The Run (21 page)

“A car?”

“And don’t mention it to the Secret Service.”

“Senator…”

“Just do it, Kitty, please.”

Will drove north, with no particular destination in mind. He just wanted to get away from the business of
campaigning for a while, and this was the first real opportunity he had had in months. He enjoyed driving himself again and not having to talk or listen. He was not a happy candidate.

He came to a fork in the road and took the one toward Los Alamos, because he had never been there. All he knew about the place was that the first atom bomb had been built there, and that there was a huge laboratory where weapons were still designed.

Will had known that running for president was going to be hard, but he had never realized
how
hard. On the plus side, he had a good organization, great volunteers, a knowledge of the issues, and well-thought-out positions on everything. On the minus side, fund-raising was lagging, and even with federal matching funds, he was coming up short on television money.

Then there was George Kiel. Will had underestimated the planning that Kiel had been doing for this campaign, apparently for years. The man had an unmatchable network of people in what seemed like every party organization in the country, and he was taking a lot of campaign money that Will wouldn’t touch. The result was an avalanche of very good, if conventional, television advertising that was hurting Will in many states, and the fact that Will was behind in delegate votes for the coming convention.

But what bothered Will more than anything was his belief that Kiel could not beat Eft Efton in the general election. He could see this scenario playing out: Kiel is nominated, and party bigwigs, terrified that he might lose to Efton, bring unbearable pressure on Will to accept the vice-presidential slot on the ticket.

Will did not want to be vice president, not even with the promise that, after two terms, he could be the
party’s nominee for president. Still, he didn’t know if he could stand up to the pressure when the demand came.

The road was rising, winding through spectacular mountain and canyon scenery. Will rolled down his window, and cooler air than he had expected rushed into the car. Finally, he pulled over to a roadside parking place and got out of the car. He was high above the Rio Grande, and the landscape stretched to the south toward Santa Fe. He could make out adobe buildings in the town, even see where the airport should be. Western scenery always amazed him, and the clarity of the air made this spectacular.

He wanted to talk to Kate right now, but she was in her office at the CIA, and when he talked to her there, he could never know if their conversation was being recorded. He wanted her to tell him not to take the VP nomination, that she would leave him if he did, that she would hate him for backing down to the party. He wanted her to scream at him, to put some iron back into his backbone.

He breathed deeply of the thin mountain air, but he didn’t seem to be able to get enough oxygen. He tried to imagine being vice president, and he couldn’t. There was one man who could help him. He took his cell phone from a pocket, dialed the White House number, and asked for Vice President Adams.

A secretary answered the call, recognized his voice, and put him on hold. A moment later Susan Adams came on the line.

“Will? How are you?”

“I’m all right, Sue, if a little tired. Can Joe find a moment to speak to me?”

“He’s in an important national security meeting right now, Will, and his schedule is really tough today. Is there anything I can help with?”

Adams wasn’t going to talk to him. “I just wanted to talk to him about the vice presidency.”

“The
vice
presidency? Are you considering that spot on the ticket?”

“Not really, but I know a moment might come when I might have to consider it, and I wanted Joe’s take on whether I should do it.”

“Will, I can tell you what Joe will say.”

“Then please do.”

“Joe has always hated being vice president, you know that.”

“I knew he wasn’t entirely happy with the job.”

“He was unhappy right up until the moment he became acting president. From that moment on, he was glad he took the job.”

“So if I take the vice presidential nomination, all I have to look forward to is the hope that George Kiel might clutch his chest and turn blue?”

“I don’t think Joe would put it as strongly as that, but that’s what it boils down to.”

“That’s pretty depressing,” Will said.

“Will, you know that Joe wants you to have the top job. That hasn’t changed.”

“To tell you the truth, I was beginning to wonder.”

“Joe just feels that he has to be seen remaining neutral in all his actions until the nomination is decided, no matter what his personal feelings.”

“What about at the convention? Is he going to take a position before the voting?”

