Romeo's Way Page 3

  I said, “I always thought death was that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.”

  Steadman regarded me in silence, then: “Ira told me you can come up with off-the-wall comments.”

  “Shakespeare is off the wall?”

  “Like that. How did we get on Shakespeare?”

  “It’s not important,” I said.

  “You don’t seem like you really want to be here,” Steadman said. “That troubles me.”

  “I’m troubled by other things, Mr. Steadman. Epistemology troubles me. Bad acting troubles me. Politics I don’t get exercised about. But if I get a job, I will do the job.”

  “You’re kind of a tough guy, yeah?”

  “Tough is contextual,” I said.

  “See? There it is again. You don’t talk like a regular person.”

  “I’m using language to communicate. Context is everything, in language and in being tough. Now what––”

  “You used to fight in cage matches?” he said.

  “A while ago.”

  “Looks like you keep in shape.”

  “Man’s got to watch his figure.”

  Steadman flashed me that smile of his. It was a salesman’s tooth display, designed to set at ease and retake control of a conversation. “In spite of myself, I like you. I like that you don’t take bull from people.”

  “Is that what you’re tossing?”

  “Not at all, no. What about your personal life?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “In my job, information is everything. I can’t turn it off.” He smiled again.

  I said, “My personal life is not relevant to the job.”

  “Well, I mean, you’re not married, for instance. Ever been?”

  “Steadman—”

  “You’re much better off, is all I’m saying.” He shook his head. “You know what they say, there’s only one thing keeping families connected these days. Alimony.”

  He waited for me to laugh. I didn’t.

  “I used to be married to Hitler’s daughter,” he said.

  He chuckled, trying to prompt me to laugh. I didn’t.

  “You have more freedom to do some things, is my point,” he said.

  “Man is born free, but is everywhere in chains,” I said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Rousseau. Real freedom is a rare commodity.”

  Steadman stood up behind his desk, and spun his chair around. “That’s exactly right! That’s what Sam’s message is all about! We’re in a fight for freedom, for actual liberty. Against the growing state.”

  “But you need people to understand what liberty is, and who can deliberate about it wisely. You don’t have that anymore. You have factions, which is what Madison warned about.”

  “Madison?”

  “The Federalist.”

  “I haven’t read that since college.”

  “It holds up,” I said. “But going to college is no guarantee of wisdom. And without that grounding in the political philosophy of the nation, how can anybody be expected to participate wisely? Everybody ends up treading water in the mid-Atlantic.”

  When I was a kid my parents took me on a trip to England. I was eight. I looked out the window once. I always wanted the window seat. I wanted to see. And there was a time when the sun was going down, and I looked out and all I could see was ocean. Yes, and was afraid, wondering what would happen if the plane went down. No one would find us. Sharks would eat us. We’d sink.

  Steadman said, “You think this is all for nothing, what we’re doing?”

  “You’ve got a helluva hole to dig out of. The system worked pretty well when there was a broad consensus. But politics is like cage fighting now.”

  “Maybe that’s why you’re just the man for the job. We’re not giving up. So do you want to help us out or not?”

  Once I start something, I finish it. That’s what I told myself, and it’s true, even though I knew there was a reason to stay named Sophie hanging around inside my head, and a kid named Henry, too. And yes, a little admiration for a decent man named Samuel Johnson who was making a jump into politics, only to be lied about by people who were of Steadman’s professional class.

  Could I work for such a man as this? Be part of a system that is so messed up it elects nimrods to various offices who then look out for the interests of their lobbyists or backers like puppets on a string?

  Could a Sam Johnson beat that racket? It’d be interesting to see him try.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Great!” Steadman practically jumped. “Let me tell you what we’re looking for.” He snagged his iPod which was sitting on his desk and turned it toward me. It held a photo of a good-looking woman in a suit, arms folded and smiling confidently at the camera. There was no end to smiles around this place.

  “Her name is Katarina Hogg. H-O-G-G, but pronounced like rogue. We refer to the men she dates as Going Hogg.”

  “Sweet of you.”

  “And if they score, they’ve gone Whole Hogg.”

  “You really talk like that?”

  “It’s how we keep sane,” he said.

  “That might not be the right term for it.”

  “I’ll ignore that,” he said. “Anyway, she’s up in San Francisco. I know her, she knows me, and she knows everybody who works for me. I want you to see if you can do some volunteer work for the Griffin campaign. Kat … Katarina would be the one to go through, but you have to be clever about it.”

  “Clever?”

  “We all have a heightened sense of smell, Mike. For spies.”

  “Sounds like a John le Carré novel.”

  “It’s like that very much indeed.” He paused then, put his fingertips together and tapped them. “What I want you to do is find out everything you can about the workings up there, but especially who is behind this mystery-woman campaign against Sam.”

  “You want me to find out who this woman is?”

  “There is no woman. It’s not true.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know Sam Johnson. There’s not a better, finer man in this state, this country! He’s dedicated to his family, his kids, his work, and his writing. He’s deeply religious.”

  I said, “People like that have been known to stray.”

