Gathering String (2 page)

Waterman appeared to be taking it in now, staring out at the morning, but in truth he didn’t even notice. He’d started taking the beauty of the city for granted a long time ago.

Envious fellow journalists often sarcastically referred to the black-haired, sharp-featured reporter as “The Dark Prince.” Acerbic, ego-driven and quick-tempered, Waterman was hard to take, but his work absolved him of many sins. Sam honed his reputation across the river in the downtown newsroom of the
Washington Tribune
, the paper that had ruled political news for over a hundred years. But like most ink-on-dead-tree media, the
Trib
had fallen on hard times. Sam’s cutthroat instincts kept him in the newsroom through the cutbacks and layoffs that thinned the staff to a shadow of what it had been. And he kept up with the shifting technology enough to get by. But his heart, if you believed he had one, was in the reporting and writing of the stories. Known for his hard living, drinking and chain smoking, most of his colleagues figured Sam would just drop dead at his desk one day. A few even hoped so.

So it made waves when Waterman took a buyout a year ago and jumped ship, following his friend and former
Trib
national editor, Steve Johnson, to the site called Politifix. Insider scuttlebutt claimed that Sam’s sudden exit had more to do with a photo department plot to assassinate him than the opportunity at the start-up. How the man had managed to alienate an entire
Tribune
department had been a topic of juicy gossip and innuendo for years.

But there was no doubt that Waterman was a survivor. He was as insightful, driven and ruthless online as he’d been in print. But it was also clear how he felt about his new medium. Contempt was one of Sam's more easily accessible emotions.

“There hasn’t been a cocktease like this since the 1950s.” Better dressed than most journalists, Sam's white shirt was crisply starched, but with the sleeves rolled up, he still managed to look rumpled. His distinctive Boston accent and hawkish eyes gave him an air of a cleaned-up street-tough. “I feel like I’m watching Rock Hudson run Doris Day to ground.” Everyone in the room laughed, but Sam’s face remained stern. “I’ve dogged rumors about Swede Erickson’s candidacy for three fucking years.”

Those rumors began the night of the Iowa governor’s keynote speech at the last Republican convention. Powerful, direct and challenging, it left nearly every delegate asking why he wasn’t the candidate. And it was painful that he wasn’t. The Republicans lost that election. Before the new Democratic president was even sworn in, the biggest financial collapse since the Great Depression brought the country to its knees. Now, with the national election just a year out, it looked like the unhappy electorate was ripe to change horses in mid-stream, but the hot-button question was whom the Republicans would nominate.

For the last two years the usual cadre of Republican governors, senators and congressmen stepped up to throw their hats into the ring. But all of them seemed to pale in the onslaught of the Minutemen movement. Sam had no patience for this groundswell of self-styled patriots yearning for a simpler, God-fearing time. In his view they were a rabble of noisemakers with short attention spans, distracted by strawman issues and delusional in their belief that prayer, catchphrases, and flag shirts would solve a world full of problems.

At the head of this populist tide rode one woman - Tamarack Fuller. Named for the mountain where her forefathers hunted in her home state of Idaho, Tami Fuller was a former state senator who parlayed a Sunday morning basic cable talk show into a multi-million-dollar brand when she was picked up by the national conservative network. Admired for her dedication to her handicapped husband, loved for her Christian values and mean-spirited quips, Fuller made sure she was constantly in the news. Dragging her wheelchair-bound husband and two busty daughters onto every available political stage, she habitually snarked about “media elitists” who tried to hold her to her outrageous comments, or blamed the current administration for everything from high unemployment to the lack of a new panda cub at the National Zoo. The fact that she was as popular as she was only confirmed for Sam that a disturbing number of the electorate liked their politicians dumb, noting that her chief qualification for public office lay in her ability to dilute any complexity to a sound bite delivered with an ingratiatingly spunky smile.

Fuller was, Sam was certain, the best hope the Democrats had of holding power. She had the entire Republican establishment shaking in their shoes.

So it was no wonder party leaders had pretty much dropped to one knee, plighting their everlasting troth if Swede Erickson would just lead them out of the valley of the shadow of Fuller and into the Promised Land. Smart, levelheaded and articulate, his popularity had slowly fermented over the years. Next to Fuller’s screechy carping and sweeping generalities, he was calm and specific. While Tami was the queen of the social conservatives, Swede was the only hope of the economic, business and defense stalwarts of the party.

