The Run (15 page)
His companion, Jeb Stuart Calhoun, the junior senator from South Carolina, took a swig of his bourbon. “Well, Freddie, what do you think of that?”
Wallace puffed on his cigar. “I think Will Lee kicked George Kiel’s ass, that’s what I think.”
“And what do you think that means for us?”
“I think it means we ought to be worried.”
“Jesus, Freddie, why? You think we have anything to fear from Will Lee?”
“Jeb, didn’t you listen to what those New Hampshire voters had to say?”
“Sure, I did, and it didn’t make any sense to me.”
“Well, I guess that’s why you’re not president. Those people
liked
Will Lee, which shouldn’t have come as such a surprise to me, since I like him myself. Think about it; how many
likable
presidential candidates have we had since Jack Kennedy died?”
“Ronald Reagan was likable.”
“Right, right, who else?”
“Bill Clinton, although I personally hated the son of a bitch.”
“Anybody else?”
Calhoun screwed up his aging brow. “Not that I can think of.”
“And what else do Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton have in common?”
“I can’t think of a thing.”
“They both were elected to two terms, you horse’s ass!”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Now tell me, Jeb, who would you rather run against? George Kiel, or that nice-looking, charming fellow who just kicked George’s ass?”
“I see your point. But just because he did well in New Hampshire doesn’t mean that’ll translate to getting the nomination.”
“Jeb, the folks in New Hampshire are the most hard-bitten, skeptical, cantankerous voters in this country. Just about every one of them has met two or three presidents and a whole lot of candidates. If Will Lee can charm them, he can charm anybody.”
Calhoun drank some more bourbon. “Well, what are we going to do about it? Is the man clean?”
“Nobody’s clean, Jeb, you above all people ought to know that.”
Calhoun reddened. “Then there must be something we can get on him.”
“I’ve known him since he came to work for Ben Carr,” Wallace said, “and he’s as clean as they come.” He puffed on his cigar, then smiled a small smile. “That’s not to say he’s clean, though.”
“You know something I don’t, Freddie?”
“Jeb, I know a
hell
of a lot you don’t, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“Come on, Freddie, what have you got on him?”
“There’s a woman in Will Lee’s past,” Wallace said. “A very beautiful woman, in fact. Very telegenic.”
“Tell me about it.”
Wallace got up and poured himself another bourbon, then settled again in the wing chair before the fireplace. “It goes back a good ten years,” he said, “back when Will was first running for Ben Carr’s seat. He got himself roped into defending a young fellow down in Will’s home country. The fellow was charged with raping and murdering a colored woman.”
“You mean Lee got involved with a
colored
woman? I
like
it!”
“Jeb, the colored woman was the murder victim. Now shut up and listen.”
“Sorry, go on.”
“Will’s client had this very beautiful girlfriend. She sat there in court every day and knocked everybody’s eyes out. I guess she knocked Will’s eyes out, too, because he ended up screwing her.”
Calhoun leaned forward. “Let me get this straight: This woman was the girlfriend of Lee’s client, and he screwed her?”
“Not only was she the client’s girlfriend, but she was the principal defense witness; she was the client’s alibi.”
“Lee screwed a
witness
in the trial? His
own
witness?”
“Well, it was a little more complicated than that. Will was still single at the time, although he’d been seeing Kate Rule for a while. But they had busted up at that particular moment, and the client’s girlfriend had dumped her boyfriend, too, so, technically, Will and this girl were free, white, and twenty-one. And the girl had already completed her testimony in the trial.”
“What about the boyfriend? Did he get off?”
“Nope. He was convicted of first-degree murder and rape and sentenced to die.”
“And did he?”
“Not yet, but soon.” Wallace permitted himself a small grin. “Unless he gets himself a first-class appeals lawyer.”
“Has he got any grounds for appeal?”
How about his lawyer was screwing his girlfriend and allowed him to get convicted so the two of them could go on screwing each other?”
“You said this was ten years ago, and he’s about to
die. That means he’s already exhausted the appeals process. Didn’t this come up before?”
“It did, but it was mishandled by a stupid lawyer. What that boy needs is a better lawyer.”
