The Faithful
Weekly Serialized Romance
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Chapter Six: Obamentum
Available Chapters: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen
To download a text file of this chapter for printing or ebook readers - click here
Chicago, Obama National Headquarters
Pledged delegates going into the Wisconsin primary:
Barack Obama, 1078, Hillary Clinton, 1081
Needed to win nomination: 2025
From the notebook of Jilly Norton:
“Good morning, Thomas,” - slight pause - “Caroline,” Jilly Norton said, nodding her head in a severe fashion to each of us in turn.
“Let’s get down to it,” I responded on a cold Tuesday morning, the day of the Wisconsin primary. “We all know why we’re here.”
Claiming she had information that would blow the campaign out of the water, freelance reporter Jilly had summoned Caroline for a meeting. But I knew more about why we were there than Jilly and Caroline did. After I’d picked Caroline up from the airport on her return from Wisconsin where it appeared Barack had the primary in the bag, we drove straight to the big meet with Jilly at Lou Mitchell’s Diner, a classic Chicago place where the omelets are more hearty than trendy. I was juiced for this meeting - the first real test I‘d had of my ability to be cunning. My friends would tell you that I am many things, maybe clever - but I doubt the word “cunning” would ever come up. Yeah, I was nervous.
I was hungry, but I wanted to control the situation so I told the waitress firmly, “Coffee for all of us, no food.”
Nothing sets a cold and terse tone in the Midwest like withholding the food. And it’s a tactic few are strong enough to use. My mother’s friend Lil whipped up a snack for the woman who dropped in unannounced to say, “I’m having an affair with your husband. Will you divorce him or not?” Afterward Lil said she hoped she didn’t seem inhospitable in not preparing a full meal. It was dinner time after all. We’re like that out here in the Heartland.
Caroline was beside me on one side of the booth with Jilly, the girl reporter, opposite. Barack’s political momentum had spawned another new word, obamentum. Surely this little girl couldn’t roar loud enough to stop a wave of that size, could she? To look at her, you wouldn’t think so. Limp, fine, straight brown hair, more or less chin length; brown eyes, olive complexion, no make-up, beige shirt and khaki pants. (If you want to infiltrate an organization, look like this. No one will notice you until the mouse droppings pile up. By then, it’s too late. Damage done.) Caroline by contrast was sleek and a picture of ivory and blonde elegance in slim cream wool slacks and v-necked cashmere sweater, a strand of pink-tinged pearls and a silk scarf - one of those big Italian squares - in shades of pink, cream, pistachio and black, all topped by a luxurious camel hair coat. Sometimes I just wanted to sink my teeth into that girl.
“You said you have a ‘gotcha moment’ for me,” Caroline said calmly though I felt a tremor run through her leg pressed against mine. “That sounds like a threat or possibly blackmail. I can’t believe Chicago magazine would put you up to that.”
“The story may not end up in Chicago magazine,” Jilly said, a pleased expression briefly crossing her face. Now she looked like a ferret. I was glad we didn‘t have food on the table. Who could break bread with that face? “It has national potential. Maybe The New York Times.”
“Let’s hear what you think you’ve got,” I said after the waitress set the thick white mugs of coffee down in front of us. My stomach growled discreetly. I shifted my buttocks and was uncomfortably aware of a bulge in my pants - left hand pocket, that is. Papers, folded into a small square. Important papers. The first set of the blueprints for bringing us down. “We have things to do.”
“I know about you and Reggie Williams,” Jilly said, looking Caroline straight in the eye, “and about Evan and Chloe Petrofsky.”
With a graceful shrug of her shoulders, Caroline said, “There’s always rumor, innuendo and gossip about the sex lives of campaign workers - but only other campaign workers have the slightest interest in the details.”
Ah, the beautiful and classy denial that doesn’t exactly deny anything. I admired her style.
“Oh? You don’t think The New York Times readers will be interested in learning what I heard standing outside the door of a locked office on a late night in Chicago?” Jilly smiled. “It is a story of national significance. That office space is paid for by the campaign, by contributors who sent in their $25, $50, $100 checks. Do you think they meant to pay for an hourly rate hotel for over-sexed campaign workers?”
“National story?” I scoffed, but I admired her chutzpah.
“Interracial sex,” Jilly said in a tone of voice loaded with indignant disapproval. I was reminded of that scene in “The Music Man” - which played at the Municipal Opera in St. Louis’ Forest Park probably every summer of my childhood - where the flim-flam man sells the hick town on a band to keep the children busy and thus safe from the sin they will discover in pool halls. “Class differences.“ That tone again. Oh, she was playing us - playing to our Midwestern-ness. “Wealthy engaged couple with pedigrees dally with lovers from the opposite side of the tracks before settling into marriage.”
“Oh, please,” Caroline said, groaning in what I suspected was relief. Jilly’s over-the-top performance was meant to be reassuring. We were supposed to relax and think: If she really had the goods on us, she wouldn’t be doing her version of regional theatre in a Chicago diner, would she? “Oh, please, please, please,” Caroline said. “Class differences? Chloe is the daughter of professionals, a Ph.D. candidate with a designer wardrobe. How can you cast her as the little poor girl with stars and dollar signs in her love-struck eyes?”
“And, there’s Kanesha Bradley - hooking up with Michael Westwood,” Jilly continued, steamrolling over Caroline’s objections to her previous argument for scandal. My stomach growled, less discreetly this time. “More interracial sex - in the office!”
