The Means (7 page)

9

Benson Hill rents out Crook's Corner for a private dinner with Tom, Peter Brand, and the top twenty RNC donors in North Carolina who are all looking forward to an evening with the man they expect to be their next governor.

Benson picked Crook's Corner so Tom would feel more comfortable on his home turf of Franklin Street in Chapel Hill. As a student Tom would take his dates here when he had enough money for more than pizza and Schaefer.

The restaurant and bar has hubcaps on the outside and a pig theme decorating the inside, also a pink pig on a platform and red post high above the roof. It has charm that seems accidental and the cooking is real Southern.

The tables have the hard, reflective tops of diner tables and the chairs are metal and plastic. The restaurant reconfigures the tables to accommodate the party and at Benson's insistence Tom is at the head of the table, though Tom has already become comfortable with taking the lead in a room of big shots without any assistance.

Peter Brand sits at the far end of the table to spread out the campaign insiders with the paying guests. Benson is on Tom's right and the other donors sit next to Tom in descending order of amount contributed.

“How's your wife holding up?” asks Benson.

“She's holding us both up. Alison's amazing.”

“It's vey potent, have a guh woman,” says Bubba Greenhouse, seated to Tom's left in the number-one-donor chair. “Vey.”

Most North Carolina accents in the major cities and university towns are mild. A twang and a few y'alls here and there. Bubba sounds almost Cajun. “Where you from, Bubba?” asks Tom.

“Nawlens.” He smiles. “Rigley. Now ah live in Duck Beach. Been theyah twunny yeeahs.”

“Bubba has substantial farming and hunting properties. He was very happy to learn that some of that property is home to enormous natural gas deposits. Isn't that right, Bubba?”

“Bettah lucky dan guh.”

“As you know, Tom, Bubba's one of our biggest supporters, both for you and nationally. Of course, now that Mason is running away with the White House, you're our only bright spot for the season.”

“We still have a couple weeks' work ahead of us.”

“We gone git out da vote,” assures Bubba. “Den you gone git in theyah and do da rahyt tings.”

“Tom's a fiscal conservative, Bubba. You know that. Balanced budgets, debt reduction, lower corporate tax rates. This'll be the most business-friendly state in the Union. Hell, that Boeing plant in South Carolina may relocate all those jobs up here when Tom's through!” Benson smiles and slaps the table. He's a crony who knows how to round up other cronies.

Tom's happy to discuss policy. He knows it's his obligation to his donors, but he wants to make clear they don't own a piece of his platform. “That's right. When elected, I intend to reduce the corporate tax rate from six-point-nine to five percent. On the expense side, there are some small pickups in waste management, water, but the main thing to address is education reform. Education is almost a third of the total budget.”

“Thass rahyt, Tom.”

“Bubba, the catfish amandine here is the best thing on any menu anywhere,” says Tom. He knows he has an entire dinner of policy talk ahead but would like a short break to talk about food.

“Awrahyt.” Bubba puts down the menu and picks up his glass of bourbon on ice. “Dem unions, Tom. Dey killin dis state.”

“The teachers union has a sweetheart deal. No question.”

“Kaynt go on. Dat dealz no guh.”

“We're going to look at it. I won't have a full legal review until I'm in office. If and when. But we'll try to get the teachers union to the table and do the sensible thing for the state.”

“Trah? You gone haf do moh dan trah, boy. Ah know doz union pricks. Crooks don't pahrt wit dey money.”

“It's all a negotiation.” Tom smiles. “Life is a negotiation.” Tom doesn't like being called boy and he hopes this sounds dismissive in return.

“No, suh. Noo bahginin. You say how gone be. Das dat. Dee end. No uddah way wit dem.”

“There's another way. We'll get around a table.”

“Tom, Tom. Dis has to be yo job wun. Firs ting. Dat stupid deal. An git it dun from yo desk in yo mansion. Not round sum tabah.”

