That afternoon, Doug Balinger, the Democratic Big Cheese from Stetson’s, called to tell Matt that some of their early work was getting good press around the state. “It’s nothing short of a miracle, after what Tom said about that insurance bill,” Doug remarked.
Matt knew exactly what he was talking about. Last week, Tom had made an off-the-cuff remark about uninsured people, which had, unfortunately, come across like a rich white guy dissing the poor. Matt had worked an entire afternoon on damage control, and fortunately, as a result of his efforts, it had turned up as nothing more than a blip in the papers. But Doug was concerned—and rightly so, in Matt’s opinion—that slips like that would come back to haunt Tom as the election grew nearer.
“He needs to firm up his platform on health care and insurance. He’s too dangerous when he just shoots from the hip,” Matt said.
“We’re working with him,” Doug assured him. “Just be patient. In the meantime, let me tell you what we’ve talked about,” he said, and proceeded to give Matt a rundown of the platform issues.
When at last Matt hung up, he glanced at the clock—he was going to be late for the campaign meeting, and debated going. But they had started up the phone bank, which interested him, and supposedly, they had begun the roll-out of thousands of yard signs across the state.
There was, he supposed, one other little reason for going, and that was to learn the status of his wager.
Matt buzzed Harold, who almost instantaneously appeared at Matt’s door. He strode through, his hand extended for the files Matt was holding. “Pass these on to staff, will you? And I need this brief finished by the end of the week.”
Harold took the files, cocked his head to one side. “If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you look exhausted. You might want to try a cucumber press for your eyes,” he added as he pivoted sharply. “If that doesn’t work, do what the pageant contestants do and try a little hemorrhoid cream under the eyes to take the puffiness out.”
Matt raised his head as Harold moved briskly for the door. “You’re kidding.”
“Of course I’m not.”
“But that’s disgusting!”
“Perhaps. But it works!” Harold sang as he sailed out the door.
Hemorrhoid cream? Still shaking his head, Matt gathered up his things, loosened his tie, and left, headed for the campaign offices.
On his way over, he got caught in a little traffic and tuned in the radio to catch some news. “If you want the best value for your money, then bring any deal over to Reynolds Cadillac and Chevrolet and we’ll meet it or beat it! We’re right here on the motor mile . . .”
Damn ads. Was it his imagination, or did they pump the volume up on those things? He punched to an AM station. “Reynolds Cadillac and Chevrolet cannot be beat! We’ll meet or beat any deal you find in Texas . . .”
He switched to a jazz CD.
Traffic was moving at a snail’s pace: a wreck or something ahead had mucked up the works, so Matt veered off, took the neighborhood route. Only when he turned down a well-traveled side street in West Austin—a notoriously political side street—he noticed several of Tom’s yard signs (Vote for Tom Masters . . . now there was a brilliantly snappy little slogan) were stuck up against the houses and complexes. Stuck up so close that he literally had to turn his head away from the road to see them. Honestly, sometimes it seemed if he didn’t do it, it didn’t get done right. Matt pulled over into an apartment parking lot, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and fished in his trunk for something to pound with, found a golf club, and jogged up the street, pausing in each of the twelve yards to pull up the signs and put them out by the street where they would be seen. Facing oncoming traffic. Who could not know that?
When he reached the campaign offices, he strode quickly through the front door and almost collided with a desk someone had put there that all but consumed the little entry. On top of the desk were several stacks of hand-addressed envelopes, the handwriting flourished and cursive, and it struck him as a waste of free manpower—a simple keystroke would have produced labels in a fraction of someone’s time.
He stepped around the desk, made his way to the back, noticing the new additions to the walls (springlike things, along with some new, campaign banners—Vote for Tom Masters for Lt. Governor, which, incidentally, looked like they had been finger-painted). He could hear several voices coming from the conference room—it didn’t sound as if anything had started up yet, save another bashing of the Republican Phil Harbaugh—but somewhere, a phone was ringing. Gilbert stuck his head out the door, saw Matt. “Oh hey, we’re getting started. Would you mind getting that?” he asked, and Matt nodded, headed on back to the phone bank.