3 Strange Bedfellows (4 page)

We went around in circles for another ten minutes before we hung up, mutually aggravated. I had half a mind to call up Sam and advise him to avoid commitment with this woman at all costs. She was too darn scrupulous. If they got married, she'd probably get on his case all the time about how he held his fork.

Rosalyn did have a point, though: Comp students do
write highly personal stuff. It always used to shock me how open they'd be. But I guess if your teacher assigns you an essay about, say, "An Important Event in My Life," or "My Most Embarrassing Moment," then you don't really have much choice about being open. Especially if you want an A.

So who knows what I might find in Susan Tamarack's portfolio? Maybe I'd hit the jackpot and come up with something entitled, "Why I'm Planning to Kill My Husband."

Unfortunately, without Rosalyn's help I wouldn't come up with
anything
.

Or would I? Maybe I could convince Andrea to sneak into Rosalyn's office at school and get the goods.

I broached the idea to her that night, during a moment of postcoital tenderness. But the tender moment died quickly, when it turned out Andrea shared her friend's scruples.

"Come on, honey," I
wheedled, "snatching the portfolio will be
fun
. Don't you want to be a private dick, too?"

She touched me in the obvious place. "No, that's your job."

"Seriously."

She withdrew her hand. "I can't do it. If I broke into Rosalyn's office, I'd feel like I was betraying her."

"The person you're betraying here is
Will."
I was pissed. It was lucky we'd already made love, because our argument was getting hot enough that it would have created some serious
coitus interruptus
.

Just then the phone
rang, giving us a welcome
argumentus interruptus
. I picked up. "Hello, Shmuck-dude," I said.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"Who else calls here at midnight? I tried to reach you before, but your phone was busy all night."

"It was off the hook. I managed to sleep for three whole hours. First time I've slept in days. So what have you found out?"

"Not much, I'm afraid."

Will exploded. "What do you mean, 'not much'? Damn it, this is no time to get all California laid-back!"

"Hey, I'm working on it, trust me," I said, and proceeded to tell him about the impromptu bedroom conference that I'd crashed at the funeral.

I could feel Will's excitement pouring through the phone line. "Of course! Why didn't
I
think of that?"

"Think of what?"

"Robert Pierce! He's the most power hungry sonufabitch in the world. I heard that when the party endorsed the Hack instead of him, he got so mad he punched somebody out. The guy’s mentally unstable. I'll bet he killed the Hack!"

I thought Will was really reaching, but I didn't argue. I'd already done way too much arguing for one night. "I'll look into it," I said.

But Will read me perfectly. "You think I'm nuts, don't you?"

"Not at all
—"

"Jake, you gotta nail this guy. My life is turning into a bad Kafka novel. I had to
cancel all my campaign appearances and hide in my house with the curtains down. The reporters are waiting on my front lawn with TV vans and antennas and stuff. And meanwhile I left messages for my volunteers and nobody's even calling me back. I'll bet they've all stopped passing out leaflets."

How could he think about leaflets at a time like this? Didn't he realize his campaign was deader than Milli Vanilli's career? Must be more of that avoidance thing. "Listen, it's good you're staying home. I'm sure your lawyer would tell you
—"

"Lawyer? Who has money for a lawyer?"

"Don't be stupid. You need a—"

"Why? I'm innocent. No way I'm gonna pay a lawyer and lose this house."

"I'll be glad to lend you the money—"

"Enough already. Look, the election's only thirteen days away. If you can't clear my name before then, I'll
never
get elected!"

It was so late, and I was so burned out, that I said
exactly what I was thinking—always a dangerous policy. "Buddy, save your breath. Forget the election. Even if I do clear your name, you don't have the ghost of a ghost of a chance—"

"Are you kidding? This is my golden opportunity. The Republicans are stuck with a write-in campaign, and most people are too dumb and lazy to figure out how to write someone in. The Hack's death was an incredibly lucky break!"