“Someone’s feeding you very imaginative gossip,” Caroline said, laughing. She turned to me and said, “I’m hungry too. Let’s order food.” (Yes, you have the answer to the question: who would break bread with a face like Jilly’s? I would.) Courteously she said to Jilly, “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I was outside the door!” Jilly countered. “Yes, I am,” she said in a kinder, gentler voice. “Hungry.”
Caroline raised an eyebrow. I had to speak up before she realized that Jilly had her facts straight. I pressed my knee against Caroline’s to indicate I was making my move.
“The omelets here are very good,” I said.
We signaled the waitress and asked for menus. After serious consideration, I ordered the traditional Spanish omelet, Caroline special-ordered a spinach and goat cheese omelet and Jilly went for the chocolate chip pancakes. I asked for an extra plate of toast. It was one of those days when high carbs are needed.
“Speaking of colleagues, I got a call from one of yours, a photo editor at The New York Times magazine,” I said, affecting a casual air as I nailed Jilly with my eyes. “Classmate from the Art Institute. Barrack supporter. He wanted to give me a heads up about you.”
“Oh?” She flinched and broke the eye contact. Was that another carefully calculated show of being easy to put off? “What kind of heads up?”
“You’re sniffing around for a story on Clinton campaign dirty tricks.’ Her cheeks flushed. Bam! A dead-on hit. Didn‘t she want me to know that it was? “And you’re counting on Barack’s staff to do your research for you.”
“Oh,” Caroline said, as if she were hearing this revelation for the first time and hadn’t been briefed by me in the car on the way from the airport to the diner. But I‘d only partially briefed her. Wait until I showed her the goods. “I get it now. You threaten us with publishing gossip about the sex lives of the campaign workers. To buy your silence, we give you inside info on anything the Clinton camp tries to pull.“
“The inside perspective is always useful,” Jilly said, arms folded across her chest, hugging herself - the ultimate female defensive (while self-soothing) position. She‘s good, I thought. What does she know that I don‘t know she knows? (But I didn‘t have to ask: How dumb does she think we are? I had the answer to that one. Pretty darned dumb.) “And wouldn’t it help your candidate if you exposed Clintonian dirty tricks against him - especially if you weren’t directly connected to the leak?”
“The Times couldn’t infiltrate the Clinton camp in New York because they know who you all are, right?” Caroline asked. Eyes downcast, she nodded. Wow! She was almost flirting with us. “Well, there you have it.”
“You’ve set this up nicely,” I said to Jilly - and I caught the briefest flicker of respect in her eye. “Very nicely,” I repeated.
We were silent as the waitress refilled our coffee cups.
After she’d walked away, Caroline said, “Barack would never condone that sort of thing.”
“He wouldn’t condone sex in the office, on the campaign buses or planes loaned by celebrities either!” Jilly snapped back.
The waitress returned with our breakfast orders. Suddenly the space between us was a table filled with food. It looked like any more or less cordial business breakfast meeting between colleagues who may not like each other much but know how to fake it for the duration of a meal. Somehow I’d lost my perceived (by me only) advantage. But I was starved. I slathered butter on a lukewarm piece of wheat toast.
“Why can’t they ever serve hot toast in diners?” Caroline asked. The rhetorical question was ignored all round as we tucked into our food. Jilly’s face glowed with the satisfaction that even a small bite of chocolate brings to the female face. “Are they good?” Caroline asked of the pancakes. She seemed to be briefly regretting her choice. “Next time,” she sighed.
My phone vibrated urgently. Kanesha. I excused myself and walked into the entryway to take her call.
“How is it going?” she asked.
“If I were sitting at the table with Caroline and Jilly, I couldn’t answer that, could I?”
“Sure. You would say, Fine or Not So Good.” Her tone indicated she was in no mood for word play. “So you walked away from the table? How is it going?”
“We ordered food. I lost my advantage. And my plate is getting cold while I talk to you.”
“Reggie is pissed off at us for letting Jilly in. He’ll be in the office tomorrow.” She paused. I sensed her anxiety. “Thomas, you know how much some of us have to lose if she does write that story, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said, “some of us will be fired from our non-paying jobs and some of us will be fired from your low-paying jobs.”
“It’s more than that - and you know it.”
“But things still look nailed down in Wisconsin?” I asked, changing the subject. I did know it. The Obama campaign was Kanesha’s - and also Michael’s? and Reggie‘s? - launching pad into the big world of D.C. politics. Chloe was doing her Ph.D. dissertation on the campaign. Evan was working his way up in a white glove WASP law firm where the partners brooked no scandal. And Caroline? She who had nothing tangible to lose had, in an odd way, the most to lose. Caroline believed in Obama and in the ideal of service to one’s country and to the human race. She would be shamed to her core. “Wisconsin?” I repeated.
“Yes, he‘s going to take this one too. Hillary made herself look silly with that plagiarism flap. That woman can’t let go of a chew bone - even one that tastes bad.”
Neither of us mentioned the other “flap”: Michelle Obama’s statement that
“Tenacity is Hillary’s chief virtue,” I said. I couldn’t wait to give Kanesha the full story and show her the papers in my pants pocket. “What else would you expect from a woman who hung on to Bill? But we can trash Hil later. My food is getting colder.”
“Is Jilly Norton big trouble or not?” Kanesha asked.
Pushing the button to end the call without answering her, I thought: I can just pretend I didn’t hear the last question. That tactic worked well for President Reagan. Kanesha wanted me to tell her that there was nothing to worry about, but frankly I thought there was.
