Читать книгу The 3rd Woman - Jonathan Freedland - Страница 13

The crowd was glowing in dawn sunshine, the faces turned upward. They were happy, some clutching flags bearing the stars and stripes. The faces at the centre made up the standard LA crowd: black woman, Hispanic man, Korean children, younger white woman and finally, because you had to have a white male somewhere, a white-haired, seventy-plus man, smiling a benign, grandfatherly smile. But dotted among them was a departure from the usual formula: a noticeable number of Chinese, including several young men. They were smiling too. Not wide grins, but gentle, summer-evening smiles – relaxed, content, as if marvelling at the good fortune of it all.

The music swelled, an informal, slightly ragged choir of voices that climaxed on the phrase, ‘California, You’re My Home’.

Leo Harris reached for the remote and watched it again, this time on half-speed. He wanted to examine the faces at the margins, those the viewer would not notice on the first or second airing but would process all the same, if only subliminally. He was glad to see a couple more Latinos and what he guessed was a Jewish man. An older white woman: good. More Chinese. Seated, he turned to the young woman standing by his right shoulder and said only: ‘Blacks.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘African-Americans. You’ve only got one.’ He paused the video, frozen now on the image of a beautiful black woman, her long hair in tight spirals, clutching a miniature flag. ‘She’s great, but we need more. That’s ten per cent of our vote, remember.’

‘But I thought you said—’

‘That’s true. So use a child or an older man. No one’s frightened of them. Doesn’t have to be real old. Just not young. Bit of grey in the sideburns, that’ll do it.’

He turned back to the screen, playing the rest at normal speed. He sang along to the line: ‘California, You’re My Home’. Then, as the last word faded, he intoned in a voice not quite his own, ‘“I’m Richard Berger – and I approved this message.”’

He stood up. ‘OK, where’s Susan?’

A nervous flutter passed through the room as the heads of those people relieved not to be Susan turned and looked for her. She was at the back, her head down, every few seconds swiping the page on her tablet. Leo guessed she was absorbed in poll numbers.

‘Hey, Susan. Can we talk slogan?’

She glanced up, then returned to the illuminated page before her. ‘Sure.’

‘Can you remind me what we agreed would be the theme of this spot?’ He was speaking across the room.

‘Unity, harmony, all that.’ She didn’t look up.

‘Er, yeah. That’s the theme of the campaign. I mean this particular spot.’

Now at last she lifted her head slowly, as if to say, I am a senior figure in this operation. I will not jump at your command like the rest of these candy girls in their skinny jeans and fitted tops. I will take my time if I want to. The words she spoke out loud were: ‘We can all get along.’

‘Correct. We can all get along. No matter who we are. But with one group in mind especially.’ Pausing for a response and not getting it, Leo gave what was meant as a prompt, watched by the rest of the room. There were about a dozen of them, almost all young, including those who were not interns, written off, in the brutal vernacular of the trade, as mere muffins: sugary snacks for the delectation of the older hands. Susan Patinkin, campaign veteran, was the only person present over the age of forty. ‘The clue is on the screen.’ He rewound, freezing on an image which included two Chinese men. Neither were in uniform, but both were of military age.

Susan looked, then sighed. ‘Your point is?’

‘My point is that, yes, this ad is saying we can all get along. Even those guys.’ With his back to the screen, so that he could still face Susan, he gestured towards the Chinese faces. ‘But what’s wrong with this picture?’

No answer from Susan, so now he looked around. ‘Anybody?’

A hand went up. Young guy in a T-shirt decorated by a chimp in headphones, doubtless involved with social media. Leo had no idea of his name. He pointed at him instead. ‘You.’

‘They’re not singing?’

Leo hurled his pen at him, forcing him to duck. ‘For fuck’s sake! Am I really the only person who can see the problem here?’ He turned back towards the screen, spooled to the final few seconds, halfway through the final refrain. The choir was in full voice.

‘… you’re my home!’

‘OK.’ It was Susan, sheepish at the back of the room.

‘Thank you!’ Leo said to the ceiling, his hands spread like a preacher at the pulpit. ‘Yes, Governor Richard Berger will bring harmony to the state of California. Yes, he will ensure the people of this state will get along with each other and even with the garrison. Yes, there will be no riots on his watch. But that doesn’t mean he wants these guys to stay forever. He doesn’t want California to be their home.’

Susan had now abandoned the data logs on her tablet. ‘California, We Love You.’

‘Better.’

She had another go. ‘California, Place of Harmony.’

‘Too Chairman Mao.’

