JJ08 - Blood Money (3 page)

“Good,” I said. “How are you?”

“Blessed,” he said.
“You
read any of the books I recommended to you yet?”

I shook my head.

I’d
read books like them before, both in my youth and in seminary, and had no desire to ever read any like them again. They were all judgement-filled Fundamentalist rhetoric that took a literalist,
exclusive
approach to sacred texts and religion and were antithetical to everything Jesus taught, lived, and died
for.

Dressed far more formally than anyone else in attendance, he
wore
a gray suit, white shirt, and black wingtips. His only concession to the casualness of the setting and event was to unbutton his top button and loosen his tie ever so
slightly.
His idea of letting loose.

One of his lapels held an American flag pin, the other a white button with the silhouettes of a man and a woman, an
equals
sign, and the
word
marriage
.

“Well,
if you boys’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take these shrimp to
go,”
he said. “Have a lot of people to see and a speech to prepare for and pray about.”

Each of the four candidates would
have
five minutes to address the crowd tonight after the pledge and prayer and before the meal.

“You
think Dad is praying about his speech?”
Jake
asked when he was sure
Cox
was far enough
away
not to
hear.

I smiled.

“He asked me to do
it,”
I said. “Have you?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

“The hell you
waitin’
on?”

T
he speeches were what
you’d
expect.

They took place on a makeshift stage consisting of a flatbed trailer that had been towed here for just that purpose. In addition to the speakers, the yellow lowboy trailer held the American and Florida flags, a Republican Party of
Potter
County banner, a mic on a stand, and a
PA
speaker on each end.

Each candidate was truly honored to serve God and the best county in the best state in the best country in the world. Their doors were always open. Small government.

Answerable to the people.
Washington
was bad, bad, bad. Local was where it was at.
Honesty.
Integrity.
Humility.

In the sea of white faces, I saw
two
black
ones.
One belonged to the county commissioner from the “black” district, the
other,
an activist minister and the pastor of the largest African-American church in
Potter
County.

Dad
didn’t
do a bad
job,
but public speaking
wasn’t
where he excelled.

After each candidate spoke and the host and the organizer and the head of the party recognized and thanked everyone several times and took the opportunity to promote themselves and their projects and agendas, dinner was served at a little after
five.

Large, tender, juicy steaks, baked potatoes, a salad, and a roll.

The rest of the evening consisted of
excessive
eating, drinking, and talking––and me regretting not having driven myself.

The night
wore
on.

Eventually a few of the overly full, inebriated men began to stumble to their trucks and take their
leave,
most of them far too under the influence to
drive
but driving
anyway.

I missed Anna. Ached for
her.

But there were still voters present and Dad showed no sign of stopping until he had spoken to everyone
individually.

As I scanned the still not insubstantial crowd for someone to talk
to,
I saw only one face that looked even more miserable than I felt.

Richard Cox,
Jr.
was sitting at one of the tables in the corner of the event tent alone, nursing what looked to be a
Tom
Collins.

I found him staring blankly into the bottom of his
glass.

“Richie, if
you’re
contemplating suicide just remember they’ll
run
out of food and booze
eventually,”
I said as I walked up to stand across the table from him.

“John,
I
didn’t
know you were here. How are you?”

“Been
better,”
I said, indicating the event.

“I’m being punished for my
sins,”
he said. I smiled.

“I’m truly shocked he even wants me
here.”

Though not out, there was no doubt about
Richie’s
sexual orientation––something that must keep his homophobic dad up
nights.

He was a talented actor and theater director, frustrated
by
the few opportunities the Panhandle offered him.

“Pretty sure the demographic I appeal to
isn’t
here,”
he added. “Though I did see one or
two
public servants I’ve serviced
before.”

“If my
dad’s
one of ’em
don’t
tell
me,”
I said.
“Honey,
you can smell the straight on
him.”

“
Actually,
it’s
Old
Spice,”
I said, “but I can see
why
you’d
confuse the
two.”
He laughed.

“Your dad’s
all
right,”
he said.
“Mine’s
the
prick.”

I started to say something but Richard Cox,
Sr.
called to him from across the
way.

“Richie, come
over
here.
There’s
someone I want you to meet.”

“Duty
calls,”
he said, rising wearily and a bit
unsteadily.
“By the
way,
when you gonna let me write and direct a play about your life?”

He had asked before and like before I just laughed it
off.

Walking
beside him for several steps to make sure he was
okay,
I broke off and wandered down in the direction of the lake, passing the barn, leaving the pandering and promise-making behind.

The moon was just a small silver sliver in a cloud-tinged
sky,
but was enough to shimmer on the glass surface of the lake.

The air was damp and cool and the dew on the ground caused sand and small blades of grass to cling to my shoes as I followed the slope down to the
water’s
edge.

