the Plan (1995) Page 9

  "Look ... I'm sorry. I guess my nerves are a little frayed. It's kinda hard watching your father die right in front of you."

  "I shouldn't have been in here. I didn't know . . ."

  "Naw, it's okay. You can use this phone." Mickey gave Ryan a sad smile. "The doctor just told me Pop is out of time. Maybe a month, maybe less. I just . . . I'm sorry."

  He turned and moved to the side table where his open briefcase lay. He hesitated for a moment, then snapped it shut and took it with him, leaving the office and closing the door behind him.

  Ryan stood for a long moment, his heart smashing against his chest. There had been a deadly glow in Mickey's dark eyes that scared him. Then Ryan dialed the Film Commission in Providence and was told that the film crew was booked. Ryan gave his own American Express card number to seal the contract. Then, as he hung up, without warning he saw the little redheaded boy again swinging high on a swing. This time, he heard a voice faintly in his memory.

  "Ryan can't do this, I bet," the little boy said, pumping his knees, rocketing the swing higher and higher; then just like before, he was gone. . . . Ryan stood in Mickey's office wondering who the hell he was.

  Chapter 16.

  EXPECTED ANNOUNCEMENT

  THE GOVERNOR OF RHODE ISLAND WAS ABOUT TO THROW his hat in the ring. A. I. Teagarden was in Haze's bedroom in the governor's mansion. He had all of the campaig n l iterature and news clippings about the other Democrati c c andidates on the unmade bed. Haze's wife, Anita, wasn't l iving in the master bedroom. A . J. knew she didn't slee p w ith Haze anymore; their marriage was a carefully orchestrated sham. He saw Haze, who was in the bathroo m l ooking in the mirror, checking out his pearlies.

  "I've been going through all this stuff since four this morning and I gotta tell you, these guys are running on special interest platforms. Every one of them. Dehaviland, with his environmental policy; Savage, with his liberal, New Age reconstruct-the-workplace-to-fit-the-work-environment horseshit; Gulliford is Mr. Labor, Mr. Old-Time Religion. Leo Skatina has his women's issue. All of them are Washington insiders; all are drinking from the sam e p ail."

  Haze came out of the bathroom, running his tongue over his teeth. "Yep." He looked at his watch--forty minutes till the press conference. He looked out at the glass enclosed rotunda where he gave most of his TV interview s a nd where the press conference would be held. There were a few news vans pulling in, not nearly as many as he expected.

  "I hope I'm not gonna be singing to an empty church."

  "It doesn't matter. I don't want this announcement to be too big. Since we're coming in late, I'd rather take them by surprise, hit them from the blind side at the Register-Guard debate in Des Moines tomorrow. Keep it short, stay on the message, no issues."

  "Come on, A. J., I wanna talk about issues. I've got a great thing on immigration." He stopped because A. J. Teagarden had buried his bushy head in his hands and was groaning in mock misery.

  "Don't pull that shit, A. J. I've seen that routine a hundred times."

  "We're going to run above the issues," A. J. said, taking his meaty hands down and looking at Haze. "I don't wanna talk about the issues. You talk issues, I'm the fuck outta here."

  "What else can we talk about?"

  "We're gonna run on the message. The message is:

  Haze Richards feels the anger, America! He feels the frustration! He feels the disenchantment, the alienation, the sense of loss. And you know why he feels it? He feels it because he's one of you! Haze Richards is a fucking American citizen before he's anything else and, like every American, he is angry about all these special interest gurus . . . angry because, damn it, all these guys have been bought. Haze Richards never spent a day in Congress, never had a lobbyist buy him a free meal . . . never cut a deal with special interests that he had to pay back. Haze Richards is pure, man. He is the only goddamn candidate in this race who hasn't been bought."

  "You kidding me?" Haze said, thinking back to the meeting in the motor home.

  "Okay, but that's what you're going to say. You're gonna lead the second revolution in America, Haze. A revolution for the discontented. You're gonna make America work again, goddammit. And if you say a word about abortion or gay rights, I'll fucking kick your sorry ass off the stage."

  There was a silence in the room.

