Grass Roots (9 page)

“Miss. Emmy has been here, and so has Jasper, right along. They’re both resting now. The Governor came right down as soon as he heard, but he had to go back to Atlanta.” He paused again, then decided to tell him about his sister. “The doctor and I had a talk with the judge, and he signed a temporary order giving me authority to handle your affairs. I didn’t think Miss. Emmy was up to it. Minnie and Jasper will take care of the household, paying the bills, and so forth.

I’ll be available to make any other decisions until you’re on your feet again.” He stopped again. He wanted to say something to encourage the man, to make him want to get better. He wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do, but he did it anyway.

“Senator, I know you real well, and I know you’ll be yourself before long. I’m still planning on running your reelection campaign, so don’t you let me down, you hear? I’ve already told the staff that nothing has changed,” he lied.

Carr’s face never showed a flicker of change, but to Will’s astonishment, there was a movement in his hand, as if he had tried to grip Will’s.

“That’s the way, Senator,” Will said.

“I felt that; I know you can move that hand. You just keep at it, all right?” Carr closed his eyes as if he were sleepy. Will squeezed his hand and left him.

In the hallway he encountered Dr. Daniels.

“He moved his hand. Doctor,” Will said excitedly.

“He gripped my hand for just a fleeting moment.”

The doctor looked doubtful.

“I don’t think he’s capable of that in his condition. What you felt was probably an involuntary muscle spasm.”

“Well, what are his chances of regaining some movement and speech?”

“It’s hard to say,” the doctor replied.

“I’ve seen some patients bounce right back after a very serious stroke.

I’ve seen others become vegetables after what I thought was a minor one.”

“What if he did grip my hand? What if it wasn’t an involuntary spasm?”

“That would be a very good sign. If he can make that sort of movement now, so soon after his stroke, then, with therapy, he could recover quite a lot. If he remains stable, I’ll send him home in a few days, maybe even for Christmas.

After he’s comfortable at home, then we can start him on some therapy and see how he reacts.”

“Doctor, I’ll tell you in confidence that he was planning to run for another term next November. Has he any chance of being well enough for that? He wouldn’t have to campaign as long as he could look into a television camera and speak. As long as he can think and express himself.

I think if he couldn’t be in the Senate, he’d curl up and die.”

The doctor didn’t speak for a moment.

“Will,” he said finally, “I can’t encourage or discourage that idea. I just don’t know enough. But any patient will respond better if he has something to look forward to. It can’t hurt to keep talking to him about it.” “Doctor,” Will said, “can I ask a favor of you?”

“Of course.”

“When you talk to the press, will you say that he’s responded in some way to treatment? I don’t mean for you to lie—after all, he did try to grip my hand, he really did.

It’s just important right now that nobody thinks he’s a vegetable.”

“Like MacK Dean?” Daniels asked.

“I suppose our Governor would like to be in the Senate, wouldn’t he?

After all, he can’t run for a third term.”

Will smiled.

“Thank you. Doctor,” he said.

at home, in his cottage by the lake. Will began to make decisions. It was Monday night, the twenty-first of December, two days since the Senator had had his stroke. He had not been returning phone calls since Saturday. He sat at his desk and opened his briefcase, looking for his address book and diary. On top of those, he found the padded envelope of anonymously sent money. There was a small safe in a cupboard in his bedroom; he opened it and tossed the money inside, spinning the lock. He had the odd feeling that he might want to give it back at some stage, if he ever found out who had sent it to him.

Back at his desk, he switched on his computer and composed a telegram to the Senator’s other staff members.

SENATOR CARR HAS HAD A SERIOUS STROKE, BUT HE SEEMS TO BE RESPONDING TO TREATMENT, AND I AM HOPEFUL HE WILL RECOVER. IN THE MEANTIME, I AM SURE HE WOULD LIKE TO HEAR FROM YOU. I WILL SEE YOU BACK IN THE OFFICE ON JANUARY 2ND. PLEASE DON’T DO ANY JOB HUNTING—AT LEAST, NOT UNTIL YOU HAVE TALKED WITH ME. I AM AVAILABLE AT HOME IN DELANO IF YOU NEED ANY FURTHER INFORMATION.