There was silence. Eventually Leo turned to the woman who had been at his shoulder, taking notes during the viewing, and who was, as it happened, wearing a tightly fitted top: knitted, cream-coloured and, Leo clocked, unable to hide a pair of very generously shaped breasts. ‘Collect four suggestions for alternative tag lines to run on this spot. Then focus-group all five.’

He was already at the door, giving a curt nod to Susan as he passed her, when the assistant called out. ‘Focus-group five? But you said we needed four. What’s the fifth?’

‘Richard Berger. Bringing California Together.’

There would be another year of this, Leo thought. All right, closer to ten months, but it would be like this every day. In fact, days like this would seem like a breeze come the fall. He remembered what Bill Doran used to say, his face cragged and scarred after more than thirty years on the road: ‘Campaigns are never tiring – unless you lose. Then they hurt like hell.’

As Leo boarded the jet that would take him and Mayor Richard Berger to Sacramento – squaring the Democratic delegation in the state assembly, ensuring they endorsed early and often – he allowed three thoughts to circulate. First, he had no intention of losing. He would sweat from now till the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November to ensure his boss was installed in the Governor’s Mansion. Second, he already regretted his own, populist suggestion that the mayor, as the Democratic candidate, should eschew the private jet offered to him by donors and fly commercial whenever possible. Make no mistake, come Memorial Day, if not earlier, Leo would be invoking that ‘whenever possible’ clause and the wiggle room it very deliberately allowed.

Third, he was thinking of Bill Doran. He knew that was bad form, or ‘malpractice’, to use Doran’s preferred word. It was a violation of one of Bill’s own commandments: never let them get inside your head. Normally, Leo observed that stricture without effort. But this time was different. His adversary, his opposite number on the rival campaign, was the very man who had taught him the fundamentals of political combat. If Leo were to win in November, he would have to turn his first boss and ongoing, if occasional, mentor into a loser.

That they would clash one day, he had always known. They were on opposite sides of the aisle. It was only through a freak accident that they had worked together in the first place. It was Leo’s first campaign. He had signed up straight out of college as an unpaid volunteer for a millionaire Democrat-turned-independent, who had hired Bill Doran – the best known Republican consultant in the state – to underline his new, bipartisan credentials. It was a gimmick that had ended in disaster: the candidate was crushed, despite the expensive advice he had hired.

But it had been the best possible education for Leo. Doran spotted him early, deeming him ‘the brightest of the bunch, no contest’. He let him sit in on strategy meetings way above his pay-grade, patched him into conference calls with the candidate, allowed him to hear Doran alternately soothe or rev up ‘the talent’ before the cue came to walk out on stage at a rally or fundraiser. ‘You can do this. You’re going to be the next senator from the great state of California.’ All bullshit, but necessary.

Soon Doran was beckoning Leo to come forward and look over his shoulder when the data came in, the charts and spreadsheets filled with numbers gathered by pollsters crawling over every corner of California. Doran taught Leo to look first for Ventura County, specifically the 26th Congressional District. ‘That’s a toss-up seat, Leo. If you’re ahead there, you’re ahead.’

As for TV spots, Doran was the master. There was no one with a better grasp of the visual campaign. What looked right, what looked wrong. No detail escaped him. To this day, more than nine years later, Leo could not look at a TV ad for anything – from soda pop to Depends undergarments – without seeing it through the eyes of his former mentor. When they last met for a drink, after running into each other during a straw poll event in Bakersfield four months ago, he had sat back and listened, astonished to discover that Bill Doran’s supply of political wisdom was still not exhausted. The man himself, however … well, that was a different story.

Leo buckled up. The boss was next to him, still on a call to a radio station in Oakland. ‘I agree, Trisha. That’s one reason why I’m running. I want to be able to look every Californian in the eye and …’

Leo made a mental note. Save the ‘every Californian in the eye’ for the tax pledge. Don’t waste it on other stuff, blurs the message.

He gazed out of the window, the candidate having been placed in the aisle: ‘No point flying commercial if people don’t see you flying commercial.’ Leo thought about the Mail Room last night, enjoying the images his memory reflexively served up for his perusal. He caught himself as he realized it was not Jade or her long neck and backless dress that he was picturing but the maddening, repeatedly insulting Maddy Webb. His reflection in the porthole told him he was smiling.

‘Trisha, I’m glad you asked me that. I know in my own area …’

Good. Berger was learning. Leo had told him: fight the habit of the last years and stop mentioning Los Angeles by name. It only turns off voters upstate. Downstate too, for that matter. Anywhere but LA, in fact.

He could see the mayor was on his last question. Quick check of the phone before take-off. He scrolled through his messages. One from an old friend.

Just heard. Can’t believe it.

