Holland Taylor Trilogy by David Housewright Read Free Book Online Page A

allegations will be a major topic of the debate tonight?” another reporter asked.
    C. C. hesitated, looked reflective, then answered, “I certainly hope not. The League of Women Voters organized the debate and public television agreed to broadcast it so that the voters could hear our positions on the key issues. That is why I entered the campaign as a third-party candidate, to force the other candidates to focus on the issues—issues like health care, poverty, our schools, women’s rights. I would be greatly disappointed if these allegations distracted us.”
    The young woman announced to me, “Representative Monroe is going to be governor. The first woman governor in the history of Minnesota.”
    â€œSure about that?” I asked her.
    â€œWho’s going to stop her? The governor? Golly, he had to go through seventeen ballots just to get the endorsement of his own party.”
    Golly? Did people still use that word?
    â€œIt’s amazing the good things that happen to C. C.,” I said as if I actually knew what I was talking about.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?” Conan asked.
    â€œFirst Joseph Sherman, now this,” I answered.
    The young woman flinched visibly, as if someone had pricked her with a pin. Conan crowded in close, giving me a good whiff of his mouthwash.
    â€œWhaddyawant?” he asked.
    â€œI would like to speak to Representative Monroe.”
    â€œTry again,” Conan said, nudging me toward the door.
    I feinted right and curled left, stepping around him, and addressed the young woman. She had seated herself behind the cafeteria table she used as a desk, stacked as it was with a pile of campaign brochures, a thick message pad, two number-two pencils and a telephone switchboard. Below the table were two boxes, one on each side of her chair, which she used for file drawers. She nudged one with her foot as I handed her my card. She took it reluctantly. When she read it, her face became a black and white photograph, all the color drained out. I don’t know why. It merely read: H OLLAND T AYLOR , P RIVATE I NVESTIGATIONS and listed my office address and phone number. There were no bullet holes, no bloodstains.
    The young woman showed the card to Conan, who glanced at it over her shoulder. “He’s trying to cause trouble,” he said. “I’ll take care of him.”
    I held up one finger when he came toward me. “If you so much as breathe on me, one of us is going through the window.” Before he could decide which one, I pointed at the TV journalists who were now packing up their gear. “What kind of trouble do you think that will cause?”
    Conan hesitated, then looked at the young woman for help. She ran her hand through her short brown hair. “I’ll get Marion,” she said.
    I smiled at him when the young woman left her post at the reception desk. “What do you bench? Two-fifty?”
    â€œScrew you,” he said, apparently insulted.
    We both watched the receptionist snake through the crowd and tap the shoulder of a rather shabbily dressed woman standing next to the platform. Surrounded by several campaign workers, she watched and listened intently as C. C. spoke casually with the boys and girls of the press who did not seem to mind at all that just moments before she had impugned their integrity. She looked about fifty-five, slightly shorter than me and a good seventy pounds heavier, with mousy hair, a bit of a mustache and poorly applied makeup. She was not attractive, probably had not been attractive when she was young, and now didn’t give a damn. She took my card from the receptionist, asking a question while she read it. The receptionist pointed at me and the older woman nodded. She said something and motioned with her head toward a closed door about as far away from the reporters as possible. The receptionist gestured for me to follow her. Conan didn’t like it, but he did