I sighed. "Glad to hear it. But since that's a murder motive, you might not want to spread it around too much," I said, and hung up.

4

I lay awake half the n
ight trying to dream up an organized plan of attack, but came up empty. The next morning, as soon as we got the kids off to the bus, I went down to the news stand on Broadway and checked the front pages of all the upstate newspapers.

The papers were filled with speculation about who would get the endorsement
—smart money was still on Pierce—but nobody had anything fresh on the murder. Apparently the cops hadn't found any new evidence. Furthermore, the Troy police chief confirmed that the murder weapon's serial numbers were filed off and the gun was untraceable. Of course, none of this bothered the editorial writers in the slightest. They all simply assumed Will was guilty.

Did the filed off serial numbers indicate some sort of hardened criminal was involved?

Badly in need of a pick-me-up, I grabbed some morning caffeine at Madeline's, where I ran into my old friend Dave Mackerel. Thanks to my tireless matchmaking efforts, Dave was now dating Madeline herself. The two of them had hosted a coffee for Will after I twisted their arms, and Dave wasted no time giving me grief about it.

"Hey, Jake," he started in, "next time you ask me to throw a party for som
eone, make sure he's not a homicidal maniac, okay?"

"He's not. He was framed."

"Oh no, you don't," he said, standing up. "You're not getting me involved in this. No way." Dave was a cop, and he'd helped me solve a murder once—and almost lost his job and pension because of it. "Madeline and I are taking a mini-vacation, and nothing's gonna stop us."

I got Dave to sit back down and listen, but I couldn't convince him of Will's innocence. No doubt Will's other campaign volunteers would feel the same as Dave. I couldn't count on any support from them.

But so what? Did Sam Spade ever get support?

After Dave left me, I squared my shoulders and headed off to the Hack's campaign headquarters. The Republican county chairmen had a press conference scheduled there for eleven, to announce who they were endorsing for Congress.

The Hack's HQ was right on Broadway, in a storefront that used to be a Papa Gorilla's restaurant before it went out of business. I'd looked into renting it for Will, but the price was way out of his league. Only a Republican could afford a place like that. The Hack probably got more donations from tobacco companies alone than Will got from all of his contributors put together.

The windows were still poignantly plastered with "Tamarack for Congress" posters. Well, that was one good reason for the
chairmen to endorse Susan Tamarack: they wouldn't have to go to the trouble of making up new posters.

Looking through the window, I saw a long row of eleven men seated solemnly behind two tables at the far end of the room. There were cameras trained on them from all five local televi
sion stations. Newspaper reporters, their ball points, spiral notebooks, and laptop computers poised, filled several rows of folding chairs. The big press conference was about to commence.

I hurried through the front door, but was immediately stopped by a large, surly, twenty-something black man with an elephant-shaped tie clip. "Who are you with?" he demanded.

Good question. For close to twenty years I'd been a freelancer who was basically with
nobody,
and I always got stumped whenever people asked me this difficult query. But finally I'd developed a stock reply, which I employed now. "I'm with the madmen and the dreamers," I told the black Republican bouncer.
Black Republican
—what an oxymoron. Kind of like Jews for Jesus.

The surly oxymoron was as unimpressed with me as I was with him. "If you're not a member of the media," he said, "you'll have to exit the premises."

"But—"

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," proclaimed a deep-voiced man standing at the front table. It was the same bald guy who'd opened
the bathroom door on me yesterday and turned me into a worm.

"Sir, please leave," Oxymoron said, crowding me backward toward the door. Several reporters turned to watch me get thrown out. I was being wormed yet again.

But then I spotted Judy Demarest in the back row. Besides being my wife's bowling buddy, Judy was also editor-in-chief of the
Daily Saratogian
. "I'm covering this for the Saratogian," I told Oxymoron, and gestured toward Judy.

