The Race (37 page)

But now it was Sunday, and Illinois was likely gone. "Let's check out our skybox," Spencer suggested. "No one can overhear us there."

PERCHED IN THE skybox, Corey found his eyes drawn to the floor space for the Illinois delegation, ten rows of empty chairs that, tomorrow, would be occupied by seventy-three human beings with different needs and aspirations, and varying degrees of loyalty to Charles Blair. "Even if Marotta names Blair," Corey said, "I think we can split his delegation. We've got a friend there in Drew Tully."

Spencer weighed this. "Senator Tully can't stand Blair, and he sure as hell doesn't want Blair to overshadow him. But if Blair cuts a deal for vice president, he'll fight like a feral cat to hold his delegation. It would take a lot for some downstate county commissioner to cross a man who might end up one dead president away from becoming president."

"The officeholders don't want to
lose,
either," Corey replied. "In November, Marotta will lose Illinois, and some of those guys will lose with him." He took a quick sip of Diet Coke. "A deadlocked convention is a law unto itself. And in Illinois, delegates aren't bound to follow Blair. In the end, it's a matter of raw power—do you want to offend Blair or offend me and my friend Senator Tully?"

"_That,_" Spencer answered bluntly, "depends on what each delegate wants or needs, and whether they think you'll lose. Part of Blair's power derives from the momentum he'll be creating for Marotta.

"So what will you offer, Corey? A judgeship? Ambassador to the Seychelles Islands?" Facing Corey, he said, "Making George Costas your vice president might be more efficient. New York's one hundred and two delegates are looking awfully good."

"And then what?" Corey asked with more calm than he felt. "With the vice presidency pledged to Costas, Larkin gives Mississippi to Marotta, and Christy follows suit. And if Blair has sold his delegation to be VP, I'm the only game in town for everyone else. Best to keep them all in play.

"There
is
one other thing, minor though it may seem. Costas is weak. To borrow a phrase from Christy, he doesn't match the temper of hard times."

"And Larkin
does
?" Spencer asked with mild scorn. "As for Christy, his selection is inconceivable. Besides Costas, those are the only guys who can sell you delegates in bulk."

"Yeah," Corey said dryly. "It's a problem, isn't it."

Spencer gave him a probing look. "Is there some thought here, Corey, that you're keeping to yourself?"

"Maybe. I need to spin it out." Corey's tone turned practical. "I'm sure I can keep Costas in play awhile longer. What's Marotta going to give him
now
—secretary of commerce?"

Spencer stared down at the convention floor. "That leaves Christy, doesn't it."

"It certainly does."

"He loathes Marotta—we know that. But in the end he can't go with you. His followers don't like you, and you've given them nothing."

"What do you suggest?"

Spencer rested his chin on folded hands. "Gay marriage," he said at last. "Civil unions, too. I know you don't like to hear this, and I don't like to say it. But if you want Christy's help, you need to throw gays overboard."

"What about Darwin?" Corey inquired softly. "You really think gays will be enough?"

"Could be," Spencer answered calmly. "If Marotta wins, he, not Christy, will be the big dog among the evangelicals, with all that patronage and power to dispense. I don't think Christy could easily abide that. But with you as a semiconvert, but not his rival, Christy is still the Christian alpha dog.

"Consider it, Corey. Sure beats making him vice president. And come Monday, you'll badly need Christy's delegates to vote in favor of seating
your
Alabama delegation. Those are forty-eight votes we can't afford to lose."

Corey regarded his manager in silence. "Tell you what," he said at last. "While you track down what's happening with Blair, I'll go to the Reverend Bob's delegate reception. Let's hope all he needs is love."

THE CALCULATIONS THAT HAD LED ROB MAROTTA TO CONTEMPLATE A decisive but dangerous move had begun that morning, with Bob Christy.

They met in a condominium, the home of a supporter, chosen by Magnus Price to avoid detection. Over coffee and Danish, Price and Marotta eyed Christy and his boyish campaign manager, Dan Hansen. But Marotta spoke to Christy as if no one else were in the room; the stakes were too high for him to fail with this man. "It's been a hard few weeks," he acknowledged. "I'm looking for a way to heal the wounds."

Christy's amiable mask did not conceal the dislike in his blue-gray eyes. "It's not for me to ask, Rob. It's for you to offer."

