The Race (38 page)

"Yes and no." Restless, Price stood. "Tomorrow night, we win or lose the Alabama delegates. As matters stand, my sense is that Costas's and Blair's delegations would vote to seat Grace's delegates. But if we commit to Blair before then, he'll tell his people to vote with us. That gives us a chance of adding Alabama's forty-eight to Illinois's seventy-three.

"At that point, we're only a hundred delegates short. If we name Blair, sooner or later Larkin will throw Mississippi's thirty-eight delegates our way. Once Costas sees we're sixty votes from winning, he may well crack."

He finished this scenario with more conviction than he'd started with, sounding to Marotta like a man seduced. "That's a lot of ifs and angles," Marotta pointed out.

"This isn't geometry," Price rejoined. "More like an impressionist painting. So let's add another color to the palette." Price's eyes half-shut, as if seeing a vision too sensual to share. "Suppose we designate our vice president and then call for a vote of the convention, requiring Grace to name
his
vice president. At that point,
he
might crack and pick a VP. If not, the convention could force him to.

"Picking someone—_anyone_—is bad for him. He alienates the also-rans. If he picks a conservative, he alienates moderates; if he picks a moderate, he alienates conservatives—including Christy's people. That way there's no downside to us naming
our
guy, because he suffers the bigger downside of naming
his
." He began tapping his foot as though listening to the Allman Brothers. "I'm beginning to like this painting."

"A painting," Marotta said, "or a house of cards. It all rests on Blair, and what we know about him. Or
don't
know. How well have we checked him out?"

"Not as well as I'd like—we've put most of our resources into investigating delegates. But our preliminary work came up with someone more pristine than a Ken doll."

"There is no such person."

Price smiled. "There's
you,
Robbie. After all, you've never been unfaithful to Mary Rose."

"No," Marotta answered stiffly. "I haven't. But Christy came as a surprise."

Price exhaled. "Okay," he said slowly. "I'll make some further inquiries. But if for no other reason than humoring Sam, we'd better see this guy."

After a moment, Marotta nodded. Then he walked to the window, gazing out at Central Park, a gathering place for the young demonstrators who had come to protest the war, global warming, and the power of the Christian Right.

"Governor," he heard Price ask, "can you clear time for Senator Marotta?"

SITTING ACROSS FROM Charles Blair, Marotta reflected that he knew him in the way that any politician knows another—from party functions, or sharing a podium, or passing encounters at a convention. Which was to say, not well. The meeting felt like speed dating, in which Marotta was called upon to determine another man's character, and perhaps his own fate, with indecent haste.

Blair was attractive and obviously smart, a Harvard MBA who had made a fortune in the high-tech industry before venturing into politics. But, at forty, there was something unfinished about him, a boyish eagerness to please that kept piercing his veneer of self-possession. Still, the first half hour of discussion showed Blair's assets to good advantage—his answers were clear, informed, and displayed a perfect pitch for nuance. When Marotta observed that Sam Larkin seemed very fond of him, Blair answered with a smile. "Sam's the only fifty-year-old scamp I know. But that makes me like him more, even when I'm afraid that he's swiping my wallet.

"At bottom, though, Sam's a serious man with first-rate judgment and a laser eye for human weakness. I'm fortunate to have earned his respect."

It was a fair response, Marotta thought. In his laziest drawl, Price inquired, "Don't you ever curse, Governor? It's been damn near forty minutes and I haven't heard a single swearword stain your lips."

"Darn," Blair said with a self-deprecating laugh. "You nailed me, Magnus. I'm a grown-up Eagle Scout who still hears the chiding voice of his Pentecostal mother. If salty language makes the man, I'm not your man. But a lot of sincerely religious people seem to like me for it."

To Marotta, Price's half smile hovered somewhere between skepticism and satisfaction. Almost carelessly, he said, "Hear you're close to Corey Grace."

Blair nodded promptly. "I'm comfortable with Corey—personally and, in general, politically. I imagine that's part of why I'm here."

The man was facile enough, Marotta had to concede. "It is," he said bluntly. "Up to a point."