  Steadman shook his head. “I have looked into his eyes on too many occasions. He’s telling the truth.”

  I let that go. “So you want me to find out the source of the story.”

  “More than that,” Steadman said. “I want you inside the campaign.”

  “How do you propose I do that?”

  “Security. They are looking for security for an event up in Frisco. I want you to get in on that.”

  “Just walk right in?”

  “You’re perfect. You’ve got no past. Ira’s told me about you. We’ll create some references, and I’ll tell you exactly how to get in.”

  “You know how?” I said, letting the skepticism sound in my voice.

  “I know Kat Hogg, Mike. I know how she thinks and operates. I’m like that German soldier in Patton who knew how Patton thought because he studied him so thoroughly.”

  “So this is like war?”

  Steadman nodded happily. “Exactly like war.”

  “What’s the pay?”

  “We’ll cover your expenses, of course. I’ll make the arrangements. And two hundred dollars a day. It will be off the books. In cash. You all right with that?”

  “I’ll take some now.”

  “You really do cut to the chase, don’t you?” Steadman said.

  “A couple of Cs would be nice,” I said.

  Steadman nodded. “Mike, when you get back, let’s go have a drink. Just the two of us. You know, I used to be pretty tough, too. I still jog every morning, lift weights.”

  His eyes explored my face.

  “I drink alone,” I said.

  “Think about it,” Steadman said. “We could have some good talk
s. I have a feeling.”

  He turned his chair around and pulled out a metal box from the credenza. He put the box on this desk and opened it. He counted out ten twenty-dollar bills and handed them to me.

  “Now meet my son,” Steadman said.

  “Why?”

  “He’s the tech side of things. He’ll prep you for your trip. I’m really excited to be working with you, Mike.”

  I was getting less excited by the minute.

  RICKY STEADMAN WAS twenty-seven and six feet of cream-colored smoothness. He had black hair and two-days’ growth of beard trying hard to come through the skin rugged, but looking more like the terrycloth. He wore his blue dress-shirt untucked over light-blue designer skinny biker jeans and a pair of clean red Chucks. Hipster casual that probably took hours to match.

  We were in his cubby of an office after his father had done the intros and left us.

  We were not alone.

  Ricky’s girlfriend, Philly, had mahogany skin and hair that was a stylish dance of black curls. Her firm, curvaceous body was packed into tight jeans and an orange tank top.

  “This is a burn phone,” Ricky said, sliding it to me across his desk. “Use it for all communications. If it gets taken from you, there’ll be no record of calls.”

  “Does it shoot out an oil slick?” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re like Q in the James Bond movies,” I said.

  “Who’s Q?” Philly said.

  “You know,” I said. “The guy in the beginning who gives Bond all the gadgets.”

  She frowned.

  “It’s in the old Bond movies,” Ricky said like a disapproving parent. To me he said, “Her film knowledge isn’t too great.”

  I said, “Not everybody is going to know about Eisenstein and the Odessa Steps sequence.”

  Ricky frowned, empty behind the eyes.

  “It’s a film-knowledge thing,” I said.

  Philly giggled. Ricky shot her a look, then tried the same on me. “My dad said you’re a little out there,” he said. “I don’t think you’re the right guy for this job, you want to know the truth.”

  “You want to fire me?” I said.

  “I don’t have that authority,” Ricky said, but clearly wished he had.

  Philly said, “You used to be a cage fighter, didn’t you?”

  “Used to be,” I said.

  Ricky said, “Philly—”

  “You could still do it, looks like,” Philly said, and she gave me an unmistakable, primordial gleam of flirtation.

  “Hey!” Ricky said. “Can we please?” He gestured, palms up. “This is a professional meeting.”

  “I don’t mind getting to know the people I’m working for,” I said.

  “You don’t work for her,” Ricky said. “You work for me.”

  “You mean your dad,” I said.

  “For the campaign,” Ricky said. “And I don’t think you’re going to work out.”

  “Why don’t you call your pop and talk it over?” I said.

  Philly giggled again.

  “Will you please be quiet?” Ricky said.

  “Don’t tell me to be quiet,” Philly said.

  “I’m telling you now,” Ricky said.

  I said, “Listen, kids, I don’t want to be third wheel or anything.”

  Philly stood up. “Forget it. I’m going. It was nice meeting you, Mike. Maybe sometime we can have a real conversation.”

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  “If you’re going to go, go,” Ricky said.

  “Oh I’m going,” she said with a defiant lilt. “Maybe I’ll go all the way to Aruba. Alone.” She picked up her backpack and slung it on one shoulder. She put an emphasis on her vibe with a healthy slam of the door.

  “Man, she drives me crazy sometimes,” Ricky said.

  “Maybe you should be nicer to her,” I said.

  “You know, just stop now. I’m not here to get personal advice from you. I’m prepping you and that’s it.”

  “A good relationship is worth nurturing.” I said, just to razz him.

  “What did I just say? You have the burner phone. Here’s an iPad. I hope you know how to use an iPad.”

