The Means Page 19

  “I’m a psychologist. I carry people’s stuff around for a living.”

  Some pedestrians pass behind them. The sun is brutal. The surf is rough and only four people are within sight getting sun on the sand.

  “You and Monica have stayed close all these years?”

  “We have. She changed after Mason. Fundamental changes, but we’ve always been in close touch.” Reese looks mostly at the ocean and only a little at Samantha.

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  Reese reaches for the pocketbook on the bench next to her but keeps her eyes up and unfocused the way a blind person would. She pulls out a photograph that had been loose in the pocketbook and hands it to Samantha.

  Samantha holds it up. It’s a younger Mitchell Mason with his arm around a younger Monica Morris and on his other side is a younger Reese Kinard. They’re seated in a restaurant and the table is crowded with wine and glasses and plates of desserts. “May I borrow this?”

  “Yes.”

  “For a few weeks.” Samantha will get someone to test the authenticity of the photo.

  “That’s fine.”

  “May I use it? If I do a piece, this may be useful. Do I have your permission to use it?”

  “That’s why I brought it.”

  Reese seems resigned, like a person who is doing a bad thing but has given up hope there is anything better.

  “Thank you, Reese. I’m sure this is very hard. I can only imagine.”

  “What you don’t know is that it’s worse than what you’re imagining.” Again Samantha sees a hopelessness in Reese that is a point beyond tears.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You know that I’m a psychologist.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think humans are basically good or basically bad?”

  “Depends on the human,” says Samantha.

  “Do you think society is basically good or bad?”

  “Depends on the society,” says Samantha.

  “That’s because the truth is that human nature is evil. The only societies that are good are those with a political system that holds human nature in check.”

  Samantha doesn’t say anything.

  Reese says, “Carl Jung said that as a people we are now intimidated and endangered by the military techniques that are supposed to safeguard our physical, spiritual, and moral freedoms.” She says this in the voice people use for quotations. Then she says, “You can say the same of an aging democracy. Over time, people figure a way to make it dangerous to the point that it no longer safeguards us. Political systems evolve and it’s human nature that forces the evolution. No political system can survive that for very long.”

  * * *

  Samantha is back in New York for two weeks. Reese’s photo is real. She has scanned it and kept copies for her files, calls to arrange the return of the photo and ask some follow-up questions.

  Reese’s office is a partnership of practitioners, each with their own space and phone line that goes to shared reception.

  “Reese Kinard, please.”

  A female voice says, “Are you a patient?”

  “No.”

  “Friend or family?”

  “Friend. Has something happened?”

  “I’m sorry to inform you that Ms. Kinard passed away last week.”

  Samantha is silent for a moment. “I just saw her. How did it happen?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know any of the details.”

  “She’s young and healthy. I was just there. Was there some accident? Is there anything you can tell me?”

  The woman clears her throat then talks in a whisper. “If you read the papers, and it’s probably all on the Internet anyway so I’m not saying anything that hasn’t already been said, it was a suicide. In her car, in her garage.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Silence for ten seconds. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  ON THE ROAD

  41

  Dan Cullen walks up the steps at the corner of Twelfth and I Street into Bobby Van’s Grill in Washington, DC. Cullen is chief of advance for the Pauley campaign which means he has some responsibility for deciding which cities the campaign should visit and all the responsibility for making sure there is a team set up in those cities to see that the visit comes off without any problems.

  The election is in fifty days. For campaign teams and the press on the road with them, this is like studying through the night for a life-altering final exam the next day, then repeating this for the next fifty consecutive days. Campaigns will visit three or four cities each day during this period. In the morning, Dan has a flight to Columbus, Ohio, and he won’t be back to his DC home until after election day.

  Dan is blond and handsome. If he were merely chief of advance, he’d sleep with most of the interns. The interns need to sleep with someone of power in the campaign but don’t want to admit to themselves that power is the only reason for going to bed, so they race to the only man, aside from Pauley, who is also handsome. Dan has slept with every decent-looking intern without having to make a false promise or make any effort at all. It’s understood that no strings are attached and they’re fortunate for a night with him rather than the fat and sweaty communications director.

  Dan steps into Bobby Van’s past the host desk to the bar and lounge with navel-high cocktail tables and tall bar stools. There are a dozen people in the bar, all men, all in dark suits, all DC lobbyists or consultants.

  A few heads turn to see Dan, then there’s a backhand to their buddy’s triceps and a moment of shame that they weren’t more cool about spotting Dan Cullen. Dan is respected in political circles and unknown outside them. He does TV appearances on political shows and being in a room with someone normally seen on TV can do funny things to the person doing the looking.

  Now most heads are turned to Dan and there are a few nods from people he may have met before. Anyone he really knew would have come right over. He’s at the peak of his political career today. He smiles back and everyone sees that his teeth look even more white in person.

