Deadly Election (9781101619223) (5 page)

“Well, all right,” Clint said. “I guess I better get dressed for my little shopping trip with Carla.”

“I’ll be going,” Gryder said. “Carla will pick you up tonight and bring you to the party.”

“Where is it?”

“In the home of one of our biggest supporters.”

“
Our
supporters?”

“Supporters of the party,” Gryder said. “But after tonight I’m sure she will be yours as well.”

As Gryder left, Clint looked at Carla and said, “She?”

“Many of the biggest contributors are women,” she said. “Why don’t you get dressed while I see if Mrs. Bigelow will give me some more coffee.”

“I’ll be down quick,” Clint promised.

He went upstairs and put on a clean pair of jeans and a chambray shirt. He pulled his boots on, knowing that one thing Carla was probably going to insist on was new ones. He’d had these for months and they were just starting to fit well.

Last he grabbed his New Line, tucked it into the back of his shirt, then covered that with a lightweight jacket. When he came back down, Carla was standing in the front hall, drinking coffee and waiting.

“Is that shirt chambray?” she asked.

“It is,” he said. “I picked it up in Labyrinth before we left.”

She approached him, put her hand against his chest to feel the material.

“Maybe I don’t have as much work to do as I thought.” Then she looked down at his boots. “Or maybe I do.”

“Shall we go?” Clint asked.

Clint was used to picking up his clothes from a general store or mercantile. Sometimes, when he was in San Francisco or New York, he’d buy something from one of the large men’s clothing stores. The stores in Austin that Carla took him to were on par with those. Dedicated specifically to men’s clothing, with tailors right there on staff to get the proper measurements.

Carla bought him shirts at first, then had him measured for some special suits.

“And we need one for tonight,” she told the tailor.

“Tonight?”

“Yes,” she said, “it’s very important.”

“It’s very unusual,” he said. “Not easy to make a suit in a matter of hours.”

“Might you have something you already started for someone?” she asked. “Maybe they didn’t pick it up?”

The tailor, a small man in his sixties, peered at her over the wire frame of his glasses.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “I do have some unfinished suits. Wait, perhaps I have something that can be sized.”

As the tailor went into a back room, Clint said, “I never would have thought to ask him that.”

“That’s why you have me,” she said with a smile…

The tailor returned with a suit he said he thought would work. Clint tried it on. It had been made for a man larger in the shoulders and the waist.

“I can fix this,” the tailor said, “and this…do you like the color?”

“It’s blue,” Carla said. “You can’t go wrong with blue.”

The tailor looked at Clint.

“Like the lady says,” he replied, “blue’s fine.”

“Very well, then,” the tailor said. “Let’s just try on the vest…”

Clint put the vest on and the tailor made the necessary chalk marks for adjustment.

“When can this be ready?” Carla asked.

“Well, I close at five…four thirty?”

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “I’ll pay for that one when we come back, and then pay for the others when we pick them up.”

“Very well.”

“Thank you so much.”

They left the tailor carrying bundles of Clint’s new shirts wrapped in brown paper.

“Where to now?” he asked.

“New boots,” she said.

“How about lunch first?”

“Well,” she said, “I am rather hungry, now that you
mention it. There’s a small place just around the corner.”

“Lead the way, ma’am.”

They were getting along fine. She seemed to have forgotten the snub of the night before, and he was letting her attempts to control him go. When it came to the clothes, she did have more experience than he did, and she had good taste.

It seemed as if they were going to get along…

When Gryder left the house, he did not go back to his office. Neither did he go to see the lieutenant governor, or the governor. He would be seeing them later.

He went to another house, this one across town. It was small, well cared for, spread out on one level. Not as opulent as the house Clint Adams was in, it was nevertheless worth a lot of money, and was owned by a wealthy man.

Gryder went to the front door, looked around to see who was on the street, then knocked on the door. It was opened by a tall, impeccably dressed man in his fifties.

“Will,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Gryder said. “I’ve been busy.”

