The Plan Read online

He put an arm around her neck and whispered in her ear. "Missed you, Liz."

  She stood up and held his hand for as long as she could, then moved out to the cockpit where Lucinda was pulling back the small engine hatch and checking the forty-horse Graymarine engine. She checked the oil stick, then replaced the hatch cover, leaving it cracked slightly for ventilation. She turned on the bilge fan and let it run, until it blew the engine compartment clean of fumes.

  "You actually know something about this, don't ya?" Lucinda was removing the canvas cover on the pedestal compass. "I have a boat at home."

  "What the hell's this all about? Who shot him?" Elizabeth asked.

  "I'm fighting for his life. It wouldn't be safe for you to know more."

  "In that case. ." Elizabeth handed her all the money she had in her apartment. It was $450.

  Lucinda took it. "He told me you were one of his best friends."

  "Right, so don't fuck up and let him die."

  Finally, Lucinda said, "Once I get the main going, can you cast us off?"

  Elizabeth nodded and jumped onto the dock while Lucinda pumped the throttle to get gas to the carburetor. Then she hit the start button and the engine roared to life. Lucinda flipped some dash switches and the running lights went on.

  Elizabeth untied the four lines and threw them onto the boat. Lucinda backed the ketch out of the slip into the channel. There was no adventure in Elizabeth's life and she envied the beautiful girl. She watched the Linda move slowly into the night until the twinkling masthead light disappeared from view. Elizabeth got back in the station wagon, but didn't start the engine right away. She sat in the dark, thinking.

  She finally promised herself she'd quit her job first thing in the morning.

  Lucinda made the crossing under power, deciding not to single-hand the big ketch under sail and try to take care of Ryan at the same time.

  Once they got past the jetty and into open sea, the Linda began to buck and shudder in the close, four-foot swells. Lucinda was afraid that Ryan would roll off the forward bunk and onto the floor, so she ran down to check on him every few minutes. He was sleeping soundly. She propped up pillows around him and tried to take the swells on the quarter to minimize the chop.

  There was a half-moon shining in the clear, February sky and she steered the sailboat across the sparkling moonlit water. Then she went below, took the chart of the Catalina channel out of the map tube, clipped it to the navigation table, and switched on the tensor light. She use d d ividers and parallels to plot the course, the way her sailing instructor at the yacht club had taught her when she was a teenager. She didn't know Catalina, but she decided not to go into Avalon Harbor because she was sure all the day boats went there. Instead she picked Toyon Bay, a small cove a few miles west. She went back to the wheel and set her course by the compass to 176 degrees.

  She found Toyon Bay just as the sun was coming up. She got Linda into the lee of the cove and then dropped the bow anchor. The chain rattled through the hawsepipe, and once she had laid out fifty-feet of chain, she hit reverse and backed down on the Danforth anchor to set it. She checked for drift, let out some more scope on the chain, then turned off the engine and sat, listening. The rippling water gently lapped against the hull. The island was much more barren than she had expected. . Scrubby mesquite plants were hugging rocks that jutted on the low cliffs. But there was a rugged beauty to the place. Across the hundred yards of water, she could see a dark shape of something large on the beach. She found a pair of binoculars under the pilot seat, directed them to the shape, and slowly focused in on a huge, sleeping beast.

  "It's a buffalo," she finally said in exhilaration and surprise. She went below to tell Ryan, but he was still out, so she didn't wake him. Instead, she lay down on the adjoining bunk. She loved the gentle sway of the boat at anchor. For the first time in three days, she felt safe.

  As the boat swung around in the shifting breeze, she thought about her mother. Penny would worry about her. Lucinda had been unable to reach her before she left.