As I neared the closest bank, I became
aware
of a figure leaning against a pond pine, the red glow of a cigarette tip blazing in the dark.

“Showin’ any sign of stopping?” she asked.

“The shindig?” I said,
nodding. “Food
and booze are nearly all gone.
Won’t
be long
now.
You
waiting for someone?”

“Sort
of,”
she said.
“Waiting
for this farce to end so the real party can begin.
You
stayin’ for it?”

It was dark. Her disembodied voice all there
was
of her
save
for red lips, pale skin, and blond hair seen intermittently in the red glow accompanying big, long drags.

“It?”

“The
after-party.
You’re
cute.
You
should
stay.

There’s poker,
real liquor, cigars, and
me.”

“
You’re
. .
.”

“The entertainment,” she said.
“Won’t
be the only one. There’ll be others if I’m not your
type.”

“Only
have
one
type,”
I said.
“And
she’s
waiting at home for
me.”

“Ah,
that’s
so sweet. Is it true?”

“As
true as anything you’ll ever
hear.”

“Well,
damnation
honey,
a simple yes
would’ve
sufficed.”

I smiled, but shook
my
head.
“No.
It really
wouldn’t’ve.”

“Gotcha
handsome,”
she said.
“You’re
a one-woman man and you
don’t
care who knows it. Not many of those left these
days.
And I’m in a position to
know.”

“Hey
John,”
Richie yelled.
“You
down there?”

He was standing near the barn, backlit by the bank of halogen lights.

“Yeah.”

“I talked my sister into comin’ to pick me
up.
You
wanna ride?”

“There’s
your big chance to get home to your one-and-only
type,”
she said.
“You
gonna take it?”

“
Thanks,”
I yelled back to Richie. “I’ll be right
there.”

“There’s
a
shocker,”
she said.

“Can we
give
you a lift somewhere?” I asked. “Have you been listening, sugar?”

“I
have,”
I said, “which is why I’m offering you a ride out of
here.”

“Whatta you
know,”
she said, “an honest to God good
Joe.
Thanks, but I got
work
to
do.”

I took out one of my cards and handed it to
her.
“You
change your mind,” I said, “just
give
me a call.

I’ll come back out and get
you.”

She shined the light from her cellphone onto the card.

 In the spill and reflection from the light, I could see that she was a shortish, thickish, heavily made-up blonde with large breasts dressed and like a TV prostitute.

“Prison chaplain?” she said. “No shit?”

“
None.”

“Okay, Chap,”
she said. “I’ll call you if I need
you.”

“N
o women
allowed,”
Diane
Cox
was
saying.
“Why?
It’s
so
creepy.”

“You’re
preaching to the
choir, sister,”
I said.

“Do they do secret man
stuff?
Walk
around, dicks swinging, drinking testosterone and plotting how to oppress women even more?”

“You
know Dad
wouldn’t
be party to that,” Richie said.
“Well,
at least the dicks swinging part. His might touch another
man’s
and
he’d
go
straight to
hell.”

“The shit we do for our
dads,”
I said.

“You
have
a reputation, you
know,”
Diane said to me. “I’ve heard about you. Really surprises me
you’d
be at something like that.”

“See previous
answer,”
I said. “Being a dutiful son.”

“How far does that go?”

“That
far,”
I said. “That was the limit.”

“Thanks for gettin’ us out of there,
Dir,”
Richie said. “I did it for our father as much as
you,”
she said.

“Knew it was only a matter of time until you had enough to drink and did or said something that would cost him the election.”

“Would
that be so bad?”

“Far
worse than you think,” she said. “Try living this year without his . . . ah . . . assistance, and let me know how that
works
out for
you.”

“Dir?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“You
called her
Dir.”

“Oh. Started as Dirty Diana back when the song came out. Then Dirty and eventually
Dir.”

“It true
you’re
beddin’ Anna Rodden?” Diane asked.
“Dir,”
Richie scolded.

“What?”

“They
haven’t
invented a
word
for what
we’re
doing,” I said, “but beddin’
doesn’t
even begin
it.”

“Oh
my,”
she said.
“A
romantic.”

“
And
then
some,”
Richie said. “Lucky girl,” she said.

“I’m the lucky
one.”

“That you think that makes her a very lucky girl.”

“D
irty Diana thinks
you’re
a very lucky girl to be bedded by
me,”
I said.

I found Anna asleep on the couch, braless in a soft T-shirt and yoga
pants,
one of my old theology books resting on her
breasts.

“I
am,”
she said.

She slid
over
toward the back cushions and I sat down next to
her,
hugging and kissing her as I did.

“I missed
you,”
I said.
“Was
it torturous?”

I nodded. “Pretty damn
bad.”

“Who’s
Dirty Diana? Thought no women were
allowed.”

“Judge
Cox’s
daughter. She picked up Richie and they gave me a
ride.”