Back at the table, Caroline and Jilly were discussing fashion: Chicago style vs. New York style. I knew Caroline had introduced that subject because Jilly had no style. Caroline’s style was more national Preppie/Junior League, Suburban Anywhere than Chicago style. And my plate was missing!
“Chicago style is patterned sweaters and jeans or chinos,” I said. “And sensible heels for the women. But what happened to my food?”
The waitress materialized at my side and put the plate down in front of me.
“Warming oven,” she said. “And there’s fresh toast.”
Ah! Bliss. How could I cruelly dispatch Jilly on a happily full stomach - as if I could pull that off anyway?
Twenty minutes later, we were three warm bodies with contented stomachs. But I pulled deep from within and brought up my gay snarky. It was my part to play.
“This campaign sex story is a non-starter,” I said to Jilly. And I couldn’t resist adding, “You know that as well as we do,” looking for the glint of respect in her eye. Once again it briefly shone.
“I’m shocked that you would use baseless rumors to attempt to blackmail us into researching your story for you,” Caroline said.
“I heard with my own ears!” Jilly said indignantly.
“Maybe you heard furniture being moved around or the sounds of a heated argument,” Caroline retorted. “Kanesha always whispers when she’s dressing down someone in the office. She doesn’t want to embarrass anyone in front of colleagues.” She paused for dramatic effectiveness. “I have to repeat that I am shocked and offended by your charges.”
“No threats, no blackmail,” I said in a firm voice as my knee pressed with equal firmness against Caroline’s. (Didn’t she realize that she was not exactly in a good position for maintaining a self-righteous pose?) “I can keep you informed - off the record, of course - if we get information about the Clinton camp’s games before the media does. Don’t call Caroline again. And your access to campaign headquarters was cancelled this morning. Kanesha will be sending a memo instructing everyone not to talk to you.
“I’m your contact man,” I smiled and I know she took that to mean: I’ll deliver the goods and save the libidinous staff from the fall-out of their behavior. Mentally, I was pulling my cowboy hat down over my eyes and twirling my six shooter as I said, “This is between you and me now.”
“I’ll expect to hear from you then,“ she said. With meaningful eye contact - one of those hard F You, I got what I wanted looks - she pushed her full coffee mug to the center of the table and stood up. Looking down at us, she said, “I’m sorry that you don’t appreciate what a favor I’m doing you and Barack’s campaign. I could rush to print. This story would surely get as much attention at the plagiarism charge or the Michelle comment - and probably more. You both know that. Nice bravado, but get real.
“Call me,” she said to me with intense, meaningful eye contact - [Her six shooter was loaded and cocked.] - and walked away.
“That went well,” Caroline said, her chirpy voice not entirely covering her lingering anxiety. “Don’t you think it did?”
“Well?” I repeated sarcastically.
Barack would flip out if knew. So would Michelle. If none of the lovers talked, however, the story was reduced to bits of gossip and perhaps imagined sounds of sex behind closed doors. Jilly knew that. She was holding on to her cards, hoping for better ones. It wasn‘t likely that she would put her hand down for the world to see - or, in this case, read - yet.
“Don’t kid yourself,” I said. “She isn’t going away. And if she doesn’t get anything better from us down the road, she may very well run with her campaign sex story. It went well only in the sense that you aren‘t being fed to the media for breakfast tomorrow.”
“But she lost access to the office and the staff, right?” Caroline asked, twisting one golden lock around a slim finger, a sure sign of her distress.
“That only means she can’t come through the front door. Come on, Caroline! You don’t think at least one person on the staff will talk to her in spite of Kanesha’s admonishment? What!? Are we working with saints?”
She blinked hard. I signaled the waitress to break the tension. We asked for more coffee, checked our voice mails and text messages and settled in comfortably on opposite sides of the booth.
“You told Kanesha everything?” Caroline asked.
“Yes. What choice did I have?”
“None,” she agreed. “Wow! That accusation about her and Michael came out of left field.” I nodded. (Remain noncommittal, I cautioned myself, so you don‘t look like a fool when the truth comes out.) “They do spend a lot of time working together.”
“Yes,” I said. “He still has some lines into the Clinton staff, doesn’t he?”
“I think so,” she said, nodding as if she saw a strategy growing like a dust bunny under the bed. Then she giggled. “Kanesha and Michael - now that is a good one! That accusation alone surely would cast doubt on anything else Jilly says.”
“Yeah. That’s what Kanesha thinks too.” I pulled the folded papers out of my pocket. “I’ve got something to share with you,” I said. “Kanesha hasn’t seen this yet. I thought you’d like to be with me when I show it to her.”
Caroline smoothed the pages and began to read from the notebook of Jilly Norton.
“Thomas!” she shrieked - and Caroline never shrieks - ”Where did you get this?”
“She’s staying at The Palmer House,” I began; and Caroline giggled. I put myself through the Art Institute working at The Palmer House. “I got an old friend to let me into her room while she was dining at The Pump Room” - where I also worked - ”and I photographed these pages from her notebook.”
“How did you know you’d find this?”
“Didn’t you notice her scribbling in notebooks at the office?” Caroline nodded No. How did she miss so much that was going on around her? “She’s addicted to notebooks. I was pretty sure I’d find something in them if I just got into her room.”
“Wow!” Caroline said; and I’m not sure if she was admiring my initiative or remarking on Jilly’s written commentary until she said, “Oblivious! Well, I like that! I certainly am not oblivious! Am I?”
“Of course not,” I said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Who do you think X is?” she asked when she’d finished reading.
