He pursed his lips. “I’m a bit surprised. The governor had no trouble reaching me this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?”
“Yes. We went over the details of my urban restructuring program.”
“Oh—of course.” I tried to cover up my confusion. I had been with Jim most of the afternoon, while he charmed incoming delegates at various caucuses. We had driven together all across town, sitting side by side in the limousine. He had been warm and outgoing and. . . and then he had changed, as abruptly as putting on a new necktie. Was it something I said? Am I being too obvious with him?
“Well?” the professor asked, getting a bit testy. “Are you satisfied that I’m at my post and ready for instant service?”
“Oh, yes. . . yes sir. Sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Very well.”
“Um—Professor? One question? How long did you and the governor talk this afternoon? For our accounting records, you know. The phone bill, things like that.”
His expression stayed sour. “Lord, it must have been at least two hours. He dragged every last detail out of me. The man must have an eidetic memory.”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Good night.”
I reached out and clicked the phone’s off switch. If Jim had spent two hours talking with Professor Carlton, it couldn’t have been that afternoon. He hadn’t been out of my sight for more than fifteen minutes between lunch and dinner.
I found myself biting my tongue and punching another number. This time it was Rollie O’Malley, the guy who ran our polling services. He was still in New York.
And sore as hell. “Goin’ on five o’clock in the motherin’ morning and you wanna ask me what?”
“When’s the last time you talked with The Man?”
Rollie’s face was puffy from sleep, red-eyed. His skin started turning red, too. “You dizzy broad. . . why in the hell—”
“It’s important!” I snapped. “I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t.”
He stopped in mid-flight. “Whassamatter? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing major. . . I hope. But I need to know when you talked to him last. And for how long.”
“Christ.” He was puzzled, but more concerned than angry now. “Lessee. . . I was just about to sit down to dinner here at the apartment. . . musta been eight, eight-thirty. ‘Round then.”
“New York time?” That would put it around five or so our time. Right when Jim was greeting the Texas delegation.
“No! Bangkok time! What the hell is this all about, Marie?”
“Tell you later,” and I cut him off.
I got a lot of people riled. I called the heads of every one of Jim’s think-tank teams: science, economics, social welfare, foreign policy, taxation, even some of his Montana staff back in Helena. By dawn I had a crazy story: eleven different people had each talked personally with The Man that afternoon for an average of an hour and a half apiece, they claimed. Several of them were delighted that Jim would spend so much time with them just before the convention opened.
That was more than sixteen hours of face-to-face conversation on the picturephones. All between noon and 7 p.m., Pacific Daylight Time.
And for most of that impossible time, Jim had been in my presence, close enough to touch me. And never on the phone once.
I watched the sun come up over the city’s mushrooming skyline. My hands were shaking. I was sticky damp with a cold sweat.
Phony. I wanted to feel anger, but all I felt was sorrow. And the beginnings of self-pity. He’s a phony. He’s using his fancy electronics equipment to con a lot of people into thinking he’s giving them his personal attention. And all the while he’s just another damned public relations robot.
And his smiles, his magnetism, the good vibes that he could turn on or off whenever it suited him. I hate him!
And then I asked myself the jackpot question: Who’s pulling his strings? I had to find out.
But I couldn’t.
I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t just my emotions. I told myself that, puppet or not, he was the best candidate running. And God knows we needed a good President, a man who could handle the job and get the nation back on the right tracks again. But, at that bottom line, was the inescapable fact that I loved him. As wildly as any schoolgirl loved a movie star. But this was real. I wanted Jim Halliday. . . I wanted to be his First Lady.
I fussed around for two days, while the convention got started and those thousands of delegates from all over this sprawling nation settled preliminary matters like credentials and platform and voting procedures. There were almost as many TV cameras and news people as there were delegates. The convention hall, the hotels and the streets were all crawling with people asking each other questions.
It was a steamroller. That became clear right at the outset when all the credentials questions got ironed out so easily. Halliday’s people were seated with hardly a murmur in every case where an argument came up.
Seeing Jim privately, where I could ask him about the phony picturephone conversations, was impossible. He was surrounded in his hotel suite by everybody from former party chieftains to movie stars.
So I boiled in my own juices for two days, watching helplessly while the convention worked its way toward the inevitable moment when The Man would be nominated. There was betting down on the streets that there wouldn’t even be a first ballot: he’d be nominated by acclamation.
I couldn’t take it. I bugged out. I packed my bag and headed for the airport.
I arrived at Twin Cities Airport at 10 p.m., local time. I rented a car and started out the road toward the Wellington Lab.
