At noon Jennifer got a call from Michael Moretti. His voice was angry. “Have you seen the newspapers?”
“No.”
“Well, Eddie Santini’s picture is all over the front pages and on the television news. I didn’t tell you to turn this goddamned thing into a circus!”
“I know you didn’t. It was my own idea.”
“Jesus! What’s the point?”
“The point, Michael, is those three witnesses.”
“What about them?”
“You said they got a good look at Eddie Santini. Well, when they get up in court to identify him, they’re going to have to prove they didn’t identify him because they saw his picture all over the newspapers and television.”
There was a long silence, and then Michael’s voice said admiringly, “I’m a son of a bitch!”
Jennifer had to laugh.
Ken Bailey was waiting in her office that afternoon when Jennifer walked in, and she knew instantly from the look on his face that something was wrong.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ken demanded.
“Tell you what?”
“About you and Mike Moretti.”
Jennifer checked the retort that rose to her lips. Saying It’s none of your business was too easy. Ken was her friend; he cared. In a way, it was his business. Jennifer remembered it all, the tiny office they had shared, how he had helped her. I’ve got a lawyer friend who’s been bugging me to serve some subpoenas for him. I haven’t got time. He pays twelve-fifty for each subpoena plus mileage. Would you help me out?
“Ken, let’s not discuss this.”
His tone was filled with cold fury. “Why not? Everybody else is discussing it. The word is that you’re Moretti’s girl.” His face was pale. “Jesus!”
“My personal life—”
“He lives in a sewer and you brought that sewer into the office! You’ve got us all working for Moretti and his hoodlums.”
“Stop it!”
“I am. That’s what I came to tell you. I’m leaving.”
His words were a shock. “You can’t leave. You’re wrong about what you think of Michael. If you’ll just meet him, you’ll see—”
The moment the words were out, Jennifer knew she had made a mistake.
He looked at her sadly and said, “He’s really wrapped you up, hasn’t he? I remember you when you knew who you were. That’s the girl I want to remember. Say good-bye to Joshua for me.”
And Ken Bailey was gone.
Jennifer felt the tears begin to come, and her throat constricted so tightly that she could hardly breathe. She put her head down on the desk and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the hurt.
When she opened her eyes, night had fallen. The office was in darkness except for the eerie red glow cast by the city lights. She walked over to the window and stared out at the city below. It looked like a jungle at night, with only a dying campfire to keep away the encroaching terrors.
It was Michael’s jungle. There was no way out of it.
43
The Cow Palace in San Francisco was a madhouse, filled with noisy, chanting delegates from all over the country. There were three candidates vying for the presidential nomination, and each had done well in the primaries. But the star, the one who outshone them all, was Adam Warner. The nomination was his on the fifth ballot, and it was made unanimous. His party finally had a candidate they could put forward with pride. The incumbent President, the leader of the opposition party, had a low credibility rating and was considered by the majority of people to be inept.
“Unless you take your cock out and pee in front of a camera on the six o’clock news,” Stewart Needham told Adam, “you’re going to be the next President of the United States.”
After his nomination, Adam flew to New York for a meeting at the Regency Hotel with Needham and several influential members of the party. Present in the room was Blair Roman, head of the second largest advertising agency in the country.
Stewart Needham said, “Blair will be in charge of running the publicity end of your campaign, Adam.”
“Can’t tell you how glad I am to be aboard.” Blair Roman grinned. “You’re going to be my third President.”
“Really?” Adam was not impressed with the man.
“Let me fill you in on some of the game plan.” Blair Roman started pacing the room, swinging an imaginary golf club as he walked. “We’re going to saturate the country with television commercials, build an image of you as the man who can solve America’s problems. Big Daddy—only a young, good-looking Big Daddy. You get it, Mr. President?”
“Mr. Roman…”
“Yes?”
“Would you mind not calling me ‘Mr. President’?”
Blair Roman laughed. “Sorry. Slip of the tongue, A.W. In my mind you’re already in the White House. Believe me, I know you’re the man for the job or I wouldn’t be undertaking this campaign. I’m too rich to have to work for money.”
Beware of people who say they’re too rich to have to work for money, Adam thought.
“We know you’re the man for the job—now we have to let the people know it. If you’ll just take a look at these charts I’ve prepared, I’ve broken down different sections of the country into various ethnic groups. We’re going to send you to key places where you can press the flesh.”
He leaned forward into Adam’s face and said earnestly, “Your wife is going to be a big asset. Women’s magazines will go crazy for stuff on your family life. We’re going to merchandise you, A.W.”