  In moments, Lucinda fell into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter 42

  TROUBLING DECISION

  Anita Farrington Richards had not told Haze that she wanted to divorce him when she'd gone to Iowa. She had intended to, but something had stopped her. It ha d t aken her a few days to understand how complicated he r r easoning was. Anita had been raised by upper-middle — class eastern Protestants, who taught their daughter fro m c hildhood not to show her emotions, not to make a scen e i n public, not to draw attention to herself. The thought o f h aving a messy public divorce appalled her, and she realized, after the media swarm at the Iowa debate, that ther e w as no way to do it quietly. So she had not broached th e s ubject with Haze and withdrew instead to reconsider. Anita had left immediately after the campaign victory in Iow a a nd was now holed up in the safety of the governor's mansion in Providence. She had refused all of the intervie w r equests that her press secretary had tried to arrange. Sh e h oped that Haze's campaign would unwind on its own, that he'd lose New Hampshire so she wouldn't be force d t o use divorce to veto his candidacy. Better than anyon e o n earth, Anita Richards knew her husband wasn't fit t o g overn. She knew he lacked moral strength. But as th e d ays went by, she realized he was gaining in popularity.

  Every night, they talked about him on the news. "The surprise candidate," UBC said. . "The probable frontrunner." She'd started drinking again. She'd had a bout with alcoholism in her mid-thirties when Haze was still a prosecutor. Now she was sneaking into the study every afternoon and taking straight shots of vodka from the little crystal bottle on the marble bar top.

  Haze was coming home that afternoon to get packed for a four-day, ten-state swing through the South, and she had finally swallowed enough false courage to tell him she was going to leave. She poured two more shots from the crystal decanter in her hand, sat down on the quilted sofa, and thought about the events that had led her to this dilemma.

  She had never been a fighter. She tried to avoid confrontations and so had not been a good moral guide for Haze when he needed one. She had chosen isolation instead. Now she readied herself for what she was sure would be the most ugly event of her life. She was going to file for divorce.

  Haze arrived home by limo at six. He found her asleep on the sofa in the study. He looked down at his overweight wife, disgusted at what she had become. He saw the glass on the table and knew she had been drinking again. He started to move out of the den when she heard him and sat up.

  "How long have you been here?" she asked.

  "Just got in."

  "Oh," she said, suddenly not prepared for the fight ahead of her. But it had to be done. He turned and moved up the hall to his private bedroom. She followed him.

  "I have something I want to talk about."

  "Not now, Anita. They're holding the plane for me." "I want a divorce."

  He looked at her. "Come on, Nita, cut the shit." "Haze, I can't do this anymore. I'm filing tomorrow." "You can't divorce me. Whatta you talking about?" "To begin with, I can do whatever I want. I don't have t o ask your permission to file divorce papers."

  "But why?"

  "To stop you."

  "Stop me from what?"

  "That's what I wanted to tell you," she said and walked out of his room, back down the hall toward her bedroom. He caught her in the hall, grabbed her by the arm, and spun her to face him.

  "Whatta you doing? You know what's at stake? I could actually win this thing."

  "I've made up my mind." She pulled her arm free and walked to her bedroom. He started to follow but she slammed the big oak door and threw the deadbolt before he could reach it.

  "Anita, you gotta talk to me," he pleaded through the thick door. After a minute, he realized it was useless and walked back to his den to call A. J., who had stopped at his law office a block away to get some papers. A. J. answered on the second ring.

  "Jesus, AJ., Anita wants a divorce. She's locked in her room. She's drinking aga
in. You gotta do something," Haze said, turning, as always, to the only man who ever solved his problems.

  "I'm on my way." A. J. hung up, dialed the airport, and got Malcolm at the executive terminal. They had chartered a 737 to carry the enlarged staff and the hundred big feet traveling with them.

  "We got a problem."

  "How big a problem?"

  "I can't tell you over the phone. Just hold the flight. If I can't get there with Haze in an hour, I'll call back."

  "Shit, A. J., we got a planeful of press. We don't hold to the schedule, they're gonna sense something is wrong. The be all over me. First rule in a campaign is don't deviate from the schedule in front of the press."

  "An hour isn't gonna kill us. Two hours, we're gonna have to make up something. In the meantime, hose the fuckers down with free booze." And he rang off and sprinted for his car.

  At the governor's mansion, he found Haze in the upstairs hall, banging on Anita's door. "Come on, Nita. I just wanna talk to you." He turned and looked helplessly at A. J. "She's locked in there."

