‘I don’t think we understand each other,’ Remo said. ‘I’m in this campaign to win. Not come close. Not make a good try. But win. And you seem to be approaching it with the idea of "take the money and run".’
The statement was an accusation and Farger answered it.
‘What you don’t understand,’ he said gingerly, feeling his way around the edges of Remo’s annoyance, ‘is that we can’t win.’
‘Why not? Everybody keeps telling me we can’t win. Will somebody please tell me why?’
‘Because we’ve got nothing going for us. Money, candidate, support. We got nothing.’
‘What kind of money do you need for a one-week campaign?’
‘For printing, stunts, election day expenses, sound trucks, gimmicks, we’d need $100,000,’ Farger said.
‘All right,’ Remo said. ‘You’ve got $200,000. Cash. And now I don’t want any more crap about you couldn’t do this or you couldn’t afford that, or if you had more money, things would be different. Does that solve your problem?’
Farger blinked. He was already thinking as a lifetime in politics had trained him to think: how much of that loose campaign money he could skim off for himself. It took a few seconds before he could again focus his mind on the major problem.
‘We need exposure,’ he said. ‘Advertising, commercials, brochures, signs for telephone poles. The whole thing.’
‘You got it,’ Remo said. ‘I hired the best ad agency in the world. Their girl will be here this afternoon. What else?’
Farger sighed. His native goodness vied with his greed. Finally the goodness won out and he decided to tell the truth, even if Remo did pack up his wallet and call off the whole campaign.
‘No matter what you spend or what we do, we can’t win. There’s three things important in a campaign: the candidate, the candidate and the candidate. And we don’t have one.’
‘Hogwash,’ Remo said. ‘Every campaign I ever saw, there were three important things all right: the money, the money and the money. And we’ve got the money and I’m giving you a blank check to use it. Just use it right.’
‘But recognition… respectability?’
‘We get that the way politicians always do. Buy the news guys.’
‘But we don’t have any support,’ Farger protested. ‘What about people? Workers? Endorsements? We don’t have any. We’ve got you and me and those three chippies out there, and if I didn’t give them their 300 bucks each in advance, they wouldn’t be there either. I’m not even sure we’ve got Mac Polaney, because he’s such a gone job, he’s liable to vote for somebody else himself.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Remo said. ‘Mac doesn’t vote.’
Farger groaned.
‘What people do we need?’ Remo asked,
‘Leaders. Union people. Politicians.’
‘Give me a list.’
‘It won’t help to talk to them. All of them are with Cartwright.’
‘You just give me a list. I can be very persuasive.’
Remo stayed in headquarters, long enough to assure himself that Farger was seriously now tracking down phones and typewriters and copying equipment.
An hour later when Teri Walker arrived, Farger gave Remo the list of names, sent one of the girls to get Mac Polaney, and closeted himself with Teri to discuss the campaign, which now had only six days left to run.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marshal Dworshansky watched the ice cubes drift gently in his glass, duplicating the smooth side to side movement of his yacht in the water, as he listened to the whining of Mayor Tim Cartwright.
‘Farger left us,’ the mayor had just said. ‘That ingrate bastard. After all I did for him.’
‘What exactly did you do for him?’ the marshal asked, raising his glass to his lips, and his heavy shoulders bunched up into knots of muscle under his lime coloured silk shirt.
‘What did I do? I didn’t fire his dumb ass. For years, I’ve left him down there in the elections office, instead of kicking him out in the street.’
‘And you did it, of course, out of the goodness of your heart?’ Dworshansky said.
‘Damn near,’ Cartwright said. ‘Although he has been a loyal slob. The perfect guy to give shit jobs to.’
‘Aha,’ Dworshansky said. ‘You gave him a job; he gave you his support. An even trade, I would say. And now he has voided the contract. Perhaps he has gotten a better offer.’
‘Yeah, but campaign manager for Mac Polaney? What kind of offer is that?’ He paused, then chuckled to himself. ‘He probably thinks Polaney’s going to make him city treasurer. Polaney offers that job to everybody.’ He chuckled again. ‘Mac Polaney, running for mayor.’ He laughed aloud as if he found the thought unbearably funny. ‘Mac Polaney.’
‘You find him amusing?’ Dworshansky asked.
‘Marshal, there’s an old rule in politics that goes: you can’t beat somebody with nobody. Mac Polaney’s nobody.’
‘He has a very good advertising agency,’ the marshal said softly.
Cartwright laughed some more. ‘What kind of New York lunatic would take on Polaney’s campaign?’ he chortled.
‘My daughter’s advertising agency,’ Dworshansky said. ‘And they are very good. Probably the best in the world.’
Cartwright found that reason enough to stop laughing.
‘It is about time you have restrained your mirth,’ Dworshansky said. ‘Because this is a very serious matter.’
He sipped his vodka delicately, and glanced out the cabin window as he began to speak.
‘We have kept you out of jail with a smoke screen. To set it up, we had to dispose of that fool from the bank, and as I remember, you did not laugh then.
‘I warned you that the government would not sit quietly by and allow this to happen; that their secret organization would fight back. We tied Farger to a post as a sacrificial lamb, and you did not laugh then. They frightened Farger as earlier they had frightened Mr. Moskowitz, whom it was necessary to un-frighten.’
Dworshansky drained his glass in an angry gulp. ‘Now Farger means nothing to me, but he is the first chip in our defences. And if our enemies choose to use this Mister Polaney as the instrument of their retaliation, then I would suggest sincerely that you stop laughing at Mr. Polaney, because it may not be long before he is dancing on your grave.’
Cartwright looked hurt, and Dworshansky put down the glass, rose, and clapped the mayor on the shoulder.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Do not despair. We have infiltrated their campaign organization. We will guarantee that Mr. Polaney does not win the election. And mostly we will just sit and wait, to see what our enemies do.’
Cartwright looked up at Dworshansky and retreated behind his politician’s mask. ‘You’re a real friend,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you of the faith I have in you. Yes sir, a real friend.’
‘Well, that and more,’ said Dworshansky. ‘I am a real partner as you will find after you win. Of course, I know you would not forget that, just as you would not forget that I now have Bullingsworth’s notebook.’
Cartwright looked hurt. ‘Marshal, I won’t forget your help. Really!’
‘I know you won’t,’ Dworshansky said. ‘Now, in the meantime, I suggest that you campaign hard and leave Mr. Polaney and this Remo friend of his to me. But do not underestimate them. That way lies the boneyard.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The black and white killer whale swam around the large, kidney-shaped pool, slowly at first, then faster and faster as he built up speed and then, after four rounds of the pool, he jumped straight up, high out of the water, even his tail slapping only air, and with his tooth-lined mouth squeezed the rubber bulb on a horn hung high above the water’s surface.
It honked. The honk hung in the air for a split second and then was overwhelmed by the crashing splash as the whale’s tonnage slammed down flat against the water.