The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear (12 page)

I reached over to turn off the CD player. The sudden silence was extraordinary. My ears were ringing. “That's the worst music I've ever heard.”

“You used to like my stuff,” he said, smiling a little more. “That's my old group, you know.”

“Trust me, I know. And that's a lie. I always hated it. Maybe I pretended to like it to be nice, but I always hated it. And, hey, it's great to see you, too.”

The tall, scarred man who was my half brother stood up from behind the desk, holding out his hand. When he had mine in his grip, he pulled me toward him and pounded me on the back. He was very strong.

“We're Irish, not Italian, what's with this Godfather crap?” I teased him, pulling back to look at him. I always tried to make myself look directly at him so I wouldn't be one of those people he had talked about once, the ones who look the other way. He had laughed about that, of course, about how all his life he had been trying to shock people, and now it looked like he might be succeeding.

“What about a stripper who's also a security guard?” I asked him.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“A stripper who doubles as a security guard, wouldn't that be a good business?”

“Dancer. Dancer, dancer. Got to get with the lingo. It's a world of professionals, J.D. You know there is a goddamn dancers' union? Like the Teamsters or something.” He shook his head. “Unbelievable. So I haven't seen you in how long? I don't know. You've been in town for days, you don't get in touch, and then you turn up here in the middle of the goddamn afternoon when you're supposed to be electing that silly woman president. So you want something. Right? Don't lie to me, J.D.”

“Tyler.” I laughed. “It is good to see you.”

“You sound surprised. Why shouldn't it be good to see me? I'm a wonderful, caring, loving individual who values friendship and the love of my brothers above all else!” He held me out at arm's length. “So tell me what you want. Enough kissy face.”

“Yeah, I want something,” I admitted. “I'm just not sure what.”

He collapsed on a sagging couch in the corner. “That's very goddamn helpful. You know what I like about being in the security and girl business? Everybody knows what they want. It's real clear. I want to make sure some out-of-work asshole doesn't break into my business, so I need some security. I'm having a party and don't want some maniacs crashing it just because I got a band they like playing. That's easy. That I can do. Or I need some dancers who know how to do what they do, that I can handle. But this existential shit, you want me to tell you what you want, that I don't do.”

“You're a good talker,” I told him, and I meant it. “I forgot what a good talker you are.”

“Yeah? Like maybe I got it from our father, huh?” We laughed again, but there was a little edge to it, a little ouch for both of us. “You having any fun?” Tyler suddenly asked me. “This is your big wet dream, right? Elect yourself a president, even if it is some weak sister socialist like Hilda Smith. Christ, J.D., what are you doing? I got strippers who I'd vote for before that woman.”

“Dancers.”

“Damn straight. ‘I think Armstrong George represents the dark side of America,' ” he mimicked in Smith's voice. “Give me a break. My girls are armed to the teeth and damn proud of it. Not a one of 'em doesn't have a gun and would just as soon blow your ass off as not, you mess with 'em.”

“I'll try to remember that. And you can rest assured that Hilda Smith is a firm believer in Second Amendment rights.”

“ ‘Rest assured.' ” He mimicked me now. He was good at voices, always was. “Don't give me that crap! She wants to give a goddamn IQ test before you can buy a gun. Get a note from your mother. And your priest. Christ, a goddamn communist.”

“There aren't any more communists. And they love guns in Russia, everybody has one.”

“See! She's worse than the Russians! Christ!” We chuckled. “You're a famous son of a bitch,” Tyler said. “See you on television all the time.” He paused, then started laughing. “Why in God's name did you make such a fool of yourself over that television woman? Sandra? She looks meaner than a snake and is old enough to be your mother.”

“Maybe it's in my genes.”

“That Callahan screw-up-with-women gene thing going, huh?”

I didn't answer, didn't want to think about it, really. “What about you? You married or anything?”

He shook his head. “We going to stand around here all day or are you finally going to tell me what brought you out here in the middle of the day? I know. You want me to make a speech at the convention, right?”

