Deadly Election (9781101619223) (3 page)

“Clint,” Gryder asked, “have you ever thought about running for public office?”

“You mean, like, for sheriff?” Clint asked. “I’ve been a sheriff. I don’t want to do that again.”

“No, no,” Gryder said, “I’m talking about something bigger.”

“Bigger?”

Gryder nodded.

“Clint, we’d like you to run for Congress.”

Clint looked at the three men, all of whom were staring at him expectantly, and then said, “Are you kidding?”

“We’re quite serious,” Gryder said.

“Here’s a question,” Clint said. “Why me?”

“Because you have a name,” Gryder said, “and a reputation for being your own man. We think that’s the kind of man people want in office now.”

“But…” Clint said, playing his part, “I’m not a politician.”

“Neither were Davy Crockett or Sam Houston, and look what they did,” Gryder said.

It was not lost on Clint that this was the same argument Jeremy Pike had used.

“Who’s this coming from?” Clint asked. “The president?”

“Hardly,” Wheeler said, speaking for the first time. “President Cleveland hardly cares who runs for office in Texas.”

Clint thought back to what Pike had said about the president endorsing the plan. Undoubtedly Washington
and the Secret Service were involved in ways these men were not aware of.

He waited for Wheeler to continue, but the lieutenant governor seemed to have said what he wanted to say. He left it to Gryder to go on.

“Governor Ross was the one who came up with your name, Clint,” Gryder said.

“The governor, huh?” Clint said. “Guess I should be flattered.”

“You’ll have a campaign staff, headed up by me,” Gryder said.

“I assume you’ve done this before?”

“Many times.”

“Successfully?”

“I’ve won more than I’ve lost,” Gryder said.

“I see.”

The three men were staring at Clint again.

“So what do you think?” Gryder asked. “How’s it sound?”

“I’m not sure,” Clint said. “I’ll have to know a little bit more.”

“I can tell you more,” Gryder said. “Why don’t we have dinner tonight and talk some more?”

“Okay,” Clint said. “What hotel are you at?”

“The Labyrinth House.”

“They have a great dining room,” Clint said. “Let’s eat there.”

“That’ll be fine.”

The three men stood up.

“Just the two of us,” Clint added.

“I beg your pardon?” Wheeler asked.

“No offense, Mr. Wheeler,” Clint said, “but I think my campaign manager and I should speak alone.”

Wheeler and Dixon exchanged a glance.

“Any objection?” Clint asked.

“No,” Dixon said, “no objection.”

“None,” Wheeler said.

“Good,” Clint said. “Then I’ll see you at seven, Mr. Gryder.”

“Seven it is.”

The three men left the place. As they did, Rick came walking back over and sat down.

“Gave them kind of a hard time, didn’t you?” he asked. “I mean, you knew they were comin’ and why.”

“I didn’t want to give in too fast,” Clint said. “Let them work for it.”

“They tell you what party they want you to run with?” Rick asked.

“The Democrats. After all, the governor is a Democrat.”

“Yeah, he is,” Rick said. “And so’s the president.” He waited a beat, then said, “I didn’t vote for either of them.”

The three men from the state capital walked back to their hotel, and stopped in the lobby.

“What do you think?” Wheeler asked.

“I don’t know,” Dixon said.

“He’ll do it,” Gryder said.

“What makes you think so?” Wheeler asked.

“Why would he not?” Gryder asked. “We’re talking about power, prestige…and money.”

“You think everyone wants that?” Dixon asked.

“Everyone should,” Wheeler said. “If he doesn’t, he’s a fool.”

“I’m not sure about this,” Dixon said.

“You haven’t been sure from the start, Dix,” Gryder said.

“He’s a gunfighter,” Dixon said, “not a politician.”

“Do I have to make the Crockett and Houston arguments with you?” Gryder asked.

“Clint Adams is no Sam Houston,” Dixon said.

“Maybe not,” Gryder said. “But all we need him to be is Clint Adams.”

“I’m going to my room,” the lieutenant governor said. “Let me know what happens tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

They both watched Wheeler walk up the steps.

“Why’d he have to come along?” Gryder asked.

“He’s representing the governor,” Dixon said.

“You could’ve done that, Dix.”

“Me? I don’t want to represent the governor. I represent the party. That’s enough for one man.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You really think he’s gonna run, Will?”

