Adrian McKinty - Hidden River

Every day starts the same. Abe and Steve brief us about the evening’s assignment, where we’re going, what the rap is for the day, what to look out for. We do rehearsals, practice raps, role-playing and if there’s time left we stuff envelopes and write to our congressmen. There are about fifteen campaigners now. The organization is getting bigger.

We don’t see Charles and Robert at all until around five o’clock, when the van is ready to go. Sometimes Charles drives, sometimes Robert drives, sometimes Amber comes along.

No one will admit it with Abe or Steve around, but arriving at the office at one o’clock is a waste of everyone’s time. I suppose if you’re dedicated to the cause it’s all well and good, but I sense that most of the campaigners don’t give a shit about the forests or the Wise Use policy and are only here because they hope they can make cold cash.

Yeah, it’s been a week and I’ve been patient, laying the groundwork, being nice, friendly. I’ve endured Abe’s theories about why the Clash, the Ramones, and the Undertones were feeble imitators of the Sex Pistols. I’ve listened to him talk endlessly about the New York Mets. Tedious, but necessary. I’ve been cultivating him. Encouraging him. None of the Mulhollands will talk, but I know Abe will.

Abe was a University of Colorado student at the Earth Sciences Institute in Boulder. He started working for CAW during his vacations and stayed on after he graduated. He’s only twenty-five, but he’s the fourth in command.

For the last two days we’ve been getting lunch at the Sixteenth Street Pub around the corner from the office. Abe’s a lightweight, anyway, a 6-percent Stella Artois loosens his tongue.

We talk about the movies and when he’s finished his pint and it’s going to his head a wee bit I come straight out with it.

“Abe, why is there a film crew following Charles around?”

“I can’t tell you because we’re not supposed to talk about it. Robert would kill me. Charles would kill me.”

“Abe, you know you can trust me,” I say, trying to ignore Abe’s choice of words.

Abe takes a bite of his burrito and looks around the bar. No one else from CAW is there. And Abe wants to tell me, he just needs that final push.

“Abe, come on, what the hell’s going on? It hardly seems fair that everyone else is allowed to know and I’m not.”

“Everyone else doesn’t know,” Abe protests.

“Come on, mate, I won’t say a bloody thing, I can help better if I’m in the know.”

“That’s true.”

“Yeah, ’course it is, come on, what’s the deal with the camera crew?”

“You won’t breathe a word?”

“No.”

“Ok, listen, I swear to God, don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t, just bloody get on with it.”

“Congressman Wegener will be seventy years old on August sixth,” Abe says slowly and significantly.

I look at him.

“That’s it?” I ask. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Everyone thinks he’s going to run again next year in 1996, but he’s not, he’s going to announce his retirement on his birthday. He’s only told the chairman of the Colorado GOP and the chairman has only told Charles.”

“Who has told you? Amber, Robert—”

“Listen, Alex, you can’t breathe a word of this. Once he makes his announcement, there could be a feeding frenzy. Wegener represents the Eighth Congressional District, solid Republican, a safe seat, whoever succeeds him is guaranteed a place in Congress.”

“And it’s going to be Charles. That’s why he’s taken a leave of absence from his law firm. That’s why they’re filming him, campaigning door to door,” I say.

“The state GOP has had its eye on Charles for some time. He’s thirty-eight, successful, he has a seriously photogenic wife, and he’s founded an environmental organization, us, which could be the GOP’s route into the environmental debate, political turf solely occupied by the Democrats. Charles will have no serious competition for the seat, he’s being anointed, but it goes further than that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t say, you know.”

“Don’t start that again,” I tell him.

“Ok, well, but you gotta keep this quiet.”

“Sure.”

“Ok, look, what do you think’s going to happen at the general election next year?”

“I don’t know.”

“Dole will lose. Dole will lose to Clinton and the GOP will be thrown into turmoil. They’re going to need to move toward the center to beat Gore in 2000. They’re not going to pick someone like George W. Bush or Pat Buchanan. They’re going to pick moderates, and Charles will be a young, moderate, environmentalist, outsider congressman from a Western state. Do you see?”

“See what?” I ask.

Abe’s boiling with excitement. The momentum’s there, he’s giving me this secret, something he can’t contain anymore.

“Don’t you see, Alex? Charles could be an ideal vice-presidential candidate for someone like John McCain or even Colin Powell. Powell-Mulholland in 2000? This isn’t penny-ante shit. This is the big enchilada.”

“Jesus,” I say, impressed by his seriousness about it all. But surely it’s a fantasy, a long shot, more than that, a delusion. Who ever heard of a two-term congressman getting to be a vice president, no matter how good the demographics.

“Long shot,” I said.

“Nah, Bill Clinton was a long shot in 1992,” Abe says, and continues to explain the concept. I pretend to be entranced. Abe goes on and on in a whisper and gradually it occurs to me that whether Charles really could be vice president in 2000, or 2004, or whenever, it doesn’t actually matter, for I see now why Alan Houghton had to die. It’s enough that Charles has convinced himself that Congress and the vice presidency are possibilities and it gave him that final push to kill his tormentor, his shadow, his blackmailing familiar. Yes. And poor Victoria got in the way. I take a sip of beer, nod at Abe, and make a mental note that I’m going to have to find out who Alan Houghton is and what connection he has to Charles.

Abe whispering now: “Alex, listen, you didn’t hear it from me, ok? And it goes for all of us. We can’t rock the boat, we can’t do anything official until Wegener’s birthday announcement. Do you see? We all have to go hush-hush.”

“I do see, and I see why they moved CAW to Denver. This is going to be a campaign HQ as well? Right?”

“Change the topic, here’s Robert,” Abe whispers.

Robert’s in the pub looking for us. Looking for Abe. He can’t find the route maps for where they’re going tonight.

Abe gives me a look to say nothing, gets up, and they head out of the bar.

Later…

We get in a large van, almost a bus, and head south toward Littleton. Charles isn’t with us again tonight and Robert’s driving. Surprisingly, Amber’s accompanying her brother-in-law. I’ve seen Amber only twice since I started here. And this is the first time I’ve seen her without Charles. She’s dressed down in a sweatshirt and black jeans, but she still looks stunning. You’d have to be misogynistic, the president of Greenpeace, Maoist, and blind to refuse to join the CAW if she asked you.

Robert drives and talks. Robert doesn’t have the charm or salesmanship of his older brother. Where Charles has us telling our favorite movies and books and gets Abe to rehearse us through doorstops and the rap (to increase group cohesion and team spirit, Charles says), Robert senses that he has to do something but is a bit of a wet blanket. He seems to have digested management guru books and gives us pep talks based largely on sports metaphors and stories about the rebirth of Chrysler.

We drive south down Broadway rather than the highway and after a time we stop in a typical leafy suburb, or what would be a leafy suburb, were not all the trees dying and the lawns turning brown.