I must have flinched for an instant, even though I didn't realize it. But Tyler was smart and he knew me. Had known me, like I told the dancer outside his office, all his life.

“I get it,” he said. “Jesus, of course. You're worried that somebody might find out I'm your brother—half brother, okay—and make some stink about it, right? Embarrass you, right?”

“It's not about embarrassment,” I blurted, but I knew he knew I was lying, at least partially. “This thing is just a death struggle. People are going crazy.”

“Don't give me that crap,” he sneered. “You guys in politics, you always try to make everything you do so goddamn dramatic. Death struggle, my ass. It's an election, that's all. Nobody's going to die. Oh, Jesus, what a look.”

“You don't really want that fascist thug Armstrong George to win. I know you don't.”

“The hell I don't.” He started to laugh. He had a quick, manic laugh. “I hope Armstrong George does win this thing, I really do.”

“You don't mean that.”

He barked out a laugh. “Hell I don't. I can't stand that woman you work for and that Democrat is such a phony he makes me want to puke. The only reason I would even entertain the idea that maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Hilda won”—he played with the name, raising his voice in a mocking soprano—“is that you work for her and I suppose if she wins you would be a big goddamn deal in the White House, and you could help me get good concert tickets and shit. That's it.”

“I could do that.” I sat down in the metal chair in front of him.

“Be careful,” he said, nodding at the chair, “I just had sex with one of the girls in that chair and it might be kind of a mess.”

He cracked up when I shot up out of the chair.

“Forget about it. I wish. Worst thing you can do in this business. Screw the help. Not that I care about business that much.” He chuckled.

“You in trouble with the FBI?” I asked.

“Well, that came out of nowhere. Why you asking that?”

I didn't say anything and then he smiled. “I know. One of the girls said something, right?” He held up his hand. “You don't have to answer. But yeah, they did come out to talk to me.”

I kept waiting for him to laugh and say he was joking. But he didn't. He looked at me, enjoying the moment. Finally I had to ask. “Why?”

“Because I'm on some list they keep of Bad Boys and they wanted to make sure I knew they knew.”

“What list?”

“Hell if I know. But it probably comes with my ‘known association with undesirables.' ”

“Like?”

“Come on, J.D. All the whack-job skinhead white power crazies I've hung out with over the years.” He smiled proudly. “Us gun-loving nuts. You know. The kind that Hilda Smith thinks are…
radical extremist
.”

I didn't know what to say. But I knew he was right. It made perfect sense that a guy like Tyler would have lit up some warning lights in his day.

“I know what you're wondering. Did they know I was your brother. Half brother. Isn't that what you were wondering?”

“Oh, Christ, Tyler.” I hated that I was so obvious.

“The answer is that if they did, they didn't mention it. Look, J.D., as far as I'm concerned you're the son of the famous Powell Callahan, who was a crusading goddamn civil rights journalist, devoted family man, a giant among men. You had a good Christian mama, God rest her soul, envy of all the Garden Club. You got a football-hero brother who had a little problem but is coming back. Great goddamn American story.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Great American story.”

“But let me tell you something, brother dear. You got it all wrong. You think I'm the embarrassment. You ever think it might be the other way around? You know what kind of crap I'd get if my pals thought I was related to the guy who was trying to help elect
Hilda Smith
?” He laughed.

“So I guess we're good.”

Tyler shrugged. “Your father”—he paused, smiling, seeming to enjoy it, and I wondered if he did—“my father was the perfect idea of a liberal savior. Don't try and tell me that's not one of the reasons you became a Republican. You wanted to show the Old Man. And me, I did my own thing too. So really we aren't that different, J.D.” He smiled again. “I just get laid more and have a lot more fun.”

“Tyler,” I said, “I am absolutely sure that's true.”

He looked at me like he was going to say something else, then stopped. “You got to get back, I know. You got that ‘I've got to get back and do important work' look. Happens all the time in here. Mostly after some guy sneaks away from the office and has himself a little lap dance and then starts thinking, Shit, what the hell am I doing out here on Airline Highway in the middle of the damn day? They get that same look you got right now.”