“Reggie,” I said, looking her straight in the eye in a way that dared her to look away. She didn’t. “I would bet it’s Reggie.”
“Thomas, I know you don’t like him, but it’s ridiculous to think that he is X. You thought he stole my engagement ring, remember? He didn’t do that. And he isn’t X either.”
“Then who is?”
“I don’t know. Why not Michael? He worked for Mark Penn, one of Hillary’s chief advisors. Or why not….” and she reeled off names of campaign volunteers, any one of whom could have been X. “We don’t even know if X is male or female.”
“Maybe Kanesha will have more insight.”
“Right. She’ll think X is Reggie too. Neither one of you have liked him from the start.” She paused. “What if X is Kanesha?”
“No,” I said, “not possible.”
But, of course, it was possible. The only person I could absolutely rule out was me. I knew I wasn’t X, but I couldn’t be positively sure about anyone else, not even Caroline. Still, I thought it was Reggie.
“Jilly knows who X is,” Caroline said.
“Obviously. Your point?”
“There are two ways to go with this,” she said, her beautiful big blue eyes taking on an expression I’d never seen in them before. Ruthless cleverness. “We can feed Jilly information - even if we have to make it up - and insist on her disclosing the identity of X if she wants to get more information.”
“Or?”
“We can make like private detectives and find out who X is ourselves.” She smiled. “If Jilly can play it both ways, why can’t we?”
I grinned. Clearly, we could have it both ways too. Do our own sleuthing and feed Jilly information - both to keep her quiet and to encourage her trust. But what if Jilly already had more information than what I’d found written in her notebook? The notebook was full when I read through it and she was surely well into another one by now. Caroline and I didn’t really know what we were up against. When we discovered X’s identity - would we necessarily know what X and the Clinton campaign were plotting to ruin Barack? Probably not.
“She’s no push-over,” I warned. “She may look like a mouse, but she’s a smart mouse.”
“Mouse? I think she’s kind of cute. One of those little curvy girls who hides it all under loose clothing.”
“New meaning to the phrase ‘undercover’?”
“Yeah,” Caroline said. “I think so. With a little make-up, a better hairstyle and clothes that fit, she might be giving Eva Longoria a run for her money.”
As I laughed at the idea of the girl reporter having the sexy potential of a “Desperate Housewives” star - a thought suddenly occurred.
“Should we talk all this over with Barack or Michelle? If we don’t and things get ugly…”
“Let’s keep it to the three of us - you, me and Kanesha - at least for now.” Suddenly she was somber. She reached across the table, covered my hand with her own and said in a low voice trembling with emotion, “Thomas, I think I know who X is. We just need a little time to flush that person out.”
To Be Continued Next Week!
Copyright © 2008 by Carla Dickens. All rights reserved. Please do not re-publish the entirety of this chapter or novel without the prior written consent of E-Reads.
DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction that takes place during the Democratic Primary and Presidential Campaign of 2008. With the exception of casual references to certain living public persons, places, and events, and of speeches, news commentaries or statements that are public record, all characters, names and places used in The Faithful are fictitious. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The work contains adult themes, language and content and describes sexual situations.
To download a text file of this chapter for printing or ebook readers - click here
Chapter Six
Obamentum
Obamentum
Chicago, Obama National Headquarters
Pledged delegates going into the Wisconsin primary:
Barack Obama, 1078, Hillary Clinton, 1081
Needed to win nomination: 2025
From the notebook of Jilly Norton:
There is a different feel here than in Clinton headquarters (Scheme City) in N. Y. C.
Is it the Midwestern-ness? But some of the key people here are transplants from Harlem and the Bronx. It can’t be entirely a regional thing.
I sit in their midst and wonder at the overt politeness. How superficial is it? Will the veneer crack soon when they realize that there’s a spy in the camp? Or maybe they won’t figure that out?
All political campaigns are staffed with young believers - but some believers are more idealistic and naïve than others.
Caroline - the cool blonde with the hot black lover, Reggie - rhapsodizes about the Obama tone - a superior political tone. High-mindedness. High ideals. They actually embody that?
Or maybe they expend all their superfluous energy in sexual affairs?
X was right about the Campaign Sex!
Unlikely lovers.
Caroline and Reggie! She could be President of the Junior League in Oak Park or some other Chicago suburb; he could be running a business in the new Harlem.
Rigid and repressed Kanesha worrying about keeping her hair straight and her booty under control and White Boy Michael with the Heartland persona and soft good looks!
But sexy, styling Chloe and the elegant Evan - now that one makes perfect sense. He’s your classic man who wants his dick sucked; she’s your class dick sucker. So he marries Caroline and has a string of Chloes over the years. What happens to her? Alone and bitter at 40?
And Thomas in the middle of it all. There is something almost dissolute about him - like he secretly drinks absinthe. Not gay enough to swish; too gay to pass for straight. That leaves him playing the role of cute gay therapist to confused straights. His photographs of the campaign are the best I’ve ever seen. Real talent. Is he only here for the photo ops? A photo diary of the campaign in bookstores in fall, 2009?
He has a gay crush on Caroline. She’s oblivious. She’s oblivious to the attraction between Evan and Chloe. She’s oblivious to the attraction between Kanesha and Michael. She floats through life on her sanitized cloud, oblivious.
It’s the way of the upper middle class WASP.
But what is the deal with Caroline and Evan’s off/on engagement?
Maybe it’s how they spice up their sex life.
More like a women’s magazine story than a national expose on Inside the Campaign.