“He hasn’t decided what to do about that,” Sue said. “He’s thought about it a lot, believe me.”

“How is Joe feeling, Sue? I mean, really?”

“He’s just fine about ninety-five percent of the time,” she replied. “I’m not sure that any of us can expect more than that.”

“I wish I were fine ninety-five percent of the time,” Will said.

“I’ve never heard you like this, Will. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, Sue; maybe I’m flagging.”

“Don’t do that, Will; it’s too important. You don’t want to leave the country to George Kiel or Eft Efton, do you?”

“It’s not what I want, Sue; it’s what the party and the electorate want.”

“I think you can make them want you.”

“I think I can beat Eft; I just don’t know if I can take the nomination from George.”

“You can do it, Will; I believe that, and so does Joe.”

“Well, I’m glad
somebody
believes it.”

“You’ve just got to work every minute, Will, and take every break. If you work hard, you’ll get lucky.”

“Thanks, Sue; I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“We’re looking forward to seeing you at the convention, Will. I think things will start to gel for you in Los Angeles.”

“I hope you’re right, Sue. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”

“I’ll tell Joe you called,” she said, then hung up.

Will closed the little telephone and put it away. The mountain air still didn’t have enough oxygen.

He got into the car and drove up to Los Alamos, which he thought looked like a seedy small town designed by a team of convicts. He drove down empty roads and occasionally passed guarded gates, through which roads led into woods.

He found himself in Bandolier National Forest, and the scenery took on an alpine look. There were amazingly few cars on the roads, and he liked the emptiness of the landscape.

He turned back toward Santa Fe and remembered that the scenery always looked different on the way back. He wondered if the depressing political scenery was ever going to change for him.

36

Zeke Tennant drove west across New Mexico and Arizona. He found Gallup depressing and Sedona nice. He stopped at the Grand Canyon and had lunch and a good look at a very big hole in the ground. He drove on south and west and watched the scenery dissolve into desert, guarded by huge cacti. He passed through towns with familiar names.

“Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino,” he sang, but he never caught sight of Route 66. He stayed overnight in a motel in San Bernadino, then, the next morning, bought a large map of Los Angeles and did some studying. It didn’t take long to get his bearings.

The L.A. Coliseum was in a neighborhood he didn’t care for, but after driving around for a while he found a neat block of houses, and one of them had a sign outside advertising a room for rent. The landlady, a slightly overripe but attractive woman of about forty, Mrs. Rivera, looked him over and, when he offered her a month’s rent in advance, found him acceptable.
Zeke left his suitcase in his room, then went for a drive. He was looking for construction sites and, in less than an hour, found two that seemed promising.

Next, he drove back to the Coliseum and drove slowly around it until he saw a sign that read
L.A
.
COLISEUM EMPLOYMENT OFFICE
.
HIRING NOW
. He parked in the nearby lot, combed his hair, and walked into the office and up to a counter. “May I have an employment application, please?”

The woman behind the counter gave him a form and a ballpoint pen and indicated a table where he could sit and complete the application.

Zeke used his Las Vegas address and identity, Harry Grant. Asked for his skills, he thought about it, then put down carpentry and electrical work. As an afterthought, he put down “installation and repair of computers and sound systems.” He had done all of those jobs in other existences. He turned in the application and sat down to wait.

A few minutes later a man appeared behind the counter. “Harry Grant?” he asked.

“That’s me,” Zeke said, standing up.

The man looked him up and down and, apparently, liked what he saw. “Come with me,” he said, raising the countertop to let Zeke through. He led the way to a windowless office down a hallway and offered Zeke a chair. “My name is Hiller,” he said, looking at Zeke’s application. “I see you live nearby. How long you been there?”

“Moved in today,” Zeke said. “Just got into town.”

“Where from?”

“Las Vegas; I’ve been there for the past eleven years.”

“Doing what kind of work?”

