The Race (40 page)

"I can't sign off on all that stuff, Sam. I'd look like a total whore."

"And Christy knows that," Larkin responded with a soothing chuckle. "His game is to take down Blair or, failing that, to keep his name in play by asserting his leadership of evangelicals. And you boys know that all Christy gets out of it is a day or two of jerking you around."

"In other words," Price said, "Christy's got an excuse for supporting Grace in the vice presidential vote tonight. But there's no way he can support Grace for president unless Grace makes
him
VP, or at least caves on Christy's issues."

"Precisely." With surprising fastidiousness, Larkin dabbed his mouth with his cloth napkin. "All you and Blair have to do is come out foursquare against gay marriage
and
civil unions, and maybe 'overtly' gay teachers in the classroom if you're really feeling pressured. Then call on Grace to do the same.

"He won't, is my prediction—'heroes' don't cave in. What the hell will Christy do then?"

Marotta had the last spoonful of granola and skim milk, a staple in his relentless quest to remain as trim as Grace. "We need your help, Sam."

"And you'll get it," Larkin affirmed. "In one hour, I'm sitting down with the Georgia delegation, touting Charles's virtues."

"Beyond that," Price said, "we need your delegates to support us on forcing Grace to choose a VP, and on seating our version of the Alabama delegation."

"Alabama," Larkin said with a smile. "That was right out of a fucking banana republic, Magnus—coming up with an alternate delegation after Grace won the primary election. Sort of looked like your chief objection was to black folks voting in a Republican primary."

Price flashed him a sardonic look. "Hope you're not that easily embarrassed, Sam. Last time I looked, they could fit the blacks who voted for you in a phone booth and still have room for ten buckets of fried chicken."

Larkin waved his napkin in mock surrender. "You got me, Magnus. When they call our name tonight, Mississippi will stand tall and proud in defense of the purity of our primary process, untainted by the votes of strangers. Sort of like South Carolina."

The pointed remark put Marotta on edge. "There's one more thing we need you to do, Sam. Come out for my nomination."

Larkin spread his hands. "You want the sun, stars, and moon, Rob? Come judgment day, I'll be there. But I'm more credible speaking for Blair if I'm not in your back pocket. It's all a matter of timing. Like they say in those Cialis ads: when the time is right, I'll be ready."

The refusal was no less firm, Marotta knew, for being amiably delivered. Larkin stood. "Gotta go, boys. Got some missionary work to do on behalf of young Mr. Blair."

When he was gone, Price said sourly, "I feel better already. I still think Sam wants to be America's most powerful lobbyist. But I just figured out his second angle: he's also keeping alive the idea of forcing Grace to choose him as vice president.

"He's dreaming, of course. In the end, he'll be like Christy—nowhere else to go."

Price's cell phone rang. Marotta watched him listen, his concentration so total that his features became immobile. "No," he said slowly. "I'll handle this myself."

He stood abruptly. "Who was it?" Marotta asked.

"Our delegate hunter from Illinois. Seems like there's a delegate who needs my special attention." Price smiled. "I'll take care of the mechanics, Rob. Your job right now is a grip and grin with every delegate who wants photographic evidence of their close association with a future president. Better take a pocketful of moist towelettes."

Within an hour, Marotta was smiling at a car dealer from Provo, Utah, the first delegate in a line stretching to the back of the ballroom. "You feel like a president," the man assured him fervently. "Divinely inspired."

"YOU MAY NOT understand," Price told Walter Riggs, "just how important you are to us."

Riggs fidgeted. "I'm only a state senator," he answered, brushing a hand across the bristles of his graying crew cut. "My motto's always been 'To stay in office, stay small.' No delusions of grandeur here."

"Some people," Price drawled, "have grandeur thrust upon them. This may be your time." Sitting back, he folded his hands across his belly. "Guess you know Drew Tully's making trouble for Governor Blair, trying to sell the notion that only Grace can ensure the reelection of you boys down the ticket. Word is, Walter,
you
may be one of the buyers."