X says this is the “scandal that could rock Obama’s campaign.”
I don’t think so. For a sex scandal to rock a campaign, the candidate or his wife need to be involved and clearly they’re not. If Obama found out about his staff members’ sex games, he would fire them. It would give him the opportunity to take a public moral stand against the kind of wanton sexual behavior that characterized the Clinton years. What kind of story is that? Why did X put me onto it?
The sex scandal is a poker chip, a playing card, something for X to use to keep me around until the real story is ready to break but also something for me to trade now for a better story - like what X is really doing inside the Obama campaign. X is up to something - something that really could derail Obama’s train.
X is a Clinton-ite to the end!
The sex stuff was the bait to bring me in. I’m here for a reason not yet disclosed.
But I don’t have the time to wait for X to share details of the real story over time.
I need to shake things up in Obama headquarters. I want them to think that their sexual exploits really can ruin their man’s hopes for the presidency. And in a funny way, they can. The sex is the hook X used to bring me here and, now that I’m here, I’m convinced that there is something going on that really could end it for Obama.
If I tell the players what I know, they will oust me or they’re really idiots. They didn’t even take the time to call Chicago magazine and check my “credentials.“ The nice thing about idiots: They ascribe idiocy to everyone else too. So let them think I am no more threatening than your average gossip-mongering journalist who can be shown the door out of campaign headquarters. As if denying me access to the building would keep me from getting a story! In giving them that pseudo-power, I encourage them to see me as someone who can be manipulated into writing a story they can live with.
I can’t believe they let me hang around while they’re having sex behind closed doors. Noisy sex! I haven’t heard that much grunting and moaning since I stopped sleeping with Brad, the porn freak. But I already have the background and character sketches I need from hanging out at Obama Place. I don’t need to keep hanging out.
So, if I play along with X - X owns the story.
But if I let the lovers know I’m on to them, I give them a good motive for ferreting out the spy in their campaign. Once they start paying attention, they may identify X and discover the underground tunnel between the Obama campaign and the Clinton campaign. They will want to keep their sex games secret - and want it badly enough to tell me what they find out.
X will also have to step up the game - and give more before they do.
It’s time to play these people against one another - starting with Caroline, the easy mark.
“Good morning, Thomas,” - slight pause - “Caroline,” Jilly Norton said, nodding her head in a severe fashion to each of us in turn.
“Let’s get down to it,” I responded on a cold Tuesday morning, the day of the Wisconsin primary. “We all know why we’re here.”
Claiming she had information that would blow the campaign out of the water, freelance reporter Jilly had summoned Caroline for a meeting. But I knew more about why we were there than Jilly and Caroline did. After I’d picked Caroline up from the airport on her return from Wisconsin where it appeared Barack had the primary in the bag, we drove straight to the big meet with Jilly at Lou Mitchell’s Diner, a classic Chicago place where the omelets are more hearty than trendy. I was juiced for this meeting - the first real test I‘d had of my ability to be cunning. My friends would tell you that I am many things, maybe clever - but I doubt the word “cunning” would ever come up. Yeah, I was nervous.
I was hungry, but I wanted to control the situation so I told the waitress firmly, “Coffee for all of us, no food.”
Nothing sets a cold and terse tone in the Midwest like withholding the food. And it’s a tactic few are strong enough to use. My mother’s friend Lil whipped up a snack for the woman who dropped in unannounced to say, “I’m having an affair with your husband. Will you divorce him or not?” Afterward Lil said she hoped she didn’t seem inhospitable in not preparing a full meal. It was dinner time after all. We’re like that out here in the Heartland.
Caroline was beside me on one side of the booth with Jilly, the girl reporter, opposite. Barack’s political momentum had spawned another new word, obamentum. Surely this little girl couldn’t roar loud enough to stop a wave of that size, could she? To look at her, you wouldn’t think so. Limp, fine, straight brown hair, more or less chin length; brown eyes, olive complexion, no make-up, beige shirt and khaki pants. (If you want to infiltrate an organization, look like this. No one will notice you until the mouse droppings pile up. By then, it’s too late. Damage done.) Caroline by contrast was sleek and a picture of ivory and blonde elegance in slim cream wool slacks and v-necked cashmere sweater, a strand of pink-tinged pearls and a silk scarf - one of those big Italian squares - in shades of pink, cream, pistachio and black, all topped by a luxurious camel hair coat. Sometimes I just wanted to sink my teeth into that girl.
“You said you have a ‘gotcha moment’ for me,” Caroline said calmly though I felt a tremor run through her leg pressed against mine. “That sounds like a threat or possibly blackmail. I can’t believe Chicago magazine would put you up to that.”
“The story may not end up in Chicago magazine,” Jilly said, a pleased expression briefly crossing her face. Now she looked like a ferret. I was glad we didn‘t have food on the table. Who could break bread with that face? “It has national potential. Maybe The New York Times.”
“Let’s hear what you think you’ve got,” I said after the waitress set the thick white mugs of coffee down in front of us. My stomach growled discreetly. I shifted my buttocks and was uncomfortably aware of a bulge in my pants - left hand pocket, that is. Papers, folded into a small square. Important papers. The first set of the blueprints for bringing us down. “We have things to do.”
“I know about you and Reggie Williams,” Jilly said, looking Caroline straight in the eye, “and about Evan and Chloe Petrofsky.”
With a graceful shrug of her shoulders, Caroline said, “There’s always rumor, innuendo and gossip about the sex lives of campaign workers - but only other campaign workers have the slightest interest in the details.”