  “Shucks, I just got into the city from the farm,” I said. “What do I know about your fancy gadgets?”

  He flopped a file folder in front of me. I opened to a stack of papers and a white business envelope.

  “Those are printed reports,” he said. “Look them over before you get to San Francisco. In that envelope is two hundred cash and an ATM card. The PIN’s on the back of the envelope. If you need more than a couple hundred, check in first. You have a driver’s license?”

  “Of course,” I said. Only mine was a very nice fake, provided me by a great little procurer named Lyle Thebes.

  Ricky shook his head.

  “What?” I said.

  “I don’t like this at all,” he said. “I don’t know you at all, you’ve got no history.”

  “That’s a good thing for a job like this.”

  “Whatever,” Ricky said. “There’s only one reason I’m going along.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Samuel Johnson absolutely trusts Ira Rosen. And they both like you for some odd reason.”

  “It’s my natural charm,” I said.

  “Right,” he said with just a twinge of sadness. Maybe thinking of Philly’s playful chat with me. I could understand that. No guy wants some other guy outdoing him in front of his girlfriend.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m being hired for a job. When I take on a job, I do it. I’m not going to implode in your face. I know how to keep my mouth shut, and if things go south, I know how to disappear. In short, we’re on the same team for the time being, personal feelings aside.”

  Ricky was listening.

  I stuck out my hand.

  He paused, then took it. Weak grip.

  I stood and gathered up the phone, iPad, and file. “Now go run after that girl of yours and apologize, and take her to a nice dinner.”

  THAT SOUNDED GOOD to me—a nice dinner. With someone new, so the anticipation of getting to know the person is a pleasure in itself. I had good dinners with Ira, but he knew me as well as anyone, which means he knows about sixty percent of me. That’s my limit.

  I’d like to widen that border someday.

  I don’t know if I can.

  So a picture formed in my mind of a nice table in a corner of the kind of restaurant where they change your silverware, where the sommelier wears a little cup around his neck, and across from me is Sophie from the bookstore, and we’re talking about Harper Lee or J. D. Salinger or Thomas Pynchon or Raymond Chandler.

  Nice thought.

  Instead, I ended up at Arby’s and had their pulled-pork sandwich at a table in the middle of the place.

  No one talked to me about anything.

  ON THURSDAY MORNING I got on the train at Union Station in downtown L.A.

  Trains are the best way for me to travel. Airports are too intrusive. Even though my identity was bought and paid for when the market for such things was more open—before 9/11—I don’t take too many chances. Besides, I like trains. The leisurely pace gives me time to think.

  That’s one thing people don’t have much anymore, time to think. When they are alone with their thoughts, it’s nerve-racking. They’re not doing something, so they have to fill the gap. Not with cogitating, but with doing—with tweeting and gaming and talking and checking. We’re going to have an epidemic of neck problems now from all the people looking down at their phones for hours at a time.

  Even on the trains now people have portable DVD players, iPods, tablets, wireless internet access. The world is not full of wonder outside the windows. It’s artificially crammed into tiny visuals and earbuds.

  I took my seat in business class—another Steadman expense—and settled in. I put my head back and closed my eyes until we rolled out and started chugging north. Through the San Fernando Va
lley then the rocks of Chatsworth and into Simi Valley, a tucked-away community still hanging on to some rural dream, even though they’ve overbuilt the houses.

  When we hit Oxnard and started up the coast toward Santa Barbara, I figured I needed to justify my employment for a while.

  I broke out the file Ricky had given me.

  First item was a recent column by Samuel Johnson which appeared in TownHall.com and on numerous other websites. It was the one he wrote before the first rumors of extramarital dalliance were scattered. It ended with this:

  We are living in the age of ’crats telling us how we must think and how we must feel. When crackpots did that on street corners, it was innocuous. But when the ’crats get into it, it’s the death of the mind, the individual and that quaint little idea our founders called freedom.

  And like frogs in slowly boiling water, the low information citizen will wake up one day in a prison of the mind and start to whine about it.

  But by then it will be too late.

  Sheep who accept being lied to should not bleat when they discover they are being fleeced.

  Pretty good line, that last one. Ended the column with wry smile. But his next column, dated one week later, had a different tone:

  Years ago I gave a speech at Marquette University. It was a speech about courage, about accountability and discipline, and about refusing to give up. When I was finished, a young black man stood up for a question and asked, “What real hope is there for me to advance? Why should I believe any of this?”

  I almost fell over the lectern. Here we were, decades after the accomplishments of the Civil Rights movement, and I was getting a question like that.

  I looked at the student and said, “When I was your age, there was a lot more discrimination than there is today. I don’t recall talking about having no hope with my classmates. We talked about hard work.”

  But the indoctrination of young blacks continues apace, and our only hope for true justice (not the fake justice so many mouths prattle about) is to put a stop to it.

  Incendiary stuff to be sure. Almost out of character for the mild-mannered man I’d met in Ira’s living room. If a white guy had uttered these words, he’d be called a racist. But coming from Johnson, it was a different matter. His opponents had to choose different names.