The Plan

Chapter 19.

BY FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON, THE SINGLE BLOW-DRIES, OR pod people, as A. J. called them, were setting up their e quipment in front of the nondescript Pacific Convention Center in Des Moines. The boxlike auditorium had bee n b uilt in the 1950s to house rodeos and farm events.

Each candidate had been assigned a place on the rostrum according to a draw that had taken place earlier. Malcolm Rasher had drawn number 4, which put Haze in a black leather chair between Florida Senator Peter Dehaviland and New York Senator Leo Skatina on the right side of the stage.

While Malcolm had been pulling the chair number out of a hat, A. J. Teagarden had gone off with a small overnight case he'd brought with him from Princeton. He was in search of the second-tier lighting box that was the control center for the stage lights. He climbed a metal staircase into the auditorium attic and finally found the lighting booth. He watched, in silence, as several technicians adjusted the carbon arc lights, aiming them through a glass window at the stage below.

"When're you guys on your union break?" A. J. asked casually.

"Who's asking?" a heavyset lighting technician wanted to know.

"Bob Muntz, regional shop steward from six sixty-nine in Iowa City," A. J. said, consulting his watch for effect. "You guys are entitled to fifteen-minute breaks every two hours."

"Break's in 'bout ten minutes, sir…"

A. J. sat in a metal chair, put his feet up on the rail, and looked out of the little glass booth, down at the stage fifty feet below. He saw Malcolm Rasher pointing at one of the chairs on the right side of the stage. A. J. tipped back in his chair and waited until the three lighting technicians looked at their watches and moved out of the booth on their break.

A. J. got up and walked over to one of the follow spots and turned it on to see which chair it was aimed at; then he opened the lens covers, exposing the carbon arc bulb. He licked his fingers and unscrewed the arc, replacing the 250-watt spot with a 500-watt halogen light he pulled from his bag. Then he closed the lens cover and moved to the other lights and changed them, too. The only light he didn't touch was the one aimed at the second chair from the right. He put the old bulbs in the bag he'd brought and left the booth quickly, whistling as he walked down the stairs.

Brenton Spencer arrived backstage early from his suite at the Savoy. He'd had a dull headache all day. They'd given him what they called the best dressing room. It turned out to be a yellow concrete dungeon with no windows and a brown-stained sofa. The makeup table had six lights out. He was going to complain but he thought, Fuck it, this was a suicide mission, no matter how he cut it. He'd brought his gray suit and his black bold-striped tie, which always looked good on TV. He took it out of a garment bag, along with a terry cloth robe, and stripped off his shirt and jeans. Before slipping into the robe, he stood in front of the full-length mirror in his boxer shorts and black socks and looked at himself skeptically. He fel t f unny, light-headed. The throbbing in his head started to build. Then, without warning, a blinding flash of pain hit his forehead and his vision went white. He sank to his knees in the dressing room, both hands went to his temples. It felt as if an evil beast had taken a bite out of the inside of his head. He sank lower onto the cold concrete floor and moaned. The pain in his head was so intense that he almost passed out, fighting to remain conscious, some survival instinct telling him to hang on to his consciousness… If he let go, he knew he would fall into cerebral nothingness. He grabbed a towel off the chair and held it to his mouth, breathing in gasps through his nose. Whatever it was that caused the ripping pain started to subside. His forehead was throbbing horribly, but he no longer felt the razor-sharp cutting pain. He sat in terrified silence for almost ten minutes. Then he pulled himself up onto his feet and looked in the mirror. He was white and waxy. He moved on unsteady legs to the bottle of aspirin on his dressing table, shook half a dozen into his hand, and gulped them down with water from a pitcher on the adjoining table. Finally, he moved to the sofa and lay down, putting his feet up. He took several deep breaths.

"What the fuck was that?" he finally asked himself in wonder. He lay there, afraid to move, until it was time to get made up, dressed, and go on stage to meet the candidates.