Blair regarded him with a gaze so serious that he reminded Marotta, somewhat unnervingly, of an avid first-year law student responding to a professor's barb. "I'm not a knee-jerk moderate," he answered in the same forthright tone. "Sometimes Corey's too cavalier, especially with evangelicals. I'm committed to keeping them in the fold."

"How do you propose to do that, given that you're pro-choice?"

"Pro-choice 'to a point,'" Blair responded. "I'm for the parental-consent laws and against partial-birth abortion." He paused, then added quietly, "If we're discussing the possibility I think we're discussing, I know there's only one leader. No one loves abortion, least of all me. In my
own
life, I'm pro-life."

"And stem cells?"

Briefly, Blair paused. "Again, I defer to you."

"What about gay rights?" Price interposed, slowing his speech to emphasize each word. "That's a deal breaker for Christy's people. Can you sign off on a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage?"

Blair had already begun nodding. "In a word—yes."

"Got a position for us on civil unions?"

Blair met Price's gaze head-on. With surprising steel, he said, "Do you have a position for me, Magnus? Vice presidents don't make policy."

The glint in Price's eyes betrayed his interest. "That was admirably forthright, Governor. So let me be equally forthright. With stakes this high, only a fool tries to conceal things a normal man would conceal." He paused for emphasis. "Is there anything—anything at all—that we should know about your life before making this decision? Because if there is, and you lie to me now, I'll cut you off in politics like a dead stump."

For an instant, Blair seemed to bristle. With cool civility, he told Price, "I'll give my answer to Senator Marotta." In the silence, he turned to Marotta; then he spoke as slowly as Price had. "There is
nothing
in my life that will keep you from the presidency."

His gaze was resolute. Either this man was wholly sincere, Marotta thought, or he was a far more practiced liar than his public profile would account for. Standing, he extended his hand. "Thank you, Charles. You'll hear from us very soon."

"Well?" Price asked when Blair had left.

"He's good." Marotta tried to articulate the nagging doubt that dogged him. "But not good like Corey Grace. He's so damned good he bothers me."

AS COREY AND DAKIN FORD LEFT THE HOTEL, DEMONSTRATORS called out from across the street, "Stop gay marriage" as others formed prayer circles beneath placards reading "Stem-Cell Research = Human Cloning." Following Corey into the limousine, Ford quipped, "What about gay clones?"

Corey did not answer. Watching the faces through the glass—some mournful, some angry, some yelling—he wondered how any leader could rally a country so badly riven as this. Then his mind turned to the problem at hand. "What do you think of Blair?" he asked.

"Never liked him. He wants too much to be liked." Turning to Corey, Ford added briskly, "But all is not lost. Long time between now and Wednesday night."

"If I'm still alive by then. Every decision I face feels like a ticking bomb."

Ford stretched his arms across the back seat. "By the way, we're still working on Mary Ella Ware," he said. "The key to that particular mystery is the lawyer she hired, Dalton Frye.

"Frye's not only a protégé of Linwood Tate's, he's also a sleazebag—only time he's honest is by mistake. But his being a lawyer makes his dealings with Ware 'confidential.'" Ford shook his head. "Always said the bar exam oughta include a Rorschach test. Any fucker who looks at a bunch of flowers and sees a wolf's head ought not be armed with a law license.

"Maybe Christy wagged his weenie at her. If he didn't, bet you a mess of barbecue that money isn't going from Ware to Frye, but from Frye to Ware."

"How do we figure
that
out?"

Ford's smile did not alter his determined air. "Devious methods, my son. Just hope they work—we got no time to waste on due process of law."

Corey decided it was better not to ask.

FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER his own reception had begun, Christy remained huddled in his suite, strategizing with Dan Hansen. "So you think he's naming Blair," Christy said in a ruminative tone. "Ever see
Leave It to Beaver,
Dan? Boy sort of reminds me of Eddie Haskell, 'cept he makes being obsequious look like a brand-new suit."

"If it's true," Hansen answered. "That makes Grace our only hope."

Christy shook his head. "I can't abide Marotta, and I like Grace. But it's near impossible to imagine a scenario where Corey would turn to me, or I could accept."

"Then you'll wind up supporting Marotta. No gain in being a dead-ender."

Christy gave his manager a look of sheer disgust. "The man framed me. Vice president's the only thing he could give me that's big enough to provoke forgiveness.