A-political, Sam really didn't give a shit who won the nomination. He was just sorry both Fuller and Erickson were from such small towns. More than anything he hated tracking pols into the back of beyond. He’d already made one foray into the Idaho outback to Fuller’s hometown of Elk City, population 2,000. If Sam believed in God, he would pray that he'd never have to return. And covering the Iowa caucus turned him epically foul every four years. If Erickson were getting in, it would mean even more time spent in the Hawkeye State.

But this late in the game, Erickson was still playing coy, tantalizingly high profile, yet coolly ambivalent to the lures of higher office. The negative flirtation drove the party’s gentry mad with lust for the man who could save them from the fringe and thrust them back into power. Now it was the November before the convention, just two months before the Iowa caucuses, and the speculation about Erickson had grown from a low-level buzz to a national obsession. In the last few days there was a persistent rumble that the Republicans were finally going to get lucky.

Mike Dodson, the Politifix General Manager, rolled his chair back from the conference table, put his hands behind his head, and fixed Waterman with a hard stare. “Well, where are we on this?”

Sam shrugged, “There’s a groundswell that’s lending a little credibility this time. I’ve got half-a-dozen sources saying they
know
he’s ready to consummate, but not one who’s heard it from Erickson himself. That mother-fucker Donnelly won’t confirm or deny.”

“Well, if it’s not now, I don’t think he’s ever putting out,” Steve Johnson, the site’s editor, sighed. “He’s got some serious catch-up with the other candidates in the field for two years or more. What about fund-raising?”

“His re-election committee has way more money than an Iowa governor needs. Plus there’s his own money.” This came from a reporter named Evie Bundy.

Sam straightened. “And his wife has serious gelt. Her family cashed in on fiber optics way back when.”

Dodson looked over his trademark half-glasses. “Steve’s right. The party isn’t going to wait for him to show up in the honeymoon suite much longer, especially with Morton making headway with the traditionalists.” Florida senator Frederick Morton had been on the trail for over a year, and with Erickson’s candidacy questionable, he was seen as the most likely fallback to thwart Fuller.

“Well, Erickson’s played it brilliantly,” Bundy said. “All the major news outlets are afraid to let him out of their sight until he breaks one way or the other. And if he is in, he comes across looking like Jesus the Savior, walking across the water to save a drowning party.”

“Bullshit,” Sam snorted, his sharp green eyes narrowed. He and Bundy were both former Triblets, and they had a history. She thought him arrogant, he thought her lazy. Sam’s outspoken criticism of her work was generally credited with labeling the ax with Bundy’s name on it during the first round of
Trib
layoffs. A lot of people said his animosity had more to do with Bundy’s avid gossiping about Sam’s personal life than anything professional. Whatever the case, it offended the hell out of him that she fetched up at Politifix along with him. “All this yes-means-no and no-means-yes shit pushed a lot of backers who wanted a sure thing into bed with Morton. Erickson’s squandered a lot of passion with his dithering. The important question here is why.”

Dodson nodded, but Bundy insisted, “He’s got the goods and knew it. He let the others shoot holes in each other for a year, and now he’s going to step out on the stage as the pristine virgin.” Her tone went mocking, “The smart ones don’t get rushed by an impressive hard-on, Sam.”

Sam’s jaw set. “You are so full of …”

He was cut off when Sarah Mills, the deputy editor, appeared in the doorway. “Twitter just lit up with a shitload of tweets that Erickson is in.”

Dodson leaned to his laptop keyboard, bringing in his Twitter feed and hitting a link. He read aloud, “Governor Swan August Erickson plans to announce his candidacy tomorrow at 11 a.m. central time in Lindsborg, Iowa …” He stopped to see which news site he was on and yelped, “The
Lindsborg Journal
? A copyright story in the
Lindsborg
fucking
Journal
?” No one else in the room said a word. “After all this, the SOB gave it to the hometown paper. Erickson just stuck it to us all.” He ran his hand down his face, then looked over at Steve Johnson. “Get Sherry to book a couple seats on the next flight out. We’ll need a shooter.”