Outside, the candidates started pulling up at the convention center, arriving like stars at a Hollywood premiere. Across the street, standing behind curb barricades, was a gallery of Iowa voters. The pod people were ready, microphones and cameras at port arms. Each candidate stopped to pose for pictures, and make a few remarks.

Then the front runner pulled up in a black limousine with six people in the back of the car, including the president of the Iowa Democratic Committee. Skatina was the Party choice and they had orchestrated the arrival.

The senator was confident. He was way ahead in the tracking polls and knew he was going to kick ass in Iowa. "

Tonight is gonna be a very special night because tonight we're going to make some promises to the women of America. And I think it's time those promises were made and kept…"

The pod people had already started to pack up when a red pickup truck with the Caulfields and Haze Richards pulled up to the front of the auditorium. The fenders were muddy; the windshield was dirty. Bud had wanted to wash the truck before they left the farm but A.]. stopped him.

It pulled to a stop and Bud and Sarah Caulfield got out; then Haze Richards stepped down on the concrete apron in front of the convention center. Single blow-dries looked up. Pod people turned. And then it dawned… Oh yeah, that governor… from Rhode Island. Reluctantly, some of them got their cameras out again and back up on their shoulders.

"Arriving last is candidate Haze Richardson," Lon Fredericks from WXYO-TV said into his pillbox mike. "Governor Richardson, Governor Richardson," he shouted. Haze paused in the TV glare to hug Sarah and shake Bud's hand, then moved over so that all of the cameras could focus on him.

"Good evening," he said.

"Governor Richardson, you have almost no voter recognition in Iowa. Do you have any hope to win?" Lon Fredericks said.

"It's Richards… Governor Haze Richards. I don't know if I can win. I came here at my own expense to try and say what I believe."

"Governor Richards, Governor Richards, over here," Ken Venable called. He had wedged himself in with the press.

"Yes…" Haze said, looking into the eyes of his own campaign pollster.

"Who are those people you came here with?" Ken asked, throwing Haze the slow, chest-high pitch.

"That's Sarah and Bud Caulfield. They own a farm in Grinnell that is mortgaged to the hilt and about to go back to the bank. I spent the night with them. Bud and Sarah are the reason I'm in this campaign. I'm in it for them and for all the people like them. I want to make America work for people like the Caulfields."

He moved into the convention center.

UBC had parked their sixteen-wheel control room around the side of the auditorium. Nestled in beside it was the satellite news-gathering truck.

Brenton Spencer walked onstage and stood for a moment. He had a lavaliere radio mike hidden behind his bold tie and had pushed the audio receiver into his ear so that the cord ran down the back of his neck and into his shirt collar to a battery transmitter on his belt. Ted Miller, the director, hit the intercom switch.

" 'Evening, Brent. This is Ted in the truck. We're gonna be going live in two-twenty."

"Okay," Brenton said.

"We'll be giving you any political facts you need through your angel," he said, referring to the earpiece. "Whatever," Brenton said.

Ted hit a switch in front of him, cutting Brenton out of the audio loop and turned to his sound man. "Is he okay? He sounds terrible."

The sound man shrugged.

Ted Miller hit the intercom, putting Brenton back on with him. "Brent, anything we can get you? Want any water?" But Brenton had taken the angel out of his ear. It was hanging down the back of his collar. "What the fuck?" Ted said. He leaned forward and spoke into his mike to the stage director. "Tell Brenton his angel is out of his ear. We need to talk to him before air. We're up in ninety seconds."

They could see the stage manager on the camera 2 monitor as he ran to the stage and said something to Brenton, who nodded but didn't replace the earpiece.

"He said okay," the stage manager said in desperation over the headset, "but he didn't stick it back in."