Ah, the beautiful and classy denial that doesn’t exactly deny anything. I admired her style.
“Oh? You don’t think The New York Times readers will be interested in learning what I heard standing outside the door of a locked office on a late night in Chicago?” Jilly smiled. “It is a story of national significance. That office space is paid for by the campaign, by contributors who sent in their $25, $50, $100 checks. Do you think they meant to pay for an hourly rate hotel for over-sexed campaign workers?”
“National story?” I scoffed, but I admired her chutzpah.
“Interracial sex,” Jilly said in a tone of voice loaded with indignant disapproval. I was reminded of that scene in “The Music Man” - which played at the Municipal Opera in St. Louis’ Forest Park probably every summer of my childhood - where the flim-flam man sells the hick town on a band to keep the children busy and thus safe from the sin they will discover in pool halls. “Class differences.“ That tone again. Oh, she was playing us - playing to our Midwestern-ness. “Wealthy engaged couple with pedigrees dally with lovers from the opposite side of the tracks before settling into marriage.”
“Oh, please,” Caroline said, groaning in what I suspected was relief. Jilly’s over-the-top performance was meant to be reassuring. We were supposed to relax and think: If she really had the goods on us, she wouldn’t be doing her version of regional theatre in a Chicago diner, would she? “Oh, please, please, please,” Caroline said. “Class differences? Chloe is the daughter of professionals, a Ph.D. candidate with a designer wardrobe. How can you cast her as the little poor girl with stars and dollar signs in her love-struck eyes?”
“And, there’s Kanesha Bradley - hooking up with Michael Westwood,” Jilly continued, steamrolling over Caroline’s objections to her previous argument for scandal. My stomach growled, less discreetly this time. “More interracial sex - in the office!”
“Someone’s feeding you very imaginative gossip,” Caroline said, laughing. She turned to me and said, “I’m hungry too. Let’s order food.” (Yes, you have the answer to the question: who would break bread with a face like Jilly’s? I would.) Courteously she said to Jilly, “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I was outside the door!” Jilly countered. “Yes, I am,” she said in a kinder, gentler voice. “Hungry.”
Caroline raised an eyebrow. I had to speak up before she realized that Jilly had her facts straight. I pressed my knee against Caroline’s to indicate I was making my move.
“The omelets here are very good,” I said.
We signaled the waitress and asked for menus. After serious consideration, I ordered the traditional Spanish omelet, Caroline special-ordered a spinach and goat cheese omelet and Jilly went for the chocolate chip pancakes. I asked for an extra plate of toast. It was one of those days when high carbs are needed.
“Speaking of colleagues, I got a call from one of yours, a photo editor at The New York Times magazine,” I said, affecting a casual air as I nailed Jilly with my eyes. “Classmate from the Art Institute. Barrack supporter. He wanted to give me a heads up about you.”
“Oh?” She flinched and broke the eye contact. Was that another carefully calculated show of being easy to put off? “What kind of heads up?”
“You’re sniffing around for a story on Clinton campaign dirty tricks.’ Her cheeks flushed. Bam! A dead-on hit. Didn‘t she want me to know that it was? “And you’re counting on Barack’s staff to do your research for you.”
“Oh,” Caroline said, as if she were hearing this revelation for the first time and hadn’t been briefed by me in the car on the way from the airport to the diner. But I‘d only partially briefed her. Wait until I showed her the goods. “I get it now. You threaten us with publishing gossip about the sex lives of the campaign workers. To buy your silence, we give you inside info on anything the Clinton camp tries to pull.“
“The inside perspective is always useful,” Jilly said, arms folded across her chest, hugging herself - the ultimate female defensive (while self-soothing) position. She‘s good, I thought. What does she know that I don‘t know she knows? (But I didn‘t have to ask: How dumb does she think we are? I had the answer to that one. Pretty darned dumb.) “And wouldn’t it help your candidate if you exposed Clintonian dirty tricks against him - especially if you weren’t directly connected to the leak?”
“The Times couldn’t infiltrate the Clinton camp in New York because they know who you all are, right?” Caroline asked. Eyes downcast, she nodded. Wow! She was almost flirting with us. “Well, there you have it.”
“You’ve set this up nicely,” I said to Jilly - and I caught the briefest flicker of respect in her eye. “Very nicely,” I repeated.
We were silent as the waitress refilled our coffee cups.
After she’d walked away, Caroline said, “Barack would never condone that sort of thing.”
“He wouldn’t condone sex in the office, on the campaign buses or planes loaned by celebrities either!” Jilly snapped back.
The waitress returned with our breakfast orders. Suddenly the space between us was a table filled with food. It looked like any more or less cordial business breakfast meeting between colleagues who may not like each other much but know how to fake it for the duration of a meal. Somehow I’d lost my perceived (by me only) advantage. But I was starved. I slathered butter on a lukewarm piece of wheat toast.
“Why can’t they ever serve hot toast in diners?” Caroline asked. The rhetorical question was ignored all round as we tucked into our food. Jilly’s face glowed with the satisfaction that even a small bite of chocolate brings to the female face. “Are they good?” Caroline asked of the pancakes. She seemed to be briefly regretting her choice. “Next time,” she sighed.
My phone vibrated urgently. Kanesha. I excused myself and walked into the entryway to take her call.
“How is it going?” she asked.
“If I were sitting at the table with Caroline and Jilly, I couldn’t answer that, could I?”
“Sure. You would say, Fine or Not So Good.” Her tone indicated she was in no mood for word play. “So you walked away from the table? How is it going?”