  "Let me handle it. Go to your room," A. J. said. "She files for divorce, we're fucked."

  "Go"

  Reluctantly, Haze moved down the hall to his room, but he stood in the doorway so he could overhear what A. J. said.

  A. J. tapped on the door, softly. He had always had a good relationship with Anita. He found her smart and funny and had actually dated her in college, before Haze did. In the old days, they'd had a lot of long, meaningful talks. He had a strong appreciation for her mind and values. "Nita, it's A. J.," he said, tapping again on the door. "Listen, if you don't want to talk to me, say so. Okay? I don't wanna be banging on this door all night. You say `Get lost, Albert,' and I'm gone. Okay?"

  Nothing from the other side of the door. A. J. was a strategist. He always tried to solve one problem at a time. He couldn't get through the door unless he got Anita talking.

  "See, if I don't hear anything, Nita, I'm gonna figure you haven't made up your mind and I'm gonna stay. out here, banging my poor knuckles on this hard wood," the wonk cooed softly through the massive oak door.

  "Go away, A. J."

  "Listen … uh, I will. I'll go, but first I gotta know you're okay."

  "Just go. Leave me alone."

  He had her talking; now he had to get her thinking, get her to interact with him.

  "You don't wanna be alone, Nita. Haze isn't here, he's in his room. Okay? It's just me. You know I'd never do anything to hurt you. You know I've beeny our friend since Swarthmore."

  A. J. had met her at Swarthmore College at a dance and had brought her back to Harvard where he and Haze were in school. Haze had seen her and that had been it for A. J., a mating ritual that had replayed itself with various women over the years. Haze was the leading man. A. J. always ended up with Dennis Day's part.

  "Come on, Nita. . I wanna make sure you're okay."

  There was a long pause, and then he heard the door being unbolted. He turned the handle and entered the room.

  Anita was looking at him with big, brown eyes that were dulled by vodka and lack of sleep.

  "What?" she said, angrily.

  "What? 'What' isn't the right word. 'What' is an interrogative construction asking for information. What we need is. . 'Why'. . 'Why' is a word that defines cause, purpose, or reason," he said, his mind racing, knowing that she had majored in English and might find this mildly diverting. He watched her for a smile and got the tiniest response.

  "Close the door." He turned and closed it behind him, then locked it. "I know what you're trying to do, A. J. You're trying to save his bacon, just like you always do."

  "I'm only here as your friend, Nita. I am your friend. You believe that, don't you?"

  She had always liked A. J. From that first day at Swarthmore, when he'd showed up at the mixer in plaid shorts and a T-shirt cruising the place, looking for girls. She suspected now she should never have traded him for Haze.

  "Why? Why's the word we've gotta go with," A. J. was saying. "Why divorce Haze?"

  "I don't want him to be President. You know what he is, A. J. You know he shouldn't be in that job. Why are you doing this?"

  "He's not going to win, Nita. It won't happen. If that's your reason, you're doing this for nothing. You're gonna run a divorce on national TV, have paparazzi snapping your picture everywhere you go. You're gonna have to read about it in the tabloids-have Letterman do jokes about it. Right now, Haze is news. Divorce him now, it's gonna be a PR train wreck. But in two weeks, he's gonna be out of it. Nobody'll care."

  "I don't believe he's going to be out of it."

  "You haven't seen the tracking polls. We're sucking wind south of the Mason-Dixon."

  "That isn't what the TV and papers say."

  "The press? Come on, Nita. You know better than that. These guys say what we tell them. Fact is, Haze isn't selling down south. Here, look. . " He pulled some poll papers out of his pocket that, in reality, showed that Haze was scoring big. But they were confusing unless you knew what you were looking at. He took them over to the desk and turned on the lamp.

  "Come here, look at this."

  She moved over slowly and looked at the printout. A. J. started a breezy misinterpretation.

  "Okay, look here, on 'Likability.' " He ran his fingers across to the coefficient number, which was simply the multiplier. It said fifteen. "Only fifteen percent," he lied, ignoring the real percentage number to the right, which said his "Likability" was 62 percent. "On 'Trust in a World Crisis,' look at this. . Are you looking at this, Anita?" She looked down at the page. "Seventeen percent," he said, showing her another coefficient. "They don't like him down there, Nita. We're cooked. It's over," he said, hoping she would go for it.

