The Driver (29 page)

“I do remember,” he said.

And then came the recrimination. He should have seen to this himself rather than trusting others; that was his fault, and now he would have to live with it. He had been naïve to think that those dumbass rednecks could be expected to handle something so sensitive the way it needed to be handled. The brakes were off now and momentum was gathering. There was little to be done and, knowing that, Crawford almost felt able to relax. The sense of fatalism was strangely comforting. He had, he realised, been so intent on keeping a lid on events that he had neglected to notice the pressure that was building inside him. The stress and the constant worry. The campaign, twice-daily polling numbers, the places they were strong and the places they were weak, the Governor’s appeal across different demographics, how was he playing with the party, how would the Democrats go after him?

His erratic behaviour.

The suicidal appetite that he couldn’t sate.

Timebombs.

He had done his best for as long as he could but it was too much for one man to handle.

And he didn’t have to handle it anymore.

Maybe this had always been inevitable.

Robinson gaped as if the enormity of what he was discovering had struck him dumb. “And––I––”

“Yes, Governor. That’s right.

“I––”

“You were seeing them all.”

“But––”

“That’ll have to come out now, of course. There will be something that ties them to you, something we couldn’t clean up: a text message, a diary entry, anything, really. Nothing we can do about that, not now. That boat has sailed.”

The Governor put a hand down against the mattress to steady himself. He looked as if he was just about ready to swoon. “What happened?”

“You don’t recall?”

“What’s going on, Arlen?”

“You had your way with them for as long as it suited you and then you put them aside, moved on to whoever you wanted next. The same way you always do. They all came to me. They were hurt and angry and they wanted revenge. They threatened to go to the press. They asked for money. The problem with that, though, is that you can’t ever be sure that they won’t come back for more. They get their snouts in the trough, they’re going to think that it’s always going to be there. It’s not hard to see why they might think that, is it? I would. They still have the story to sell. We can’t run a campaign with that hanging over us, let alone a Presidency.”

“
You
did this?”

“I arranged for things to be sorted.”

“‘Sorted?’”

“That’s right.”

“You
murdered
them?”

Robinson slumped.

“No, sir. You did.”

“Don’t be––”

“I arranged for things to be sorted. What else could I have done?”

“And Madison?”

He shrugged. “I shouldn’t think it’ll be long until she turns up.”

“Oh, Jesus…”

“It’s a bit late for that.”

“Who did it?”

“Friends who share our cause. It doesn’t matter who they are. There are some things that are more important than others, Governor. Country, for one. I love this country, sir. But I look at it and I can see everything that’s wrong with it. Immigration out of control, drugs, a government with its hand in everything, the way standards have been allowed to fall, weak foreign policy, the Chinese and the Russians making us look like fools at every turn. That’s not what this country was founded to be. We haven’t lived up to our potential for years. Decades. You were the best chance of making this country great again. You are…no”––he corrected himself, a bitter laugh––“you were…very electable. We would have won, Governor. The nomination, the Presidency and then whatever we wanted after that. We could’ve started the work that needs to be done.”

He was hardly even listening to him. “You killed them.”

There was no anger there, not yet, although that would come. He had been stunned into a stupor. The life had been sucked from him. It was a depressing thing to see; the sight of him on a stage, in full flow, railing against the state of the world and promising that he would make things right, that, Crawford thought,
that
was something special. Something to experience. But it was also a mirage. The man was a fraud. No sense pretending otherwise. A snake-oil salesman. Joseph Jack Robinson II, the most inspirational politician that Arlen Crawford had ever seen, was just another man selling moonshine.

He went over to his suitcase and opened it.

“Why did you do it, Arlen?”

“What happened was necessary for the greater good, sir. It’s regrettable, of course, but what were they? Three prostitutes and an intern. They were expendable.”

“An intern? Karly?”

“That’s in hand.”

