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“Maher's the same guy who called our soldiers cowards. Way to go Stan,” said Walt from Winter Haven.

I only had a vague recollection of Walt's reference. No doubt Maher had said something stupid when comparing the relative cowardice of the 9/11 terrorists to our military's use of drone technology, but I wasn't about to jolly-stomp on the statement. It wasn't something I would have said, but I thought
I understood what Maher had been trying to say at the time. I was too tired to get worked up about it. And besides, a guy who does what I do every day is always a seven-second delay away from temporary unemployment.

I spent an hour on air recapping the
Real Time
appearance and played sound bytes that Alex had edited, and another hour rehashing the debate.

“Thanks for outing that bigamist,” said another caller, regarding James.

By the time I signed off and headed for sleep, the campaigning for the nomination was finally over. Californians were headed to the polls and when I'd return on Wednesday morning, the combatants for the general election would be set. On my way out the door, Alex handed me another message from Wilma Blake. This time she said:

“Funny name. I don't think I've ever taken a call on air from a Wilma.”

Clearly she had noticed that this wasn't the first call from Wilma, and I'm sure she was looking for my reaction. I tried to offer none.

My convertible top was up when I cleared the parking garage and gave a nod to my fishing friend. Then I dialed. Every time I had returned her calls, they had been to a different number. This time it was a Los Angeles exchange, suggesting she was still in California to watch the returns later tonight. Obviously Tobias thought he was winning the state or he'd be moving on before the votes were tallied.

“Good luck tonight,” I said when she picked up. “Win and you'll be just one step away.”

Susan didn't even so much as say thanks. Nor did she offer any thoughts on today's primary, including the buzz created by my question to Wynne James. She was all business.

“You really need to give this a rest, Stan. I saw the Maher show. You're embarrassing yourself every time you talk about Bob's faith. Haven't you noticed that no one else shares your obsession?”

“Maybe that's because they don't know what I know.”

“And what is it you think that you know?”

It was really the first time she flat-out asked me what I had on her husband. I partially obliged.

“I know that for your husband this is far more than a semantic debate.”

I wasn't prepared to drop the S-word yet since I was far from having the goods. All I had were a few threads that raised a suspicion, but nothing that warranted an outright confrontation. Plus, who knew what kind of
News of the World
scum was tapping her phone calls these days. Still, she seemed to get my meaning.

“I think we should meet to discuss this.”

“I assume you're not talking tomorrow at 7:35 on
Morning Power
?”

Susan ignored the suggestion.

So I said, “Okay, how about Delrios again?”

“I'm flying back into Tampa tomorrow. Meet me at 7. The Clearwater Hilton right on the beach.”

I was surprised that she'd pick such a public spot, a hotel no less, but I said, “Fine.”

“Ask for Wilma Blake at the desk. They'll know.”

The line went dead.

•  •  •

I wasn't sure how Susan intended to meet with me at the Clearwater Hilton without getting noticed. Her husband's visual ID was about 100 percent in Florida, and now 98 percent in America—and hers was climbing just as high. She had
already been on every regional television program, and in every regional magazine and newspaper. And come tomorrow, she would be the wife of the Democratic nominee for president.

I had ignored an incoming call while speaking with Susan and now saw that someone had left me a voicemail. It was Carl.

“You sure as hell better be at Delrios tonight. Three strikes and you're out,” he said.

All I wanted to do was go home and go to sleep, and the last thing I felt like doing was tying one on with my buddies. I erased the message as I headed for a nap, deciding that I'd see how I felt if and when I ever woke up. Then I drove home, showered, pitched the blinds, and turned off my electronics.

When I awoke sometime later in total darkness, I'd been in such a deep sleep that I didn't immediately recognize my surroundings nor the day, much less the time. Both of my digital alarm clocks said 8:40. I didn't know if that was a.m. or p.m. My first fear was that I'd slept through an air shift. Elated when I figured out that wasn't the case, my next thought turned to my empty stomach. And remembering my looming meeting with Susan tomorrow, I suddenly felt the need for a drink. It was then that I decided I'd hightail it over to Delrios to meet Clay and Carl, less they voted me out of our triumverate. By the time I caught up with them, standing exactly at the bar where I expected to find them, they were hammered. And, happy as hell to see me. Of course, it was my round. I waved Ralph over to pour us a few shots and so that I could ask whether there was anything edible in the kitchen.