Tom glances at Benson to give him a few seconds to intercede. When he doesn't, Tom looks back at Bubba and says, “Bubba, I didn't like being told what to do before I ran for governor and I don't like it now. You know very well the platform I've run on. I'll have a lot of jobs to do, if elected. If you have some suggestions, I appreciate that.”

“Tom's going to move this state in the right direction, Bubba. No worries there,” says Benson. He picks up his own glass of bourbon and drinks, hoping to punctuate the conversation.

Benson realizes he's been a step behind in the conversation and should have stepped in earlier but now it's too late. Tom's back is up and Bubba's pissed and Bubba ignores Benson. “Lookie heyah, Tom. You heyah by the guh graces oh my wallet.”

“I'm also here by the good graces of an endorsement from Donnie Whiskers.” Tom lets the name sink in like a slap across the face. “Should I also be taking policy direction from Don?”

The obvious answer is no but Bubba isn't going to verbalize the concession.

“I didn't think so.” Tom's taught himself a trick during the campaign. Whenever he feels he isn't calm, he forces himself to think of what a calm person would say. “Look, Bubba. You and I want very similar things. We may not agree exactly on the path, and I admit my path may be a bit longer. We can debate all night whether that's a good or a bad thing. But in the end, you and I are aligned.”

“Amen,” says Benson when what he really wants to say is Holy fuck what a disaster.

Bubba's still pissed but Tom is feeling very good about being his own man.

10

“The
Herald Sun
says ‘Pauley in a Squeaker.' The
News & Observer
has ‘2 a.m. Concession Gives Pauley the Win.'” Alison holds up a newspaper in each hand under the frame of the open front door. Tom sees her from his chair at the kitchen table and wishes he had a photo image of her at that moment to keep with him. He smiles and commits to remembering.

The election was so close that Mills refused to concede until most of the state was asleep in bed. He had made the call to Tom just in time for the papers to get the headlines correct in the morning.

“Get over here and kiss your governor.”

“Yes, sir. Is it sir? Your Excellency?”

“For Bubba and Benson, I think Your Excellency will do. The First Lady of North Carolina can call me whatever she pleases.”

*   *   *

The article below his in The
News & Observer
has a report on the Air France Flight 477 crash near JFK from a few months earlier. There had been signs of mechanical failure and now the black box recording indicates that one of the pilots was hungover or drunk or both.

The article credits reporting done by Samantha Davis at UBS. Tom recognizes the name. He pushes the paper across the table and kisses his wife.

11

Tom drinks from the marble water fountain of the Old Well. He takes Alison's hand and turns to deliver his victory speech in the heart of the UNC campus, just three hours after Alison read the headlines. Because Mills had not conceded the night before, Tom's team rushed preparations for the speech at his alma mater.

Thousands have gathered and more swell into the brick walkways around the old landmark like blood gathering behind a clot. The student body knows Tom is an alumnus and he appears young enough that he seems recently one of them.

The Old Well is a small rotunda more than a hundred years old. There are eight columns and it is only a few steps across. The top is twice the height of a man. It used to function as the sole water supply for the Old East and Old West dormitories. Now students drink from the fountain on the first day of classes for good luck. Tom wipes a drop of water from his lip and waves to the crowd.

Standing on a bench are two young girls in bikini tops and tiny jean shorts that match. They each hold over their heads a bottom corner of a sign, the kind they use in the stands at the basketball games. This one reads, “Finally a HOT Governor!” Another sign held by two girls Tom assumes must be from the same sorority reads, “Luv the Guv.”

Tom scans the growing crowd and sees there are many more females than males. From farther back comes a scream—a sorority-aged voice that has the raspiness and edge of a girl who is not the prettiest but is pretty enough to be bold without a chip on her shoulder and is usually drunker than the rest. “Tom Pauley is gorgeous!” She holds the last syllable for several seconds and there is audible damage to her vocal cords.

