“And then on to New Hampshire.”
“On to New Hampshire. And at least a dozen more primaries after that, and we’ll be purchasing radio and TV spots in each of those states. Beyond that, we’ve already purchased four half-hour national television broadcasts.”
“I’m starting to feel encouraged.”
“You should feel encouraged. And the presidency is only the most visible aspect of our strategy. I don’t have to tell you that where the Democratic Action party has made strides is in local and state government-we’ll field thousands of candidates in those races, and we’ll win a good share. We’ve done it before.”
“You sure made a mess out of Illinois state politics not so long ago.”
That made him grin. “Thank you. I had a certain small hand in that. We’ve had similar successes in California, Texas, Maryland and Oregon.”
I stood and offered him my hand. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Neely. I’ll be talking to my fellow business people, back in Milwaukee. My report will be favorable.”
His grin went ear to ear as he shook my hand. “I’m very glad to hear that. You will not, I assure you, be pissing any money away. All of you gentlemen will be welcome members of the Democratic Action Policy Committee.”
I looked forward to getting the secret decoder ring.
“I had hoped,” I said, “considering this is the national headquarters and all, to get to meet the candidate himself. Have a little one-on-one discussion, however briefly.”
Neely shook his head and his smile turned regretful. “I wish that were possible. Mr. Freed doesn’t drop by here often. In fact, not at all. And these headquarters, despite the ‘national’ designation, are strictly for the Iowa effort. We have a suite of offices upstairs, in the hotel, for our executive staff; and the actual command center is at the Freed estate.”
“Not far from here,” I said.
“Not far from here,” he said, “but I’m afraid Mr. Freed doesn’t meet with individuals often… although once we know the exact size of your contribution, well. But do keep in mind, Preston Freed is a political genius, and like all geniuses, he has his eccentricities. He’s a bit of a recluse.”
“Isn’t that unusual for a political candidate?”
“Frankly, it is, and I’ve had to work on Preston to get him to come out and ‘press the flesh’ in these primary campaigns. You must understand that there are many people who would like to see Preston Freed dead.”
“Such as?”
“The Soviets.”
I managed not to laugh, and merely nodded with concern. “I can see that.”
“And of course, the Mafia.”
“The Mafia?”
“Certainly. You’ve read the Freed position paper on the Drug Conspiracy?”
“Oh yes. The alliance between the banking community and the crime syndicate.”
He shook his head somberly. “It’s all around us. Infiltrated like a spreading cancer. Did you see the papers today?”
“Actually, no.”
“A local businessman was murdered just last night-by a syndicate assassin, it’s thought.”
“That’s shocking.”
“I know it is. Apparently this man-who I thought was a respectable member of the community, hell, we belonged to the same country club! — had a long history of ‘mob ties,’ as the QC Times put it.”
“Disgraceful.”
“Well, then you can understand why a man with the strong views and the bitter enemies of a Preston Freed would choose to fight from within a fortress, so to speak. In the last campaign, Preston made no public appearances, restricting himself to radio and TV speeches.” Disgust twisted his mouth. “The Reagan administration ruled that we do not qualify for Secret Service protection, which shows you that our enemies are not restricted to Russians and Sicilians.”
“But now Freed plans to get out among the voters.”
Neely nodded. “Yes-at the insistence of myself and his top advisors. If we’re to make our move into the political mainstream, to become the viable third party that we are already starting to become, to leave the stigma of the so-called ‘lunatic fringe’ behind, Preston Freed must emerge from his fortress and do battle in the corrupt outside world.”
Arch as that sounded, Neely was right: there was no place in the scheme of things for an armchair politician. And, of course, as I well knew, the threat to Freed’s life was a real one, even if it didn’t have anything to do with the Soviet Union, even if the mob connection was only tangential.
“Does Freed have any enemies in the business community?”
“Certainly,” Neely said.
“Anyone specifically?”
He paused. Then, rather reluctantly, he said, “One does come to mind. You have to understand that the Democratic Action party’s policies represent neither the left nor the right, as conventionally defined. Some of what we stand for is thought of as conservative, and yet Preston Freed was first thought of as a leftist, and in fact led a splinter group out of the old SDS, during the ’60s.”
“Meaning?”
“One of Preston’s best friends, closest advisors, who’d been with him since those early days, became… frankly… disenchanted with some of the party policies, as we have become more aligned with what are seen as ‘right-wing’ ideologies.” His voice seemed weary. “It’s a loss to us all, that one of the movers and shakers of our party should go over to the other side.”
“The other side?”
He nodded. “The Democrats. Of course, it would be no better if it were the Republicans. But in George’s case, it was the Democrats… he’s made sizable donations, been active in fund-raising and so on.”
“You don’t mean George Ridge, the real-estate guy?”
“Well, yes I do… let’s say nothing more about it. All great causes suffer setbacks. But with Preston going high profile for this primary push, we can overcome anything.”
He walked me to the door. Put a hand on my shoulder. “The thing of it is, Jack-if I may call you Jack-Preston is a charismatic public speaker. His personal magnetism is, frankly, our secret weapon. It’s worked before.”
“Germany, for example,” I said, pleasantly.
And I smiled and patted him on the shoulder, and moved through noisy, bustling Zombie Central and out into the cold but real world.
10
The Embers Restaurant was in Moline, just off 52nd Avenue, near South Park Shopping Center and not far from the airport. A two-story, brown-shingled, rambling affair in the midst of its own little park, the Embers was perched along the Rock River like just another rustic, if oversize, cottage. I left the black, “like-new” Sunbird in a nearly empty lot (it was late afternoon-before the supper hour) and briefly wandered the pine-scattered grounds, noting a teepee and a totem pole, a white pagoda bird bath, a statue or two of a Catholic saint, stone benches, wooden picnic tables, and a bright red sleigh awaiting snow. Along the gray river, with a well-travelled overpass bridge looming at left, was a cluster of gazebos with red-canvas roofs; there was even a band shell. Here and there plaster animals, deer mostly, were poised in plaster perfection, to make you feel close to nature.
This was just the sort of oddball, cobbled-together joint that went over well with tourists and locals alike. As the former owner of the Welcome Inn, I felt at home.
An awning covered the lengthy astro-turfed walkway up to the entrance, which was the back door of the place really, and a narrow wood-paneled hallway, decorated with ducks-in-flight prints and various signs (“Casual dress required,” “Home of Aqua Ski Theater”), led to an unattended hat check area where I left my overcoat, with stairs to the right and a bar to the left.
I went into the bar, which opened out onto a dining room with a river view. The Embers interior was just as studiedly rustic and quaint as the grounds. The ceiling was low and open-beamed with slowly churning fans, and there were plants and ferns here and there, though a Yuppie joint this was not. The barroom walls were populated with stuffed animals-small ones, birds and fish mostly. If the Bates Motel had had a restaurant, this would have been it.