“With Mr. Adams?”

“Yes.”

“And how is that going?”

“Fine, fine.”

“Come in, then,” the man said. “We have much to discuss.”

“Yes, we do.”

Gryder went inside, and the man closed the door.

“How has he taken to Carla?” the man asked.

“He’s…resisting.”

“Really?” the man said as they walked down a hall. “Given his reputation, I didn’t think that would be possible.”

“Don’t worry,” Gryder said. “He won’t be able to resist for long.”

“She is a lovely woman. Ah, here we are.”

He led Gryder into a den, a room lined with books. The other three men there looked up from the books they had each been perusing.

“Ah,” one of them said, “and here we are.”

“Will is here to fill us in, gentleman,” the host said. “But first, who wants a drink?”

Carla took Clint to a small café that had tables inside as well as outside. Carla wanted to sit outside, but Clint said no.

“Why not?”

“It’s not very healthy for me to just…sit in plain sight.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “I forgot. Your reputation. Someone might…shoot at you?”

“Someone might,” he said, “but I’m more concerned that some innocent people might get caught in the cross fire.”

“So your concern is for others?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s very noble,” she said. “Not something you would usually find in a politician.”

“I’m not a politician.”

They went inside and were shown to a table in the center of the room.

“How about one in the back?” Clint asked the waiter.

“Of course, of course,” the man said. “Whatever you like.”

He walked them to a table against the back wall, then handed them each a menu.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.

“Hot tea for me,” Carla said.

“Coffee,” Clint said, “strong, and black.”

“Yessir.”

Carla had set the menu aside.

“Why don’t you order for both of us?”

She smiled at him.

“You won’t think I’m trying to control you?”

“No,” he said, “I’ll think that you’re trying to get me a good meal.”

“All right, then.”

The waiter returned with their coffee and tea. Carla ordered a chicken platter for each of them, without referring to the menu.

“You can have a steak again tonight if you want,” she reasoned.

“That’s fine,” he said. “I like chicken.”

“Good.”

While they waited, she asked him questions about himself, his past, some of which he answered, and some he didn’t.

“You’re not answering any of my questions that would give me insight into who you are,” she said. “You’re just telling me…stories.”

“Why do you need insight?” he asked. “Would that help you figure out how to control me?”

“I thought we’d gotten past that.”

“As far as lunch was concerned, yes.”

“Look,” she said, “I admit, yesterday I was…trying to seduce you.”

“No fooling.”

“It’s part of my job.”

“You mean…”

“No, I’m not a whore,” she said. “Not exactly. It’s just a way to keep you…happy.”

“I can find my own women to keep me happy, thanks,” Clint said. “Besides, I’m here to run for office, not find a bedmate.”

“Fine,” she said with a shrug. “Have it your way.”

“If I was going to have it my way, I’d probably not even be here.”

“So then why did you agree?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Because you were called?”

“I was drafted.”

“Conscripted.”

“Exactly.”

“So you don’t feel you could have said no?”

“I suppose it was an option,” he said, wondering if he could tell her what she wanted to hear, “but if certain people who know what they’re doing think that I’m the man for the job…”

He stopped as the waiter appeared with their meals. She had ordered herself a quarter of a chicken, while ordering him half, both meals broiled to perfection, with vegetables added.

Clint cut a piece off the breast and put it in his mouth. The skin was crisp and flavorful.

“How is it?” she asked.

“Great,” he said, “but I’ll bet Mrs. Bigelow could do better.”

“I’m sure she could.”

They proceeded to eat.

While they ate, they talked, and Clint realized he wasn’t getting any more out of Carla than she had gotten from him about who she really was.

She had been born back East—as he had—and had come to the West to find a new life for herself when she was in her twenties. He had come even younger than that. Now she was in her early thirties, and had been living in Austin for the past five years, working for politicians.

But who she really was, and how she felt? He didn’t have a clue.

“Come on,” she said when they were finished, “let’s go and look at some boots.”

