by Editors

Chronicles of The Shade Part II

The McPain Conspiracy

By Sam Miller

EPISODE   6 — Conclusion

 

Lance Carter sat relaxed on his leather sofa, a glass of Glen Levitt cupped in both hands.  Lara sat beside him, her head back, her eyes closed, and her dark, lustrous hair cascading over the sofa top.  They were listening to Joan Sutherland singing Lucia di Lamermoor on an old 33 rpm playing on Lance’s Victrola.  There were slight scratching sounds on the recording, but Sutherland’s voice came through clear and rich.

When the record had ended, Lara took a sip of her pinot grigio, and shifted on the sofa so that she was facing Lance.  “What are you thinking over there, mister silent one?”

Lance came to himself and looked at Lara.  He had been thinking, and now he was about to tell Lara what it was.  “Remember when I telephoned you just after coming back from San Francisco?”

Lara smiled. “How could I forget,” she said.  “We hadn’t seen one another in weeks, and the first words out of your mouth were about a conspiracy between Ricardo Chancey and Hildy Swinton.”

“Sorry about that,” said Lance, looking down at his drink.  “But I was worried, and I didn’t know what to do.”

Lara put her hand on Lance’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I wasn’t much help, was I?” she said.

“As a matter of fact, you were.  You said that there might be some way to convince Hildy not to go along with Chancey’s plans.”

“And are you now going to tell me that you found that way?”

Lance looked up at Lara and into her glowing indigo eyes.  “I hope that I’ve found that way, my love,” he ventured, “I hope I have.”

Lara put down her wine glass and drew her legs under her on the sofa so that she rested on her knees when she faced him.  “And now you are going to tell me everything that has happened, aren’t you?” she implored; eagerly anticipating his story in the way a child awaits a goodnight tale.

“Remember those tapes I made for Wilby?  The ones that led to the resignations of Chancey and Condo Spice?”

“Yes, I do, Lance.  I’ve often wondered how you got those tapes.”

“Well, that’s not the issue now,” said Lance rapidly.  “Wilby let me have one of those tapes, and I managed to play it for Hildy Swinton last night.”

Lara rocked back on her heels from her kneeling position and stared at Lance in amazement.  “Well, aren’t you the sly boots? Just how did you manage to do that?”

“Let’s just say that I used my considerable persuasive powers,” smiled Lance.  “You know, the powers I have to keep you in thrall to me.”

Lara gave Lance a playful punch in the arm.  “You big baboon,” she said. “I can’t believe that any woman besides me would give you the time of day.”

Lance laughed.  “OK, you’ve got me there. But suffice it to say that I did get to play her the tape, to show her what a conniving, war-mongering bully Chancey really is.”

“So, go on, tell me,” said Lara, teasingly.  “What was the result of this heroic attempt to make Hildy Swinton see the light of day?”

“I don’t know,” said Lance.

“You don’t know?  Here I am waiting for a happy ending to this story, and you say you don’t know?”

Lance took a sip of his Glen Levitt.  “I think that I might have convinced her, but I’m not sure.  I appealed to her better nature, told her that Chancey wasn’t to be trusted, but I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

 

***

What Lance didn’t know was that after he left Hildy Swinton’s apartment, Hildy had picked up the telephone and placed a long-distance call to her husband in New York.  When Jefferson Swinton answered the telephone, the first words out of Hildegard Swinton’s mouth were, “I can’t do it.”

Jeff Swinton knew what she was referring to, but all he said was, “Uh huh.” He knew what she was going to say next, that regardless of the deal she had made with Squintus McPain, she had come to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth it, which is exactly what she did say next.

“So, what made you change your mind?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  A lot of things.  There was this tape recording I heard with Ricardo Chancey on it, saying things I’d suspected were true but just didn’t want to believe, saying things that made me ashamed I’d ever listened to him.”

“Tape recording?  How did you manage to hear a tape recording of Shooter Chancey?”

“It doesn’t matter.  That’s only part of what made me change my mind.  I think what really did it was being reminded of what I’ve said in my prayer group–that people have to take individual responsibility for their actions, and that they can’t blame other people for the way the world is.  I thought about what kind of moral lesson it would be for Everton if she knew that I’d let my ambitions cloud my judgment about what was right and wrong.”