Robinson jacknifed over the edge of the bed and, suddenly and explosively, voided his guts. He straightened up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“It’s all over now, sir. You had everything. The charisma, the way you command a room, the good sense to know when to listen and adopt the right ideas. You would have been perfect. Perfect, Governor, if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re weak. No discipline. I should have realised that months ago. There was always only ever going to be so much that I could do for you and now, after this”––he pointed to the TV––“we’ve gone past the limit. The only thing we can do now is try and limit the damage.”

The smell of his vomit was strong, acrid and cloying.

Crawford took out a gun with a silencer and pointed it at Robinson.

“Arlen––”

“I’m sorry it’s come to this, sir, but I don’t see any other way.”

PART FOUR

No Half Measures

#4
KARLY HAMMIL

MR. CRAWFORD HAD SAID to meet her at a look-out point in Crissy Field. He had arranged for her to take a temporary leave of absence from the campaign, saying that she had contracted glandular fever and would be out of action for at least a month. That, he said, would be enough time for them to come up with something better, but she knew that she would never be going back. In the meantime, he had promised that he would see to the money and the rendezvous was so that he could deliver her the first instalment. She had driven up to the park and sat in her car and watched as the sun went down over the Bay. It had been a bright day and, as the sun slipped slowly beneath the horizon, the rusty red metal of the bridge glowed brightly in its dying rays. The lights of Treasure Island and, beyond that, Oakland, began to flicker, twinkling in the gloaming, growing brighter.

Karly wound down the window and let the air into the car. She took a pack of cigarettes from the dashboard, held them to her mouth and pulled one out with her lips. She lit it, sucking the smoke into her lungs, closing her eyes and enjoying the hit of the nicotine. The park was empty save for a couple of joggers who were descending the hill back towards the city. The night grew darker. The last ferry headed back to the mainland from Alcatraz. A jet laid down grey vapour trails as it cut through the star-sprinkled sky overhead. Gulls wheeled on lazy thermals. It was a spectacular view.

She saw the high-beams of a car as it turned up the steep road that ended in the vantage point. Karly finished the cigarette and flicked the butt out of the window. The car was an old Cadillac and it was struggling with the incline. As it drew closer she could see that it was dented on the front-right wing and the number-plate was attached to the chassis with duct tape. It slowed and swung into the bay next to her. She squinted through the glare of the headlights but they were bright and she couldn’t make out anything about the driver or the passenger. The door opened and the driver came over to her side of the car.

41

JULIUS HAD A SMALL TV SET on a shelf above the door and he was flicking between channels; they were all running with the same story. Joseph Jack Robinson II, the presumptive candidate as Republican nomination for President, had been found dead in his hotel room. Details were still sketchy, but the early indications were that he had taken his own life. Suicide. There was unconfirmed speculation that he had been found on his bed next to a bottle of scotch and empty bottles of prescription sleeping tablets. The anchors on all of the channels were reporting the news with the same breathless, stunned sense of disbelief. A major piece in the political life of the country had been swiped from the board. Friends and colleagues were interviewed, some of them fighting back tears. No-one could believe that Robinson had killed himself. It didn’t make sense, they said. He had been full of life. He had been determined to win the nomination and, now that he had almost achieved that, he was gearing up for election year. To do this, now, to end it all when he had so much to look forward to? It didn’t make any sense at all.

There were four other customers in the place today. They were all watching the television.

“Unbelievable,” Julius said as he slid a spatula beneath a burger and deftly flipped it. “Someone like that just topping himself? Don’t make no sense.”

“Goes to show,” said one of the others. “You never know what’s in a man’s head.”

The coverage switched to an outside broadcast. It was a hotel. Flashbulbs flashed as a figure emerged from the lobby of the hotel and descended until he was halfway down the steps, a thicket of microphones quickly thrust into his face.

“Turn it up, would you?” Milton said.

Julius punched the volume up.

Milton recognised the man: it was Robinson’s Chief of Staff, Arlen Crawford.

“Mr. Crawford,” a reporter shouted above the hubbub. “Can you tell us what you know?”