After she got over her surprise, she gave Oxymoron an amused nod. His nostrils flared with annoyance, showing off a healthy cluster of nose hairs, but there was nothing he could do. He stepped out of my way and I walked past him.

I grabbed the last empty seat in the room, right next to Judy. "Who's the bald guy?" I whispered out of the side of my mouth.

She raised her eyebrow, acting shocked at my ignorance. "Senator Ducky, of course," she whispered back. "Some reporter you are."

"So fire me," I said, then looked back at Senator Donald "Ducky" Medwick. I hadn't recognized him, but I knew who he was, all right.

Like my two sons, Ducky Medwick had the same name as a famous baseball star, the original Ducky M. having pounded out home runs for the St. Louis Browns back in the 30s. But any similarities between Senator Ducky and my sons ended right there. My sons had a lot more hair, whereas Ducky
had a lot more power. As the majority leader of the New York State Senate, he had successfully stymied progressive legislation in New York for over a decade.

Ducky was also, as he pointed out now in his speech, the Hack's last boss before he died. When the Hack worked as legal counsel to the Senate Majority, Ducky was the man he reported to.

"On both a professional and personal level," Ducky intoned, "I had tremendous love and respect for Jack Tamarack." Oh phooey, not another eulogy. I tuned him out and eyed the eleven suits at the front table. I recognized three of them as the Three Stooges who were sitting on the widow's bed yesterday. The other eight stooges were probably fellow county chairmen from the 22nd District. Who had they finally decided to endorse? I looked all around the room, but neither Robert Pierce nor the widow was anywhere to be seen.

Senator Ducky ended his blarney at last, then stepped aside for Phil Rogers, the GOP chairman for Saratoga County. The whiny voic
e in the widow's bedroom yesterday had been his, and it was equally whiny today.

"Folks," he said in his grating, high-pitched tone, "since we want this announcement to make the twelve o'clock news, I'm going to do it without further ado. We've selected the candidate who we believe is best qualified to carry on Jack Tamarack's
legacy. The candidate who shares Jack's views on cutting taxes, fighting crime, and standing up for family values. And that candidate is . . . Susan Tamarack!"

On cue, the widow appeared from the back room dressed all in black, with perfect makeup highlighting her high cheekbones and dar
k soulful eyes. She looked stunning. I half-expected to hear Bert Parks strike up the Miss America theme song. Senator Ducky and his men all stood up and applauded. I almost applauded myself. Widows are such sympathetic figures, especially when they're waif-like and beautiful. It was a touching moment—

Until some wild-eyed lunatic ruined it.

Oxymoron must have let down his guard, distracted by the widow's gorgeousness. Otherwise the short, scruffy old man with the long beard and frayed, patched jacket would never have made it past him. Now Mr. Scruffy was racing up to the front of the room, screaming, "This is a travesty! A travesty, I tell you! Where is the spirit of our beloved forefathers? Why are we letting these filthy rich plutocrats tell us who to vote for?"

He was skinny and frail-looking and couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds, but he managed to shove a stunned Phil Rogers out of his way. Then he turned and faced the press, waving his arms and shouting, "I ask you, what makes this woman
qualified?
She's no more qualified than her ninnyhammer husband was! They're tools of the Gateses and the Rockefellers, all of them!"

Meanwhile Oxymoron
was hurrying to the front, moving quickly for such a large man. He lifted up the thin-chested intruder, threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and carried him away.

Mr. Scruffy didn't even resist. I guess he'd known it was coming, and it didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. He kept up his diatribe while still being held upside down in Oxymoro
n's arms. "I'm the last real Republican alive! We're supposed to be the party of Abraham Lincoln, standing for freedom, and now look at us! You people better watch your step, because I won't let you get away with this! Jack Tamarack got what he deserved, and so will all of you!"

Somebody opened the door, and Oxymoron literally threw Mr. Scruffy outside, then shut the door and locked it. In the ensuing silence, you could hear everyone in the room let out a sigh of relief. At the front, Senator Ducky gave a dry laugh. Prett
y soon everybody else was laughing too.