Price, Marotta noted, was as inscrutable as Buddha. Like his passivity, this was scripted: knowing that Christy loathed Price as a traitor, Marotta had resolved, despite their own rancor, to deal with Christy himself. "You deserve a platform," Marotta said carefully. "One that allows you to put your values into practice.

"After Iowa, Magnus offered you secretary of education. You turned him down." Smiling, Marotta continued, "I understand—you'd just beaten me silly and were hoping to get the nomination for yourself. But I sent Magnus not just out of practicality, but out of respect. The offer stands: a cabinet position that empowers you to mold the lives of America's next generation."

Even as he spoke the words, Marotta recoiled at the thought of Christy in the cabinet—too headstrong to control, too powerful to fire. Christy pursed his lips as though tasting a piece of sour fruit. "I'm flattered," he answered with a touch of irony. "But I'd feel like a man with no deed to where he slept, living at the sufferance of his landlord. I'd prefer to have some property of my own."

Marotta hoped his smile appeared less anxious than it felt. "I'm not sure I follow your analogy."

Sitting beside Christy, Dan Hansen shot Price a look of amusement. But Price seemed to have taken leave of his body, so absorbed in Christy that he noticed nothing else. "Of course you do," Christy told Marotta, as though encouraging a bashful child to speak up. "Name a constitutional office where the occupant can't be fired."

Despite his tension, Marotta joked, "Chief justice?"

"Let me make it easier for you. Confine yourself to the executive branch."

Marotta frowned. "That's a big one, Reverend."

"Not as big as president, Rob. That's what you're wanting me to deliver."

Marotta leaned forward. "You know as well as I do what happens if I pick you before I clinch the nomination. The northern moderates—Costas and Blair—will put Grace roughly fifty votes from winning."

"And Larkin would give you Mississippi," Christy rejoined. "In the end, his people won't stand for him supporting Corey. That puts
you
fifty votes from winning." He turned to Price. "Cat get your tongue, Magnus? Bet you got fifty undecided delegates in your little black book of sins and secrets. Real or imagined."

Marotta felt apprehension grip him; Christy's pointed remark brought them perilously close to the unspoken subtext of the meeting, Mary Ella Ware. Price merely sighed. "You give me too much credit, Reverend. And there's a practical problem here—come November, Rob will need at least some of the moderate voters who are so attached to Grace. That argues for Costas or Blair."

"If you help make me president," Marotta interjected firmly, "you'll have a very grateful and powerful friend. And a cabinet position to boot."

With a half smile, Christy shook his head. "We've been here already."

"Not quite." Price spoke with barely contained impatience. "Want to risk losing your delegates, Bob? Maybe they don't want to support a certain loser over a near-certain nominee.

"You're the one who's at risk. If you delay much longer, your delegates will start deserting."

Christy summoned a cold smile. "Thank you for that, Magnus. You don't usually tell me what's going to happen before it does." He stood abruptly, a worried-looking Hansen belatedly standing with him. "We've all said all we need to. At least for now."

Marotta felt a sudden connection to Christy, more intimate and real than the pretense that had gone before: Christy felt cornered, the fear of irrelevance and humiliation gnawing at his core. "Keep in touch," Marotta said.

"I will, Rob. Count on it."

Christy left, the residue of his visit a heavy silence. Marotta stared at the door. "That woman," he asked Price softly. "What do you know about her?"

"Nothing. The man's as angry at himself as he is at us. Once he cools down, he'll dread looking like a fool twice over. He's got nowhere to go but you."

Silent, Marotta tried to penetrate Price's bland expression. "No rest for the wicked," Price said calmly. "Especially
from
the wicked. Sam Larkin's on his way."

TO MAROTTA, EVERYTHING about Larkin inspired distrust, from his background as a lobbyist who dispensed girls like party favors to his appearance: razor-cut gray hair, soft manicured hands, expensive suits, and, above the red-veined drinker's cheeks, blue eyes that could shift from candor to venality in a nanosecond. Each part of Larkin's face seemed dedicated to a separate function: the raised eyebrows signaling skepticism, the red nose a beacon of sociability, the rubbery mouth stretching to convey whatever emotion the eyes did not. Marotta found it remarkable that any man could look pious, cynical, good-humored, and corrupt all at once, when in fact he was mostly the last. But Mississippi kept electing him. And so here he was, with his hands on the levers that could make Marotta president.