Price watched Riggs hesitate, then decide on a show of candor. "You know everything there is to know, Magnus. So you know my district's becoming more suburban than rural. Those people don't care as much about gays as they do about promoting stem-cell research. And the women—well, seems like they're in love with Corey Grace." He grimaced in apology. "Last time, I only carried my district by about five hundred votes. Can't help but worry about losing the next one."

"I understand," Price said in a soothing tone. "But sometimes sacrifices simply must be made.

"We got two big votes tonight—one to seat our Alabama delegation, the other to force Grace to pick a running mate. Your delegation votes under the unit rule; if one more than half of you votes to seat Grace's delegation, the whole fucking delegation has to vote that way. So that one little vote has big-time power." Pausing, Price looked intently into Riggs's worried eyes. "Our head count suggests that you may be that vote. Maybe you can tell me, Walter, what you mean to do."

For an instant, the question seemed to rob Riggs of his power of speech. "I respect Senator Marotta," he said carefully. "But Senator Tully comes from my district, and he's the one who brings us federal money. No choice but to vote with him."

Price gazed at the ceiling, as though taking Riggs's dilemma to heart. "Suppose you didn't have to vote at all?"

Riggs gave him a queasy smile. "Don't see how that could happen."

"Maybe you'll get food poisoning," Price suggested. "I hear another member of your delegation is coming down with it, though he doesn't know that yet. I might could arrange for you two to order the same lunch."

Riggs looked at him like he was speaking in Swahili. "Food poisoning?" he repeated.

"Uh-huh. Or maybe cocaine poisoning." Price smiled. "Guess you know that enterprising college boy of yours has set himself up in business. Seems like those kids at Northwestern got money to burn, as it were."

Riggs's eyes flashed, a sudden mixture of anger, denial, and fear. Reaching into his suit coat, Price took out a cell phone. "In case you don't believe me, let's do a small experiment. I'll push 3 on this cell phone. When Walt Junior answers, I'll set up a buy at the restaurant he uses to sell cocaine. 'Cept the boy who shows up to meet him will be an undercover cop.

"Guess you know the jail time for dealing coke in Illinois. A whole lot longer since they passed that bill you sponsored."

Riggs stared at him, the color draining from his face. "Funny," Price remarked. "You're looking kind of sick already."

AT TEN A.M., Corey and Spencer walked through Central Park. The day was already so hot and muggy that by noon, Corey guessed, the asphalt path would shimmer. Corey's Secret Service detail surrounded them on all sides, trailed by a contingent of reporters. As they walked, Spencer wiped his forehead. "Sorry," Corey said. "I was getting claustrophobic. So what's the schedule?"

"Three press conferences—undecided delegates declaring for you." Glancing over his shoulder, Spencer spoke softly. "But the guy in the Virgin Islands wants veto power over who you'd pick as governor."

Corey looked at him sharply. "Is he a crook?"

"No."

"Then that's little enough to pay."

In momentary silence, they walked toward the band shell. "Then there's the governor of Indiana," Spencer continued. "He's setting up his kid to run for the Senate. He'll trade his delegation's vote on Alabama if you give his son a nice-sounding job in your putative administration."

Corey gazed at the band shell. "The son's an idiot, right?"

"A glib idiot. But pliable. All he wants is a couple of years in Washington, occupying space. He won't do enough to fuck anything up."

"There's always room in Washington," Corey said dryly, "for a man like that. But first Indiana has to vote right."

"Understood. Which brings us to the governor of Utah."

Corey rolled his eyes. "Dumb as a plant, controls maybe three delegates, and got run out of office in the primary. Under any other circumstances, she'd be lucky to get a job in the post office."

"Under
these
circumstances," Spencer informed him quietly, "she wants to be ambassador to the United Kingdom. Rumor has it Marotta promised the U.K. to Linwood Tate. She couldn't be much worse than
that
."

All at once Corey was gripped by his sense of the absurd; here they were in Central Park, bargaining for the presidency like rug merchants. "I don't care who Marotta's promised—I want a professional dealing with Great Britain. Maybe the Swiss can stand her: they're neutral about everything else. So what's left?"

"Requests for meetings." Spencer puffed his cheeks. "One's from the new leader of the Rainbow Republicans, hoping that you'll agree that gays deserve better than they're getting from Christy or Marotta. You're the gay Republicans' only hope."