“You going to get him one?”
“Oh, I don’t think I want to do anything as direct as that,” Wallace purred.
“How you going to handle it?”
“I’m going to let you handle it, Jeb.”
“Now, wait a minute, Freddie—”
“Relax. You’ve had some dealings with that little group of conservative lawyers—what are they called?”
“The J. Edgar Hoover Institute?”
“That’s it.”
“Freddie, those boys are
for
the death penalty.”
“Well, sure they are, Jeb, like all right-thinking people. But they don’t want to see it misapplied, do they? Make ’em look good to take an unpopular case, especially one that reflected poorly on a rising Democrat candidate for president.”
Calhoun rubbed his chin. “Well, it might at that. I’ll give them a call tomorrow.”
“Jeb, you don’t want to do that,” Wallace scolded. “You want to talk to somebody who’ll talk to somebody, then
he’ll
talk to them.”
“Right, right.” Calhoun took a notepad from his pocket. “What’s this murderer’s name?”
“Larry Eugene Moody, if memory serves. He’s in the Georgia state prison at Reidsville, on death row, of course.”
“And the girl’s name?”
“Charlene Joiner.”
Calhoun stopped writing. “Isn’t there a movie actress by that name? I saw something on television the other night.”
Freddie Wallace smiled broadly. “You bet your ass there is.”
The phone rang, and Wallace picked it up. “Who is it?”
“Freddie, it’s Eft Efton; how are you?”
“Just a minute.” He covered the phone. “You get on it, Jeb; I’ve got to take this call.” He watched until Calhoun was out of the room, then returned to the phone. “I guess we got a little surprise tonight, boy.”
“I guess so,” Efton said. “I’m not worried, though. I’d love to run against a closet liberal like Will Lee.”
Wallace sighed deeply. “You just don’t get it, do you, boy?”
“Huh?”
“The man you want to run against is George Kiel.”
“But he’s the conservative.”
“Eft, that liberal tag ain’t gonna stick to Will Lee; he’s got some credentials on national defense and a good record on the budget. And that ain’t all; folks just naturally like him, and that can’t be said of you. I mean, the hard core is gonna be with you all the way, but you’re gonna have to attract the independents and a lot of Democrats if you want to get elected.”
“Come on, Freddie, I’ve been toning down the rhetoric, or at least confining it to preaching to the converted.”
“Eft, face it; you lack charm, and Will doesn’t. Trust me, you want to run against Kiel.”
“Well, I guess I’m not going to have much to say about who the Democrats pick, am I?”
“Maybe not, but
I
am,” Wallace replied.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got a few irons in the fire; I’m going to get George Kiel the Democratic nomination, and nobody’s even going to know how it happened.” Wallace hung up the phone without another word, and began sip
ping his bourbon again. It bothered him a little that he was going to make a shit like Eft president, but he’d rather have a shit that he could control in office than somebody more independent-minded, like Will Lee, even if he did like him.
“Will, my boy,” he said into the fire, “you’re never gonna know what hit you.”
Zeke Tennant got down from the pickup truck at the dark crossroad, then turned to his son. “You take care of things, now. I don’t want to have to worry about anything, and you won’t be hearing from me for a while.”
“Don’t you worry, Daddy; we’ll all be fine, and we’ll wait to hear from you.”
“Might be weeks or months; don’t you worry.”
“I’d never worry about you, Daddy.”
Zeke got his duffel out of the pickup, then handed the boy his wallet. “Keep this for me.” He leaned over and let his son kiss him on his cheek, then closed the truck door and watched as the boy made a U-turn and drove away into the early-morning hours. That was a good boy, he thought; he’d die defending their homestead, if necessary. He looked east; there was the faint glow of dawn.
Half an hour later, with the sun peeking over the horizon, the bus stopped in response to the flashlight
Zeke was waving, and he got on and bought a ticket from the driver. You didn’t have to show a picture ID to buy a bus ticket; all you needed was the cash. Zeke stowed his duffel in the overhead rack, then settled into his seat and tried to get some sleep.