  "Does Haze know?"

  "I haven't told him. In two or three weeks, we're gonna be outta the bubble and off the national landscape. Then you can do what you want and it won't be on every news-break."

  "You promise?" Her voice was now tiny.

  "We're gonna get clobbered. The rednecks think Haze is just another fast-talking, New England carpetbagger."

  He looked in her vodka-dimmed eyes and watched as she bought it. A. J. reached out his arms to her.

  `This has been tough on you, hasn't it, Nita?" She nodded and he moved to her and hugged her. He could feel the heat from her body through her clothing. It was cold in the room but, strangely, Anita was sweating. He held her for several minutes.

  "Look, I'll stay in touch every day. If anything changes, I'll tell you. You gonna be okay?"

  She took a long moment and, finally, nodded again.

  Ten minutes later, he got her to lie down on her bed. When her breathing got heavy, A. J. retreated. He found Haze standing just inside his bedroom door.

  "What happened?"

  "I got us some time."

  Haze zipped up his garment bag and they hurried out to the limo. A. J. filled Haze in on the way to the airport.

  "Once we win in the South, she's gonna know you were lying," Haze said.

  "I know. We're gonna have to figure something else out." A. J. knew that ultimately there was probably only one way to fix Anita's threat of a divorce. But he wasn't sure he'd sunk that low.

  Chapter 43

  SUPER TUESDAY

  On Super Tuesday morning, Mickey met the phone technician in the downstairs entry of the big house in Jersey. Mickey showed him the phone, where he wanted the Pin Tel installed.

  The technician started to attach the wires, hooking the small box to the den phone. "My supervisor runs stockroom checks. These little suckers is the latest and we ain't got but a few. They's for government agencies only, and he's got 'em numbered and listed in this here book and he-"

  "This one gotta printout?" Mickey interrupted. "Yup. Don't come any better."

  It took half the morning to hook the Pin Tel up to all five lines in the house. The tech had his office call to test it.

  "Okay," the tech said as he snapped the plastic cons
ole cover back on the small box. "Anybody calls in, the number is gonna flash up here on the little screen and it's gonna get recorded down there, in the memory disk." He showed Mickey a button that scrolled the memory of the Pin Tel. When the phone rang, the Pin Tel flashed the number. It was functioning properly.

  "Okay, that there's the number this call is coming in from," he said, pointing to the display screen, "and it goes right in yer file memory, like that. . there, see?" Mickey nodded and escorted the man to the front door.

  "You through using this, you call me, 'cause I gotta pick up the unit 'cause, like I was saying, they keep track of them downtown. An' if one's missing, Lou goes orbital."

  Mickey watched as the tech get into his truck, then he took his Mercedes and headed into New York City to meet with Silvio Candrate.

  Mickey met the old gunsel in his small flat in Little Italy. Silvio had gone fat with age. Broken veins road-mapped his face, and high blood pressure had cooked his complexion red. In his day, Silvio had been the best. With Silvio, you got two fives for a ten every time. Mickey sat in the small living room, full of pictures of Silvio's family, and they spoke of things that didn't matter, while Silvio's wife brought cakes and coffee. She fussed over Mickey, calling him Don Alo.

  After fifteen minutes of polite discussion about Silvio's sons and nephews, they finally decided to take a walk, leaving the stuffy apartment and Silvio's groveling wife behind.

  Silvio led Mickey to a gas station that he owned. They moved into the lube rack where one of Silvio's nephews was using a power drill to pull tire lug nuts off a car on a hoist. The drill was screaming loudly in the small concrete garage. Silvio liked to hold business meetings under the lube rack, with the drill playing its horrible music, because he knew that it would be impossible for any bug, no matter how sophisticated, to sift through the wall of noise. Silvio had been holding his negotiations here for twenty years and he'd never yet faced a government recording in court.

  "I need your 'Ghost.' I got a problem."