"As they say in the federal government," Larkin opened with a jovial smile, "'I'm here to help.' Bet
that
puts fear in your two dark hearts."

Smiling, Marotta awaited the latest declaration of interest in becoming vice president. "More like deep respect," he answered lightly.

Larkin put a hand to his heart. "You flatter me, Robbie—you surely do. But you can stop now. 'Cause I didn't ask to see you on my own behalf."

Marotta laughed. "That
is
refreshing."

"At least not directly," Larkin corrected himself. "Looks to me like you're needing a vice president, and the delegates that come with him. Right?"

Marotta glanced at Price, who, for once, looked as mystified as Marotta felt. "Looks like," Marotta conceded.

"Can't go to Christy—that's for sure. Too wired to his own God, and who knows
when
this woman thing will rear its ugly head again. Anyhow, you need a moderate." Larkin paused as though imparting the answer to life's most perplexing question. "The man you want, Mr. President-to-be, is Governor Charles Blair."

Marotta did not bother to conceal his astonishment. "You surprise me, Sam."

Larkin smiled. "People don't appreciate my selfless nature. But Blair's the obvious choice, and you know it. You need a moderate, but not
too
moderate. Blair's not wildly pro-abortion, and he's good enough on gays."

"Good enough for Mississippi?" Price inquired skeptically.

"I can help you there, Magnus. I can help sell Blair to
all
the southern delegations." His tone became practical. "My people don't like Grace. And I don't want Christy poaching on my turf among the evangelicals. Looks to me like Marotta-Blair is both of our tickets out."

Once more, Marotta glanced at Price. "I don't really know Blair," Marotta told Larkin. "Seems like he's closer to Grace."

"They're not
married,
Rob. And I can vouch for Charles Blair. We've spent time together at governors' conferences. He may be a little callow, but he's bright, a quick study, and looks like the boy your mama wanted Sis to marry." Larkin nodded as though confirming his own words. "Best of all, and unlike Grace or Christy, he's squeaky-clean: pretty wife, adorable young kids, not a hint of scandal. Blair's the elixir for what ails us, and I'll help my confreres in the South to choke it down."

Finishing, Larkin looked not at Marotta, but at Price. "The thought's occurred to me," Price acknowledged. "What hadn't was that you'd help sell him."

Larkin threw his hands up in the air. "I'm the great undiscovered altruist," he said in mock dismay. "Blair can help you win over moderate delegates who would otherwise go for Grace—he might even give George Costas enough cover to be with you, at least once he recovers from his disappointment. Blair's what you need." Larkin spoke with the hush of a man imparting secrets. "But he's not what Grace needs. Grace needs someone more conservative, and Blair knows it."

"So Blair also knows you were coming," Price said flatly.

Larkin gave an exaggerated shrug. "Let's say I've come to see him as a younger brother, but with an inexplicably funny accent." With startling abruptness, Larkin's voice turned stony. "Grace won't go down easy—he's the fightingest man I've ever met, and he hates both of you worse than poison. Time for you to show some guts."

The implicit comparison to Grace stung Marotta more than he cared to reveal. "Thank you," he said evenly. "Your advice deserves my deepest thought."

"Then I'll leave you to it," Larkin said. "Not a minute to waste."

"WHAT THE HELL was
that
about?" Marotta asked.

Price's narrow gaze signaled his perturbation. "Not what Sam said it was. But if he helps sell Blair, this could be the best move for us."

"So what's Sam want?"

"I'd have sworn it was vice president—Sam's a realist about everyone but himself. Now I'm thinking he wants to go back to being a lobbyist." Price tilted his head back, contemplating the ceiling. "If
that's
what he's after, it's fucking brilliant. A man who'd made both the president and vice president would be the most powerful lobbyist in Washington. We'd owe him from here to doomsday."

"And that makes you feel better?"

"Only if I'm right. What makes me feel worse is sensing there's an angle I don't quite understand. This is too important to get wrong."

"Sam, or Blair?"

"Both. And I'm still worried about Costas."

No longer hungry, Marotta contemplated his half-eaten Danish. "Can't we dangle VP in front of both Blair
and
Costas?"