  "If you do this the way I tell you," A. J. said, softly, "I'll get you into the White House."

  Ryan had taken a cab to Providence early that morning and met his camera crew. A tall, Oriental girl with a bodybuilder's physique, a plain face, and long black hair stepped up to him with a bone-crushing handshake.

  "I'm Rellica Sunn," she said, grabbing the fifty-pound Beta-cam in one hand, her shoulder muscles flexing in a sleeveless shooting vest that held camera equipment. The temperature was in the mid-thirties and this girl was walking around in Palm Springs clothing. Standing with her was a narrow-shouldered sound man with a Naga unit and a directional mike.

  "Ryan Bolt," he said, introducing himself.

  "Quite a party; what's going on?" Rellica asked.

  "I think Governor Richards is going to announce for President."

  "Of what?"*

  "Funny."

  The announcement was short and Ryan got blanket coverage. Haze stepped to the podium at exactly eleven o'clock and looked out over the crowd of friendly faces that A. J. had paid to show up as window dressing.

  "I detect, in America today, a sense of loss and frustration . . . a sense of profound anger. The American dream, for many of us, has died. We no longer have a national purpose. We are reflections in a fractured mirror. We are fighting with each other and tearing the fabric of our nation to shreds. Why is this happening?" His voice rang in the rotunda. "Prices have gone up. Our GNP is down. Blacks and whites are rioting. Our products are inferior. We are losing out to foreign interests. In World War Two, we had a goal . . . and we won that war. The war we fight toda y i s no less a war . . . no less about preserving America. But we are losing this war. It's called the war of economic survival. I don't think America is about losing. I'm mad, like all of you, because we've become second-rate. I'm mad that our system of government has been stolen by special interest groups. I want to take America back. I want to make America work for you. This is your country and mine. Let's stop being angry. Let's change things." He took a long moment and looked at the cameras with resolution. "With that as my goal, I am announcing my candidacy for President of the United States."

  The national big feet and local blow-dries packed up their equipment and got back in their vans as Haze moved off the rotunda into the statehouse.

  "How did it go?" Haze asked A. J.

  "Truthfully, you were all over the road. Riots? The economy? GNP? Don't bring up issues unless asked, then you shift back to the message. But it's a start."

  Republic Airlines had twenty seats roped off for the Haze Richards campaign. They were all in the back of the 737.

  Ryan and Rellica just managed to make the flight. To save money, they had sent the sound mixer home. Ryan could run the Nagra recorder. Rell said she'd work with available light. They shook hands to seal the deal. They buckled their seat belts and were off to Des Moines.

  Ryan knew where the plane was headed but had no inkling where he was going.

  Chapter 17.

  NIGHTLY NEWS WITH BRENTON SPENCER

  "LOOK UP," THE MAKEUP LADY SAID, AS SHE APPLIED Brenton's eyeliner. They were in his office on the Rim a few minutes before "Air."

  Brenton's office was on the east side of the floor. White pile carpet, oak walls, and abstract art fought for center stage with a roomful of steel-and-glass furniture. The interior glass wall was fitted with electronically controlled drapes so he could close off the Rim if he needed privacy. He had an array of TV screens built into the far wall so he could monitor the other network news shows and a computer bank that was hooked into a Nexus program to update breaking stories worldwide. Brenton usually kidded with Cris from makeup but tonight he was dis
tracted.

  As he was getting ready for his broadcast, he went over some of the copy he had been given on the Haze Richards announcement. He had looked at the file film on the governor earlier in the day, and noted that Haze Richards was extremely handsome, a growing requirement in American politics. United States political campaigns had become beauty contests where men with capped teeth and two -hundred-dollar haircuts claimed to be just plain folks--the only tangible result of this that Brenton could see was America had the best-looking Presidents with the best haircuts in the world. The governor from Rhode Island fit the profile perfectly. Haze Richards had nothing in his back-story to recommend him. He amassed an undistinguished voting record while in the Rhode Island State Legislature; he'd gone right on some issues, left on others. The pattern continued after he became governor. He seemed, to Brenton, to be externally directed, a man who would chase public opinion.