"Seat of the pants TV," Ted said. "We're up in five-four-three-two-take one." And the line monitor showed the wide shot of the stage with five empty chairs and a center podium. "Roll music and cue Bob," Ted said. And they pointed at the announcer through a glass wall in the remote trailer. As the bumper music played loud for a few seconds, then was dropped down, Bob Banks, in his rich, round voice, kicked off the 1996 political season and then went on to make the candidate introductions.

Malcolm Rasher sat with Ryan, Ven and Van in Haze Richards's cramped dressing room. They had the UBC-TV feed hooked into an eighteen-inch monitor. A. J. banged through the door with a slip of paper in his hand. "Just got the last Iowa poll. Came in twenty minutes ago. Skatina is at fifty-five percent. His people are down the hall opening the champagne already. They think in five days they're gonna landslide the election." He looked at the slip in his hand, "Dehaviland is polling ten percent. He's got good internals. They want to like him but they don't get what he's saying. Savage is at fifteen percent, mostly because of young voters. And Gilligan is at fifteen. Good internals but his message is stale. Five percent undecided."

Ryan was adding it up in his head. "That's a hundred percent. Where's that leave us'?"

"We're in the asterisk division. The Jo-Bobs don't even know we're running, but we're about to change that."

Brenton Spencer moved onto the stage. As the light hit him, he seemed to straighten, to come more alive.

"Good evening, I'm Brenton Spencer and I'll be asking the questions tonight. First, let's meet the Democrat from New York City. Two-time U. S. senator, one of the shining lights in the Democratic party… Senator Leo Skatina."

Skatina walked out and took his chair. When he looked up, he started squinting as the blinding follow spot hit him. He tried to shade his eyes, then realized his mistake and lowered his hands.

"What's going on with the follow spot?" Ted Miller said in the control room. "He's burning up."

"We checked the lights this afternoon," the technical direc`or said in a panic. "Jesus, they musta put halogens in there after we set up."

Skatina continued to squint, looking sinister in the TV monitor.

The next three candidates were introduced, and they, too, were blinded by the punishing lights.

"What's with the lighting?" Ryan asked. "These guys are on fire."

A. J. grinned. "Bunch a' shifty-lookin' fucks, if ya ask me."

Then it was time for Haze to make his entrance.

"And from the state of Rhode Island… a two-term governor, who only announced last week, a new name in national politics, Haze Richards."

Haze walked out slowly, completely at ease. Since his follow spot had not been altered he had no need to squint. He looked composed and alert as Brenton began the debate.

"Gentlemen, the agreed-upon rules are.. I'll ask a question and I'll be allowed a follow-up. If any of you wants to make a comment after that, I'll recognize you, but there will be a two-minute time limit on all responses."

Brenton was moving now, prowling the stage, revitalized. A jungle cat in a silk suit and striped tie.

His opening questions were. contentious, his responses argumentative, and the candidates were clearly unprepared for an assault by the moderator.

In the truck, Ted Miller agreed. "He's supposed to be moderating this debate, not joining it." Steve Israel's voice came through the speaker from New York.

"What's Brenton doing?" Steve asked.

"I don't know," Ted said into the mike. "His earpiece is out, we can't talk to him."

On stage, Brenton was striding over to Leo Skatina.

"Senator, you have made a lot of showy promises to women, yet I have the demographics of your own Senate staff. Only twenty percent are females."

"To show my sincerity on this issue, let me make a promise to the American people. If nominated. I intend to choose a woman to be my running mate."

In Haze's cramped dressing room, A. J. Teagarden leaned forward and spoke to the TV screen. "There's your opening, Haze. Go. Jump on it," he said, hoping his candidate would seize the offensive. He'd prepped Haze for that one. He was not disappointed.

"I'd like to address that issue, if I might," Haze said.

"Okay, let's hear from the governor of Rhode Island."

"It's this kind of needless divisiveness that is destroying our country. How many women are on Senator Skatina's staff is not the issue. The issue is, How many intelligent, hardworking staffers has Senator Skatina employed-staffers who will strike at the waste in our government? Our country is being torn apart by this sort of needless conflict… men against women, blacks against whites, rich against poor. It's one thing to have a free exchange of ideas, but another to divide our country by creating needless controversy in pursuit of votes."