Just heard what? He couldn’t stand it when people played enigmatic. Total power trip, lording over you the fact they had caught some nugget of knowledge that you lacked. He would not succumb. He would not send the words his pal wanted to hear: ‘Can’t believe what?’

It was bound to be about the food export story. There were new figures showing Californians were exporting so many of their staples – oranges, strawberries and avocados among others – they were running short themselves. He checked his watch. Yep, this was about the time the numbers were due for release.

But he checked Weibo to be sure. He scrolled through, but stopped short.

Tragic news about @maddywebbnews’s sister. Thoughts and prayers are with her family.

And then:

What a senseless waste of precious life. Hearts go out to @maddywebbnews #tragedy

That came with a link to an LA Times story:

Abigail Webb, 22, an elementary school teacher from North Hollywood, was found dead early Monday in what police now believe was a likely homicide. An LAPD spokesperson would give few details, but sources indicate the cause of death was a heroin overdose. Despite an initial examination of the dead woman’s apartment which could find no confirmed signs of forced entry, detectives say a later probe of the scene found damage suggesting a break-in. Ms Webb is the younger sister of the award-winning LA Times reporter, Madison Webb.

Leo read the words several times over, believing it less and less each time. He and Madison had been together for just short of a year, but he had seen Abigail at least a dozen times. She was the first member of her family Madison had let him meet. He liked her: she had all the fizzing energy of Madison and none of the taidu, the attitude. Perhaps a bit too wide-eyed for his tastes, but her enthusiasm was contagious. He and Maddy had been to see a show at the Hollywood Bowl on a double date with Abigail and a short-lived boyfriend, dropped soon afterwards. But once those two were up and dancing, Maddy and even Leo – usually too shy and world-weary for such things – had felt compelled to follow.

Now he thought about it, Madison was different around Abigail. The cynicism receded; she was gentle. She smiled more. In their moments together, the older looking out for the younger, he realized he had caught a glimpse of the mother Maddy might one day be – a thought which he had never articulated at the time and whose tenderness shocked him.

He read the weibs again. He was scrolling further down, as if he might see a message voiding the others, announcing a mistake. He kept scrolling.

‘Leo, you better shut that down. Take-off.’

He said nothing, but turned off the phone all the same and stared right ahead.

They were fully airborne, the plane straightened, before the mayor spoke. ‘You mind telling me what this is about? You look like shit.’ Getting no answer, he pushed on. ‘You’ve seen some numbers and you don’t know how to break it to me, is that it? This that Santa Ana focus group? I’m not worried. Wait till we’re on the air in—’

‘It’s nothing to do with the campaign.’

‘You don’t care about anything but the campaign, so tell me: what’s the problem?’

Leo turned his face to look at his boss for the first time. ‘There’s been a murder. Woman, early twenties, found dead in her apartment in North Hollywood. Suspected heroin overdose.’

Berger hesitated, letting his eye linger, as if he were assessing a job applicant rather than his most trusted advisor. ‘OK.’

‘We need to get out ahead of this one, Mr Mayor. We have to make sure that this is investigated with the utmost thoroughness.’ His own voice sounded strange to him, too formal.

‘We always do that, Leo.’

He tried to steady himself, took a sip from the water glass on the tray in front of him, which appeared to have arrived by magic: he had no memory of anyone giving it to him. He told himself to get a grip. Focus.

‘LAPD are only calling it a “likely” homicide. Which means they’ve got some doubts. But the victim’s sister’s a journalist. She’s going to be demanding answers. High-profile, award-winner, big following on Weibo. That means this case is going to be noticed. People are going to be watching the Department, the DA, to see how they handle it.’

‘Sure.’

‘And they’ll be watching you. You don’t want to be going into the summer with a big, unsolved murder on the books.’

‘So what’s your advice?’

‘I think that when we land your first call should be to the Chief of Police, ensure this case is a priority.’

‘As soon as we land, huh? That urgent.’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

Leo turned back towards the window, the city below now little more than a blur. He pictured Abigail and then he pictured Madison. He shook his head.

‘Anything else you ought to tell me, Leo?’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘Like what?’

‘You sure you don’t have a conflict of interest here?’

Leo hesitated, so Berger spoke again. ‘I know who the victim of this murder is, Leo. The police department of this city – sorry, of the area – do still talk to me. I know her sister is your ex, so there’s no need to bullshit me, OK?’ His gaze lingered into a stare until eventually he looked away, towards the window, watching the earth below swallowed up by clouds. When he turned back, he was wearing an expression Leo had not seen before, one that unnerved him. ‘As it happens, I agree with your advice,’ the mayor said. ‘We need to get out in front on this one. In fact, I’d go further. You need to make this story go away. And, most important of all, you need to keep me out of it.’