Everybody but me, that is. Mr. Scruffy's parting words had sounded awfully om
inous. Maybe they were just figures of speech, but . . .

"Let's try this a second time," Rogers whined. "I am proud to introduce the next congressperson from the 22nd District . . . Susan Tamarack!"

As the eleven stooges dutifully applauded all over again, I turned to Judy and asked, "Who was that masked man?"

"Yancy Huggins."

"Who's he?"

She threw me another of her raised-eyebrow, how-can-you-be-so-ignorant looks, but before she could give me a hard time, I said, "Oh, right, it's all coming back to me." It actually was, mi
ddle-aged forgetfulness notwithstanding. Yancy H. was a gadfly from Stony Creek, way up north, who ran against the Hack in the Republican primary and got two percent of the vote. Most of that two percent were probably people who meant to vote for the Hack, but pulled the wrong lever by mistake.

I peered out the window
past the "Tamarack for Congress" posters, but Huggins was gone. Meanwhile the widow was at the podium now.

She stood there woodenly, her body too tense to move. When she began speaking she used a frozen monotone, reading off lame platitudes from a prepared speech. I'd heard my share of lousy speeches in the past couple of days, but this one took the cake. It was so amateurish I felt bad for her. My five year old could read with more expression. And my seven year old could write a better speech. If this was what she learned in Rosalyn's Comp 102 class, she deserved her money back.

Enough of this. I was tired of hanging out with stooges in suits and the women who love them. It was time to get with the madmen and the dreamers. I jumped up and bolted out the door in search of Yancy Huggins, the last real Republican.

The man who believed that Jack Tamarack got exactly what he deserved.

I didn't have far to look. Huggins was holding forth at the corner of Broadwa
y and Phila, standing on a soapbox—yes, an honest to God soapbox, marked "Alamud Soap" and at least a century old. I had to hand it to the guy, at least he had style.

"My fellow countrym
en," he was shouting, "the Visigoths are on the march! They're taking away our freedom to hunt deer, to go fishing and swimming in our lakes, to think for ourselves!" Meanwhile the pedestrians stepped around him, avoiding eye contact and going on about their business. Sometimes a passer-by paused long enough to throw a giggle his way. Robert Pierce was a veritable giant compared to this fellow. Huggins was four-eleven max, and he looked pretty goofy standing on top of that box trying to be tall.

"We have become a nation of sheep!" he proclaimed. "Sheep, I tell you! Baa! Baa! Baa
—"

"Excuse me, sir," I said, interrupting him in the middle of his third baa. He stopped short and stared at me, obviously startled that
someone was actually paying attention to him. In fact, he was so startled that he stepped backward—and fell off his soapbox.

As he tumbled to the sidewalk, arms flailing, several passers-by chuckled. I held out my hand to help him up, but he just glared at me with a look of pure, white-hot fury. I was so thrown b
y it that I stepped backward myself—and tripped over his soapbox, and fell. Now there were two of us lying on the sidewalk, and even more passers-by began laughing.

Huggins jumped up and stood over me. I was afraid he'd stomp on me, all one hundred pounds of him. I was also afraid he'd pull a gun out of his jacket pocket and shoot me.

"Are you
mocking
me?" he hissed.

"Not at all, sir," I said, standing up quickly and brushing myself off. "I work for the
Daily Saratogian,
and I'd like to interview you."

Huggins's jaw dropped, and his angry eyes suddenly turned wide open and childlike. "Really?"

"You have a couple of minutes?"

His face turned all wary and suspicious again. "You sure this isn't some kind of joke?"

I hated to deceive the poor chump, but I said, "Of course it's not a joke." What the heck, maybe I
would
write up the interview. I'd try to convince Judy to stick it in the inside pages somewhere on a slow news day.