“We ordered food. I lost my advantage. And my plate is getting cold while I talk to you.”
“Reggie is pissed off at us for letting Jilly in. He’ll be in the office tomorrow.” She paused. I sensed her anxiety. “Thomas, you know how much some of us have to lose if she does write that story, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said, “some of us will be fired from our non-paying jobs and some of us will be fired from your low-paying jobs.”
“It’s more than that - and you know it.”
“But things still look nailed down in Wisconsin?” I asked, changing the subject. I did know it. The Obama campaign was Kanesha’s - and also Michael’s? and Reggie‘s? - launching pad into the big world of D.C. politics. Chloe was doing her Ph.D. dissertation on the campaign. Evan was working his way up in a white glove WASP law firm where the partners brooked no scandal. And Caroline? She who had nothing tangible to lose had, in an odd way, the most to lose. Caroline believed in Obama and in the ideal of service to one’s country and to the human race. She would be shamed to her core. “Wisconsin?” I repeated.
“Yes, he‘s going to take this one too. Hillary made herself look silly with that plagiarism flap. That woman can’t let go of a chew bone - even one that tastes bad.”
Neither of us mentioned the other “flap”: Michelle Obama’s statement that
“For the first time in my adult lifetime, I am really proud of my country - and not just because Barack has done well but because I think people are hungry for change.”She took some heat for that. And Kanesha helped craft the carefully worded campaign response:
“Of course, Michelle is proud of her country, which is why she and Barack talk constantly about how their story wouldn’t be possible in any other country on earth. What she meant is that she’s really proud at this moment because for the first time in a long time, thousands of Americans who’ve never participated in politics before are coming out in record numbers to make this a grassroots movement for change.”Right. That’s what Michelle really meant.
“Tenacity is Hillary’s chief virtue,” I said. I couldn’t wait to give Kanesha the full story and show her the papers in my pants pocket. “What else would you expect from a woman who hung on to Bill? But we can trash Hil later. My food is getting colder.”
“Is Jilly Norton big trouble or not?” Kanesha asked.
Pushing the button to end the call without answering her, I thought: I can just pretend I didn’t hear the last question. That tactic worked well for President Reagan. Kanesha wanted me to tell her that there was nothing to worry about, but frankly I thought there was.
Back at the table, Caroline and Jilly were discussing fashion: Chicago style vs. New York style. I knew Caroline had introduced that subject because Jilly had no style. Caroline’s style was more national Preppie/Junior League, Suburban Anywhere than Chicago style. And my plate was missing!
“Chicago style is patterned sweaters and jeans or chinos,” I said. “And sensible heels for the women. But what happened to my food?”
The waitress materialized at my side and put the plate down in front of me.
“Warming oven,” she said. “And there’s fresh toast.”
Ah! Bliss. How could I cruelly dispatch Jilly on a happily full stomach - as if I could pull that off anyway?
Twenty minutes later, we were three warm bodies with contented stomachs. But I pulled deep from within and brought up my gay snarky. It was my part to play.
“This campaign sex story is a non-starter,” I said to Jilly. And I couldn’t resist adding, “You know that as well as we do,” looking for the glint of respect in her eye. Once again it briefly shone.
“I’m shocked that you would use baseless rumors to attempt to blackmail us into researching your story for you,” Caroline said.
“I heard with my own ears!” Jilly said indignantly.
“Maybe you heard furniture being moved around or the sounds of a heated argument,” Caroline retorted. “Kanesha always whispers when she’s dressing down someone in the office. She doesn’t want to embarrass anyone in front of colleagues.” She paused for dramatic effectiveness. “I have to repeat that I am shocked and offended by your charges.”
“No threats, no blackmail,” I said in a firm voice as my knee pressed with equal firmness against Caroline’s. (Didn’t she realize that she was not exactly in a good position for maintaining a self-righteous pose?) “I can keep you informed - off the record, of course - if we get information about the Clinton camp’s games before the media does. Don’t call Caroline again. And your access to campaign headquarters was cancelled this morning. Kanesha will be sending a memo instructing everyone not to talk to you.
“I’m your contact man,” I smiled and I know she took that to mean: I’ll deliver the goods and save the libidinous staff from the fall-out of their behavior. Mentally, I was pulling my cowboy hat down over my eyes and twirling my six shooter as I said, “This is between you and me now.”
“I’ll expect to hear from you then,“ she said. With meaningful eye contact - one of those hard F You, I got what I wanted looks - she pushed her full coffee mug to the center of the table and stood up. Looking down at us, she said, “I’m sorry that you don’t appreciate what a favor I’m doing you and Barack’s campaign. I could rush to print. This story would surely get as much attention at the plagiarism charge or the Michelle comment - and probably more. You both know that. Nice bravado, but get real.
“Call me,” she said to me with intense, meaningful eye contact - [Her six shooter was loaded and cocked.] - and walked away.
“That went well,” Caroline said, her chirpy voice not entirely covering her lingering anxiety. “Don’t you think it did?”
“Well?” I repeated sarcastically.
Barack would flip out if knew. So would Michelle. If none of the lovers talked, however, the story was reduced to bits of gossip and perhaps imagined sounds of sex behind closed doors. Jilly knew that. She was holding on to her cards, hoping for better ones. It wasn‘t likely that she would put her hand down for the world to see - or, in this case, read - yet.
“Don’t kid yourself,” I said. “She isn’t going away. And if she doesn’t get anything better from us down the road, she may very well run with her campaign sex story. It went well only in the sense that you aren‘t being fed to the media for breakfast tomorrow.”