“Rick Higgins is freelancing these days,” Johnson responded. A friend of both Sam and Steve, Rick’s head had rolled in the last
Trib
bloodletting. Johnson never failed to suggest the father of five for a shoot. It helped that his work was top-notch. “He’ll probably go stringing for HuffPo and maybe the
LA Times
too, to share the travel expenses.”

Dodson nodded. “Call him and get us in on it.”

As Johnson rose, Dodson glanced from Sam to Evie and then back again, jabbing a finger at Sam. “Saddle up. And kick it into high, Sam. No good comes from forcing Politifix to suck hind tit, and I want Erickson to know it. Get out in front of that bastard. Right now.” Sam nodded and hustled out the door.

Rick Higgins was one of the few former Triblet photographers who would even consider working with Sam Waterman. Taking his eyes off the road, he glanced at the passenger’s seat and sighed. Sam usually had to be dragged into the hinterlands of the Midwest, kicking and swearing until hell wouldn’t have it. But today he was unusually quiet, glaring straight ahead, impatience in every line. As if to emphasize the point, Waterman abruptly slapped the radio switch, cutting off Tami Fuller's strident, "Swede Erickson is just this month's flavor ... "

Feeling Higgins’s eyes on him, Sam looked over with a raised eyebrow in mute question and Higgins muttered, “You tired or trying to kick the smokes again?”

“Both,” Waterman grunted.

Higgins dug into his shirt pocket for a pack of gum and tossed it in Sam’s direction. “Here. It’ll take the edge off. Makes your breath all nice and minty too,” he laughed.

“Fuck you,” Sam snorted, but glancing from the corner of his eye, Rick saw his taciturn companion faintly smile as he unwrapped a stick. Maybe that was why the two always did OK on the road. Neither took the other too personally or too seriously.

Not many could strike a comfortable balance with Waterman these days. Sam had always been edgy, but ever since photographer Tess Benedict’s abrupt departure from the
Trib
nearly three years ago, Sam had grown more cutting, more bitter. Most of the
Tribune
staff held the loss of their talented, hardworking young colleague against Sam, and Higs knew that was a big part of Sam’s decision to leave. If he hadn’t known Waterman so well, and been his friend for so long, Rick might have cut him dead as well.

Looking over with a covert glimpse, he saw Sam’s hawkish eyes scan the horizon, working his nicotine deprivation out on the gum. Always preferring to let sleeping dogs lie, it pained Higgins that wasn’t an option today. He’d take almost any gig these days, but he sure as hell didn’t want to go with Sam to Lindsborg. If he hadn’t needed the work, he would have turned Politifix down. But he had a big family to support. Now he needed to speak up, and he needed to do it soon. He drew a deep breath, but it was Sam who broke the silence.

“We have got to be getting close. Christ, I’m desperate for the sight of civilization.” Sam inclined his dark head toward the gently rolling, cornstalk-stubbled fields stretching toward the horizon and then rubbed his eyes, as if to blot them out.

The car droned on, over the lip of another hill, and suddenly Higs smiled and pointed, “Well, lookie there.” A silver water tower seemed to rise from a barren field. Sam squinted, straining to read the block letters in the deepening dusk, until he finally made out the word "Lindsborg."

“Thank God almighty,” he sighed, and stretched into the backseat for his sport coat, pulling an itinerary from the inside pocket and looking it over. “Oh bloody, fucking hell …”

“What?”

Sam waved the paper. “We’re staying someplace called the Tall Corn Inn.”

Higgins’s laugh was nearly a groan as the car reached the bottom of the hill and he turned it off the highway. “Sooner or later you throw a tantrum when you're sent out into the boonies. Can we skip the drama this time?”

“Small towns suck and you know it.”

“No, I don’t know it. Look at this place. Well-kept houses, tidy yards, not a slum or a building over three stories, what the hell is wrong with that?”

Waterman’s sharp-eyed stare took in the small shops along the square. “There’s not a decent hotel or restaurant for 100 miles. If there’s even a movie theater in this burg, it’s probably showing, ‘It’s a Wonderful-fucking-Life,’ to rubes who think Jimmy Stewart is still alive.” Sam shook his head and looked over. “Of course, you being a boy from West Texas, I can see that you might be impressed after looking at sand and mesquite half your life.”