“I think he will.”

“For the power, or the prestige? Maybe the money?”

“None of the three, I’ll bet.”

“Then why?”

Gryder shrugged.

“Maybe just to be able to do something for his country.”

“Patriotism?” Dixon asked with a laugh.

“Why not?”

“That’s a lot to expect these days, Will,” Dixon said. “I thought you were a lot more realistic than that.”

“You mean cynical, don’t you?”

“Yeah, well, that, too.”

“Maybe I am,” Gryder said, “or was. But do you know who we just finished talking to over at that saloon? The goddamn Gunsmith.”

“Don’t tell me you’re impressed?”

“Come on, Dix,” Gryder said. “What we just did was like meeting Wild Bill Hickok.”

“Hickok’s dead.”

“But he’s a legend.”

“He was a backshooter.”

“I know he was shot in the back,” Gryder said. “I don’t know that he was a backshooter, too.”

“Come on, Will,” Dixon said. “Don’t go changin’ on me now. Don’t leave me out here all alone.”

Gryder put his hand on Dixon’s shoulder.

“You’re not alone, Dix,” Gryder said. “Don’t worry.”

“What about Carla?”

“What about her?”

“Are we gonna use her?”

Gryder thought for a moment, then said, “I’ll take her to dinner tonight with me.”

“He said for you to come alone.”

“He wants me to come without the two of you,” Gryder said. “When he sees Carla, I don’t think he’ll object, do you?”

Dixon said, “What man would?”

Clint appeared in the lobby of the Labyrinth House Hotel at 6:55 p.m. People were coming and going from the dining room, in both couples and groups. He stepped to the entrance to look inside, saw Will Gryder sitting at a table with a beautiful, black-haired woman. At least he’d left the other two politicians behind. Clint wondered if this woman was meant to be added incentive for him to run. If she was, he could see where it might work.

He entered the dining room, walked across the floor to the table, and looked down at Gryder, who looked up at him in surprise.

“There you are!”

“Weren’t you expecting me?”

“Well, yes, of course.” Gryder jumped to his feet. “Clint, I’d like you to meet Carla Beckett. Carla, this is Clint Adams.”

“Mr. Adams,” she said, “I’m happy to meet you.”

“Miss Beckett.”

“Oh, Carla, please,” she said, “especially if we’re going to be working together.”

“Are we?” Clint asked.

“Carla will be working on your campaign,” Gryder said. “That is, if you agree to run. Please, sit down. Let’s have some breakfast.”

Clint sat across from Carla, to Gryder’s left. A waiter came over and poured him some coffee.

“Have you ordered?” Clint asked.

“Not until you got here,” Gryder said.

“That would not have been polite,” Carla said. “What’s good, Mr. Adams?”

“Everything,” he said. “They have a real good kitchen here. And please, call me Clint…Carla.”

Both Carla and Gryder ordered Spanish omelets, while Clint ordered his usual steak and eggs.

“So, what exactly would you be doing during the campaign?” Clint asked Carla.

“Mainly,” she said as he sipped his coffee, “keeping you happy…”

He choked.

“And on time.”

“Carla would pretty much be your secretary—”

“Assistant,” she corrected.

“And would accompany you to most functions.”

“What kinds of functions?”

“Mostly rallies, and fund-raisers.”

The waiter came with their breakfast and set the plates in front of them.

“Maybe,” Clint said, “while we eat, you and Carla can tell me exactly what I’d be in for.”

“We can do that,” Gryder said. “Carla, why don’t you start…”

Clint noticed how Gryder allowed Carla to do most of the talking. She was as smart as she was beautiful. And she made her points very well—although after listening, Clint still wondered why anyone would ever want to be a politician.

Clint finished the last piece of his steak and pushed his plate away. Gryder had finished his breakfast, while Carla had eaten only half.

“So, Clint,” Gryder asked, “what do you think?”

“Where are your cohorts?” Clint asked.

“Probably in their rooms,” Gryder said. “And after today they might be your cohorts as well. That is, if you agree to run.”

“I’d have to move to Austin, right?”

“Well, yeah…it is the capital, Clint.”

“Where would I live?”

“We’ll have a house for you.”

“A house?”

“Of course,” Gryder said. “And you’ll have a staff.”