"Making Marotta president in exchange for nothing would weigh on my conscience. Worse," Christy added, "he means to steal Christian conservatives out from under me—use them for his own cynical ends, and those of men like Price and Rohr. Politics makes it hard to separate God's purposes from my own, but I'm pretty sure that's
not
what the Almighty has in mind."

"So," Hansen proposed, "why not give Him a day or two to reveal His purpose? Maybe He'll help Grace to see the light."

Christy gave Hansen a skeptical look. "Short of vice president, Corey would have to give me something that cements my position for all the world to see. Not just some vague promise—I mean a public change of heart on an issue we deem essential. Doesn't sound like Grace to me."

Hansen shrugged. "He hates Marotta. He wants to be president. Seems like Blair's betrayed him. Things like that can work on a man—think
he
wants to say 'President Marotta'?"

"No," Christy said softly. "It would feel like a tapeworm in his very soul."

Hansen stood. "So let's go downstairs, Bob. Senator Grace is coming to pay tribute. Nice if you were there to accept it."

THE CHRISTY RECEPTION had a distinct flavor. Though its location, a hotel ballroom, was generic, the entertainment was a Christian heavy-metal group shouting dissonant praise to Jesus Christ, and the attendees, whose responses to the music ranged from ecstatic to bewildered, had a common look of determined goodwill that seemed to transcend politics. "Don't know why they all seem so damned transported," Dakin Ford groused to Corey. "Not a drop of liquor in sight."

"They're high on life," Corey answered, and made his way with Ford through Christy's friends and delegates.

Seeing him, one person after another smiled or shook hands, often with a murmured blessing or friendly word of greeting. He was not one of them, their manner said, but he had treated their leader with respect, and it was ingrained in them that no man was beyond redemption. So Corey took his time, smiling, exchanging pleasantries, making small connections. To his surprise, a round, middle-aged woman kissed him on the cheek. "Lord," she said, "you really are a cute one."

Corey laughed. "It's not too late for us," he said, and continued his progress through the delegates.

When Christy saw him, he opened his arms, causing those around him to clear a space for Corey. Amid the buzz of voices, Christy embraced Corey like a sinner redeemed. Beaming, Christy told him, "Guess you didn't come here for a drink."

Corey hooked a thumb toward Ford. "Only Dakin did. How
are
you, Bob?"

"Glad to see you." He took Corey's arm. "Let's say a few words to my folks."

The two men climbed up on a stage, the band silenced by a wave of Christy's hand. Claiming the microphone, Christy announced, "I'd like you all to meet a special guest. A man who may be my rival but is surely my friend: Senator Corey Grace."

Christy's genuine pleasure seemed to permeate the crowd: faces uplifted, they accorded Corey sustained applause. Only as it dwindled did Christy continue, his voice now solemn: "When I was at my lowest point—my honor questioned, our campaign beset—Corey Grace spoke out for me. And I saw that for all our differences, we both believe that God means for politics to ennoble us, not debase us.

"I have great hopes for Senator Grace. Among them is that God will dedicate Corey to His purposes for the betterment of us all." Grinning at this veiled challenge, Christy thrust the microphone at Corey.

For an instant, Corey was gripped by the antic impulse to announce that he had rejected cloning, fired his last gay staffer, adopted celibacy, and embraced Jesus as his personal shopper. "Thank you, Reverend," he said with a smile. "Other than the Almighty, you're the toughest act any politician ever had to follow."

This somewhat risky joke induced a chuckle of goodwill. Corey gazed out at the audience, his expression serious. "Respect isn't given, it's earned. Bob earned mine one night in South Carolina, when he spoke kindly about someone I love very much—rejecting hatred based on race—and then defended me against charges that, in their own way, were as ugly as those made against him.

"For that, I will never forget Bob Christy."

Pausing, Corey thought of the other moment he would never forget—his brother listening to Christy's denunciation of the person Clay surely feared he was. "It's true we have our differences. Perhaps, over time, they will lessen. But we share the belief that brought all of you into politics: that for our children's sake, and faced with such perilous times, we must leave this country better than we found it.
And,
" Corey added in an incisive tone, "that noble end cannot be advanced through sordid means."