I stretch.
“Pat, it’s time I was heading,” I say.
“Not yet,” Pat says, and rubs his hand over his gaunt, unshaven face.
“Love to stay, Pat, but it’s twelve o’clock. I’m supposed to be downtown by one.”
“Don’t know why you’re working for those right-wing bastards. Strip-mining the national forests, polluting the skies. Drought all year, couple of snowstorms which did nothing, and they’re talking about the Wise Use of water to promote business, which means less conservation. I mean, Jesus, how about telling the goddamn Coors family to give some of their surplus water to Denver.”
I can’t help but suppress a smile. Pat clearly cares a lot more about this than I do. I don’t mind arguing for fewer environmental regulations, I’ll argue any point of view if I can get some dough out of it.
“Pat, I have to go.”
“Ok, mate,” Pat says, which makes me grin again. Pat’s taking on a bit of an Ulster accent and vernacular hanging out with us. And though we have screwed up our murder case and I am exiled from Belfast, at least it seems we are doing a bit of good for someone in this world.
July in Denver. Insanely hot. One hundred and one degrees says the board outside Channel 9. Drenched with sweat, I ride the elevator up to the CAW offices. Pat says Denver is livable for a few weeks in October and a few weeks in April. Winter and summer, the rest of the time. I can well believe him. People with sense leave town at this time of year for cooler places like a blast furnace or the surface of the sun.
I walk into the office.
I’m well liked now, established.
Abe says hi, he’s wearing the same Sex Pistols T-shirt he’s had on for the last week. Johnny Rotten is so coated with gook he has taken on a three-dimensional quality. Still, the place is air-conditioned and the offices are losing their chaotic feel and taking on a semblance of order.
The weird thing, the really weird thing is that apart from Abe no one has mentioned either Victoria’s or Klimmer’s death. Charles runs a tight ship and I suppose they want things upbeat for the new staffers like me. Or maybe they’re trying to be very positive in front of the camera crew, which has shown up twice more to follow Charles around.
Dozens of posters have gone up over the bare walls, nature scenes with words like “Perseverance” and “Serenity” underneath them. They’ve hired another couple of secretaries and the campaigners are coming together as a group. Aye, they’re looking to the future, not dwelling on the unpleasantness of the past.
Every day starts the same. Abe and Steve brief us about the evening’s assignment, where we’re going, what the rap is for the day, what to look out for. We do rehearsals, practice raps, role-playing and if there’s time left we stuff envelopes and write to our congressmen. There are about fifteen campaigners now. The organization is getting bigger.
We don’t see Charles and Robert at all until around five o’clock, when the van is ready to go. Sometimes Charles drives, sometimes Robert drives, sometimes Amber comes along.
No one will admit it with Abe or Steve around, but arriving at the office at one o’clock is a waste of everyone’s time. I suppose if you’re dedicated to the cause it’s all well and good, but I sense that most of the campaigners don’t give a shit about the forests or the Wise Use policy and are only here because they hope they can make cold cash.
Yeah, it’s been a week and I’ve been patient, laying the groundwork, being nice, friendly. I’ve endured Abe’s theories about why the Clash, the Ramones, and the Undertones were feeble imitators of the Sex Pistols. I’ve listened to him talk endlessly about the New York Mets. Tedious, but necessary. I’ve been cultivating him. Encouraging him. None of the Mulhollands will talk, but I know Abe will.
Abe was a University of Colorado student at the Earth Sciences Institute in Boulder. He started working for CAW during his vacations and stayed on after he graduated. He’s only twenty-five, but he’s the fourth in command.
For the last two days we’ve been getting lunch at the Sixteenth Street Pub around the corner from the office. Abe’s a lightweight, anyway, a 6-percent Stella Artois loosens his tongue.
We talk about the movies and when he’s finished his pint and it’s going to his head a wee bit I come straight out with it.
“Abe, why is there a film crew following Charles around?”
“I can’t tell you because we’re not supposed to talk about it. Robert would kill me. Charles would kill me.”
“Abe, you know you can trust me,” I say, trying to ignore Abe’s choice of words.
Abe takes a bite of his burrito and looks around the bar. No one else from CAW is there. And Abe wants to tell me, he just needs that final push.
“Abe, come on, what the hell’s going on? It hardly seems fair that everyone else is allowed to know and I’m not.”
“Everyone else doesn’t know,” Abe protests.
“Come on, mate, I won’t say a bloody thing, I can help better if I’m in the know.”
“That’s true.”
“Yeah, ’course it is, come on, what’s the deal with the camera crew?”
“You won’t breathe a word?”
“No.”
“Ok, listen, I swear to God, don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t, just bloody get on with it.”
“Congressman Wegener will be seventy years old on August sixth,” Abe says slowly and significantly.
I look at him.
“That’s it?” I ask. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Everyone thinks he’s going to run again next year in 1996, but he’s not, he’s going to announce his retirement on his birthday. He’s only told the chairman of the Colorado GOP and the chairman has only told Charles.”
“Who has told you? Amber, Robert—”
“Listen, Alex, you can’t breathe a word of this. Once he makes his announcement, there could be a feeding frenzy. Wegener represents the Eighth Congressional District, solid Republican, a safe seat, whoever succeeds him is guaranteed a place in Congress.”
“And it’s going to be Charles. That’s why he’s taken a leave of absence from his law firm. That’s why they’re filming him, campaigning door to door,” I say.
“The state GOP has had its eye on Charles for some time. He’s thirty-eight, successful, he has a seriously photogenic wife, and he’s founded an environmental organization, us, which could be the GOP’s route into the environmental debate, political turf solely occupied by the Democrats. Charles will have no serious competition for the seat, he’s being anointed, but it goes further than that.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t say, you know.”
“Don’t start that again,” I tell him.
“Ok, well, but you gotta keep this quiet.”
“Sure.”
“Ok, look, what do you think’s going to happen at the general election next year?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dole will lose. Dole will lose to Clinton and the GOP will be thrown into turmoil. They’re going to need to move toward the center to beat Gore in 2000. They’re not going to pick someone like George W. Bush or Pat Buchanan. They’re going to pick moderates, and Charles will be a young, moderate, environmentalist, outsider congressman from a Western state. Do you see?”
“See what?” I ask.
Abe’s boiling with excitement. The momentum’s there, he’s giving me this secret, something he can’t contain anymore.
“Don’t you see, Alex? Charles could be an ideal vice-presidential candidate for someone like John McCain or even Colin Powell. Powell-Mulholland in 2000? This isn’t penny-ante shit. This is the big enchilada.”
“Jesus,” I say, impressed by his seriousness about it all. But surely it’s a fantasy, a long shot, more than that, a delusion. Who ever heard of a two-term congressman getting to be a vice president, no matter how good the demographics.