"All of which doesn't say much about what you think."

"I think to make a vice presidential choice based on color or gender is the high point of political insincerity. How 'bout we get back to what this country is all about and put the most qualified person in the job, regardless," he said softly.

A. J. leaned back in his chair and shot a fist into the air. "Yes! Pony!"

Brenton moved on to the domestic economy and military spending, with a sidebar on gays in the military.

Again, Haze was prepared and interrupted the discussion. 'The size of the defense budget and gays in the military just aren't the issues that should concern us."

"You seem to have a lot on your mind, Governor," Brenton sneered. "If these aren't the issues, what are?"

"I think every American should have the right to serve his country, regardless of his sexual orientation. But, beyond that, the real issue should be, what is the role of the military in American society? Are we going to continue to put one fifth of our gross national product into defense and, if we do, what are the economic responsibilites of the user nations like Japan, Germany, and Kuwait, who take our help and pay us nothing? Is it right for the factory worker in Detroit to have to pick up the tab to provide military protection for a Japanese car industry that is putting him out of work? I say no. I'd like to take this government back from the lobbyists and lawyers and see if I can make it work again for all of you."

"Pony," A. J. Teagarden said. Now he was out of his chair, striding around the room.

On stage, Brenton turned to the camera and announced the commercial break.

The stage manager ran down the aisle and confronted Brenton.

"Put your angel in. Ted needs to talk to you."

He reached up and grabbed the angel that was hanging on the back of his collar. "You mean this?" he yanked it free and knelt down, handing it off the stage, then he walked back to center stage as the break ended.

"We're back at the Democratic candidates' debate here in the Pacific Convention Center in Des Moines, Iowa," Brenton started. Then he turned to Senator Dehaviland and asked a tough question about keeping illegal aliens out of border states.*

A. J. Teagarden moved to the TV screen. "Kick that one in the ass, Haze. Come on, knock it into the cheap seats." He was so animated that Ryan couldn't decide whether to watch the debate or the overweight wonk who was eating the oxygen in the dressing room.

On stage, Haze turned to the audience. "I don't know how many of you sitting in this audience today were given an engraved invitation to come to America, but my parents sure weren't."

"Pony!" A. J. said.

"I think, again, we're talking about the wrong issues. Immigration? Come on. I'm not interested in attacking people who risk their lives to come here on leaky boats to make a new life. Every family, except for Native Americans, got here the same way. The real issue is a whole generation of children with no hope, no skills, and no dreams. Millions of minds and bodies being squandered because this country can't teach them to be productive. Immigration? I'm not gonna scare you with the demagoguery of fear. But I'll tell you what some members of the Congress won't talk about… they won't talk about the people who are really killing this country. Every Wall Street lawyer or special interest lobbyist who has been taking them out to lunch or on Florida jaunts, buying their influence in Congress, contributing fifty or a hundred thousand dollars a year in PAC money, buying their votes. Do you realize that while every American is trimming his or her budget, this government has voted to squander billions of dollars on useless giveaway programs? We actually spend one hundred million dollars a year to store gas surplus in Senator Dehaviland's home state of Florida. Two hundred million for new office furniture in Congress, half a million to build a replica of Egypt's great pyramids… one hundred and fifty thousand to study the Hatfield-McCoy feud… It gets sillier. One hundred and forty-four thousand to see if pigeons follow human economic laws… While you're all cutting back, Congress is funding all this, and then in midnight sessions, they gather in secret and vote for congressional pay raises. I don't understand Ns. I guess it's because I'm not a Washington insider. I don't owe anything to anybody. I'm just a governor from the smallest state in the nation who's fed up with this corruption. I want to make America work again for all of us."