Corey stopped, looking across the treetops at the gothic roofline of an apartment building on Central Park West. "What's your advice?"

"You already know what it is. There's no gain in meeting this guy—half the gay Republicans are so far in the closet that they hate the ones who aren't. And this guy seems so desperate to meet you that it scares me. If it leaks, Christy will go insane."

Corey folded his arms, no longer interested in architecture. At length, he directed, "Say I'll see him in private—no leaks, or our first meeting is our last. And not until after tonight." Noting Spencer's pained expression, Corey added, "Just do it, Hollis."

Spencer did not respond. "The other request," he told Corey pointedly, "is from Christy. He wants to discuss your position on gays."

"Christ," Corey said harshly. "Doesn't anyone think about anything else?"

"Apparently not. But meeting with Christy is as imperative as meeting Mr. Rainbow is gratuitous."

"First things first, then. When does Christy want to meet?"

"Two o'clock," Spencer said. "That gives you time for one more thing."

WITHIN MOMENTS OF entering Corey's suite, the delegate from Montana was slumped on the couch, tears running down her face.

Marilee Roach was a schoolteacher, with tightly curled hair and a round face that, when not contorted by anguish, was as pleasant as it was unremarkable. Miserable and embarrassed, she dabbed at her eyes. "I ran for delegate because I believe in you."

Corey glanced at Spencer. "Just tell me what happened," he requested gently.

"Brian—my husband—works for the state. If I vote for you, the governor says he'll be fired." Her voice became angry and despairing. "The only way to save his job is to vote for Senator Marotta."

"There's another way," Spencer suggested. "Go public."

She kept looking at Corey. "Hollis is right," he affirmed. "We can appear together at a press conference. Once we tell your story in public, the governor won't dare touch your husband's job."

As she closed her eyes, Corey fought back a pity he could ill afford. "There are also federal jobs in Montana," he promised her. "If I'm elected, I can put him out of the governor's reach for good."

The woman's eyes opened, windows to her hope and fear. "You want me to be president," Corey concluded firmly. "With your help, Marilee, I can be. I know we won't let each other down."

She summoned a tenuous smile, and slowly nodded.

For a moment, Corey imagined the sleepless night that would follow her moment of public courage, the slow diminution of the pride she would take in sharing the spotlight with him. But he could not let her picture that before it happened. "Until our press conference," he said, "we'll have someone with you—Dana Harrison. She'll help you write a statement."

The swiftness of events seemed to stun her. "For when?"

"Five o'clock." Standing, Corey took her hand in both of his. "I can never thank you enough," he said, and hurried off to meet with Christy.

CHRISTY MET HIM in the empty banquet room of a restaurant owned by Corey's friend Danny Meyer.

In the quiet of its off-hours, they sat across a table covered only by a white tablecloth. Even in such stark surroundings, Christy exuded strength and savvy. "Getting down to the end," he told Corey. "No time for dancing the minuet."

"No. There isn't."

"I guess you know I want to be vice president."

Corey mustered a wary smile. "I do now."

"And?"

Corey composed his thoughts. "Outside this door, Bob, is an army of Secret Service agents, a sky filled with helicopters, and a convention hall surrounded by cops and bomb-sniffing dogs. It's an age when no president can count on living out his term.

"Nonetheless, I want to be president. More than that, I think I should be. I have to choose the man or woman who can help me win, and who's prepared to serve if I die. That's the only basis I can live with."

Christy's own smile was a crinkling of the eyes. "If you don't win on Wednesday, you don't run in November. If you don't win both roll-call votes tonight, you don't win on Wednesday. All the rest of what you just said is superfluous."

Corey shrugged. "If Marotta wins on Wednesday, Bob, you're neither vice president nor the voice for evangelicals in politics. Rob will cut you off at the knees."

Christy's smile diminished to a flicker. "And if I support you and get nothing for it, I'll be cutting off another part of my anatomy."

They shared a moment of silence. With seeming calm, Corey asked, "What do you want, Bob?"

"A change of heart and mind, publicly declared at a joint press conference—support for a constitutional ban on gay marriage
and
civil unions. Along with a condemnation of openly avowed homosexuals teaching in our public schools."