‘Am I really that vain, Abby?’
Fortunately, Abby didn’t have to answer because a man I didn’t recognize came to the left door of the auditorium and said, ‘The policeman out front said he’s just been told that they think they have the shooter in custody!’
Eight
There are places lonelier than hotel rooms, but few of them are above ground.
At midnight I sat at a table in my nicely furnished small room in the Royale Hotel with my Mac open and CNN on the TV. All the cable channels except the right-wing ones were orgasming over the attempted assassination of Congresswoman Jessica Bradshaw.
As with most serious events, the first news had proved to be wrong. The police hadn’t taken anybody into custody; they had questioned three ‘persons of interest’ which translated into three local men who had made notably ugly and violent remarks about Jess. Two had been turned in by acquaintances, and one by a family member, which was an interesting story by itself. For all the noise hate radio made, the majority of people did not want to see their elected officials threatened, let alone killed.
I’d called Chicago two hours ago and given one of my staffers there the job of answering the phones and redirecting any serious media calls we got to my cell phone here. So far I’d talked to two networks, including the news director of one of them. He’d made the best offer: seven minutes on the news. He was also planning a special called ‘The Hate Merchants’ and would give Jess seven more minutes on that. That would be on Friday night, a lame night for TV, but given the blanket coverage the shooting was getting it might pick up a much bigger audience than the night usually got. In the meantime, we had Ted on the most highly rated morning show.
So far I’d seen Trent Dorsey’s hilarious response four times on CNN. He was sitting at a desk somewhere with shelves of fake books behind him and the edges of a giant green plastic plant showing on screen right. Local TV.
‘I don’t even care about winning anymore. I just want to know that Jessica Bradshaw is all right and I want to know that the person responsible is behind bars. The congresswoman and I have our disagreements but not about how our democratic election process should proceed. That’s why I’ve been promoting the idea that our president should start using his office to promote fellowship, not the kind of ideas that divide this country. He knows where to find the answers to all our ills.’
Here he held up a small Bible, as if he was going to hawk it along with a bunch of other goodies ‘if you ordered right now.’
‘This is where the answers are, Mr President. Right here. And Jessica, my friend, if you’re watching I hope you find a little time for the Good Book tonight. Nothing will give you more comfort, as my wife and our three kids learn every day of our lives. God bless America, folks. God bless America.’
The closest vomitorium was four cold blocks away. I was too tired to walk to it.
My daughter called a few minutes later, upset about the shooting and worried about me. She then told me about the granddaughter of mine she was carrying in her sixth month. Sarah’s voice always redeemed me. Even though I was talking to a woman, I was also talking to a girl whose mere name inspired all the sentimental moments of her early life. How her face glowed in the candlelight from her fourth birthday cake; how she’d had a two-line part in the second-grade play; how beautiful she’d looked in that new dress the night of her ninth-grade dance. And then, the remorse for never being there enough for her. How she said she’d forgiven me for that once she’d grown up. But I couldn’t forgive myself. That would be too easy.
Her ‘I sure love you, Daddy’ was the security blanket I needed tonight.
Then I felt the fatigue. I sat there watching the TV screen, slumped in the chair. Later I dragged myself to the john and then to bed.
I dreamed of the Zapruder tape. Jack and Jackie in the convertible. Jack lurching forward suddenly. Jackie leaning into him. The convertible speeding off. And then unreasonably, insanely, Jess was in a similar convertible, her head splintering in three pieces as it would in a horror movie. Ted was her Jackie. Leaning into her—
The phone woke me.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Conrad. I’m calling from the desk downstairs. There’s a woman here who’d like to see you. I’m actually calling from the office instead of the desk so I can tell you about her.’
I struggled to wake up, to focus.
‘She’s very... disturbed. Scared, I’d say.’
‘And she wants to talk to me?’
‘She says it’s urgent.’
The shooting. A woman with information.
‘Is the bar still open?’
‘For the next twenty minutes.’
‘Ask her if she’ll wait for me there. I’ll be down right away.’
‘All right.’
I moved in a daze. Cold water on my face. A hairbrush. Stepped quickly into my trousers and almost fell over. Loafers. Screw the socks. My very wrinkled shirt.
The elevator. Way too slow.
Crossed the empty lobby to the desk.
The tall young man in the hotel’s red blazer was watching me from behind the counter. ‘I hate to say this, Mr Conrad, but she left.’
‘She didn’t go into the bar?’
‘No.’ The long, thin face was way too somber for someone in his early twenties. ‘I got another call here — a very angry guest — and while I was on it she got a call on her cell. I could hear her arguing with somebody and then she sounded kind of... pleading, I guess you’d say. I don’t know what the other person said but it obviously got to her. She just turned around, started walking very quickly to the front doors and disappeared.’
‘She ever give you her name?’
‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘What’d she look like?’
‘Young — around thirty, I’d say. Pretty. Dark raincoat.’
I walked outside. There was a cab stand half a block west. A lone cab sat there. I went up to the driver’s door and knocked on the window. The wind was making a metal racket with anything loose. Scents of cold and impending rain made the now moonless night bleaker. The blinking red light at the intersection signaled a disturbing urgency.
When the cab driver’s window came down a heavy cloud of smoke escaped, along with the sounds of an excited radio minister. A fake gold cross hung from his rearview mirror.
‘Yeah?’ He was an older white guy in a heavy blue sweater.
‘Did a cab just leave here?’
His whole wary life was in his green eyes. He had survived by being careful about what he said, and by judging people quickly. I was not likely to find favor with him.
‘Why would you want to know?’
‘I lost my woman.’ I smiled. ‘Had a little argument and she ran off.’
‘She your wife?’ The minister was in full rant now. The driver would want me to be a good, faithful husband.
‘Of course.’ I shrugged. ‘She wants a new kitchen and I said we can’t afford it. We really got into it. I overdid it. She ran out.’
His turn to shrug. ‘Seen a lady get into Betty’s cab a few minutes ago. Pretty good guess she was takin’ your old lady home, don’t you think?’
‘Betty be back here tonight?’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
And with that his window went up.
Upstairs in my room, I called the cab company and identified myself as Jess’s campaign manager. With the shooting my position gave me real gravitas.
‘You have a driver named Betty.’
‘Betty Cairns, yeah.’
‘She picked up a woman at the Royale Hotel maybe ten minutes ago. Fifteen at the most. I’d really like to know where she took her.’