“Tyler, look…” I felt like I should apologize.

“Hey,” he grinned, “there's your girl.” He pointed behind me to a silent television sitting on a Dixie Beer box.

“Jesus,” I mumbled, reaching for the sound. Right away I could tell nothing good was happening. It was at the hospital. Hilda was stepping from a town car in front of a seething scrum of reporters and television cameras. Sandra was there, but how did all these other reporters know? Worse, off to the side with a bemused look on his face was Armstrong George, who was just wrapping up a press conference. Right behind him was his son Somerfield, looking impossibly smug.

“I am here to see a friend and supporter who has had a very traumatic experience,” Hilda said, looking startled. She hadn't been expecting this, that was clear. She was looking around, blinking in the sun, trying to take it in. Her eye landed on Armstrong George, and you could see her mouth tighten, her eyes narrow. This was an ambush.
She could blow up,
I thought.
Oh God, this could be it
. I instinctively reached for my iPhone and started dialing Lisa.

“This is not a political visit,” Hilda Smith said carefully. Behind her, Secret Service agents looked miserable. Quentin Smith stood to the side with Lisa Henderson. The press herd, realizing that they had stumbled upon that rarest of events, an unscheduled appearance by a serious presidential candidate, attacked in full fury.

“But Ms. Vice President, you are running for president. Governor George just told the press that this bombing is further proof for the need for his New Bill of Rights and the measures of the Protect the Homeland bill.”

“I am not here to make a political point. Or hold a press conference.”

From behind his desk, Tyler cackled. “ ‘I am not here to make a political point,' ” he mimicked. “Christ, J.D., how do you work for this woman?”

The camera panned over Armstrong George, who was still looking calm and superior. “Because of that asshole,” I said. “I hate that asshole.”

“Bullshit,” Tyler barked.

“What?” I whirled around.

Tyler was grinning. “You'd work for Armstrong George in a heartbeat if you thought he could win and he asked you to. And if he paid you a bundle.”

“You are so full of shit,” I answered, and turned back to the TV. But I wondered if he was right. But so what? Lawyers work for anybody and manage to turn it into some kind of admirable duty. Why couldn't I do the same?

“So is it fair to say that this latest incident has not changed your view on the need for new laws to protect Americans?” Paul Hendricks had that Boston above-it-all tone in his voice. I could have strangled him. This was a disaster. Why didn't Lisa stop it? Jesus God, she was standing right there. Pull the plug, get out, and get her inside the hospital, away from the pack. I'd tipped Sandra so she could get a nice exclusive, put it out there that the VP had gone by the hospital. Now this? What had she done?

“My position is clear. We cannot sacrifice American values to protect American values. We must defend both.”

Sandra Juarez jumped in with a follow-up. “Yes, but polls show overwhelming support for the steps Governor George is calling for.”

“I know the governor's position,” Hilda Smith interrupted, and her eyes narrowed slightly, her face visibly tightening. “And he is entitled to it. His freedom of speech is protected by the real Bill of Rights, the same Bill of Rights that he seems determined to undermine—”

“That Sandra bitch doesn't look so bad,” Tyler said. “I mean, for an old woman.”

Lisa Henderson stepped forward and took Hilda Smith by the arm. “The vice president is here on personal business. This is not a press conference. Thank you.” She pulled gently on Hilda's elbow.

“Why are you refusing to answer the question?” Sandra Juarez demanded.

The vice president started to turn and follow Lisa, ignoring the shouted questions. But then she stopped, face flushed, eyes flashing.

“I came here to visit a friend who was wounded in this futile attempt to disrupt our democratic process. The very notion that anyone could even consider holding a press conference in front of a hospital to score political points is barbaric.” She pointed a finger at Armstrong George, who had placidly watched it all unfold. “Ask that man how he could do such a thing.”