She took Clint to one of the best bootmakers in Austin. He sat and let the man fit him, tried on some ready-made boots before they decided he needed a custom-made pair.

“By tonight?” she asked.

“You’re crazy,” the bootmaker said.

“Well, we need a pair he can wear tonight.”

So they continued to try on boots until they found a pair that fit.

Almost.

Clint’s feet were hurting in his new boots, and his jacket—which had originally been cut for a larger man but had been taken in according to the current style—was tight across the shoulders.

He walked into the home of his hostess with Carla on his arm. She was lovely in a magenta gown that left her shoulders bare, showing the upper slopes of her generous breasts.

Clint was also wearing his gun and holster. Carla told him that Gryder wanted him to wear it.

“He says we want people to know who they’re voting for,” she’d said.

“That’s fine with me,” he’d said. “I’d rather wear it than not wear it.”

The room they were in was the size of a ballroom. It was filled with people, and at the far end were a group of musicians, playing loudly. Gryder greeted Clint as he entered and said, “The governor wants to meet you.”

“What about my hostess?” Clint asked.

“I think the governor comes first, Clint.”

“Is he going to be contributing to my campaign fund?” Clint asked.

“Of course not,” Gryder said. “He can’t be caught doing—”

“Then I think my hostess should be first.”

Gryder stared at Clint for a few moments, then shrugged and said, “Okay, if that’s the way you want it. Come with me.”

He led Clint and Carla across the room where a tall woman in a blue dress, much like the one Carla was wearing, was talking to several men who were staring at her cleavage.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Gryder said. “Mrs. Linquist, this is our candidate, Clint Adams.”

The woman turned to face Clint. She had creamy skin and a full, womanly body, but up close he could see she was about ten years older than Carla.

“Well, Mr. Adams,” she said, extending her bejeweled hand. “This is a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Linquist,” he said. “May I present Miss Carla—”

“Yes, yes, charmed, my dear,” the woman said, dismissing Carla. She never took her eyes off Clint. While Carla had hold of his right arm, Mrs. Linquist moved in and claimed the left.

“I’d like to take you to meet my husband,” she said, tugging on him.

“That’d be fine, ma’am,” Clint said. “Where is he?”

“My husband is in a wheelchair, Mr. Adams—may I call you Clint?”

“Of course.”

“And will you call me Laura?”

“If you like.”

She tugged on his arm again, and Clint felt Carla’s hold on his other arm strengthen. However, Gryder moved in and pried Carla off Clint’s arm, so that Laura Linquist could pull him along.

“I’d like it very much,” she said, pressing her breasts to his upper arm. “If you gentleman will excuse us?”

“Of course,” Gryder said. “It is your party, Laura.”

“Yes,” she said, “it is.” Now she gave Carla a very pointed look. “I’ll return him when I’ve finished with him, my dear.”

Carla opened her mouth to retort, but Gryder bumped her with his arm and she remained silent.

Laura Linquist led Clint across the room, nodding to her guests along the way.

“You can meet all these people later,” she told Clint. “After.”

He kept himself from asking, “After what?”

Three men standing together in a corner watched as Laura Linquist led Clint across the room.

“She’s got him,” one of them said.

“Well, why not?” another asked. “She’s going to be donating a lot of her husband’s money.”

The third man said, “And he won’t even be aware of it. Poor Arnold.”

“Hey,” the first man said, “he had years of that woman servicing him. Now he’s a vegetable in a wheelchair and she’s in charge. I think she’s earned it.”

“You’re right,” the second man said. “Arnold was a real bastard.”

“A kingmaker,” the third man said, “but a bastard.”

“Indeed,” the other two said.

They all sipped their drinks and began to discuss the stock market.

*   *   *

“You know what she’s up to, don’t you?” Carla asked Gryder.

“Of course I do.”

“And that’s okay with you?”

“As long as she pays for the privilege,” he said, “she can do whatever she wants.”

“Clint won’t go along.”

“Why not?”