A. J. Teagarden could feel the connect. He could feel it over the tiny eighteen-inch TV screen. "This guy… I love this guy," he said, pacing the dressing room in excitement. After the commercial break, they came back for a discussion of farm policy. All four of the Washington candidates took the expected road. Farm subsidies are good, support the farmer in a farm state. Haze went th e o ther way, delivering his speech with wholesome sincerity.

"I know this is gonna sound like heresy in a farm state, but damn it, when is all the pandering going to stop? The farm program, and all of you in Iowa know what that is… The farm program is a magnificent program that helps farmers grow their crops; but farm subsidies, which all of my fellow candidates seem to support, is absolute government hypocrisy. We're paying honeybee farmers billions to buy their unused honey. Peanut farmers get subsidies and throw the product away. The federal government doles out billions to California farmers to grow a cotton crop that has to be flooded in a desert, thought-ridden state. All of this just causes products to be too expensive. We can't compete. I'd rather open new world markets… force Japan to take down trade barriers… create a demand for U. S. farm goods abroad that will stimulate farm growth. I'm against subsidies. If that means you won't vote for me, so be it, but I'm here to speak the truth as I see it. I want the system to work for you. Stop dividing this nation. Let's bring labor and management to the same table. We can control our destiny if we choose to. I want this system to work for everybody."

In the truck, Ted Miller threw his pencil down. "This is turning into the Haze Richards Show. Brenton's gotta cut this guy off."

"Bring labor and management together?" Brenton sneered. "What about the Teamster strike? You think you could fix that?"

"The Teamster strike," Haze said, clearly not ready to discuss it.

"Yeah, the Teamster strike… heard about it up there in Rhode Island? No trucks are rolling in this country, it's choking everybody. You say you want to make America work, get everybody together… How 'bout the Teamsters and the Truckers Association? Wanna take a shot at that?"

"Let me tell you something, Mr. Spencer… I've been watching your demeanor all night. You're parading around up here, berating my fellow candidates. I think you owe every man on this stage an apology."

Here it comes, thought Brenton… the end of my career. His temples were throbbing. "You think I need to apologize?"

"Who elected you to anything?" Haze shot back. "You're supposed to be moderating this debate, not joining in it. If you think you have the answers, get up in one of these chairs and tell us what you'd do."

"I'm not a candidate," Brenton said, falling completely out of his anchorman demeanor.

"These men have put themselves on the line, and I think you should apologize to them for your patronizing attitude, your sense of disregard for what they represent and what they stand for. You're a perfect example of what's wrong with this whole process. You seek to divide us to create a controversy that will get ratings. In my opinion, Mr. Spencer, you're the worst this country has to offer. You seek to divide us for personal gain."

Brenton Spencer stood in center stage, his mouth flapping, gulping air.

In the truck, Ted was screaming at his camera people. "Get loose. He looks like a fucking trout in a bucket." They racked back fast.

"I don't have to take this," Brenton finally said, and he turned and walked off the stage, leaving all of the candidates sitting there, agape. Haze got up and moved to the podium.

"What was that last question again?" he said to a room full of tense laughter.

"Oh yeah," Haze said, "the Teamster strike. Well, if I was in that room in Mr. Skatina's hometown in New York, talking to the participants, I would find a way, some way to forge a compromise because it's time that Americans stop fighting with Americans. The strongest, greatest nation in the world is being trounced-not because we can't compete, but because we can't focus… because we can't agree. I want to change that. Last night instead of sleepin g a t the Savoy like the rest of the candidates, I stayed with Bud and Sarah Caulfield on their farm in Grinnell. The Caulfields are about to lose that farm to the bank. Not because they haven't worked or planned. Not because they haven't put their heart and soul into that acreage, but because the federal government has elected to ignore their plight, preferring to invest its time writing bills to improve their own salaries while two people in Grinnell, Iowa, lose their dream. I want more than anything in the world to make this country work again, to make America work for Bud and Sarah Caulfield-to make America work for you.

"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.