I knew of a couple that would make the job much less labor intensive. Once I had an idea, I could probably knock one off in a couple of days, which would still leave me time for other freelance jobs.
Jeremy grabbed the bill when it came and then we caught a cab to the hotel. Ford was fifteen minutes late, but she looked like a woman who never had to apologize for her tardiness. People would be grateful to see her whenever she showed up. Five-ten, slim, midfifties, brilliant blond hair, and if I could have seen the tags on her clothes and accessories I’m guessing they would have read Chanel, Gucci, Hermès, and Diane Von Whatserface. She was instantly captivating, said she was a huge fan of my illustrations, once we had repaired—there’s a word I’d never thought to use in that context before—to the bar, talked almost nonstop about all the important New Yorkers she knew who were going to be contributors to her new Web site, including Donald Trump, who, by the way, she knew very well but still couldn’t figure out how he did what he did with his hair, and not once did she ask me any questions except how my father was doing, whom she had heard was not well. Then, just as she whisked off to her next engagement, she said I had the job. The site was to be up and running in three months.
I accepted.
Once she was gone, Jeremy said it felt as though a tornado had just whipped through. Jeremy and I agreed that we’d be talking soon, and I left. Outside the hotel, I hailed a cab.
“Houston and Orchard,” I said. As the driver headed in that direction, I leaned back on the black vinyl seat. That was definitely unlike any other job interview I had had before.
I laughed quietly to myself, then turned my thoughts to what the hell I was going to do next. I thought back to the exchange I’d had with Thomas the night before.
“And when I get to this address on Orchard Street,” I’d said, “what exactly am I supposed to do? I mean, it’s not likely this head is going to still be in the window after all this time.”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “You’ll think of something.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
HOWARD Talliman had not been sleeping well.
Howard Talliman had not been sleeping well for nine months. He hadn’t had a good night’s rest since the end of August.
He’d lost weight, too. Sixteen pounds. He’d come in two notches on his belt. If it weren’t for the bags under his eyes and his gray pallor, he’d look pretty good, or at least as good as a guy who’s shaped something like a garden gnome can ever look.
Talliman’s appearance and his short temper, brought about by too little sleep, were sources of embarrassment to him. They sent a signal that something was troubling him, and Howard did not want anyone to think he was worried.
It was not in Howard’s nature to worry. Howard made other people worry. It was not in Howard’s nature to feel anxious. He made others feel anxious.
It was tough, these days, keeping up appearances.
“You look terrible,” Morris Sawchuck had been telling him. “Have you been to a doctor, Howard?”
“I’m fine,” Howard insisted. “You’re the one I worry about, Morris. You’ve always been my number one concern.”
Howard normally thrived on pressure. It was his oxygen. Any election campaign he’d ever worked, it didn’t matter how grim things looked, how far his candidate was behind. He never gave up. He never broke a sweat, even as those around him were saying it was all over. He assessed problems, and solved them. One time, on a city councilman’s reelection bid, the primary challenger was a woman touting her considerable experience as a community volunteer. She’d put in hundreds more hours helping the poor and disadvantaged than Talliman’s self-serving son of a bitch ever had.
“We have to find a way,” Talliman said, “to make her volunteerism a negative.”
To which everyone on the campaign went, “Huh?”
Talliman said if John Kerry’s service in Vietnam could be used against him, anything was possible. Go after the woman’s strength, and find a way to undermine it. Talliman put Lewis Blocker on it. He found evidence that could be used to prop up the suggestion that the woman’s commitment to helping others had been at the expense of her children and husband. Her teenage son had been picked up for coke possession, although the case never went to court. Her husband spent a lot of time in neighborhood bars and never saw a waitress’s butt he didn’t want to pinch. Talliman made sure the press found out, even though he never passed on the information directly. If these stories weren’t proof the woman was turning a blind eye to the home front, what was? With only a couple of weeks left in the campaign, Talliman flooded the district with flyers depicting his candidate as a strong family man, implying that his opponent cared more about strangers than her own family.
No one cared if a man put his career ahead of his family. But a woman?