Primary Storm (28 page)

I said, "No such thing as a private beach in New Hampshire. State law."

Paula laughed. "Look who's talking, the gentleman with his illegal No Trespassing signs outside his house."

"The signs are a suggestion, not an order. Besides, we're talking about Audrey Whittaker."

Up forward, Senator Pomeroy seemed to pause in that part of his speech that said, Pause, wait for applause, and when no applause came forth, he pressed on.

"Yes, we are, aren't we. Anyway, Audrey --- from what I was told --- loved to bundle up a picnic lunch, chair, umbrella, and thermos full of martinis, and walk out her front door, down the majestic front lawn, across Atlantic Avenue to her private little beach, and spend the better part of a day there. Pure delight, for a woman like her. Her own private beach, her little stretch of paradise, which she didn't have to share with members of the working class."

"What happened then? Someone from the state tried to kick her off?"

Paula shook her head. "Nothing so official. One day she went there and found some people on her private beach. Three families, up from Massachusetts --- Lawrence or Lowell, still a bit murky --- and they were having a grand old time partying and playing loud music, little barbecue grills, the usual stuff. Audrey told them to leave. The families told her no, in so many words. I guess they had gotten the word that there are no private beaches in New Hampshire. More words were exchanged, Audrey left, and when the families left ... well, they and their friends never came back. Not ever."

"Why?"

Paula tried to laugh, to lighten her mood, but it didn't seem to work. "Lewis, from what I hear, she went back to her house and got to work --- with her minions lending a hand, I'm sure --- and soon enough, she found out who those three families were and where they had come from. She picked one family, randomly, probably, and she destroyed them."

"Destroyed them? How?"

"From what I hear, the father worked in maintenance for the Lawrence school system. His wife worked in the system as well, as a secretary. Within a week, both of them were out of work. Then they were evicted from their apartment. Their children got into trouble at school and were suspended. No matter what they did, no matter who they talked to, their lives were ruined. They even packed up from Lawrence and moved to New York. And like some curse or something, she followed them there as well. Last I heard, the parents got divorced, Dad is serving time at Concord-MCI, Mom is on welfare, and who knows what kind of future the children will have. All because they were on her beach. And didn't leave when they were asked."

Above us, Senator Pomeroy's face was turning a light shade of red, as he did his best to work the crowd into a frenzy. Near me, a woman of about thirty was looking up at the senator while she worked on her nails.

I said, "Appreciate the history lesson."

"That was the lengthy lesson," Paula said. "Here's the short lesson. Don't piss her off. She's a wealthy woman with time on her hands who can afford to see her whims, no matter how nasty they are, be fulfilled. I'd hate to see you become one of her whims."

"Point taken," I said.

The young lady next to me started working on her other hand. Paula said, "So, that's what I've got for you. What's your side of the deal, my friend?"

I thought for a moment and leaned into her and said, "Take in this scene well."

"What scene is that?"

"Of Senator Pomeroy, running for president."

She turned to me, face now serious and inquisitive. "Say that again."

"Senator Pomeroy. He won't be a candidate in a few weeks."

"He's dropping out?"

"That's what I hear."

Now her tone matched the look on her face. "Lewis ... this is Paula from the
Chronicle
now talking to you. This isn't Paula your bud ... got it?"

"Got it."

"All right then," she said. "What do you have for me?"

I chose my words carefully. "An informed source connected with the Nash Pomeroy campaign has confirmed that due to personal reasons, Senator Nash Pomeroy will withdraw from the presidential primary race within the next few weeks."

Her hands seemed to fly across the keyboard. "How good is this source? Not some volunteer who's upset that they've run out of bumper stickers."

"Nope, a well-paid consultant."

"Okay," she said. "The personal reasons. What do they involve?"

"Something involving the senator and events in Illinois."

"Illinois? Far from home."

"Away from your fellow scribblers and other prying eyes."

"Can you tell me what happened in Illinois?"

"No, I'm afraid I can't," I said.

"And this is good information?"

"Solid," I said.

"Real solid? I mean to put this out in the Monday paper ... and it's going to cause a hell of a crapstorrn with the Pomeroy campaign and the other news media, my little paper breaking a story like this."

"Solid as a rock."

Paula finished typing and then gently scratched one of her delightfully protruding ears. "You know, this is the kind of story that's going to need another source before going to press. No offense to you and your mysterious informant."

"No offense taken  Who?"

She grinned. "My dear Mr. Spencer, that's who."

"The Tyler town counsel? Your better half?"

"The same," she said. "He has connections to the Nash Pomeroy campaign. Once I get out of this wake, I'll give him a call. Man, that's going to tick him off something awful."

"Think he'll talk?"

The smile got wider. "If he wants to continue to be lucky with me, he'd better talk, and better give it all up."

"If he's smart, he'll do just that."

Senator Pomeroy then wrapped things up by saying, " ... and I look forward to your support next Tuesday. Thank you, thank you so very much!"

Some steady applause that dribbled out after a number of seconds, and she put her mouth up to my ear and said, "Thanks, Lewis. A scoop like this ... well, it'll make all this weekend and night work this past month worth it."

"Glad to hear it," I said, standing up.

She stood up as well, gathered her laptop, and looked at Senator Pomeroy, gamely shaking the hands of those few voters who came up to him.

Paula shook her head and said, "You know, there are times, like I told you back at lunch, when I think this primary season is so special. And then I look at what we have here. The endless cattle show. The endless droning recitation of canned speeches. Candidates who hate what they're doing, and hate being here. Makes you wonder how this fair little country of ours stumbles along. Lord knows candidates like Lincoln or FDR or JFK or even Ike couldn't survive what goes on now, with the cable networks and all the background investigations. So what do we end up with? Bland candidates with bland backgrounds who try to be everything to everybody ... that's what we get."

