‘You hand out job offers pretty freely,’ Remo said.
‘You bet your sweet ever-loving. You’re the three hundred and seventy first person I’ve offered the treasury to.’ He pulled a pad out from under a Coca Cola crate on the deck. ‘What’s your name? Gotta write it down.’
‘The name’s Remo. But how can you do that? Promise everybody the same job?’
‘Easy, bub. I ain’t gonna win.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a politician talking.’
‘Politician? Me? Heck. All I know about politics is that I can’t win.’
‘Why not?’
‘First of all, I don’t have any support. No one’s gonna vote for no old fisherman. Second, I don’t have any money. Third, I can’t get any money because I won’t make any deals with the people who’ve got money. So I lose. Q.E.D.’
‘Why do you keep running?’
‘I think it’s a man’s duty to contribute to the governmental process.’
‘Most people do it by voting,’ Remo said.
‘That’s true, bub. But I don’t vote. At least not in the city. Not for any of those crooks that run. So, if I can’t vote, I’ve got to do something else. So I run. And lose.’
Remo, overwhelmed by the sheer majesty of the logic, paused momentarily before asking: ‘How’d you like to win?’
‘Who would I have to kill?’
‘Nobody,’ said Remo. ‘That’s my department. All you’d have to do is be honest. Don’t go on the take. Don’t go shaking down contractors. Don’t make deals with the mob.’
‘Hell, son, that’s easy. All my life, I’ve been not doing those things.’
‘Then you just have to keep doing what comes naturally. You interested?’
Polaney sat back down on the lawn chair. ‘You’d better come aboard and tell me what’s on your mind.’
Remo hopped up onto the deck railing, and then lightly skipped over it. He sat on the Coke case next to Polaney.
‘Just this,’ he said. ‘I think you can win. I’ll put up the money. I’ll get your campaign managers, your workers. I’ll handle the advertising and the commercials.’
‘And what do I do?’ Polaney asked.
‘Do what you want. Fish a little. Maybe if you feel like it, campaign a little.’ Remo considered that for a moment, then quickly added, ‘Better yet. We’ll get pros in. See what they say about whether you should campaign or not.’
‘All right, bub. Your moment for truth telling. What do you get out of it?’
'The knowledge that I’ve helped to clean up a great city by putting an honest man in the mayor’s office.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘No sewer contracts?’
Remo shook his head.
‘You don’t want to build schools with watered-down cement?’
Remo shook his head.
‘You don’t want to name the next police commissioner?’
‘Not even the next city treasurer,’ Remo said.
‘Those are all the right answers, boy. Cause if you said yes to any of them, you were like to go for an unscheduled swim in the river.’
‘I don’t swim,’ Remo said.
‘And I don’t play ball.’
‘Good. Then we understand each other.’
Polaney put down the hooks he held in his gnarled leathered hands and fixed Remo with his pale blue eyes. ‘If you got all this money you say you got, how come Cartwright let you get away? He watches out for rich fish like you.’
‘I couldn’t support Gartwright,’ Remo said. ‘Not after all this nonsense about League papers and stuff. Not after those cheap attacks on the federal government.’
Polaney’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Remo, then wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. ‘You don’t look like a nut,’ he said.
‘I’m not. Just somebody who loves America.’
Polaney sprang to his feet and slapped his hat over his heart in a civilian salute. Then Remo saw the small nickel-and-dime store flag on the rear of the boat. He wondered if he should chance a laugh. Polaney reached down a strong hand and yanked Remo to his feet, ‘Salute, boy. It’s good for the soul.’
Remo put his hand over his heart and stood there, side by side with Polaney. Here we are, he thought, the two biggest lunatics in the Western Hemisphere. One lunatic wants to be mayor, and the other lunatic wants to make the first lunatic get his wish.
Finally, Polaney clapped his hand to his side, before putting his hat on.
‘I put my life in your hands,’ Polaney said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Go fishing,’ Remo said. ‘See if you can come up with anything not too greasy. I can’t eat oily fish. And I’ll be in touch.’
‘Son,’ Polaney said. ‘You’re a flake.’
‘Yeah. Ain’t it the truth. Now let’s go win an election. And don’t forget. No oily fish.’
‘How about that for a campaign slogan?’
‘I don’t think it’s got enough crowd appeal,’ Remo said. ‘Anyway, I’ve got an idea for an advertising agency. Let them pick a slogan.’
He hopped down to the dock and headed back for his car. Halfway there, he turned. ‘Hey, Mac,’ he called. ‘What made you think I wanted to be secretary of defence?’
Polaney was already back at work on his hooks. Without looking up, he said: ‘I saw you get out of the car. You look like a man who might start a war.’ He turned to Remo. ‘Right?’
‘I’d rather finish one,’ Remo said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Walker, Handleman and Baser.’
‘Who’s in charge there?’ Remo asked the telephone voice.
‘What does it have reference to?’ the female voice answered, over the 1,500 miles of distance between Florida and New York.
‘It has reference to $100,000 for a week’s work,’ Remo said, hoping the girl was impressed.
‘Just a moment, sir.’ She was.
So was Mr. Handleman to whom Remo talked next. Equally impressed was Mr. Daser to whom Remo talked after that. They were so impressed they were going to try to reach Dorothy.
‘Dorothy?’
‘Yes. The Walker of Walker, Handleman and Daser.’
Remo nodded to himself, remembering the blonde of the New York Times. ‘Just walk over to her office and tell her you’ve got a fish on a line.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr… er… you didn’t give your name.’
‘That’s right, I didn’t give my name.’
‘She’s on vacation.’
‘Where?’ Remo asked.
‘She’s visiting her father in Miami Beach.’
‘That’s where I am,’ Remo said. ‘Where can I reach her?
‘I’ll have her call you,’ Mr. Baser said.
‘Try to do it fast,’ Remo said and gave Baser the number where he could be reached. ‘The name is Remo,’ he said.
Ten minutes later the telephone rang again.
‘This is Dorothy Walker,’ a cultured Manhattan voice said.
I'd like you to run a campaign for me.’
‘Oh? What kind of a campaign.’
‘A political campaign.’
‘I’m sorry. We don’t do political campaigns.’
‘Look. I’m talking about $100,000 for a week’s work.’
‘Mr. Remo, I’d like to help, but we don’t do political campaigns.’
‘You can sell air conditioners that don’t work and paper towels with the absorbency of sandpaper and cigarettes that are made out of sawdust and you can’t elect a mayor for Miami Beach?’
There was a pause. Then, ‘I didn’t say we couldn’t, Mr. Remo. I said, we don’t. Who is your candidate by the way?’
‘A gentleman named Mac Polaney,’ Remo said. Thinking of the gaunt fisherman on his homemade houseboat, Remo said: ‘A courtly, cultured gentleman. A decorated veteran of World War II, with a reputation for honesty, broad political experience. A PR man’s dream.’