It was from a Washington pharmacy and had the senator’s name typed in. At the bottom, it had the dosage and the drug name. One look and I sprinted to the elevator.
I pounded on Newton’s door for what seemed like five minutes before he finally opened it. He had a drink in his hand and a silly smile on his face. The windows of the room were open and a strong breeze was blowing the curtains. Even so, you could smell the pot.
“Story’s in,” he mumbled. “Didn’t need you.”
“What drug did you say came in this?” I demanded, shoving the vial at him.
Newton looked at me vacantly. “I forget. Oh yeah, Mellaril. Powerful shit, man.”
“Look at the bottle. That says Flexaril.”
Newton studied the pill container. “Oh shit, they got dozens of names for this stuff. Same thing from a different company. I ought to know.…” He stopped in midsentence and then smiled.
“Now come on, let’s celebrate. I ain’t mad at you. You just got spooked by a big story. Like I always tell these tight-ass turkeys that cover these campaigns and all the time bitch about having to cover the same speech every day, you can always find a good story if you just show some enterprise.”
I walked out this time. I went to my room and packed and decided that when the campaign got to the capital tomorrow, I was leaving it and Newton, even if it cost me my job. Swift could baby-sit this maniac.
The bus was scheduled to leave for the airport at 8:30 the next morning, but when I got to the lobby, Jackie Corley was stopping reporters and directing them to a meeting room.
“Press conference before we leave, Wartovsky. Where’s that asshole you’re traveling with?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “He’ll be down.”
The senator was standing at the front of the room with another man. Both of them looked tired and grim.
When the room was nearly full, Corley came to the door and said, “We can start now, senator.” As I looked back, I saw Newton leaning against the wall, smiling.
“I’m going to make this short because I know some of you have early afternoon paper deadlines, and we have a schedule to make,” the senator said.
“Some of you know a newspaper in this state published a story this morning that made certain allegations about my health—my mental health. They were totally and viciously false. I have instructed my attorneys to take legal action against the writer and the newspaper.
“But I also know my denial and my decision to take legal action may appear self-serving to some. After learning of this story late last night and in the hope of nipping this malicious business in the bud, I asked my personal physician, Dr. Gordon Flaring, to fly from Washington. He arrived just half an hour ago. Doctor?”
The white-haired man with the senator stepped forward. “I have been the senators physician for eighteen years. I can say with complete assurance that he does not and never has suffered from any psychosis, neurosis, or disease that could be called a mental disorder.”
The doctor reached into a small, flat briefcase. “With the senator’s permission, I have brought his medical records. They cover the entire period I have treated him, and they include reports from all other doctors who have examined or treated him. I have attached an affidavit affirming that this is the complete medical history of Senator Raglinton and stating what I just told you about his health.
“I am told the hotel has duplicating facilities that will allow each of you to have a copy of this material within fifteen minutes.
“But before I send these to be copied, I wish to make one thing clear. I have been treating the senator in the last two weeks for a condition that could be called in lay language, pulled muscles of the lower back. I prescribed for that condition a drug called Flexaril to relieve the distress. It also sometimes causes drowsiness, and patients who take it are advised not to drive automobiles or operate machinery. For the record, its chemical name is cyclobenzaprine hydrochloride. It is not an antipsychotic drug. It is a muscle relaxant.”
I looked at Newton. He was still smiling, for God’s sake.
The press conference ended and I called the paper from a pay phone in the lobby. Swift wasn’t in his office, and I gave Grace the nub of what the senator and the doctor had said. Corley came by with a sheaf of the medical report copies and said the bus was leaving for the airport, but we would have time there to file before taking off for the capital.
I climbed into the bus and took a seat on the window near the front. I was starting to leaf through the medical report when I saw Newton emerging from the hotel with a brimming paper cup of coffee in one hand and the portable typewriter and the ever-present shopping bag in the other.
Dick Clayton and several other reporters were behind Newton. As Newton began to step into the bus, Clayton said, “Here, Knocko, let me help you.” He took the typewriter and the bag from Newton, who turned abruptly, sloshing hot coffee on his hand.
Clayton put the typewriter on the ground and upended the shopping bag. Out came a wad of wrinkled clothes, a half-empty bottle of bourbon, assorted toilet articles, and a pint mason jar, which shattered as it hit the pavement. A small pile of brownish material poured out. Mixed in were half a dozen fat hand-rolled cigarettes.
Clayton reached down and picked up one of the cigarettes, holding it under his nose.
“Smells like good Colombian, Knocko. I knew we would be able to get a better story out of this than some routine press conference.” He smiled broadly at Newton. “If we only showed some enterprise, of course.”
CHAPTER 12
Newton jammed his belongings, sans the pile of pot, into the Bloomies bag and climbed aboard the bus. He sat down next to me and for once, he wasn’t grinning.
“Jealous bastards,” he said, staring straight ahead.
Before I could say anything, Clayton came back to our row and hunkered down in the aisle next to Newton.
“Knocko, I don’t know what the rest of these guys are going to do, but I’m filing a story about Raglinton denying there is anything funny about his head contrary to published reports. I’m not going to go into how or who published them. The medical report has enough in it to fill out a piece, and I guess now we’ll be getting them from the other candidates—the general’s bunions and the governor’s football knee, I suppose.”
Newton looked at him. “See, Dick, I did everybody a service.”
“Bullshit, Knocko. I’m telling you I’m not going to nail you this time and some of the others may go along for old times’ sake. But that’s it, mister. You pull that kind of stunt one more time on this campaign, and I’m going to do a boys on the bus piece with you as the stoned star. I don’t know if you’ll get any more campaign jobs, but I can damn well guarantee you you’ll have narcs shaking you down every time you step off a plane.”
“Don’t fucking threaten me,” Newton snarled.
“No threat,” Clayton said, standing up. “Its a legitimate story, and you know damn well it’ll get the whole pack baying on the same trail.”
Clayton walked back to his seat, and Newton said nothing more until the bus reached the airport. As we pulled alongside the senator’s charter, Newton turned to me, the smile back on his face.
“Well, chief, this is it. I’m dropping off here.”
“Leaving?” I said. “I thought you were going to stay through the primary.”
“Change of plans. Tell old Swift I got an urgent call from my Aunt Matilda that my Uncle Naughton has taken deathly ill. Got to rush to the old boy’s bedside. Family ties and all.”
As I got to the top of the stairs going into the plane, I saw Newton, lugging his bag, heading toward the taxi stand in the charter terminal. I spent the short flight back to the capital, where the senator had a rally at the state college, rehearsing what I would say to Swift.