"I am called Esperanza," said the smile.
Harmon Cashman understood the name to be Spanish. He frowned. "I had a maid named Esperanza once," he muttered, looking over the face behind the dazzling smile.
It was a round, cherubic face, the color of toffee. The skin was as smooth as molasses, as if poured into a mold; perfect and without blemish.
The eyes were a liquid, like melting licorice. They gleamed with a I-want-you-to-like-me gleam.
The man was some kind of ethnic. But he had such a nice face that Harmon Cashman was instantly lulled into swallowing his surprise.
"Esperanza," the man said, "is my last name." His voice reminded Harmon of honey, sweet, and golden clear. It was the perfect radio voice. An alto. With a trace of fire under it. "Esperanza means 'Hope.' " He lifted the paper sack. "I bring you hope."
Brown fingers pulled open the bag. Harmon Cashman looked inside. He saw vaguely familiar hard, black, round shapes mixed with curls of white. Like thin smiles. They seemed to be smiling at him, those round black shapes. The smiles were familiar. They reminded him somehow of Virginia, where he had grown up. And Grandma Cashman's kitchen.
He reached in and pulled one of the hauntingly familiar smiles out of the bag. It was sandwiched between two serrated wafers of black chocolate.
He sniffed it. The odor brought back powerful childhood memories.
"This is an Oreo cookie," he said, blank-voiced.
"Yes, you may have another," said the man who called himself Esperanza.
Blinking, Harmon Cashman succumbed to an urge that had been suppressed since childhood. He took another cookie. Grandma had always allowed him two. Sometimes three.
He bit the dry, crumbly edge off one. It tasted as sweet as he had remembered. And he had not eaten an Oreo sandwich cookie in a long, long time. He wondered how the man knew he used to gobble these things up by the boxful when he was in short pants.
"My full name is Enrique Espiritu Esperanza," said the cherubic man.
"I'm Harmon Cashman," Harmon Cashman said, through lips to which clung black crumbs and flecks of white creme filling. He licked them clean, but with the next bite they collected more chocolaty Oreo bits.
"I know. That is why I have come to converse with you."
"Say again?"
"I am running for governor of California, and I need you to manage my campaign. I understand that in what you do, you are the best."
"I never heard of you," replied Harmon Cashman, his mouth full.
"That is why I have come to you. You will help me to become known."
The man had such a pleasant way about him that Harmon Cashman immediately stepped out of the way and said, "Let's talk." They ate as they talked. Harmon Cashman somehow ended up with the bag of Oreos. The man took another out of the inner pocket of his suit. This was a small roll of Oreos. Lunch-box size.
As they munched away happily, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza talked of his vision.
"As you know, there has been a tragedy in California."
"They broke the most basic rule of political travel," said Harmon Cashman, gobbling his cookies. "You know, these are the best Oreos I ever tasted," he murmured. His eyes gleamed with pleasure.
The liquid eyes of Esperanza shone like those of a doe.
"They have called a special election. It is wide open. To anyone."
Harmon shook his head ruefully. "Only in California."
"It is a fine place. It is my home."
"Never been there more than three-four weeks."
"You will like it there-if you accept my offer."
Harmon Cashman extracted the last Oreo from the bag. He nursed it, as if afraid that when it was gone there would be no more like it in the world. Now he understood what some people meant by "comfort food." And he wondered why he had stopped eating the things. He thought it was around the time he had discovered beer. And girls.
"Are you familiar with those who are running to take the late governor's place?" asked the smooth, pleasant voice of Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
"Yeah. The last Democrat to hold the job. Since he washed out of the Presidential race, he's claimed he had a conversion. He's a Republican now. And the state committee can't do a damn thing about it."
"The Democrat is just as strange."
"There's no way Rona Ripper has a shot," Harmon Cashman snapped. "She's a woman, and thirty pounds overweight, so the camera makes her look obese. And she's a card-carrying ARCRer. No chance."
"Her campaign theme is a good one. Anti-smoking."
"Hell, California's the biggest anti-smoking state there is. She's preaching to the converted."
"And Barry Black is promising Republican results with Democratic ideals."
"Mixed message," Harmon Cashman scoffed. "They don't sell. He's just splitting the vote."
"Precisely. That is why Enrique Esperanza has an exceptional chance."
"How come I never heard of you?" Harmon wondered.
"Before this, I was a simple farmer. Growing grapes."
"There's good money in grapes."
"But there is greater satisfaction in governing. I would like to be the governor of my state and help it prosper again."
Harmon Cashman ticked off points on his finger. "Good business background. Your smile's photogenic. Nice voice. You got the goods for a media blitz. But you're a dark horse."
Enrique Esperanza looked blank. "I am a what?"
"Dark horse," Harmon explained. "It's a figure of speech. It means a candidate who nobody has ever heard of and who has almost no chance. A long shot."
"A dark horse is like an underdog?"
"You got it," said Harmon Cashman, swallowing the last morsel of cookie.
"Then I will be the dark underdog," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza. "I will carry this name proudly."
"You need a slogan."
"My name is my slogan."
"Huh?"
"Hope. I represent hope. I am Esperanza."
"Hmm. A lot of Hispanics in California. You know, it's so simple, it might fly."
"You are on board then?"
Harmon Cashman hesitated. "You got any more Oreos?" he asked, looking at the remaining cookies in Enrique Espiritu Esperanza's soft brown hand with open greed.
"Here," said the dark-horse candidate for governor. "You may have the last of mine."
"It's a deal," said Harmon Cashman, snatching up the Oreos. They were tiny, so he took smaller bites, knowing that he would have to make them last.
They were long gone by the time Enrique Espiritu Esperanza had outlined his plan to take the governorship of California. It was a brilliant plan., or so it seemed to Cashman, who didn't know the ins and outs of the California political scene.
As Esperanza explained it, the California population was gradually shifting. The influx of new blood from the Central and South American nations, from the Pacific Rim and other places, was inexorably pushing the state's demographics into completely uncharted territory for an American state. In such an uncertain climate, anything was possible. Even his election.
After he had explained it all, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza leaned forward and let the full beatific radiance of his smile wash over Harmon Cashman. His dark, liquid eyes were imploring. Harmon Cashman understood the nature of personal power. He understood that the simplest, most effective and direct way to cultivate personal loyalty was not to do a person a favor, but to ask one. Somehow, this cemented the wielder of personal power with his adherents.
He had seen it work a thousand times. And for all his savvy and cynicism, it was working on him.
"I accept," he said sincerely. "And proud to do it."
"What do you need to begin?"
"More Oreos," Harmon Cashman said without skipping a beat. "These baby ones just don't have the kick of the big ones."
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza threw his round head back and laughed like distant church bells. The sound reminded Harmon Cashman of Sunday morning back in Virginia, for some reason. But he was scarcely aware of it.