“Well, I guess ol’ Shooter is going to be ticked,” said Jeff Swinton, “not to mention Squintus McPain.”

“I really don’t care,” said Hildy. “For the first time in months I feel good about myself. I’m taking the first flight out of here, so I’ll see you tomorrow morning. When I get back I’m going to schedule a press conference, first thing.”

Jefferson Swinton chuckled.  “That’s my girl,” he said. “Now you better get some sleep, because you’re going to have a big day tomorrow.

***

Squintus McPain’s campaign manager looked sourly at the cold coffee in his morning cup.  Ever since Squintus had again made the mistake of talking about how Iroon was training “al-qaeda in Jiraq” fighters, he had been trying to fend off the jibes of those in the media who now compared McPain’s miscues with Gerald Ford’s gaffe about Poland’s being in the free world back in the ‘70s. Senator McPain was in a foul humor in the next room, blaming his staff for not prepping him properly, and also being dispirited that the mud his operatives had been slinging about Bam Orama’s supposed racial hatred wasn’t sticking.  In fact, McPain’s key mudslinger, the WSJ editor, Sal Tantrum, who continued calling Orama a racist, had just been profiled in a Nation article that listed all the racist statements Tantrum had made about people of color.  It did not promise to be a good day.

Suddenly there was a string of expletives from the next room, threatening to turn the very air blue. Then there was the sound of a coffee cup crashing into the wall.  Senator McPain burst through the door, still cursing and waving his hands in front of his face.  His face was red, and he was spluttering something about a betrayal and motioning toward the TV set on the wall.  His campaign manager turned on the set.

Hildegard Swinton was in the middle of her press conference.  As McPain continued to curse and mumble as he staggered about the room, Hildy Swinton said, “Although Senator Orama and I have fought a tough campaign, and though some hard words might have been spoken, not only do I salute him as the victor in this contest, I will do everything in my power to see that he is elected president of the United States.  Toward this end, Jefferson and I am meeting with Senator Orama this afternoon to see how we can help him with his campaign in any way possible.”  In the background, standing tall and smiling were Jefferson Swinton and their daughter Everton.

McPain, his face twisted in fury, snapped off the TV set.  “How could she do this?” he said.  “We had a deal.  It was signed and sealed.  How could she do this to me?”  Then Squintus thought about it. This was a deal that would never see the light of day.  If he brought it up it could only damage his own chances, because all those Swinton haters would not be able to stomach any deal that included her, and they would stay home on Election Day.

The telephone began ringing, and McPain’s campaign manager picked it up. “It’s for you, Squintus,” he said, “It’s Ricardo Chancey.”

Squintus McPain became very calm.  He set his lips and said, “You tell that sneaking SOB that if he ever calls me again, I’m going to rip out that tin heart of his and throw it in the Delaware River.”

***

Lance and Lara sat on his sofa listening to the end of Hildy Swinton’s press conference on the radio. They were sharing the bottle of Lafite Rothschild that he had opened for their lunch. “Well,” said Lara, “it seems as if you managed to convince her after all.”

Lance raised his wineglass examining the dark ruby coloring of the vintage with a fine eye. “Yes,” he said, with a straight face, “I told you about those persuasive powers of mine, didn’t I.”  Then he looked at Lara and laughed, and she laughed back at him, her indigo eyes shining with delight.

“I wonder what Squintus McPain is thinking about his chances in November now,” she said.

“Or what Shooter Chancey thinks the likelihood is that he’ll ever be taken seriously again in this town,” replied Lance. “It appears as if an October surprise came early for him.”

Then they both raised their glasses and took a sip of their wine. “So what’s for lunch, then?” asked Lara.

“It’s Mexican stew,” said Lance.  “I managed to dice the jalapeños without shedding a tear.”

“That is so unlike what will happen to that vast right-wing conspiracy when Bam Orama makes Hildy Swinton his Secretary of State,” said Lara, as they entered the dining room to enjoy their lunch.

 

FIN

 

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