By the time everyone’s blood pressure returned to normal, the evening’s festivities had begun. Some party functionary gave a welcoming speech followed by twenty minutes of Rodney Dangerfield doing his no-respect shtick. He was great, adapting his material to the audience. President Reagan’s name was bandied about in concert with the names of myriad Democratic pols from Jimmy Carter to Mario Cuomo. In the world according to Rodney, the Democrats got no respect. Who says comedians don’t know anything?
After Rodney came a few more speeches, a little dancing, the appetizer and salad courses. During dinner, some southern politico, the attorney general or governor of Arkansas, gave a rather windy and overearnest speech about holding on to the Democratic Party’s ideals in the face of stiff Republican opposition.
My buddy leaned over to me again. “This joker’s gotta be kidding me with this speech. What’s he trying to do, bore us into contributing money? Jesus!”
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Who, Jethro up there? Clinton, I think. Bob Clinton, maybe. He better stay in Arkansas, because he has about as much chance for national office as the Mets have of winning a second World Series.”
“Amen.”
After the main course, Carly Simon, a notoriously stage-shy performer, did a few Gershwin standards. Katy and I held hands under the table during “Someone to Watch Over Me.” It was corny, but sometimes corny is okay. Shortly before dessert, Brightman slipped away from the table, only to reappear at the head of the dais.
He gave a brief but rousing speech about the eventual end of the cold war and his belief that the time for mapping out a post-cold war world was upon us, that once the end came, planning would be moot. He touched on many subjects: AIDS, the growing power of the religious right, and the burgeoning national debt. His most impassioned words, however, were about overcoming tragedies and roadblocks to achieve one’s goals.
“For nearly two years now,” he said in a hushed voice, “I have struggled, letting an unjust and undeserved stain on my reputation keep me from accomplishing the great things for this state and this nation I know I was put on this earth to do. But great things are never done in isolation, so please help me help you. With that help, your help, I know I will clear my name and reputation. Join me. Will you join me in this mission to unite our party, to unite our state and country so that our grasp will no longer exceed our reach? Will you?”
The applause was thunderous, deafening. That Clinton guy, I thought, should have taken notes. The room was on its feet, stomping. “Brightman. Brightman. Brightman,” they chanted. The atmosphere was more Baptist church revival than fund-raiser. Intentionally or not, State Senator Steven Brightman had just hung an albatross firmly around my neck. High-minded speeches were all well and good. But unless I found out what had really happened to Moira Heaton and soon, Brightman was going nowhere but the political scrap heap. His bold words would be nothing more than wasted rhetoric.
It was no coincidence that Geary nodded at me just as Brightman delivered his line about the unjust stain on his reputation. I guess what Geary didn’t comprehend was that I already had all the incentive I needed to get to the bottom of things. All the carrots and sticks in the world weren’t going to create leads where there were none, nor would they produce physical evidence that didn’t exist.
People seemed to simply drift away after the coffee was served. No one felt the need to make a show of polite good-byes. The only thing I can compare it to is the end of a big fight card. After the main event, the crowd go their separate ways. And if I had been expecting one of Geary’s little lectures on golf, horses, and politics, I was going to be disappointed. He and his wife simply waved at us as they exited the ballroom. Brightman, like a fighter coming off an injury to announce his return to the ring, was too busy accepting the accolades of an adoring crowd to even remember I existed.
Katy was still buzzing halfway back home to Sheepshead Bay. For her the night had been a coming-out party, and not only because it helped put the miscarriage behind her. Politics, though not particularly her calling, were definitely in her blood. She had watched her father work it so well for so long that the thrill of events like this evening’s were inescapable. That scared me a little. Any similarities between Katy and her dad scared me.
“Brightman’s a natural,” Katy said as we passed under the Verrazano Bridge. “I can see why Mr. Geary is so anxious to back him. He’s worth the gamble.”
“You liked him? Brightman, I mean?”
“As a candidate, of course. What’s not to like? His wife alone is worth a bump in the vote. She’s unearthly.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Katy punched me playfully. “Liar. She was the talk of the powder room.”
“Was she? I thought she’d more likely be the talk of the boys’ locker room.”
“God knows I love you, Moses Prager, but what you don’t know about women … Besides, I thought you hadn’t noticed.”
“Oops! So what were they saying?”
“That while he was single, Brightman had bedded half the models in the city. Apparently, he had a sweet tooth for all things beautiful, especially women.”
“The fat guy sitting next to me said the same thing. Good thing you hadn’t met Brightman until this evening.”
“Thank you.” Katy leaned over and softly kissed my neck. “By the way, that fat guy sitting next to you was Scott Schare, the CEO of Schare, Light, Cohen, and Halter.”
“The big ad agency?”
“The very big ad agency. Him I knew before. Remember the company I was working for when we met?”
“I remember everything about when we met.”
“We did some of the subcontract design work for their less significant clients. We were always invited to their holiday parties.”
“You think he was there by accident?”
“My dad always said nothing in politics happens by accident.”
I was inclined to believe that.
Katy faded, drifting quickly off into silence and light sleep. The colored lights of Coney Island, even without the dazzling incandescence of Luna Park, were clearly visible out the right side of the car. I usually found comfort in the sights and sounds of my old precinct, but not tonight. I felt oddly uneasy. I thought back to earlier in the day, to my meeting with Domino and the deal we had made. Maybe John Heaton would call. Maybe not. I don’t know, maybe I was finally feeling the pressure of the case. Brightman and Geary had certainly gone out of their way to pile it on me. But there was something else eating at me, something like a dull ache I couldn’t quite pinpoint or describe.
As the lights of Coney Island disappeared behind the tall buildings of Trump Village, I looked over at my sleeping wife and decided tonight was not a night to dwell on aches and pains.
Chapter Eight
I did what any sane man would have done given the pressure I was under. I took my daughter to her first Mets game. The Astros had finished pounding them, as had the Dodgers. Today’s game, an afternoon affair, was the last of the series against the Padres and of the homestand. The teams had split the first two games. The heat and humidity were a bit less oppressive than they’d been in recent days, but the cloudlessness of the sky gave the sun license to roast the two of us and the 27,322 other knuckleheads who thought an afternoon getaway game at Shea was a good way to spend their time.