Tom laughs. Alison laughs too. She squeezes his hand and leans into the microphone that Peter Brand has set up on the Old Well. “I second that!”

Alison is enjoying the attention for her husband as much as he is. Her ease with the uproar makes it more of a celebration.

She kisses Tom's cheek then he whispers in her ear, “I'm not universally hot. I'm politician hot. It's a much lower standard.”

Tom quiets the crowd with both hands raised as though trying to prove to them that he does have ten fingers. He starts his short prepared speech crediting his Carolina education, thanking his wife and the community, and saying that he plans to hit the ground running once his term starts in January.

Since the earlier interruptions about Tom being gorgeous were met with amusement and not rebuked, the crowd presses to find the limits, the way crowds and toddlers do.

Tom says, “Jobs will be a top priority of my administration. Not only can we rebuild our manufacturing industry here in North Carolina, but we can create more services jobs—banking, technology . . .”

“Hey, Guv!” Tom and Alison both look ninety degrees to the right where the shout came from. There's a row of five guys standing shoulder to shoulder. It feels like a choreographed formation, like part of a coed cheerleading team.

As soon as Tom looks, the five drop down in a squat. Immediately behind each one of them is another crouched guy with a girl sitting on his shoulders. In unison the five guys from the back row pop to a standing position and the girls yank their spaghetti-string tank tops over their heads and wave their breasts from side to side. The guys lower the girls down and all fifteen scatter.

Tom turns back to the center of the crowd. “Possibly some jobs in the entertainment and hospitality field for our friends there.”

The crowd laughs but Alison manages only a half smile, which is worse than a disapproving look because it shows she's uncertain.

The event no longer has the gravitas of high office, of hard work and ideas building things that last more than just a lifetime and ought to be housed in the timeless marble structure of a capitol building so that future civilizations will see the bones of the structure still standing and know that it meant something. This now feels like celebrity, to be housed in a thrown-together set of a studio catering to fanciful notions and perverse motivations. Alison hasn't anticipated this part of the job her husband has just won.

Things are changing, she thinks. Tom has the same thought at the same time.

SAMANTHA DAVIS

12

The wrap of yellow plastic police tape makes the poolside cabana look like a piece of installation art. The Delano attempts business as usual despite the spectacle. It's January and they can't afford to close.

Samantha Davis had flown to Miami that morning. Enterprise had given her the choice of a candy apple red or an interstate blue PT Cruiser. Both underpowered. She chose red and drove to the Boulevard Hotel in South Beach. She checked in and walked the mile north to the Delano Hotel.

Two hotel security guards flank either side of the cabana. Samantha walks along the edge of the pool and shows her press credentials to one of the guards. “I'd like to take a look at the scene.”

“You can go as far as the yellow tape.” The guard seems already out of patience. Since the police allowed the hotel to stay open, the police tape has become an attraction unto itself and good for business.

The cabana has its own patio that faces the Delano pool. There are lounge chairs with thick, white cushions, small tables, and an oversized canvas parasol. The patio is taped off and there's no sign of anything out of place. Samantha looks at the solid white door of the cabana at the back of the patio. It's crossed with more strips of yellow tape like the bars of a jail cell.

“Looks dramatic,” she says.

The guard nods without looking at her.

“Is there anything you can tell me about what happened here?” He's not a cop, just hotel security but it's worth trying.

“Lady, I don't know anything about what happened here.”

Lady? There's a steady trickle of passersby, like trick-or-treaters, drinking a cocktail with one hand and taking pictures on their phones with the other. “Who found the body?”

“The maid didn't get an answer to the door so she called the manager. He found the body.”

“What time was that?”

“I don't know.”

“When was the last time anyone saw Meadow Jones?”

The guard turns a bit to look right at her. “Look, lady. I don't know. And I'm not supposed to guess. I'm not supposed to talk about it. Everyone here has been told not to talk about it.”