WILL LEE.

He typed a few keystrokes, instructing that it be sent to the list of staff names, already on file. They would have his message the following morning.

He telephoned Jasper and instructed him to set up a room at home with a hospital bed for the Senator, and to have a television set there so he could watch Cable News Network and C-Span.

“Go ahead and get a tree decorated, too,” he said.

“Make it like it always is at Christmas.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Will,” Jasper said.

“Jasper,” Will said, “you’re in charge down there.

Don’t let Miss. Emmy push you around, you hear? Just do what’s right for the Senator, and let me know if you can’t handle her.” “Yes, sir!” Jasper said emphatically.

As soon as he hung up the telephone, it rang again.

“Will, it’s Dudley Wendell,” the voice said.

“How come I always rate an editor instead of a reporter?” Will asked.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Wendell replied.

“I’ve had to bring my man at the hospital back to Atlanta, and I wanted something from you for tomorrow’s edition.” “I don’t mind, Dudley,” Will said.

“I saw the Senator this afternoon. He’s in good spirits and responding to treatment. His doctor says he’ll be home for Christmas.”

“What about next November?” Wendell asked.

“The last thing the Senator and I talked about before his stroke was the election. He had already decided to run again, and until I hear differently from him, that’s the way I’m going to leave it.”

“Do you really think he can recover from a major stroke in that time?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a strong man had bounced back,” Will said.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Dudley, I’ve got to get some sleep.”

First, though, he looked up Kate Rule’s number at her parents’ house and dialed it.

“Hello!” she said, sounding both enthusiastic and relieved.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t call you sooner,” he said.

“It’s been wild.”

“I can imagine. How is the Senator? And how are you?”

“It just about killed me when I saw him helpless in a hospital bed, but I think he’s going to make it out of this,” Will replied.

“It’s just a feeling. You know how tough he is.”

“Is he going to be able to run again?”

“Who knows? To tell you the truth, it wouldn’t surprise me. My plan is to go on just as if he is.” Will was uncomfortable with this and changed the subject.

“Also, I’ve gotten myself into defending in a juicy murder case down here.” He gave her a blow-by-blow account of Larry Moody and the case against him, surprising himself that he didn’t say much about Charlene Joiner.

“You sound beat,” she said.

“You’re so perceptive,” he replied, laughing.

“Is it because my lips are out of touch with my brain? Am I mumbling?”

“You are. You get yourself into a bed right now, you hear me?”

“All right. I wish you were in it, though.”

“So do I. One piece of news before you crash.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve hardly given you a chance to talk, have I?”

“I got the job. As of January one, I’m the Central Intelligence Agency’s new Assistant Deputy Director for Intelligence.

The fourth is my first day, actually.”

“Oh, that’s great, Kate. I know how much you wanted it. You’ll be great. Before those guys know what hit them, you’ll be DDI. Hell, Director!”

“I appreciate your faith, lover. Now put your body in bed. Good night.”

He hung up and set his answering machine to answer on the first ring, then switched off the bell. Will felt a sense of relief that she’d gotten the job. Without it, she’d have been frustrated and unhappy, he knew, but now they’d have another two years, stable ones, in Washington. If the Senator recovered. Will could not allow himself to face the prospect of the Senator’s not recovering.

He moved sluggishly toward the bedroom, struggling out of his clothes.

He had been going nonstop since Saturday, dealing with the Senator’s affairs, defending Larry Moody, and flying all over hell and back. He was through for at least eight hours. man ny Pearl was the kind of man who, if he had been bald, would have worn a bad toupee. He was short, plump, and expensively but carelessly dressed in a gray sharkskin suit that was not a perfect fit.

Still, he exuded a certain confidence and charm that stood him in good stead with his girls.

Manny looked up at the girl above him and winked at her.

Her name was Lauren, or so she said. She winked back, and followed the wink with a huge, sweeping bump, aimed right at him, then turned, stroking his hair with her fingertips.

Her G-string was festooned with greenbacks, and all along the runway, men were beckoning her with more.

Manny tapped his watch and made a key-turning motion, then a sign that meant half an hour. She winked again, then turned her attention to a middle-aged businessman waving a twenty.

