I added the salient fact to my story. It was an empty gesture of defiance. The Vipers and the pet store were both advertisers. Twisdale would feel compelled to show the story to our acting ad director, who would insist that the unflattering details be removed.
36
Early Wednesday morning I jumped out of bed, rummaged through yesterday’s clothes, located my cell phone, and called the paper. The managing editor was already at his desk.
“I’m feeling poorly again, Chuckie-boy. Looks like I’ll have to take another sick day. Who knows? If I can’t shake what ails me, I might be out the whole damn week.”
“Bullshit, Mulligan. Get your ass in here.”
“No can do.”
“You’re pissed off about the Vipers’ press release, aren’t you?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about press releases,” I said, and that was more or less the truth.
“You’re really not coming in?”
“I’m not.”
He paused, then said, “I’ll need another doctor’s note.”
I ended the call and turned the phone off. Then I stepped into the shower and let the hot water wash the tension from my shoulders. Now that I had the day free, I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I was eager to hunt down bribe-taking legislators; but to pull that off I’d have to fake illness for a month. Chuckie-boy would never let me get away with that. Twenty minutes later, I was still pondering my next move when the water turned cold.
After I toweled off, I pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and sniffed the Red Sox T-shirts in my laundry basket. The one with Shane Victorino’s name on the back was the least offensive, so I put it on. Completing the ensemble with a Red Sox cap, I walked into the living room and roused Joseph from the couch.
“Got anything planned for today?”
“No.”
“Good. Let’s take a drive.”
“Where we goin’?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said.
“Okay, but can we get some breakfast first? I had too much to drink last night and barfed up my dinner. I’m fuckin’ famished.”
Ten minutes later, we were seated in a booth at Charlie’s diner. By the time I finished my bacon and eggs, Joseph had consumed two stacks of pancakes and was making short work of an egg and sausage sandwich.
“Hey, Joseph?”
“Umf?”
“How closely do you follow the NBA?”
“Ask me fuckin’ anything.”
“I’m thinking of putting a bet down on the Indiana Pacers to go all the way. What do you think?”
Joseph plopped the last morsel in his mouth, swallowed, licked the plate, and washed everything down with a swig of coffee. Then he launched into a soliloquy about matchups, odds, and point spreads that was worthy of Jimmy the Greek. I filed the information away for future reference. When Charlie came by with the check, Joseph asked for two corn muffins and a large coffee to go.
As we crossed the Providence River and turned south on Route 114, Joseph asked again where we were going.
“A reporter needs to know what’s happening on the streets,” I said, “but most days my boss keeps me cooped up in the office. It’s been months since I’ve had a chance to take a good look around, so I want to make a circuit of the state and see what’s changed out there.”
“Fine with me,” he said, “long as we can stop for lunch.”
We were cruising through the bedroom suburbs that line the eastern shore of Narragansett Bay when I noticed a black SUV keeping pace with us three car lengths back. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I’d seen the same car behind us as we crossed the river.
In the little bayside town of Warren, Route 114 becomes Main Street, with shabby World War I-era storefronts, some of them empty, lining both sides of the street. There, something piqued my interest, so I backed Secretariat into a metered parking space.
The display windows of a store that had once sold baby clothes were plastered with campaign posters for a Democrat seeking reelection to a third term in the state House of Representatives. A freshly painted sign stretching across the storefront proclaimed: “Concerned Citizens for Gus Lovellette.”
Campaigns for the Rhode Island state legislature are normally small-time, retail politics. The candidates hand out fliers at strip malls and glad-hand old folks at nursing homes. They knock on doors and ask homeowners for their votes. Occasionally, some of them scrounge enough campaign contributions to run a few radio ads. But usually, that’s about it. Now and then, when unions representing teachers or state employees get worked up about a piece of pending legislation, a few key committee chairmen can accumulate war chests of fifty grand or so. But as a rule, most legislative campaigns cost less than ten thousand dollars.
So why did Lovellette have his own campaign office? Usually the best someone like him could hope for was a poster in the local Democratic Party headquarters, which was located in another storefront just across the street. Lovellette was a struggling house painter. I doubted he was paying for this himself.
As Joseph and I climbed out of Secretariat, the black SUV slowly rolled by. The windows were tinted, so I couldn’t see the driver. Was Mario stalking me again? The car continued on for half a block and then backed into a parking space.
“Looks like we picked up a tail,” Joseph said.
“I think you’re right.”
I opened the passenger-side door, popped the glove box, and fetched the Kel-Tec the cops had reluctantly returned to me. I tucked it in my waistband and pulled my T-shirt over it.
“Want I should drag him out and ask why he’s screwin’ with us?” Joseph asked.
“Not just yet. Let’s keep an eye on him and see what he does.”
“So what the fuck are we doing here?”
“We’re gonna go into that campaign office and pretend we’re trying to decide whether to vote for Lovellette,” I said. “Ask some questions about his stand on the governor’s gambling bill. Think you can do that?”
“Duh.”
Inside, a young man with a phony smile plastered on his face was standing at a counter, waiting to greet walk-ins. Behind him, two middle-aged women were working the phones. From their chatter, it sounded as if they were making cold calls to voters.
“Welcome,” the young man said. “Are you registered voters?”
“We are,” I said.
“Great. Are you familiar with Representative Lovellette’s stands on the issues?”
“That’s what we come to find out,” Joseph said.
“Well then, let me give you our new flier. It outlines his thoughts on the major issues facing our state and points you to a website where you can find his detailed position papers.”
He handed us the fliers, and we took them.
“Main thing I care about is the gambling bill,” Joseph said. “What’s Lovellette got to say about that?”
“Representative Lovellette believes that legalized sports betting is the best way to alleviate the state’s fiscal crisis without raising taxes,” the young man said. “However, he opposes having the state Lottery Commission take the bets. He wants to turn that responsibility over to private enterprise. Mr. Lovellette is a firm believer in our capitalist system, and he opposes anything that would make big government bigger.”
“Cool,” Joseph said.
“So can we count on your vote?”
“You bet.”
With that, the young man turned to me.
“And what about you, sir?”
“I’m still thinking on it,” I said as I flipped through the flier. “Huh. At the bottom here, it says, ‘Paid for by Americans for the Preservation of Free Enterprise.’ What the heck is that?”
“We are an organization that raises money to support candidates who share our position on sports gambling.”
“You mean this isn’t Mr. Lovellette’s campaign office?”