“Well, I’ve done a little of everything at one time or another, but for the past four years I’ve had my own
business, installing computers and home-entertainment systems.”

“What happened to your business?”

“I did okay at it, but it’s tough being self-employed. I got to the point where I was going to have to start hiring help, and I thought, well, I don’t really want to do that; I’d rather just find something good and work for somebody else. I kind of got tired of Vegas, too.”

Hiller nodded. “You haven’t put down any references,” he said.

“Like I said, I’ve been self-employed. I could give you the names of a couple of people I did installations for.”

“Good. What are they?”

Zeke rattled off two names and phone numbers in Las Vegas, along with the name of his banker. He had prepared for this long ago.

“You mind if I call these people now?” Hiller asked.

“Go right ahead.”

Hiller held out a plastic bottle. “While I’m at it, you may as well fill this for me. I assume you don’t mind taking a drug test.”

“No, sir, not at all.” Zeke followed the directions to the men’s room. On the way he passed a window that offered a view of the huge interior of the building. There was a lot of construction going on. He used the john, filled the plastic bottle, dawdled a bit, and returned to the office.

“Well, those folks thought well enough of you,” Hiller said, taking the bottle from him and labeling it. “Do you have an electrician’s license?”

Zeke did, but in Georgia, under his own name. “No, sir, but I could probably pass the test.”

“What kind of carpentry work have you done?”

“Everything from framing to finish work. I did two
years as a cabinetmaker’s apprentice when I was eighteen, building kitchens, and I’m good at installations.”

“Well, you’re an interesting fellow, Harry,” Hiller said. “I’ve got a need for some temporary people at the moment. You interested?”

“I’d prefer something permanent,” Zeke replied, “but maybe what you’ve got might lead to that?”

“It might very well. Tell me, can you work from architectural drawings?”

“Yes, sir; that’s what I did at the cabinet shop, and my boss let me work pretty much on my own.”

“Good. Right now we’re getting ready for the Democratic convention, and we’re stretched pretty thin. With your range of skills, I could offer you twenty an hour to start, and after the convention, if you show me you can do the work, I might have something better for you.”

“I think twenty might be all right to start,” Zeke said, “but I think I can show you I’m worth more than that, if you’ll give me the chance.”

“Harry, when I run this drug test, what am I going to find?”

“Urine,” Zeke replied. “I like a beer after work, but I’ve never been a drug user.”

“Good. Let’s say you’re hired, pending the test results. It’ll take me a day to run the test and get you processed. Have you got your own tools?”

“Yes, sir,” Zeke lied.

“I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know for sure, but I think you can expect to be back here the day after tomorrow at 8
A.M
. sharp to start work.” He rose and shook Zeke’s hand.

Zeke left the office and got back into his car. He needed some tools, and he thought he knew where to get them. He drove around for a while until he began seeing a lot of bars and pawnshops. At the second
pawnshop he found what he was looking for. Some poor bastard, down on his luck, had pawned a first-rate set of carpenter’s tools, and Zeke got the lot for two hundred dollars. At a surplus store he bought some coveralls, work boots, and a hard hat.

He put his tools in the trunk of the car and began driving again, back to the construction sites he’d seen earlier. He circled a large excavation until he heard a siren and somebody yelling, “Fire in the hole!” A moment later, a satisfyingly large explosion went off.

“Oh, yeah!” Zeke muttered under his breath. He looked hard at the little shack on the edge of the excavation, festooned with signs warning of danger and high explosives. “Nothing like advertising,” he said aloud, laughing.

When he got back to his rooming house later in the day, his landlady called to him as he passed her living room.

“Mr. Grant?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rivera.”

She fumbled for a piece of paper in her pocket. “A Mr. Hiller called. He said to tell you everything is okay, and you can start work tomorrow, instead of the day after.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

“It’s okay if I call you Harry?” she asked.

“Sure, it is,” he said.

“My name is Rosa,” she said. “Maybe you would like to have supper with me this evening? You like Mexican?”