There was a buzz in the room. There had been speculation of such things throughout the brief stint of Bryant's term as governor, and now there was confirmation. If Lamble said it, then it had to be true. If it was true, then Bryant was indeed a bad, bad man.
"Governor Bryant brought corruption into the highest office in his state. He made his own self-interests more important than the welfare of his people. He put murderers on the streets to make himself rich. He put his friends into jobs for which they were not qualified, then took kickbacks. These are not rumors or speculation, but the very words of federal prosecutors as written in charges against the governor."
The reporters were practically drooling and the campaign workers' eyes were shimmering with excitement.
"Governor Bryant allowed corruption to fester in his state, creating an environment for violence to thrive, and that violence killed him," Dr. Lamble intoned. "Is it any surprise?"
"No," answered some in the crowd.
"And this violence was visited upon him in the minutes before he could commit the most egregious and self-aggrandizing act of his administration—putting even more violent criminals on the streets," Lamble said. "I call it just deserts."
The applause was more than polite. They were actually buying it. "The message is this," Lamble said. "Those who live by corruption will die by corruption."
"Excuse me, Dr. Lamble," interjected one of the reporters.
Lamble made a show of stopping with his mouth open, smiling, clearly not taking offense at the interruption. His people would take offense for him. "Yes, Mr. Rode?"
"Are you saying you condone this violence?"
"Not at all."
"Are you saying that vigilantism is an unacceptable method of removing politicians from office if they are perceived as being corrupt?"
"No, Mr. Rode. When a Mafia boss is gunned down by a rival crime Family, that is poetic justice. When a gangbanger has one of his own cheap guns blow up in his face, that is poetic justice. And when Governor Bryant is assassinated along with a bunch of convicted murderers and rapists, it is poetic justice."
As smooth as silk, Lamble thought, as the applause filled the room. People were whistling. People were shouting. Their faces shone with their adoration. Even the rude reporter was nodding as he jotted down his messages and checked his audio recorder. It was a bold message and Lamble had delivered it perfectly.
Man, did he know how to push the good people's buttons or what?
8
Orville Flicker watched the news feed from the Midwest, where candidate Dr. Donald Lamble was pretending not to be overjoyed by the hoots and cheers.
The network cut back to the anchor. "Strong words from Senate candidate Donald Lamble. Not the sort of aggressive stance I would have expected from an independent running at least four points behind the two major-party candidates vying for the same seat. Sam?"
"That's right, Sam," said the hastily arranged expert, a commentator from the nightly news show who was added to the normally second-rate afternoon line-up just to give it a shot of credibility. The camera pulled back to take in the elderly man who had been a network news fixture for decades.
Two Sams, Flicker chuckled. Some producer was probably being fired that very minute.
"It is just the kind of remark the public will take as coldhearted," Commentator Sam opined.
"Although his constituency seems to agree with him," the anchor said.
The old commentator gave the younger man a patronizing, gin-soaked smile. "Important to note that those are not his constituency, Sam, but his campaign staff. I think we'll see quite a different reaction from the voters Dr. Lamble hopes to represent."
"Perhaps, Sam," said the younger anchor doubtfully.
"Count on it, Sam," snapped the commentator.
"I wouldn't count on it at all, Sam, you old sot," Flicker told the television.
"What's that, Mr. Flicker?" Noah Kohd thumbed off a mobile phone and looked at the television, just one of three that folded down from the roof of the limousine. The other two were silently showing broadcasts from other networks.
"I know that old drunkard better than my own Dad," Flicker complained, waving his remote at the screen. "He dropped out of high school, for Christ's sake. He never would have made it to the networks if he hadn't been in the trenches in Korea, and he only made it there because he was too sauced to know any better. Then he spends the next fifty years on the air acting like he knows what he's talking about. He's a moron. You should have heard some of the questions he used to come up with for the President."
"Yes, sir," Kohd said as his phone tweeted and he placed it to his ear. Kohd listed to the phone with one ear and to his boss with the other, although he knew perfectly well that Flicker was about to tell him about the time the commentator fell asleep during a White House news conference.
"One time he fell dead asleep during a White House news conference and started snoring. I wanted to have the old booze hound blacklisted after that." Flicker bit the inside of his cheek out of habit. "Of course that didn't happen," he concluded for his own benefit.
Orville Flicker sat up straighter. Got to look good. No slouching. He knew he was not a terribly appealing man physically, and only persistent attention to posture and behavior could overcome his physical failings. Small of stature, gaunt without looking fit, he was in his mid- forties and already his murky brown hair was showing signs of gray. His skin was pasty and his lips thin.
What he needed was an image consultant. Not one of those Hollywood sleaze merchants, but a real man who knew what a real man should look like. Someone who could train him to smile like he meant it. Someone who could make Flicker look like he had stature. Presidential stature.
Kohd nodded into his phone. "Okay," he said, and thumbed it off. "Check BCN, sir."
Flicker expertly muted one screen and brought up the sound on another just in time for the BCN Instant Opinion Poll.
"Well, it looks like the people have spoken!" cheered the anchor. Frank Appee was the new afternoon man at the BCN news desk. "Senate candidate Donald Lamble has got a few folks jumping-up-and-down mad in his home state, no doubt about it."
Flicker froze, eyes locked on the screen.
"But the angry types are in the minority! Just look at how the chips are falling in America's heartland, folks! Our results show eighty-one percent agreeing with Doc Lamble. You heard me. That's eight out of ten think Lamble's on-target when he says that Governor Bryant was a crook and he died like a crook. Ten percent are undecided and another nine percent think it's Lamble who ought to be shot for saying bad things about the recently deceased."
Flicker smiled. Kohd saw his boss relax with relief. Flicker had worried that public reaction would not be sympathetic to the party line. Kohd had never worried for a second. After all, they had been following the White Hand Book. The book was always right.
Kohd put the phone to his ear as it rang again. "Right," he said, then nodded at the first screen. "Sir."
Flicker snapped BCN into silence and brought up the sound on the first screen, where the two Sams were staring offscreen. "—think you can fire me? You can't fire me! I quit! You can take your old drunkard—"
The offscreen tirade vanished and was replaced with a commercial featuring a floppy-eared Irish setter bounding overhead. Flicker snapped it into silence, thinking that he might recognize the voice of the producer who had just ruined all his future possibility of getting employment in the network news business. On the third screen another poll was coming up, and he brought the sound. The anchors were talking in sonorous baritones.