  "Little lip gloss?" Cris asked as she put some on with a Q-Tip. She was finishing the touch-up when Steve Israel, VP of the nightly news, stuck his twenty-nine-year-old bald head in, unannounced, and said, "You're on in two minutes."

  Brenton heaved out of the chair, grabbed some aspirin for his dull headache, and winked at Cris.

  "Break a leg." She smiled.

  "Only if you'll nurse me back to health," he said, his heart not in the interplay, his temples throbbing.

  "And now, a political commentary from Brenton Spencer," the P. M. announcer said. And then Brenton was on camera, seated in front of the world map in the center of the Rim while news staffers ran around in the wide shots with arms full of empty folders. . The newsroom look had been Brenton's idea. Then the camera moved in close for his political update section of the newscast.

  He looked seriously into the lens. "What New England governor is mad as hell and about to do something about it?"

  The shot switched to some edits of Haze Richards. They'd picked his "angry as hell" sound bite.

  The film clip started. "I'm mad that our system of government has been stolen by special interest groups. I want to take America back," Haze said from the rotunda.

  In the control room, Steve Israel hunched in his seat behind the director looking at the "line" monitor as the "B-roll" footage on Haze's press conference was running. On the "preview" monitor, he could see Brenton fidgeting with his tie. "Tell him to sit up. He looks shifty," Steve said as the director hit the "God Button" and repeated the instructions to Brenton who sat up and put his hands to his temples and massaged them briefly. "Coming back from the B-roll on camera one in five-four-three-two take one. . . . "

  The shot switched back to Brenton, who looked into camera as they made a slow push-in. "With that startling declaration, Haze Richards, a man unknown to most of America, hurried out of Providence and became the last Democratic candidate to head to Iowa and the big show that is scheduled to open tomorrow with the Register-Guard debate. So who is this man and why is he so angry? We know very little beyond the fact he was born rich, the son of a doctor. He has had a life of privilege. His govenunent watch in Rhode Island has been marked by inconsistencies, failing even the most modest list of prerequisites for the greatest office in the world. How can a man with no outstanding achievements join a select group of qualified, tested politicians seeking the Democratic nomination? Unfortunately, in these times of media-created candidates, his lack of credentials seems of little consequence. He has no stated position, policy, or point of view. He wavers on important issues, even in his own state."

  He went on to say what he'd been told to say. He'd never taken on a candidate so directly, and it scared him. He had moved outside his role of news reporter and entered the fragile territory of participant. And tomorrow he would fly to Des Moines, where he'd take a dive on national TV.

  After the show, he felt light-headed and queasy. He went back into his office, pulled the curtain, and poured himself a shot of whiskey to calm his nerves and relieve the pounding pain in his head. Then, without warning, before he could drink it, he threw up into his wastebasket.

  Chapter 18.

  SLEEP-OVER WITH A JO-BOB

  FORTY MINUTES OUT OF DES MOINES, THE HUGE JET TOOK a series of bone-jarring, fifty-foot drops off of air ledges, throwing open overhead luggage compartments and spilling their contents. The flight attendants had their smiles fixed with adhesive insincerity, their lips pulled tight against dry teeth. "It's okay. We're just experiencing a little turbulence."

  "Turbulence, my ass," Ryan thought. "We're in a Mix-master."

  Haze Richards lost his cool completely. Ryan had been trying to film him sitting in the coach section. Rellica Sunn had been kneeling in her seat, facing backward, gunning off footage of the governor, who was sitting a row behind her studying Iowa grain-export reports. But when the plane took its first huge kaboom, Richards's eyes went wide.

  "What's that? What's happening?"

  Susan Winter tried to soothe him from the seat next to his. "Just turbulence."

  Rellica went flying and would have hit the ceiling if Ryan hadn't grabbed her belt. She never took the camera off her eye. Ryan continued to hold her as theplane hit another deep air pocket.

  "Turn around," Haze whispered in panic. "We have to turn around."

  The plane lurched to the right, winged over, and dropped five hundred feet, fire-falling . . . the engines screaming, handbags and briefcases showering down out of the overhead compartments like calfskin raindrops.

