She wiped her mouth and put down her glass. “Maybe we shouldn’t. After all, what’s it really matter, right?” she shrugged.
But it did matter.
MYRON Kowalski’s legal research assistant phoned him on one of Bill Edwards’ other lines to confirm he’d emailed through to Bill’s house what the crotchety lawyer had hassled him for: a copy of a certain 1898 Supreme Court decision, as well as extracts from the seminal constitutional law texts, one of which the old codger had written himself.
Bill’s live-in assistant had printed the email attachments and brought them in to Kowalski. The old lawyer skimmed them for a few minutes, nodding and smiling to himself, finally tossing his eyebrows over to Bill Edwards with such a theatrical gasp it was as if he’d just read that his revered baseball hero Sandy Koufax was back on the mound and had pitched yet another no-hitter season.
Bill was familiar with Kowalski’s tricks and punched the open line onto mute. What Kowalski had to say was not going to be shared with the campaign team. Not yet.
“Bill,” Kowalski smiled, “our former ally Dupont is going to throw a fastball to our left over this ‘father’ issue. And were it not that this was a simple case of mistaken identity,” he paused for effect, “it would be my sad duty to inform you that our star-hitter, Isabel Diaz, had suffered a hit to the temple, that she was down, and out, that the vice would have to go up to captain, we’d be bringing on a reserve and, after a decent moment for prayer, play would continue but we’d probably lose the game, and the season.” The shameless egotist even quoted himself: “It says here in ‘Kowalski on the Constitution’…” and he read from a review of a dusty old court decision that he was certain Professor Dupont would shortly be quoting back at them on TV.
Bill Edwards and Myron Kowalski went way back and to Bill, despite the annoying and often fumbled ballpark analogies the old lawyer inserted into almost every conversation, he deserved his own entry into the Hall of Fame. He’d saved Bill’s skin, and even his marriage. Several of them.
With the assurance of Isabel’s identification and Kowalski’s opinion, Bill relaxed a little and called for whiskey and cigars all round, even for the women.
ISABEL quietly squirmed during the segment when Willy Nesbit, the sleazy trailer park manager, spewed to the world that not only had her mother been a drunk, which was not news, but that she’d also been a cheap whore, which was. They even put him to air leering about her expedient lack of teeth.
“Gappy Hooker? How can they run that on a Sunday night at prime time?” Bill Edwards boomed over the open line before slapping the phone back on mute.
Isabel knew she’d made the right decision to stay off the show. She peeked around the room; most of the smirks were hidden by nervous hands, but she could still see it in their eyes.
“What a dirtbag!” cried one.
“And that tattoo! Tell me it’s not really rats doing… you know… to each other,” another shuddered as the TV camera panned over Willy’s neck. “A-a-w... Gross!”
“…the kid ran away from Cactus Flower after’n she got outta [bleep] hospital. Little [bleep] never even brought her sorry ass back home to kiss her lovin’ ma g’bye. Damn broke her ma’s [bleep] heart.”
When Mandrake revealed to Willy on screen that the girl was the same Isabel Diaz who was running for president, Willy splurted out, “You shittin’ me, right?” but the network didn’t bleep that.
For the mass of viewers it was top-rating entertainment and gave far more colour to what they knew about their next president than anyone else had ever attempted but, even so, they were still expecting more: the punch-line, the Kodak moment that the teaser ads had promised.
Now that Gregory was sure that whatever Mandrake was saving for last about Isabel’s father would be a damp squib, he was finding it compelling viewing and the new insights into Isabel’s past were fascinating. Frankly, they’d do no harm to the campaign, he decided; so what, her mother was a whore—it proved Isabel had politics running in her veins.
Gregory checked his Patek Philippe chronograph; to lesser people it was a watch. Mandrake dropped his long-awaited bombshell at 6:40 PM. Or 6:40:20 PM, to be precise for The Book. When the man draped with a red, white and blue striped tie, blue shirt and Harris tweed jacket appeared on-screen, no one present missed Isabel’s chief counsel Oliver Pryor’s stomach-churning groan.