“You sure do spend time with interesting people,” he said with a bottle of tequila in his hand.

I smiled and reached for a shot, trying to comprehend what he was saying. Was that a reference to me being on Maher? Participating in the presidential debate the prior night? Or was
he subtly telling me he'd figured out with whom I'd shared a drink in the back a few weeks ago? I wasn't sure. And he was way too street-smart to let me know which it was. Bastard. Two C-notes were now coming his way at Christmas.

The television above the bar—the same set on which I'd watched President Summers' shocking announcement six months prior—now showed the election night coverage from California. The polls had just closed, and the exit surveys showed Margaret Haskel beating Wynne James by four points, cementing the nomination. The sound was muted on account of the jukebox, and the closed captions for the hearing impaired were crawling along the bottom of the TV. I caught enough to know what they were talking about:

“…credibility was hurt when the divorce deposition was revealed….”

Meanwhile, on the Democratic side, Bob Tobias was expected to handily defeat Vic Baron. That would make it official. As I had long suspected, it was going to be Haskel and Tobias fighting for the presidency. The three of us just stood there with our drinks, temporarily speechless as we watched the screen. Normally Clay and Carl would never bring up anything that involved my work, but I was in the midst of a pretty amazing run and therefore not surprised when tonight of all nights, they crossed that line. Of course, at the top of their list was Margaret Haskel.

“That is one presidential hottie,” Clay said. “She's had my vote ever since she told the women of America to be like Jerry Hall.”

I was surprised he was even aware of that quote, but it was proof of Haskel's ability to generate buzz well beyond the political sphere. But his next statement tempered my belief that he had any interest whatsoever in policy.

“Heaven would be that Texas broad and Florida's first lady in my hot tub at the same time,” he hooted.

Carl had his own area of interest.

“Stan, sometimes I don't get you. I watched last night when you gave that guy a workout because he told his old lady he wanted a threesome. The Stan Powers I know might not have asked, but would have been thinking the same thing.”

Clay laughed. I smiled but did not respond. Instead, I nervously clinked shot glasses with the two of them just as Ralph brought out something he said was a Philly cheesesteak but bore no resemblance to anything I'd ever eaten in Philadelphia. I felt like I was being fed a tourist special, but that didn't stop me from eating it, further fucking up my body clock which was already confused by my sleeping eight straight hours during the daytime.

After I got home, the combination of too much rest, booze, and the remnants of something disguised as a cheesesteak sitting in my stomach made for a restless night before what promised to be one of the more interesting days in an already crazy week. I tossed and turned trying to decide whether I should show Susan the audit summary when I met her at the Clearwater Hilton the following day. And, whether I should tell her the Haskel campaign wanted me to do to her husband what I'd done to Wynne James. By the time my two alarm clocks went off at 3:30, I'd made up my mind to take the audit with me and confront her with it.

I was still a bit fucked up when I went on the air. Fortunately, given the interest in the outcome of the California primary and the finality of the nomination contests, it was an easy show in which to coast. Listeners wanted to talk and I stepped out of the way and let them. Frank Sellers would've been proud. Then I went back home and tried to get some rest. When I left my condo later that afternoon, I was wearing my usual uniform: Bruno Magli
shoes/no socks, jeans, Oxford cloth and sport coat. Only this time, tucked inside the left breast pocket were the purported notes of a Scientology audit, perhaps concerning a younger Bob Tobias.