  "Turn around, that's an order," Haze barked, his voice suddenly strong. "I'm the governor of Rhode Island. Turn around!"

  A. J. Teagarden was slowly making his way to Haze, holding on to seat backs, pulling himself up the aisle, once losing his footing and falling to his knees with a painful whack. Finally, he reached Haze's side.

  "Just Iowa Republicans throwing up a little antiaircraft." He grinned.

  "I want us to turn around." Haze was pale as a Russian princess, his eyes darting around the plane in panic. And then the plane rolled left, falling sideways in a wing slip, both engines screaming as they sucked in the light, vacuous air.

  "This is a direct order from the governor of Rhode Island. Turn us around immediately!" His voice was shrill, terrified.

  Rellica Sunn was still shooting. Ryan was holding her around the waist with both arms, trying to keep her from flying around the cabin. A. J. Teagarden leaned over to speak to Ryan and Rellica.

  "Turn that camera off. I don't think we're gonna wanna use much of this." When Rellica shut off the camera, Haze appeared to be sobbing.

  "Damn it, Haze, stop it!" Finally, A. J. slapped the startled governor.

  Miraculously, at that moment, the plane found stable air and they were all sitting in the cabin with the blank expressions of condemned prisoners, their luggage and papers strewn around in the aisle.

  They landed twenty minutes later in Des Moines, Iowa, and piled out of the back door of the Republic 737, dragging their luggage, like refugees from a Texas flood.

  The Rouchards met them at the gate.

  They went to the Iowa Feed and Grain Show, where Governor Richards had his picture taken with the 4-H pig, sold kisses in the kissing booth, and watched prize Herefords on show in the small ring. The Rouchards had found a farm in Grinnell, Iowa, owned by a near-bankrupt couple named Bud and Sarah Caulfield, where Haze would spend the night.

  The meeting between Haze Richards and the Caulfields was captured by Rellica Sunn on film. Haze hugged the ruddy potato farmer's wife on their sagging front porch.

  "It's so kind of you to let me stay in your beautiful, beautiful home." He sounded like Robin Leach, bowing slightly at the waist, holding Sarah Caulfield's hand for a second too long to show he really cared. They all went into the house and Haze looked around the shabby living room with a picture of their dead son on the mantel. He'd been a casualty in Vietnam. Haze picked up the picture, looked at it for a long time, then set it carefully down as Rellica tightened the shot.

  "Hunert-an'-sixth Airborne," Bud said, rever
ently, "Young Bud died during Tet tryin' to help get his buddies out." His voice cracked with proud emotion.

  Later that night, A. J. Teagarden and Haze Richards huddled in the small master bedroom and talked about tomorrow's debate.

  The room was done with no-frills simplicity. Faded yellow drapes faced a handmade wooden bed and dresser. A colorful quilt made by Sarah Caulfield's mother was folded over the foot of the bed.

  "There's no mirror in the bathroom," Haze quibbled as he moved around the small room.

  "We've got to go over this stuff," A. J. forged ahead. "Shoot," Haze said, finally resigned to the small room.

  At least he wouldn't have to share it with his wife. Anita wasn't arriving until tomorrow.

  "We're gonna stick to the message. Haze Richards is going to make America work for you."

  "Come on, A. J., I gotta say more than that. . . . They're gonna demand to know where I stand. What if they ask me about gays in the military? I'm gonna say, 'I'll make America work for homosexuals'? . . . That's nuts!"

  "No, you don't say that. You look appalled. You look right into the camera and say, 'I think every American should have the right to serve his country if he wants to. I understand there are problems and I think we can work out those problems satisfactorily. But, damn it, this is just another example of special interest divisiveness. We're standing around arguing about gays in the military when the real argument should be, what is the role of the American military? Are we going to continue to spend one fifth of our gross national product on defense while people in this country are starving? Do we stand guard over every democracy in the world and, if so, what is the cost of that experience? Who pays for it? Do we bill rich nations we're protecting, like Japan and Germany and Kuwait? Or do we make hardworking American laborers pay? Those are the questions that the Haze Richards presidency will address. I'm going to make America work for all of you again.' "

  "That's fucking gobbledygook and you know it."