Penance by David Housewright Read Free Book Online

has allegations, but no proof. Should it be printed? Probably—on the day after the election.”
    “You say that even though it may very well get you elected?” Sheehan asked.
    C. C. paused, took a deep breath and answered, “It is the people who will elect me to office, Mr. Sheehan, not your newspaper. Especially not your newspaper.”
    More applause. And why not? C. C. Monroe was putting on a clinic: “Politics 101—How To Exploit Your Opponents’ Personal Problems Without Looking Like It.”
    “Impressive,” I said.
    “Isn’t she?” the young woman replied, not knowing sarcasm when she heard it.
    “Do you believe these 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.”
    “Sure about that?” I asked her.
    “Who’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?
    “It’s amazing the good things that happen to C. C.,” I said as if I actually knew what I was talking about.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Conan asked.
    “First 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.
    “Whaddyawant?” he asked.
    “I would like to speak to Representative Monroe.”
    “Try 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?”
    “Screw 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