I did as I'd been instructed. I arrived at the hotel at 6:45 p.m. and tossed my keys to a valet. Adjacent to his stand sat a pair of dark Town Cars, idling, that I thought had official state tags. But tinted windows prevented me from getting a look at the drivers, much less at any passengers. I slowed my gait wondering if Susan would emerge from one of the rear doors. Nothing happened, so I continued inside and up one flight of stairs to the lobby. It was overrun by baseball fans who were in town to participate in one of those MLB dream weeks at the nearby spring training home of the Phillies. Two guys in pinstripes stopped me in my tracks and asked if I would take their picture. I obliged, and then one of them said:

“Hey, aren't you the Tampa talker?”

This was the last place where I wanted any recognition or notoriety but what choice did I have?

“We're Lancaster County Tea Partiers,” he confided before asking his buddy to take his picture with me.

I took a moment to survey the lobby. I knew better than to think that Susan Miller would be prominently seated and waiting to chat with me in the lobby of a fucking Hilton, but I felt unsure about what to do. Then a 40ish guy in a suit standing behind the check-in counter made eye contact with me and stepped around the desk with an envelope in his hand. He spoke in a quiet voice.

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Powers. Mrs. Blake's assistant has left you your key.”

Smooth. Her assistant huh? I wondered who else was in the loop. And, I had never even mentioned any name to this guy so he clearly knew to expect me.

“Thank you,” I responded, hoping he hadn't taken note of my lack of luggage.

The open envelope had “505” written on it and one of those magnetic keys inside. I thanked him while trying to act like I was used to this level of service, then got on the elevator and pushed 5.

My chest was thumping as the elevator climbed, and then the doors opened and I walked along the corridor heading west. Whatever was about to unfold, it was going to go down in a beachfront room. Tucked inside my sport coat pocket was the purported audit, but I still had no idea of how I was going to raise the subject. I rehearsed a few lines in my mind as I put the key in the lock, but it didn't matter. The room was empty.

It was a standard-sized unit with a king bed and balcony facing south and offering a partial view of the Gulf. The bed was made. There was no luggage, and no clothes hung in the closet. Instinctively, I reached for the minibar, delighted to find it unlocked. I poured a miniature bottle of Jack into a glass I found in the bathroom after removing its paper lid.

After about 10 minutes, there was a knock on the door. Nervously I walked over and peeked out of the keyhole. Seeing nothing, I nevertheless opened the door into an empty corridor. It took me another moment to realize that the sound had not come from the entranceway, but from the connecting door to an adjoining room. Fumbling with the bolt lock, I finally opened it, and there was Susan Miller.

I'd been afraid to study her features too intently when she'd accompanied her husband in-studio. And the light here was much better than it had been at Delrios. But now I could see her clearly, and she was no less attractive to me than she had once been while wearing a suede skirt and cowboy boots at Shooter's. She stood before me wearing a white, tight blouse
and an equally snug khaki skirt and matching pumps. We were two feet apart and I suddenly felt those green eyes seeing right through me. Envy was back.

Then she turned her back to me and walked a step or two into her room, which I interpreted as an invitation to follow. Hers was a one-bedroom suite better angled toward the water.

“Thirsty?” she asked.

She picked up a glass of white wine from a tabletop and motioned me toward the minibar. I helped myself to another mini Jack. We were in a small parlor which had a couch and love seat, and open French doors leading to a bedroom where I could see a king-size bed. As in my room, the bed hadn't been touched and I saw no luggage. I sat down on the sofa and noticed that the TV was tuned to a cable news station with the sound down low. I saw some B-roll footage of Bob Tobias and Margaret Haskel and a couple of talking heads who were having it out. I turned to Susan. Small talk was never my strong suit. But there was an obvious question burning inside me.

“Does your husband know you are here?”

“Bob knows we are acquainted.”

That was a very interesting but incomplete response. Part of me was disappointed that he was in the loop, but an even more prominent part of me didn't give a shit. That same part had always felt that it was inevitable that we'd cross paths again one day, no matter who she'd married, and was just damn happy to be here. I wondered how she'd explained me to him. Did she tell him that we'd been summer fuck buddies years ago? Or that we'd simply worked together? Women must have a language for this sort of thing, but I was clueless as to what it was. Anyway, Susan seemed more interested in politics than the past.