May God have mercy on our souls, I thought as we all shuffled toward the front door.
The press conference lasted forty-eight minutes. Mrs Watkins and Sister Louise were the early winners. They were good TV: Mrs Watkins’ crackling voice that became more sentimental when she spoke at length about Jim Waters and Sister Louise’s exuberance when she talked about all the people he helped at the shelter and how much they relied on him for their needs. You couldn’t always predict how the media masters would edit an event but I didn’t see how they could cut the relative and the nun completely.
Then came the questions for Ward. Most of us are actors. We know which face to put on at any given moment. And how to sound appropriate. This isn’t necessarily insincere. If a person is weeping in front of you, you want to look suitably concerned. You put on the concerned mask.
I guess when you’ve been told all your life that you are one fabulous guy it’s difficult to not sound fabulous even when you’re trying to convey sadness. Ward gave it a good try — nobody had cared about Jim Waters more than he had; nobody knew as much about Jim’s dream of an America that would someday live up to the aspirations of our forefathers — but it had a hollow quality. It was the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am of goodbyes. I got a second opinion from the cold hard stare Kathy kept on him. She didn’t seem to care for fabulous any more than I did.
The questions mostly ran to the obvious. Had the police ruled out a random robbery and murder? Had anybody around Waters noticed his mood being different in the past few days? Did Waters ever tell any of the other staffers that he was afraid of anything? The man from not-news was of course the first to storm the castle. ‘Some people are saying (translated: my bosses who want a scandal are saying) that Waters might have known some secrets about your campaign that you were afraid might be made public.’
‘So you’re calling me a murderer? At least have the guts to use the word because that’s what you’re implying.’
‘I didn’t call you a murderer, sir.’
‘You did by innuendo.’
‘I just wondered if you wanted to refute all the whispers.’
‘The whispers in your mind, you mean? From the big boss back in New York?’
‘So you don’t want to speak to that? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying you’re not a reporter. You’re a flack for Burkhart. And that you’ve invented these so-called ‘whispers’ so you can help Burkhart in the election. Why don’t you ask Sister Louise here or Mrs Watkins if they think I had anything to do with Jim’s death?’
Mrs Watkins hobbled over to the rostrum and said, ‘If my husband Norm was still alive he’d come down there and kick your ass for saying such a thing.’
Whoops of delight sounded loud and merry on this day of drizzle and chill. A media hero was born. An ass-kicking old lady who had put a hack reporter in his place.
Even Kathy was smiling. Our glances met. She looked snug and happy in the blue Burberry she wore.
In a single sentence Mrs Watkins had changed the shape and tenor of the press conference. Since there’d been little of news value in Ward’s remarks the interest went to the old lady who provided good TV. As much as not-news was a disgrace to the profession, the other networks weren’t in truth always much better. There’s a great deal of sloppy, inaccurate, biased news available at the dinner hour every night across the board.
Ward knew how to play it. For the rest of the conference he kept his arm around Mrs Watkins’ shoulder. Maybe he was trying to keep her from lighting up. That would spoil the TV image somewhat. Good grannies don’t smoke.
Half the remaining questions were directed at her and she was ready for them. She was tart and crotchety and funny. And at the end sentimental one more time about her Jim. She had saved Jeff Ward’s ass.
When it was all over, we went back inside where Joan Rosenberg was offering fresh, hot cookies and rolling a smart cart with two fresh pots of coffee on it.
I went over and shook Sister Louise’s hand and then I went over — I had to wait in line — and gave Mrs Watkins a hug. I had to be careful not to get burned by the cigarette she had dangling from her lips.
NINE
Jenny Conners was late, giving me plenty of time to catch up with my other campaigns.
According to the internals we were starting to pull away slowly in Madison, though we should already have been at least double our lead by now. One race was still virtually tied and the fourth one appeared to be coming our way. We’d made up four points in the last few days thanks to an opponent who said that when he was elected he would ban non-Christians from running for office and would make homosexuality illegal. He said he was doing this on direct orders from the Lord, who was apparently busier than hell this election cycle. And it was clear by now that the Lord had no more time for progressives than that not-news network did. Maybe he was a stockholder.
So far my people in Chicago hadn’t had much luck in identifying the true owners of the Pellucidar Corporation. Its first address was a PO Box outside of St Louis. Its present address was a PO Box in Boca Raton, Florida. The man listed as the CEO didn’t Google, either. A mystery corporation and a mystery CEO. And a very good-looking blonde driving a car that the corporation was paying for.
I logged on to various local media outlets to see if anybody had filed any stories about the press conference so far. Only one had. The headline on that one was ‘Gritty Granny at Congressman Ward’s Press Conference.’ Under a photo of Mrs Watkins grinning, the line was ‘Wishes husband was still alive so he could kick reporter’s a**.’ As I’d hoped, they didn’t get to the murder of Jim Waters and Ward’s possible involvement until the third graph. What was more important anyway? A homicide affecting a political campaign or a gritty granny?
Essentially Ward got the kind of pass on the Tribune website that would warm the black American Express card of any consultant. They didn’t lead with Granny but four graphs on there were three different pics of her and a few colorful quotes she’d given out after the press conference was officially over. Gritty grannies were a gold mine.
I could imagine Sylvia over at Burkhart’s putting a cyanide capsule under her tongue. Though knowing Sylvia, she’d probably use a suppository.
I knew Jenny was here when the people at the table across from my booth raised their heads, quit talking, and began gaping at something approaching them. I was on the wrong side of the booth to see what they were ogling but I found out soon enough.
She looked pretty much the same as last night except now her black dress had silk sleeves down to just above her wrists. Despite trying to hide her attractive face and body in Goth she succeeded in being a beguiling figure anyway.
‘Sorry I’m late. I went to church and said some prayers for Jimmy.’ She didn’t wait long to pounce. ‘You look like you want to make one of your smart-ass remarks. If I go to church it’s my business.’
‘Glad to see you, too, Jenny.’
‘My father says how can I be a Catholic and worship the devil? Hello. Goth people don’t worship the devil. That’s Satanists. Have you ever noticed that people who belong to country clubs are really dumb shits?’
‘I take it your father belongs to a country club.’
‘His home away from home, as he likes to say. My mother’s there even more than he is. He says she’s a booze hound; of course she says the same thing about him. I haven’t seen either of them sober after seven at night since I was fourteen years old.’
‘You’re nineteen. You could always move out.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m pretty spoiled. I mean, I could try to bullshit you but that’s the truth. And my mother wants me to stay even if my dad does try to throw me out every once in a while.’
‘Are you close to your mother?’
‘Are you kidding? She likes to have me around so she can bitch at me. She’s a real drama queen. When I was sixteen she found my birth control pills. She claims she had a slight stroke because of them and made my father call an ambulance. She was in the hospital for a week until her doctor said that there was a flu epidemic going on and they’d have to move her on a gurney to the parking lot if she didn’t leave on her own. My father still tells that story. I always liked it, that picture of my mother on a gurney in the parking lot. You know, rain and snow and all that. She’d have a fifth of gin with her of course.’