“Sure. Got it.” Samantha takes a few photos with her phone to look at later and walks in the direction of the ocean and the outdoor bar. The pool is about a hundred feet long with an infinity edge and is lined with palm trees. The last twenty feet of the pool is given to two-inch-deep water so people can bring in a chair and sit with wet feet.

It's four p.m. so the pool area is in transition from serious sunning and casual drinking to serious drinking and casual flirting. Samantha orders drinks from two different waitresses, mentioning she's a reporter, and is met with no information both times.

She decides to stop introducing herself as a reporter and targets the most handsome of the bartenders.

At the end of the pool is an area of sand with rows of lounge chairs. Beyond that is thick brush and on the other side of the brush is the real beach and the ocean. She walks the trail through the brush where she fixes her hair and reapplies makeup, then walks back to the Delano property.

The outdoor bar has a straw-thatched roof and is by the sand and the corner of the pool. She concentrates on her approach to the bar even though she's certain that the more she tries to look pretty the less she does.

She makes sure to get the bartender's eye as she approaches the bar. She feels like a twit. He'll either laugh at her or find something interesting, but there's no question there will be an impression of some kind. “Gin and tonic.” A more masculine drink will be better to order. Guys love girls who smoke cigars and drink gin and tonics.

“Coming up.” He smiles and makes the drink without ever looking at his hands. He keeps his eyes on his audience like a magician. “Tough day at the beach?” He glances at her fingers, confirms no engagement ring, and looks back at her eyes.

He looks about thirty. Old enough that he must be a career bartender and young enough that his tan still looks healthy. A youthful tan is attractive but a tan on old skin makes people think only of wrinkles and cancer. He's almost six feet with lean features and a lean body. “No, I just got here today. Beach day tomorrow.”

He slides a gin and tonic across the bar to her still without having looked at it. It's filled right to the rim and he knows this the way a gunslinger knows if there's a round in the chamber by the weight of the gun in his hand. He thinks of himself as a sort of gunslinger. “Here with friends?”

“A girlfriend.” This is true. Emily Rosen is the booker UBS assigned to travel with Samantha. Emily's a twenty-four-year-old petite blond scrapper and Samantha likes her.

“Are you staying here?”

“I can barely afford the drinks here, let alone the rooms. We're staying down the road.”

“This one's on the house.” He raps the bar top with his knuckles.

Samantha takes a sip. “What's all the police tape for?”

“I guess you've been traveling.” He puts both palms down on the bar and leans toward Samantha. “You know who Hugh Brooks is?”

“The actor.”

“Right. He's dead.”

“That's awful.” Samantha can feel her own acting but knows everyone's genuine response to this sort of news about a stranger can feel forced. “Isn't he about nineteen?”

“He's twenty-one. He and his costar girlfriend both just turned twenty-­one. Meadow Jones. Isn't that a great name? My next go 'round on the planet I want a name like Meadow Jones. Sounds like a superhero with special powers.”

Right. “What happened?”

“Two nights ago they were drinking right here. Right where you're sitting and I was pouring them drinks. Except for a few coke trips to the bathroom, they were drinking here 'til we shut the place down. Next thing I hear about it is yesterday afternoon, they pull his body out of that cabana. Dead.”

“OD? Suicide?”

He winks at her. “I don't think so.”

“Then what?”

“You've seen their movies. They're a couple a vampires.”

“So?”

“I'm just saying.”

“You're saying they were killed by vampires?” Great, I'm wasting my time.

“I'm saying they took their method acting a little too far.”

“What are you talking about? And another gin and tonic.” The first one was mostly ice, she tells herself.

He slowly starts to make it. Several other people are waiting to order drinks and the less handsome bartender is struggling to keep up. “I was one of the last people to see them and I was with them most of the night so I got questioned by the cops big-time. I heard a few things and they asked certain things so I put it together.”

