"P00000NNEEEEEEEEEEY!" A. J. shouted in the little dressing room.
Mickey watched the debate in his father's den while Joseph slept upstairs. Everything had worked out just as they had scripted it. Haze had won. He was tempted to call C. Wallace Litman and congratulate him on Brenton Spencer's performance, but he always found conversation with Wallace Litman irritating, so he withstood the urge. He moved to the bar to pour himself a glass of port when he heard somebody set something down on the marble floor in the hall. He moved out to find Lucinda putting on her coat. There was a small overnight bag in the entry hall. She had an airline ticket in her hand.
"Where you going?" he asked.
"Hi. Didn't know you were in there. You see the debate?"
"Where you going?" he repeated, moving to her. He took the airline ticket out of her hand and glanced at it. "Iowa?" he said, his voice registering genuine surprise. "Gonna pick some taters," she said, grinning.
"Can't you see what he is, Lu? Can't you look at him and see?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Ryan has his head so far up his ass, four of his five senses aren't working."
"How can you say that?"
" 'Cause it's true. Ever since I've known him, he's been a fucking charity case. I even hadda get him laid when we were kids. I hadda get him this job 'cause nobody would hire him. Look at him, every fucking decision he's made in his life is flawed. And now he's almost forty and he's a joke in Hollywood. How the hell do you become a joke in a town full of butt-wipes, fags, and actors?"
"I thought he was your friend."
"Lucinda, come here. It's time you and I had a talk." He took her hand and led her into his den. He motioned her into a club chair, then sat on the ottoman opposite her. She placed her hands on her knees, waiting.
"We're Alos. All our lives, we've had to wear that name like a prison number. At first, that pissed me off. Now I'm proud of it. It forged us, Lu, made us stronger. Made us different, special. There's no room in this family for weaklings."
"He's just a friend, Mickey. He's… he's going through a rough time right now. I'm trying to help him."
"I'm your brother. It's important to me that I can count on you."
"This is nuts. You brought Ryan home when he was just fifteen. If you felt that way, why did you invite him?"
Mickey leaned back; then he stood. He moved to the window and looked out. "I brought him home because I liked having him around."
"Why?"
"I liked to watch him fail." He turned around and saw a look of surprise on her face.
"He was what everybody wanted to be… good-looking, athletic. He's my poster boy for failed expectations. He was never my friend. Lucinda, people like us can't afford friends. Friends are points of weakness. You have a friend, you run the risk he will betray you."
"You must be very lonely."
"Loneliness, friendship, love, hate… are just words. They define nothing. I have to know that I can count on you, that you're here for me when I ask. It's the only thing that matters between us."
"Mickey, this is scaring me."
"Pop is going to die soon. It's just gonna be you and me. I'm asking you not to go see this guy. I have very strong reasons. Do I have your word?"
"If you don't want me to, Mickey, then I won't."
He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "Good," he said, then turned and walked out of the den.
She heard him go upstairs. She was determined to see Ryan. She would not let Mickey make her choose between them. She ran out, got into her car, and drove to the airport.
Chapter 20.
RYAN AND RELLICA HAD FOUND AN EDIT BAY AT DES Moines University in the journalism school. The monitor flickered as they set to work editing Prairie Fire.
"Look at this asshole," she said as a shot of Haze appeared on her monitor.
"Stop bitching and help me cut this together, will ya? We have to have it by morning." Both knew he had won the debate. Both felt they were on the wrong side, helping a man with no moral convictions. The thought caused the atmosphere in the cluttered room to be thick and cold.
"Doesn't it bother you that this guy is just reading lines A. J. stuffs in him?"
"Fuck yes, it bothers me," he snapped. "But I'm a TV producer, not a political scientist."
"Last night I was sleeping in the back of the van and this piece of sour shit jumped on Susan Winter's bones in the barn. There they were grabbing each other's buns, pants down around their knees, huffing and woofing. And I kept saying to myself, 'This guy could be my next President.' " She turned and focused a withering gaze at him. "You know what really pisses me off, Ryan?"
He waited, knowing there was no way to stop her.
"What really pisses me off is I'm helping this asshole." He felt the same way but he was trapped.
They looked at each other in the very small room on the second floor of the J. Building. A winter wind was blowing outside and the bare branches of a deciduous tree tapped softly on the window, disrupting the heavy silence between them.
She shut off the editing machine.
"I'm outta here," she said softly. "You don't have to pay me because I didn't finish the job. Matter of fact, I don't want to be paid. I wouldn't be able to spend the money with a clear conscience." She picked up her purse. "Lemme ask you a question… If Haze Richards doesn't do his own thinking, doesn't have any courage, and is morally corrupt, how can you make this documentary, how can you get up in the morning and look at yourself in the mirror?"
He had no answer for her.
"You're a good guy, Ryan, but if you stay on his campaign, you're going to regret it," she said, giving words to his exact thoughts. Then she walked out of the edit bay.
Ryan stood there thinking about what she said.
He had gone through his life with emotional blinders on. He had been a golden boy to whom everything had come easy athletic fame, career success. He had never looked directly at any hard reality, choosing instead to avoid the conflict. And now, at age thirty-five, with his son dead, his marriage and career shattered, it was all bubbling up, the molten residue of all of the ugliness in his life that he'd refused to deal with. He felt surrounded by his life's mistakes, picking up and examining each charred piece. What was this? Oh, yes, Christmas Eve. I realized I didn't love my wife but never dealt with it for five years. What was this? Oh, yes, that was my boyhood pal, Terry, floating at the bottom of the pool. And this… Mau was taken from me because I didn't deserve him. And this… this piece of emotional poison… Ryan Bolt is not about anything.
Ryan Bolt is not about anything. Ryan Bolt is about what other people think. And Mickey Alo, my old friend from prep school, is probably a Mafia hood. Ryan had always suspected it… He had even read an article in Newsweek on organized crime in which Joseph Alo had been mentioned. He'd brought it up to Mickey, when they were just out of college. Mickey had flown into a rage.
"My father owns restaurants. His family is from Sicily. Sometimes, mob guys eat in his places. That's not a crime. He's never been indicted. It's bullshit."
Ryan had let it drop. It was easier not to push it. What did it matter to him? But now he couldn't avoid it. Mickey got him this job. A. J. had been on the phone in Mickey's den talking about money from the Bahamas. Offshore cash. It didn't take a genius to figure out where it came from or where it was going. If organized crime was behind Haze Richards, if he was their handpicked puppet, then the implications could be devastating.