, a bar with a minifridge, telephones, computer terminals.
Skinny Sam was the sole occupant. He sat up front and read a copy of People magazine. He looked at Myron, then back at his magazine.
«Top fifty most intriguing people,» Sam said. «And I’m not one of them.»
Myron nodded sympathetically. «It’s based on connections, not merit.»
«Politics,» Sam agreed. He flipped the page. «Head to the back, bucko.»
«On my way.»
Myron settled into a pseudofuturistic swivel chair that looked like something from the set of Battlestar Galactica. He didn’t have to wait long. Chance hopped on first. He was still smiling and waving. Terence Edwards came in next. Then Arthur. The driver pressed a button, and the door slid closed. So did all three faces, their smiles thrown aside like itchy masks.
Arthur signaled for Terence Edwards to sit in the front. He obeyed like, well, a political underling. Arthur and Chance moved to the back of the bus. Arthur looked relaxed. Chance looked constipated.
«Nice to see you,» Arthur said.
«Yeah,» Myron said, «always a pleasure.»
«Would you care for a drink?»
«Sure.»
The bus pulled out. The crowd gathered around the bus and waved into the one-way glass. Arthur Bradford looked at them with utter disdain. Man of the people. He tossed Myron a Snapple and popped one open for himself. Myron looked at the bottle. Diet Peach Iced Tea. Not bad. Arthur sat down, and Chance sat next to him.
«What did you think of my speech?» Arthur asked.
«What we need in New Jersey,» Myron said, «is more political cliches.»
Arthur smiled. «You’d prefer a more detailed discussion on the issues, is that it? In this heat? With that crowd?»
«What can I say? I still like 'Vote for Art, He’s Got an Indoor Pool.'«
Bradford waved the comment away. «Have you learned something new about Anita Slaughter?»
«No,» Myron said. «But I’ve learned something new about your late wife.»
Arthur frowned. Chance’s face reddened. Arthur said, «You’re supposed to be trying to find Anita Slaughter.»
«Funny thing that,» Myron said. «When I look into her disappearance, your wife’s death keeps popping up. Why do you think that is?»
Chance piped up. «Because you’re a goddamn idiot.»
Myron looked at Chance. Then he put his finger to his lips. «Shhh.»
«Useless,» Arthur said. «Utterly useless. I have told you repeatedly that Elizabeth’s death has nothing to do with Anita Slaughter.»
«Then humor me,» Myron said. «Why did your wife stop going to parties?»
«Pardon me?»
«During the last six months of her life none of your wife’s friends saw her. She never went to parties anymore. She never even went to her club.» Whatever club that might have been.
«Who told you that?»
«I’ve spoken to several of her friends.»
Arthur smiled. «You’ve spoken,» he said, «to one senile old goat.»
«Careful, Artie. Senile goats have the right to vote.» Myron paused. «Hey, that rhymes. You may have another campaign slogan on your hands: 'Senile Goats, We Need Your Votes.'«