  He walks down the middle of the narrow lounge to the stairs that lead down to the private dining rooms. He likes knowing eyes are on him. At forty-six, this is likely to be the last presidential campaign he plays a major role in. The schedule is too demanding. Most people are in their twenties and even senior people are only in their thirties. Dan enjoys his role as the veteran, which he can establish by referencing campaigns he worked in two decades ago when his listeners were just learning to read. He can imply that they have no real frame of reference, that everything they’re seeing today is just a prop in the background of a grand painting and until they can step back to see the painting with twenty years’ experience, they can’t even know what the painting is of.

  The downstairs level seems empty. At the base of the stairs are double doors to a private dining room with a round table that seats twelve. Around the bend is a small bar that is closed. Across from the bar is a windowless door. Dan opens the door and steps into a small conference room with a table in the middle and a bottle of Dewar’s scotch on it. On the other side of the bottle is Jack Boothe, strategist for the campaign to reelect Mitchell Mason.

  “Dan the Man.”

  “That’s right. You remember that.”

  “Ha. Nobody will remember that after your guy loses.”

  Dan knows plenty of people will remember him, whether Pauley wins or loses. The difference will be a few hundred thousand dollars in a signing bonus from a lobbying firm. If he’s deeply connected to the administration in power, he’ll be worth more. Or he could take a job in the administration. “My guy’s not going to lose.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Dan pours half a rocks glass with scotch and no ice and drinks a mouthful at room temperature. “This
guy’s riding the wave, Jack. This guy could do it. The campaign just has the energy winning campaigns have.”

  Jack is Dan’s age, trim with dark hair and also handsome. Appearances matter at their level. They’re trying to close the world’s greatest sale, which happens only twenty-five times in a century. Their expensive suits are pressed, shirt collars are flawless, and the tie knots are fat and right down the middle. “It’s not the year for the GOP. Mason is too strong.”

  “I don’t know. Remember us trying to get Romney through the primary in ’twelve. We had to push like hell. It was like getting a handful of Play-Doh through a keyhole. We barely had to push Pauley. He got pulled through the primary like a magnet. If anyone can take Mason, it’s Pauley.”

  “That’s just it. No one can. Not this year.”

  “We’ll see. You’re up four points and that’s all convention bounce. The debates are what matter.”

  Jack has an early morning flight to Tampa, so tonight is the last time the two will be able to meet before the election. The irony is that as partisan as the nation is, it is the people who work in the business of politics who are the most friendly across party lines. They recognize that it is a job and they need to live and to send their kids to schools. They’re like players who shake hands and get a drink after a sporting event even though they’re on rival teams. “Dan, you’re a true believer. And you’re not objective at all.”

  “And you are?” Dan sits at the table now. He refills his glass to the halfway point and pours some in Jack’s glass. “Pauley’s for real. I think he came up so fast he hasn’t had the time to become a jaded prick like Mason. And he hasn’t had to make any soul-selling compromises either.”

  “Mason may be a prick on the outside but you can’t argue that he has a vision for making this country better. And the man is a genius,” says Jack.

  “A genius or an insane person?”

  “Both. Not all insane people are geniuses, but all geniuses are a little insane. It’s lightning in a bottle.”

  “That’s the last defense of an asshole.”

  “You’d be surprised at what a deep thinker he is. His inner circle has dubbed him the Asshole Philosopher. Both parts of that are true, and whether you like him or not, at least he’s real.”

  “He’s an asshole. That’s real. And his vision for the country sucks.”

  “You GOP guys crack me up.” Jack makes a high-pitched voice. “Don’t tax the millionaires more, it’ll shrink the economy and we’ll lose jobs.” His voice returns to normal. “You think if taxes on millionaires go up two points they’re all going to fire the maid?”

  “Not tonight, Jack. I don’t want to get into platforms. You believe yours, I believe mine, let’s just drink scotch.”

  “Yeah, fine.” Jack sips. “You getting laid?”

  “Plenty. Too much.” Dan is divorced with a seventeen-year-old daughter who lives with her mom while she finishes her senior year. “I need less sex and more sleep if I’m going to survive the next fifty days.”

  “Tell me about it.” Jack is also divorced but no kids. “Couple nights ago we’re in Scranton and there’s this forty-three-year-old gal who’s a staffer in communications. She’s been around campaigns forever and this is her last go unless someone makes her a mistress and gives her a spot. She’s always turning up around me because she thinks we have a connection being the same age around all these kids. So at two in the morning I run into her in the lobby of the hotel. She says the last fifty days are about to start. ‘If you’re ever going to fuck me, tonight might be your last chance.’”

  “Attagirl. What’d you say?”

  “I said I’m sorry but I am just not going to be able to fuck you tonight.”

  “You’re a dick. You should’ve fucked her. A gentleman would have.”

  “She’s good-looking for forty-three but I was so tired. If either one of us had been twenty years younger, I would have done it.”

  Dan laughs but feels depression behind it. He has to laugh because it’s been his whole life and he’s chosen a sick profession. “What’s the word in your campaign?”

