Over the next fifteen minutes the questions changed as a few of the right-wing bloggers drifted over here. They’d undoubtedly been using their questions to promote Dorsey’s agenda. They’d saved their venom for us.
‘There’ve been rumors in the past that Congresswoman Bradshaw has had a long-standing drinking problem. Is that what we were seeing tonight?’
‘There’ve also been rumors that she’s had a prescription pill problem. Was that her problem tonight?’
‘Do you think we’ll hear more about Congresswoman Bradshaw’s abortion?’
I almost grabbed the little prick. All three of them were little pricks — three slight, dishwater-blond college-age boys in white shirts, blue blazers and gray slacks; the uniform of the salvation teams that come to your door to save your soul and annoy the shit out of you. Each blazer bore the crest of the local right-wing Christian college, Holy Shit University as I called all of them. They wanted our country turned into a theocracy. I devoutly did not.
These three were here to aggravate me into handing them a news story. BRADSHAW MANAGER ASSAULTS HOLY SHIT REPORTER.
Abby, who had been a little late getting here, grabbed my arm with surprising force and stepped forward to face the clone who’d asked the last question. It was a much prettier face than mine to put in his face and, because of that, more intimidating. All I could do was maybe throw him around a little.
‘You came over here to make trouble. Go back to Dorsey’s side,’ Abby said.
‘We have a right to ask questions.’
‘Really? Do you work on the school paper? Or ever taken a journalism course?’
The clone actually blushed. But he managed to say, ‘We serve the Lord in other ways.’
His fellow clones nodded.
‘Then you’re not reporters. You’re troublemakers.’
The first clone took a step forward. ‘We’re here to expose the congresswoman for the demonic forces she represents in Washington.’
The second clone said, ‘She’s one herself.’
I was waiting for their eyes to start glowing the way the Devil-inclined do in horror movie posters.
I’d calmed down sufficiently to do to Abby what she’d done to me: take her by the arm. We’d been in the room forty minutes and the important reporters were starting to make their way to the nearest bars. There was no point in staying here.
We walked out.
Abby said, ‘This is one of the happiest nights of my life. We did so damned well.’
‘I don’t know about you,’ I said, ‘but I need several hundred drinks.’
‘Me, too,’ Abby said. ‘There’s a place called Drink Up about two miles north of here. It’s a decent place to get hammered.’
‘How about if I meet you there in twenty minutes or so? I’m going to the dressing room to check on Jess.’
‘Great,’ Abby said. ‘See you soon.’
She pirouetted, then skipped for maybe five yards and then shouted over her shoulder, ‘We’re going to kick ass, Dev!’
Laughter and the pop of a champagne cork.
I knocked and peeked in.
Jess sprang from her seat in front of the mirror and came over to me with her arms extended for a hug. Over her shoulder I could see Ted with a champagne bottle and a grin. Katherine was standing beside him.
‘I was so worried I thought I was going to faint at times.’
‘May I have some, Dad?’
He hesitated. Then, to Jess, ‘You think it’s all right, honey?’
‘She’ll be fine, Ted,’ Jess said.
They were a family again — supposedly, anyway.
But obviously one of Dorsey’s questioners had gotten to Jess. With a frown — she had been embarrassed by the attack and was not in a forgiving mood — she said, ‘I did not have an abortion.’
‘Oh, Mom,’ Katherine said. ‘We know you didn’t. And even if you had, so what?’
‘Hey, Jess, we’re supposed to be celebrating tonight, remember?’ Ted was master of ceremonies again.
Jess toasted him with what remained of the champagne in her glass.
‘That’s right, we’re celebrating,’ Katherine said. But the brightness in her eyes and voice had gone.
I listened for five more minutes but didn’t really hear; I talked for a few minutes but probably didn’t make much sense. I just wanted to leave and join Abby.
Then I was outside in the cold autumn night, the shadows hiding the assassin who waited, not for me, but for Jess.
Seven
The bar was a small neighborhood place with country songs and one of those female pub owners Graham Greene had once described as having ‘a great public heart.’ When she said, ‘Nice to meet you,’ you had the feeling she actually meant it. Her name was Mae Tomlin. She wore a Chicago Cubs T-shirt and a welcoming smile. I told her I was with the Bradshaw campaign. She said she was on Jess’s side.
I joined Abby in a booth.
‘Whew and double whew.’ She drew a small hand across her brow and said, ‘And whew again.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I’d say Dorsey is one unhappy guy about now.’
‘Most likely.’
‘Does that make you happy?’
‘Of course.’
‘Me, too. I know he’s got a terrible temper. He’s probably taking it out on his whole staff.’ She sipped her wine. ‘I don’t know what Jess would’ve done if she’d lost tonight. I have to say she’s not holding up very well this time around.’
‘This is the tightest race she’s ever had.’
‘I know. I guess I never realized how much being in Congress means to her.’
‘The big thing is she got through it.’
‘Did you see Joel writhing in his chair?’
‘He always writhes. It’s like he’s a little kid in a theater with a horror movie on the screen. He does everything except slap his hands over his face.’
‘Every time she paused or seemed even a little bit rattled I thought he might get up and run out of the theater.’
Over the next few drinks I got her up to speed on most of the gossip in our Chicago shop. She loved the breaking news about two affairs and was sad when she heard that one of her favorite older operatives was retiring because his diabetes was taking his vision.
I was about to order another round when I happened to glance at the bar and noticed Mae holding her cell phone to one ear and sticking a finger in the other so she could hear above the jukebox. Then she jerked the finger from her ear and waved me over.
She slapped her cell phone down and shouted to a man standing next to the jukebox. ‘Unplug it, Al.’
‘Are you serious?’ he shouted back.
‘Damn straight I’m serious. Now unplug it.’
Not exactly a big job. The man pushed the jukebox away from the wall, leaned down and pulled the plug from the socket.
The abrupt end to the music startled enough people that Mae didn’t have to shout for attention anymore.
Her eyes addressed mine before the other customers. ‘My brother just called. He’s still at the university. He said that somebody tried to assassinate Congresswoman Bradshaw when she was leaving the debate tonight. That’s all he knows for sure at this point.’
Abby and I were out of the booth and half running for the door. I was saying the dirtiest words I could think of under my breath. Some of those emails I’d read this morning flashed into my mind as I got the car started.
One of those haters or somebody very much like them had delivered the ultimate message tonight. They really did want to take over the country by any means necessary.
Flashing red emergency lights wounded the chilly, cloudy night sky — two patrol cars and three unmarked police cars, a boxy ambulance and a fire chief’s red sedan, though why it was here I didn’t know.