“A staff? You mean, like Carla?”

“No, I mean at home,” Gryder said. “You’ll have a butler, and a cook.”

“Jesus.”

“And the state will pay for it all,” Carla reminded him.

“True, but…”

“Don’t worry, Clint,” Gryder said. “We’ll have it all set up.”

“Wouldn’t a hotel room be good enough?”

“Well, there’s really no point in discussing it,” Gryder said, “unless you agree to run.”

“True.”

“So what’s your decision, Clint?” Carla asked.

“Well…” Clint said. “I guess we might as well give it a go.”

“That’s great!” Gryder said with relief.

“In my first act as your assistant,” Carla said to Clint, “I think this calls for champagne.”

After a champagne dessert Clint returned to Rick’s Place. His friend was waiting to hear how his meeting went.

Clint got two beers at the busy bar and joined Rick at his table in the back of the room.

“How did it go?”

“Great meal,” Clint said.

“You know what I mean. Did you give them the word?”

“I gave them the word.”

“So when do you move to Austin?”

“Everything is time sensitive now, so they want me to go back with them tomorrow.”

“You’ll have to get a place to live.”

“They’re going to take care of that for me,” Clint said. “They want me to have a house with a staff, but I’m trying to get them to put me in a hotel.”

“A staff?”

“A butler, and a cook.”

“Take it, Clint. Take whatever you can get. Make this job worth it.”

“Yeah, but…servants? And I have an assistant.”

“What’s he like?”

“It’s a she,” Clint said. “Her name is Carla and she’s beautiful.”

“Are you sure she’s an assistant?” Rick asked. “Maybe she’s a high-priced whore.”

“I thought about that,” Clint said, “but she seems pretty smart.”

“Whores are smart—some of them anyway.”

“Well, she sounds intelligent about politics, and about society in Austin.”

“Society,” Rick said, making a face. “I hate those types.”

“I’m definitely going to have to deal with them,” Clint said. “Society and politics go hand in hand.”

“Just don’t shoot any of them.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Oh, hell,” Rick said.

“What?”

“I just thought of something.”

“What?”

“Am I gonna have to vote for you?”

“I don’t think it’s going to go that far.”

“I hope not.”

“What would be so bad about having me as a congressman?” Clint asked.

“Look, don’t take this personally,” Rick said, “but I vote Republican.”

Clint shook his head at his friend. He didn’t
understand how anyone could do anything but vote for a man, not blindly for a party.

“When are you leaving?” Rick asked.

“Early stage tomorrow.”

“Taking Eclipse with you?”

“No,” Clint said, “I don’t think he’d like a political campaign very much. Will you look after him for me?”

“Of course I will,” Rick said, “and I gotta wish you luck.”

“I’m not really running, Rick,” Clint said. “I mean, even if I win, I’m not going to serve.”

“Not what I meant,” Rick said. “I’m talking about once again painting a bull’s-eye on your back.”

“Oh, that.”

“Who’s gonna watch your back?”

“Well,” Clint said, “since I’ll be in Texas for a while, I do have an idea about that.”

“Oh?” Rick said. “Anything you’d like to share?”

“Not right now,” Clint said. He stood up. “I’ve got to pack.”

“Why?” Rick asked. “I’m sure they’re also going to buy you new clothes when you get to Austin.”

He was right. They had already told Clint that Carla would be taking him shopping for an entire new wardrobe.

“I’ll keep in touch,” Clint said.

“You better,” Rick said. “I’ve got to hear how this one goes.”

A
USTIN,
T
EXAS

Upon arrival in Austin, Clint was taken by Gryder and Carla from the train station to his new house.

“Jesus,” Clint said, looking at the white columns in front. It was two stories, looked like many homes Clint had seen in the South. “I guess you couldn’t get me into a hotel.”

“We could still do that,” Gryder said, “but why don’t you just give this a try? See how it feels?”

“Come on,” Carla said, taking hold of Clint’s arm, “let’s take a look.”

They walked up the front steps to the door and Gryder knocked. A man in a black suit and tie opened the door, stared at them without expression.

“Mr. Gryder,” he said. “How nice to see you. And Miss Beckett.”

“Hello, Julius,” Carla said. “I want you to meet Mr. Clint Adams.”

“The candidate,” Gryder added.