“But she lost access to the office and the staff, right?” Caroline asked, twisting one golden lock around a slim finger, a sure sign of her distress.
“That only means she can’t come through the front door. Come on, Caroline! You don’t think at least one person on the staff will talk to her in spite of Kanesha’s admonishment? What!? Are we working with saints?”
She blinked hard. I signaled the waitress to break the tension. We asked for more coffee, checked our voice mails and text messages and settled in comfortably on opposite sides of the booth.
“You told Kanesha everything?” Caroline asked.
“Yes. What choice did I have?”
“None,” she agreed. “Wow! That accusation about her and Michael came out of left field.” I nodded. (Remain noncommittal, I cautioned myself, so you don‘t look like a fool when the truth comes out.) “They do spend a lot of time working together.”
“Yes,” I said. “He still has some lines into the Clinton staff, doesn’t he?”
“I think so,” she said, nodding as if she saw a strategy growing like a dust bunny under the bed. Then she giggled. “Kanesha and Michael - now that is a good one! That accusation alone surely would cast doubt on anything else Jilly says.”
“Yeah. That’s what Kanesha thinks too.” I pulled the folded papers out of my pocket. “I’ve got something to share with you,” I said. “Kanesha hasn’t seen this yet. I thought you’d like to be with me when I show it to her.”
Caroline smoothed the pages and began to read from the notebook of Jilly Norton.
“Thomas!” she shrieked - and Caroline never shrieks - ”Where did you get this?”
“She’s staying at The Palmer House,” I began; and Caroline giggled. I put myself through the Art Institute working at The Palmer House. “I got an old friend to let me into her room while she was dining at The Pump Room” - where I also worked - ”and I photographed these pages from her notebook.”
“How did you know you’d find this?”
“Didn’t you notice her scribbling in notebooks at the office?” Caroline nodded No. How did she miss so much that was going on around her? “She’s addicted to notebooks. I was pretty sure I’d find something in them if I just got into her room.”
“Wow!” Caroline said; and I’m not sure if she was admiring my initiative or remarking on Jilly’s written commentary until she said, “Oblivious! Well, I like that! I certainly am not oblivious! Am I?”
“Of course not,” I said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Who do you think X is?” she asked when she’d finished reading.
“Reggie,” I said, looking her straight in the eye in a way that dared her to look away. She didn’t. “I would bet it’s Reggie.”
“Thomas, I know you don’t like him, but it’s ridiculous to think that he is X. You thought he stole my engagement ring, remember? He didn’t do that. And he isn’t X either.”
“Then who is?”
“I don’t know. Why not Michael? He worked for Mark Penn, one of Hillary’s chief advisors. Or why not….” and she reeled off names of campaign volunteers, any one of whom could have been X. “We don’t even know if X is male or female.”
“Maybe Kanesha will have more insight.”
“Right. She’ll think X is Reggie too. Neither one of you have liked him from the start.” She paused. “What if X is Kanesha?”
“No,” I said, “not possible.”
But, of course, it was possible. The only person I could absolutely rule out was me. I knew I wasn’t X, but I couldn’t be positively sure about anyone else, not even Caroline. Still, I thought it was Reggie.
“Jilly knows who X is,” Caroline said.
“Obviously. Your point?”
“There are two ways to go with this,” she said, her beautiful big blue eyes taking on an expression I’d never seen in them before. Ruthless cleverness. “We can feed Jilly information - even if we have to make it up - and insist on her disclosing the identity of X if she wants to get more information.”
“Or?”
“We can make like private detectives and find out who X is ourselves.” She smiled. “If Jilly can play it both ways, why can’t we?”
I grinned. Clearly, we could have it both ways too. Do our own sleuthing and feed Jilly information - both to keep her quiet and to encourage her trust. But what if Jilly already had more information than what I’d found written in her notebook? The notebook was full when I read through it and she was surely well into another one by now. Caroline and I didn’t really know what we were up against. When we discovered X’s identity - would we necessarily know what X and the Clinton campaign were plotting to ruin Barack? Probably not.
“She’s no push-over,” I warned. “She may look like a mouse, but she’s a smart mouse.”
“Mouse? I think she’s kind of cute. One of those little curvy girls who hides it all under loose clothing.”
“New meaning to the phrase ‘undercover’?”
“Yeah,” Caroline said. “I think so. With a little make-up, a better hairstyle and clothes that fit, she might be giving Eva Longoria a run for her money.”
As I laughed at the idea of the girl reporter having the sexy potential of a “Desperate Housewives” star - a thought suddenly occurred.
“Should we talk all this over with Barack or Michelle? If we don’t and things get ugly…”
“Let’s keep it to the three of us - you, me and Kanesha - at least for now.” Suddenly she was somber. She reached across the table, covered my hand with her own and said in a low voice trembling with emotion, “Thomas, I think I know who X is. We just need a little time to flush that person out.”
To Be Continued Next Week!
Copyright © 2008 by Carla Dickens. All rights reserved. Please do not re-publish the entirety of this chapter or novel without the prior written consent of E-Reads.
DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction that takes place during the Democratic Primary and Presidential Campaign of 2008. With the exception of casual references to certain living public persons, places, and events, and of speeches, news commentaries or statements that are public record, all characters, names and places used in The Faithful are fictitious. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The work contains adult themes, language and content and describes sexual situations.
Labels: Barack Obama, Carla Dickens, Romance, Serial, The Faithful
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