  Jack takes another sip. He and Dan have exchanged information for years. Nothing big or illegal. Like Cold War–era intelligence agents who develop a secret friendship, they share little bits that are interesting and can make each other look good. “The team from four years ago is pretty much intact, only now you’re looking at the chief strategist.”

  “Bully for you.”

  “That’s Mr. Bully, thank you.”

  “What else?”

  “Distant wife, rumors of wandering eye. Stuff you’ve heard.”

  “Any ideas where it’s wandering to?”

  “Nothing for you there, pal. Suffice to say it’s not in the league of Kennedy or Clinton.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Look, Mason’s the real deal.” Jack takes a drink of scotch, pulling in two swallows the way a young person drinks milk. “Twelve years ago I was running a campaign and we’re flying to Reagan National. I’m sitting in the seat next to the principal. As we’re about to touch down, it hits the news wire that there’s a rumor of a coup in Venezuela. So I turn to my guy who shall remain nameless—”

  “I know who you were working for twelve years ago.”

  Jack winks. “And I say, the press is going to mob you on this the moment your toes are out of this plane.” Jack sips again. “He turns to me like a scared teenager. He says to me, What do I say?”

  “Yeah, that wasn’t your best campaign.”

  “Right then, I knew I was backing the wrong horse.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mason’s not like that. He knows what the fuck he’s talking about, on almost everything. And when you think he’s being aloof or not listening in a briefing, he actually is paying attention. He retains it and he does something with it.”

  Dan grunts. “No doubt he’s a smart guy.” There’ll be no convincing Dan that Mason isn’t an asshole.

  “What about you guys? You’re the fresh new story in town.”

  Dan takes another mouthful of scotch. “Some of the clichéd stuff is playing out. Repeating shit he hears from the body guy.” A candidate has an assistant who tends to all the personal needs and is constantly at his side. It’s not a political position and is usually a young scrapper. The role is informally titled body guy, and for candidates who are otherwise surrounded by political professionals, it can be his only conduit to normal. “This kid’s about twenty-four and a couple weeks ago he’s bringing coffee and papers to Pauley and he starts talking about how the price of a gallon of milk and some magazine he reads just went up. So Pauley goes on this three-day obsession with the Consumer Price Index and every morning we have to wrestle him back into the daily message.”

  This is the perfect thing for Dan to share. It gives Jack an inner circle story to retell but doesn’t give away the cause. “I heard the body guy is gay.”

  “I don’t think so. I haven’t heard anything about that.” Jack probably hasn’t either, thinks Dan. He’s just feeling around for something better. “And we have the usual old buddies showing up and riding on the planes, whispering nonsense in his ear.”

  “Oh, that’s the worst. Thank God Mason’s over that.” Candidates often travel with an old and trusted friend because that can make them feel calm and centered. These friends are usually not political professionals but will opine as though they are.

  Dan wants something to take back. “Who’s playing Pauley in your debate prep?”

  “Probably David Larson,” says Jack. Larson is the Democratic governor from Massachusetts.

  “I can see that. He’ll be good. You guys started mock debates yet?”

  “Last week. Mason’s a little paranoid of the curse of the incumbent’s first debate.” Jack doesn’t need to add the word confidentially. He knows how t
he information will be used. It’s for Pauley’s inner circle and not the media. “You guys?”

  “Senator Bale to start. I’m pushing the team to find a real Democrat though. Bale can play the part but I think it would be more effective to have a true believer.”

  “Where are you going to find a true believer to help you out? Doesn’t sound like he could be so true.”

  “Enough money might solve it. Or maybe just someone Mason has personally pissed off bad enough.”

  “That’s political suicide. Anyway, if he’s a true believer he won’t betray us over personal reasons.” Jack finishes his drink.

  “It’s worth a shot.”

  “How’s Pauley’s prep so far?”

  “You know how it goes. You just have to help them operate inside the lane they’re comfortable in. But I’ll tell you, Pauley’s good. He studies hard and he’s got his facts and stats, but he’s also got style and a sense of timing. Sometimes you get just one or the other, but he has both.”

  “I’ve seen him. He’s good, but it’s different getting out there for the big show. Mason’s like a middleweight boxer and he knows how to get to his lines naturally. It’s jab, jab, jab, then bam, he lands the big one. Mason’s one of those guys who does it better without too much coaching.”

  Dan and Jack almost finish the bottle and complain about each other’s super PAC. After the last sip Jack says, “Let’s meet up here for dinner in mid-November. Loser buys.”

  “You’re on.”

  42

  The room has no light. It’s silent. At 4:08 a.m., Randy Newhope’s iPhone alarm chimes. His head is to the side of the pillow and he’s open-mouthed with face down against the mattress, which pushes his jaw out of alignment. Just his left arm moves, as though it’s the only part of his body that hears the noise. His hand wraps the phone and his thumb sweeps the screen to make silence. At 4:10 a.m. the hotel phone rings. Randy opens his eyes. Each day the hotel room is different, so he needs to find the landline and get into the shower. He lifts the phone from its cradle and drops it. It’s not a person calling, just a machine to wake him.