Manny moved his plump shape slowly toward the door of the club, watching the customers and the waiters. It was Christmas Eve, and the place was a lot less than half-full. Still, he couldn’t complain about business. Smooth as silk, it was. He’d cleared better than half a million bucks out of this place in the past year, and it was only one of three. The bookstore, though, that was another thing altogether.

He’d go lock it up and be back with Lauren in no time. He stopped by his office and picked up an envelope with the checks in it.

In the parking lot, he inhaled the scent of the Mercedes leather interior once more, then started the car and moved off toward the bookstore, only a few blocks away. The car was new, less than a hundred miles on it, and he still felt the euphoria of ownership every time he got into it. He had paid cash for it; he paid cash for everything these days.

It was a damn shame about the bookstore, he reflected as he drove through the Atlanta streets, shiny with rain. It wasn’t working. The rent was too high, it took too many people to run, and, worst of all, the place had been getting picketed lately. It was that god damned TV preacher, Calhoun, sending his wild-eyed troops of housewives and children around with their signs, followed by the TV cameras.

Then, when the local stations had tired of filming this ritual, Calhoun had sent his own cameras out and was showing the footage on one of his television programs.

What the hell, Manny thought, pulling into a parking spot outside the store, why would guys want to buy pictures and videotapes of girls when they could come to any one of his three spots and see the real thing?

He fished the envelope out of his pocket and looked at the three checks again. He was giving every man a month’s pay in addition to what he had coming. That was generous, wasn’t it? None of them had worked for him a year yet. A lot of employers would have just booted them out and shut down, even if it was Christmas Eve.

He swung out of the Mercedes and started for the door, glancing at his watch. Five minutes to 4 a.m.” which was closing time. He’d make this short and sweet, get back to the club, give Lauren a quick hump, and be home in bed next to his wife by five. His daughter and her husband, the bum, would be over for Christmas dinner tomorrow.

Manny opened the door and stepped into the store. He didn’t notice the van that had pulled into the parking lot and was sitting, its engine idling, as he looked around the store for customers. None, and no surprise. There was a man at the cash register, another dozing against a wall, and as Manny greeted them, the manager stepped out of his tiny cubicle at the rear.

“Hi, Frank,” Manny said, pulling the envelope out of his pocket and waving it.

“Merry Christmas, huh?”

Frank started to speak, but stopped, and his expression suddenly changed from greeting to something else, something Manny couldn’t figure.

“What’s the matter?” Manny asked. Then he felt a cold draft on the back of his neck and realized that Frank was looking past him, toward the door. So was the man at the cash register, and the one against the wall was suddenly awake. Manny turned around.

Two men stood inside the door, and two others quickly joined them. They were wearing camouflage fatigues and black berets, and three of them were holding some sort of small automatic weapons. The fourth, a tall, thin, deeply tanned man with ham-door ears and a hooked nose, held an automatic pistol.

This was not the first time Manny had faced men with guns, what with the business he was in, and he did not panic.

“All right, fellas,” he said, holding his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture, “no problem. No problem at all. We’ll give you what we’ve got—whatever you want—and there won’t be any fuss, all right?” He turned half around.

“Frank, get all the cash together, whatever you’ve got, and do it right now.”

“No.”

Manny turned back toward the four men.

“What?”

The tall man spoke again.

“We don’t want your filthy money.” “I’m sorry?” Manny said, bewildered.

“You want pictures, tapes? Take whatever you want. Whatever.” “You three,” the tall man said to Manny’s employees.

“Over here; on the floor.”

Manny didn’t like this at all. A stickup? Sure, take your loss like a man, don’t get anybody hurt. But what was with these guys? What was it with the uniforms? He held out his car keys.

“Listen,” he said, “there’s a brand-new Mercedes 560 SEL out in the parking lot—sixty grand’s worth. Take it and have a Merry Christmas, okay? Let’s not get crazy here.” “Lie down on the floor,” the tall man said harshly. One of his companions grabbed Frank, the manager, and threw him onto the floor at Manny’s feet.

“Face that way,” the tall man said, “all in a row.”