“The Governor was found in his room this afternoon by a member of the election team. Paramedics were called but it was too late––they say he had been dead for several hours. We have no idea why he would have done something like this. I saw him last night to talk about the excellent progress we were making with the campaign. I saw nothing to make me think that this could be possible. The Governor was a loud, enthusiastic, colourful man. This is completely out of character.” He looked away for a moment, swallowing, and then passed a hand over his face. “More than just being my boss, Jack Robinson was my friend. He’s the reason I am in politics. He’s the godfather to my son. He was a good man. The best.” His voice quavered, almost broke. “What happened this morning is a disaster for this country and a tragedy for everyone who knew him. Thank you. Good day.”

He turned back and made his way into the hotel.

“It might be a personal tragedy,” Julius opined, “but a national one? Nah. Not for me. Boy had some pretty strident views on things, you know what I’m saying? He wouldn’t have got my vote.”

Milton’s phone rang.

It was Eva.

“Afternoon,” Milton said. “Are you watching this?”

There was no reply.

Milton checked the phone’s display; it was definitely her. “Eva?”

“Mr. Smith,” a male voice said. “You’ve caused us a whole heap of trouble, you know that? And now you’re gonna have to pay.”

“Who is this?”

“My name’s not important.”

It was a southern accent. A low and lazy drawl. A smokey rasp.

“Where’s Eva?”

“She’s with us.”

“If you hurt her––”

“You ain’t in no position to make threats, Mr. Smith.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“About?”

“You know what about. We need to be sure you won’t mention”––there was a pause––“recent events.”

“The Governor.”

“That’s right.”

“And if I persuade you that I won’t say anything you’ll let her go?”

“Perhaps.”

“Right. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

There was a rasping laugh. “Perhaps and perhaps not but if you don’t play ball with us now, well then, it’s a definite no for her, ain’t it? How much does she know?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“Gonna have to speak to her to make sure about that.”

Milton’s voice was cold and hard. “Listen to me––she doesn’t know anything.”

“Then maybe we just need you.”

“Where are you?”

“Nah, partner, it ain’t gonna happen like that. We know where you are. We’ll come to you. You stay right there, alright? Finish your meal. We’ll be along presently.”

42

THEY ARRIVED IN AN OLD Cadillac Eldorado. Milton was sat in the back, in the middle, a large man on either side of him. He had checked the joint out after he had finished speaking to the man on the phone and could guess which of the other four patrons had followed him inside: a scrawny, weasely man with three days’ worth of stubble and a face that had been badly scarred by acne. Milton stared at him and the man had eventually found the guts to make a sly nod; emboldened, no doubt, by the prospect of imminent reinforcements and his opinion that they had the advantage. That knowledge wasn’t enough to stiffen his resolve completely, and, as Milton stared at him, his confidence folded and he looked away. Milton had wondered if there was some way he could use the man to even the odds but he knew that there would not be. What could he have done? They had Eva, and that, he knew, eliminated almost all of his options.

The others had arrived outside the restaurant ten minutes after the call. Milton finished his burger, wiped his mouth, laid a ten dollar bill on the counter and went to the car. He got into the back without complaint. There was no point in making things difficult for them.

That would come later.

There were four of them in the car, each of them wearing a biker’s leather jacket and each, helpfully, following the biker habit of having a nickname badge sewn onto the left shoulder lapel. The man in the passenger seat was Smokey. It looked like he was in charge. He was tall and slender, all knees and elbows, and Milton saw a tattoo of a swastika on the back of his neck. The driver was bigger, wearing a denim jacket with cut off sleeves that revealed heavy muscle. His badge identified him as Dog. The men flanking him both had long hair, like the others, and they smelled of stale sweat, pot and booze. There wasn’t much space in the back and they were pressed up against him. The one on his right was flabby, Milton’s elbow pressing into the side of his doughy gut, with a full red beard and shoulder length red hair: his badge identified him as Orangutan. The one on his left was different, solid slabs of muscle, hard and unyielding. If it came down to it, he would be the one to put down first. His nickname was Tiny.