He's only too happy to tell this story and he does it in the kind of hushed tone that's meant to draw attention. He's probably already told it to anyone who will listen. Hopefully it hasn't been to another reporter. “Exactly what did you put together, Sherlock?” Samantha tries to say this in a flirtatious way as though she doesn't care about the information, she just cares about being entertained.

“I heard there was a lot of blood at the scene. And they asked me if I saw any unusual markings on either of their necks at any point during the night. They tried to ask it as an afterthought question, like, oh, by the way, but I could tell it was important.”

“Wow. Anything else?”

“Nobody saw Meadow Jones leave the hotel. As far as I know. The security cameras must have picked it up, so the cops know. As far as I know they haven't arrested her but they asked her not to leave town so she can quote unquote cooperate with the investigation. She already lawyered up.”

“Were they fighting the night at your bar?”

“No. They didn't seem happy or angry or sad. They always act tragically hip like they just smoked too much opium. I told all this to the cops. They wear all black and they hang on each other and kiss each other's neck.”

Samantha takes another sip. This is good stuff. “Would you consider doing an interview? Go on TV to talk about this?”

He retreats a step into the bar and holds up his hands like he just found out the guy selling pot is an undercover cop. “Are you a reporter?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not supposed to be talking about this.”

“They can't arrest you for talking.”

“I don't know what the cops can do but the hotel can fire me. Management told everyone to put a gag on it or they'd fire us.”

“They're crazy. This'll be great for their business. It'll be a tourist attraction.”

“I don't think they want that.” He's rattled to find he was on the receiving end of the smooth talk. His gunslinger hubris is gone.

Samantha sees Emily walking alongside the pool toward the bar. She waves. Samantha looks back at the bartender and hands him a business card. “If you change your mind, call this number. You'd look very handsome on TV.”

He smiles at this and she stands and walks off to steer Emily to two chairs and a table in the sand.

Emily sits with an exhale. “I'm sorry, Sam. I got bubkes. This hotel's on lockdown.”

Samantha leans forward. “I got something. I'm not sure if it's enough to use, but I got something.” She leans back. “Have you had a drink yet?”

“No.”

Samantha raises her hand for a cocktail waitress and gets another gin and tonic. The first two have worked like caffeine with no edge. Alcohol is a wonderful drug in moderation. Emily orders a mojito.

“The bartender was serving drinks to Hugh Brooks and Meadow Jones the night before Hugh's body was found. They were here until the bar closed. Since the bartender was one of the last to see them, he was questioned by the police. He heard there was a lot of blood on the scene and the police asked him if he saw any strange marks on either of their necks.”

“Weird.”

“The bartender thinks it's a murder investigation, not an accidental OD or suicide.”

“Jesus. This is about to become a huge story.”

The drinks come. Emily sips hers and winces.

“What's wrong?”

“It's too sugary. It's like a cup of syrup.”

“Get something else.” Samantha raises her hand for the waitress.

“No, it's fine.”

“Fine? You just said it's syrup.”

“It's fine, I'll drink it.”

She's twenty-four, thinks Samantha. We're ten years apart but those are a big ten years. “Emily, get something you want. Life's too short to drink twenty-dollar drinks you don't like. There's no sense being a martyr about it.”

Emily laughs. She admires Samantha and they like each other. The waitress comes back and Emily orders a bay breeze.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks.

“All we have is a far-fetched vampire story from a not very credible-­sounding source. Let's see if we can build on it.”

“Okay.”

“Bump into as many maids and room service staff as you can. Don't tell them you're with the press, just act like a guest who finds it all amusing. Tell them you already heard there was lots of blood at the scene and that Hugh Brooks had strange wounds on his neck. Get them talking. See if you can get anyone to confirm that, or add anything.”

“Okay.” Emily stands up. She's excited to be investigating, a little too excited, but that's okay. She'll get the work done. It's always easier to ramp a person down than it is to ramp a person up.

“Emily.”

“What?”

“Finish your drink first.”

Emily laughs and sits. “This is so exciting.”