Fifteen hours later, Zeke disembarked at the Las Vegas bus terminal and found a cab. Ten minutes later he got out at a modest apartment complex and walked through the parking lot to the building nearest the street. He let himself into the ground-level apartment, kicked the accumulated junk mail out of the way, and looked around. It seemed to be as he had left it: a furnished two-bedroom unit, with one bedroom set up as an office. He took his duffel into the bedroom, unlocked the closet with his key, and pushed the hanging clothes aside to reveal a wall safe with an electronic keypad. He punched in the code, opened the safe, took out a wallet and a checkbook, and put them into his hip pocket. Then he opened the duffel, dug to the bottom, and began stacking bundles of bound U.S. currency into the safe, keeping a couple of bundles for immediate use.
Zeke took a shower, shaved off his beard, leaving only the moustache, then packed the clothes he wore into a garbage bag for disposal later. He got dressed in garments he had left in the apartment, then poured himself a bourbon and turned on the TV. He was now Harry Grant.
Eight months before, Zeke had taken the same bus to Las Vegas, carrying only what he wore and his duffel, which concealed a hundred thousand dollars. His first stop had been at a barbershop, where he had gotten a haircut and shave, leaving his handlebar moustache. This was important. He had then rented this apartment, paying a year’s rent in advance. He had
bought some nice, middle-of-the-road businessman’s clothes, then had taken himself to a casino, where he had bought five thousand dollars in chips from one window, then more from another. Carrying the chips in a tray, he had sat down at a blackjack table and started to play.
Zeke was a card counter, and a good one. Playing carefully, never winning too much, he had nearly doubled his stake before he attracted the attention of a pit boss, who watched from a discreet distance. Zeke was untroubled by this attention; he lost some, then won some more. When he tired of blackjack, he headed for the backroom poker games, buying still more chips along the way.
He played until the wee hours, and when he had accumulated a little over fifty thousand dollars in chips, both bought and won, he cashed in everything, asking for a casino check. He had just laundered some money.
The following morning, he had taken the casino check and opened a bank account. Even in Vegas, a bank looked at you askance if you came in with that much cash. Over the time he had spent in Vegas, he had made other deposits, always in cash and always under five thousand dollars, to avoid filling out any federal forms.
Now, back in Vegas, he had a healthy bank balance, plus what he had brought with him. He ordered in a pizza, had a six-pack of beer delivered, and spent the evening watching TV.
The following morning he began running errands. He already had a Nevada driver’s license and a Visa card from his earlier visit; now he had some business cards printed—Harry Grant, computer consultant, hardware and software. He bought a decent computer and a telephone-answering machine and had them sent
to the apartment, then he went car shopping. He liked cars, and he was going to enjoy this. He visited half a dozen dealerships, then he found a two-year-old Lexus ES300, the smallest model. It had less than twenty thousand miles on it and was still under warranty, not that it mattered. He bargained hard, then wrote the man a check and waited while he called the bank. He drove away, pleased with his purchase. The car was luxurious and comfortable, but it didn’t look all that different from a Toyota, so it was fairly anonymous.
That night, he gambled, losing a little this time, then picked up a prostitute at the casino bar and took her back to the apartment. She called herself Cherry. She looked around carefully.
“You’re not going to give me any problems, are you, Harry?” she asked.
She remembered the name; good. “Of course not, baby; we’re just going to have a drink and ball. Nothing weird about Harry Grant.” She was compliant, even enthusiastic, and Zeke enjoyed himself.
When they were both spent, and she was getting dressed, Harry led her into the office. “I want you to do a little favor for me,” he said.
“I thought I already did that,” she replied.
“Don’t worry, there’s no work involved, and it’s worth another twenty.”
“What do I have to do?” She sighed.
“Just a minute,” he said. He wrote some words on a sheet of paper and handed them to her. “I just want you to record an answering-machine message for me. You’ve got a very nice voice.”
“Okay.” Zeke pressed the button, and she read, “You’ve reached Harry Grant computer consultants,” she breathed. “We’re on the line with other customers, but if you’ll leave a message, someone will get right back to you.”
“Very good,” Zeke said. “Now it sounds like I’m a company, instead of just one guy.”
“Glad to help. You going to give me cab fare?”