"You know what Churchill said," I told her.

"What? About fighting on the landing fields and beaches?"

"No," I said. "Something about democracy being the worse political system ever devised, except for the rest."

"Sounds right," she said. "I just hope the people, God bless 'em, never decide to put that statement to the test and try something else. Thanks again for the tip, Lewis. Gotta get going."

"Me, too," I said,

I went out of the cafeteria and spared a quick glance back.

Senator Nash Pomeroy was navigating a crowd of reporters and news photographers, the harsh light from the television cameras making his face look puffy and red. Paula was right. It was a hell of a process.

But so far, the only one we've got.

Chapter Sixteen

At home I built a fire and checked my messages. Another baker's dozen, of which I deleted twelve. It got to the point where I knew to delete the message when I heard nothing for the first few seconds; it usually took that long for the automated message to begin its spiel, allowing me to avoid yet another heartfelt automatic plea to either vote for somebody or vote against somebody. There was also one live message, from a very real person --- Annie --- which I returned, and I was pleased that it went right through.

"Oh, Lewis, it's you," she said, and I sensed the exhaustion in her voice.

"Sounds like you're running on caffeine and energy," I said.

"Lots of caffeine, not much energy. Oh, we're getting close, my dear, so very close."

"What's going on?"

"Latest round of polling shows the damn race is still fluid," she said. "Hale still holds on to a lead, but that hold is damn slippery. All it'd take is one bit of bad news, one bit of controversy, and it could sink us ... but if we hang on till Tuesday morning, then we can make it. And then it's on to South Carolina."

"South Carolina ... with or without Annie Wynn?"

She laughed. "South Carolina ... here's your answer about that. All right if I move in with you Wednesday morning? Take a vacation?"

'Where do you want to go?"

"Mmm," she murmured. "No goddamn where, that's where. I want you to unplug the phone and your computer, and I want a fire in the fireplace all day and night, and I want all of my meals served on a tray on my lap. And the only thing I want to see on television are old movies. Cary Grant. Gregory Peck. Audrey Hepburn. Katharine Hepburn. Spencer Tracy. Think you can arrange that for me?"

"Consider it done."

Another sigh. "But I have something for you, if you'd like."

"What's that?"

"Monday night," she said. "You free?"

"Of course."

"Good. We're having an old-fashioned wingding of a political rally for Senator Hale, at the Center of New Hampshire. Free food and drinks ... music ... lights, camera, and action. One last big-ass rally before voting begins the next day. I'd love to have you there, right with me, holding hands, as the campaign wraps up in New Hampshire. Tell me you'll say yes."

I looked at the dancing flames, thinking, just a couple more days, that's all, just a couple more days. Then this damn primary and its problems be over.

"Yes," I said. "Of course, yes."

"Thank you, dear," she said, and I made out voices in the background, and she said, "The campaign calls. See you Monday night, 5:00 P.M. The Center of New Hampshire. Come to Room 110, all right?"

"Room 110, 5:00 P.M., Monday night. It's a date."

She chuckled. "It seems like ages since I've heard you say that. A date it is. Bye, now."

"Bye."

After I hung up, I looked at the flames again for a while, before getting up and making a simple dinner of corn beef hash, fried up in a big black cast iron skillet. Feeling particularly bachelorish, I ate from the pan to save some cleaning up. Annie would have been horrified to see me and that made me smile, to think of her face. After I ate I made a speed clean of the kitchen and decided it was time to go to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and I know it was arrogant of me to say so, but I had no doubt what I was going to do on Sunday would have an impact on who the next president of the United States would be.

Despite of all that, I slept fairly well.

Sunday morning I went over to the Lafayette House for my daily dose of newspapers, and Stephanie wasn't working that day, so I got out with my heavy load of reading without any serious conversation. I was also pleasantly surprised at seeing a familiar face while leaving the lobby; Chuck Bittner, campaign operative for General Grayson, who looked at me and pretended he didn't know who I was. The pleasant surprise, of course, was not in seeing him; it was in his ignoring me. I guess our little visit was already working. I returned the favor and walked back home.

It was a brisk morning, a faint breeze coming off the ocean, the salt smell good to notice. Out on the horizon were the lumps of rock and soil marking the Isles of Shoals; and I made out a freighter, heading north to the state's only major port, in Porter. There was a nice winter contrast to the snow and ice on the ground, the sharp darkness of the boulders, and heavy blue of the water that reminded me again of how nice it was to live here, even in the dark times of winter. Even when the quadrennial circus was in town, bringing with it all sorts of problems and headaches.

Like a dead man in my yard. And a former college lover, probably destined to become the next first lady, and my poor Annie, working so hard, working so diligently, for something she believed in. I shifted the papers from one arm to the other, glanced at all the big headlines predicting what might happen here come this Tuesday.

At home I made a big breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, tea, and orange juice, and plowed through most of
The New York Times
before I decided it was time to get on with the business of the day. I washed the dishes, went upstairs and showered and checked my skin, as always, and got dressed. Usually getting dressed means finding whatever's clean in my closet and bureau, but this time, I decided to do it right. I put on a clean dress shirt, white with light blue pinstripes, a new pair of heavy khaki slacks, and a red necktie. Sensible winter footwear, of course, and a dark blue cardigan. I looked at myself in the mirror before heading back downstairs and said, "Dahlink, you look marvelous."