violent incidents at foreclosure auctions, loan companies, and banks.
Clark Alfred’s anti-war group had started out protesting the Vietnam War, had gotten involved in populist politics after the farm crash of the eighties, had short, local revivals during the first and second Gulf wars. At the moment, it seemed to have only one member: Alfred himself. Alfred, according to Wood’s information, was ninety-four years old.
After a moment’s consideration, Lucas decided to look at Leonard first, and then Likely. Given his age and history, Alfred didn’t seem like much of a candidate for a violent conspiracy.
—
WHEN EVERYBODY WAS OFF their respective phones, Henderson asked Lucas, “You got them yet?”
“No, but I’ve got some things to work with,” Lucas said. He gave them a quick recap of the information he’d scraped up, then said, “I’m going to Atlantic first, then over to Mount Pleasant. I’ll need your travel schedule and some phone numbers, to stay in touch.”
“We’re going down to Des Moines for a picnic with Catholic Social Services and a cocktail party for possible donors, and then to Iowa City,” Mitford said. “We’ve got a private event there tonight, then a rally tomorrow morning. Then we go to Cedar Rapids and Cedar Falls. That’s the University of Iowa, Kirkwood Community College, University of Northern Iowa, all tomorrow.”
“Hitting a lot of colleges,” Lucas said.
“I’m a lefty,” Henderson said. “If a lefty needs a crowd, he goes to colleges.”
“If you’re going to Mount Pleasant this afternoon, that’s close to Iowa City. If you want a room in Iowa City, call me and I’ll have our travel planner get one for you,” Mitford said to Lucas.
“Thanks. Right now . . . do you know where Bowden is?”
“She’s in Chicago right now, a fast day trip to talk to her money people this morning. She flies to Burlington, that’s here in Iowa, this afternoon, for a speech, then she heads up to Davenport by car,” Mitford said. “She has a fund-raiser on a riverboat out of Davenport at five o’clock and will be back in town for a speech at six-thirty.”
“Where exactly is Burlington?” Lucas asked.
“On the Mississippi, down in the southeast corner of the state,” Mitford said. “As a matter of fact, it’s only about thirty-two miles from Mount Pleasant and about forty minutes by campaign bus. You could probably drive it in twenty-five.”
“Really? You know that off the top of your head?” Lucas asked.
“Yeah, really,” Mitford said. “I have a map of Iowa, with all the mileages and travel times, tattooed on my chest and stomach. That little teeny bit of the state that dangles down to Keokuk? That’s on my dick.”
Henderson said, “Jesus, Neil,” and tipped his head toward Green.
“That’s all right,” Green said. “It’s only a little teeny bit.”
The governor smiled and turned back to Lucas. “You’re going to talk with Bowden?”
“Well, with her weasel, anyway, if you can get your weasel to set it up,” Lucas said.
Henderson nodded at Mitford, who said, “I think of myself more as a wolverine.”
“A wolverine’s a weasel,” Green said.
“Yeah, but it’s the biggest, meanest one,” Mitford said. To Lucas: “I’ll call Norm, tell him you’re coming.”
—
A WOMAN WITH A CLIPBOARD hustled into the room and said, “Governor, I know it’s not on the schedule, but a WHO van’s outside, they’d like one minute with you, if you could. Jack Gardner says you’re an unrealistic dreamer and that Congress wouldn’t pass any of your policies—”
“One minute? I’ve got one minute,” Henderson said.
They all drifted through the motel to the parking lot, where a TV cameraman was pointing his camera at the HENDERSON banner on the side of the campaign bus. The woman with the clipboard stopped Henderson before he got to the cameras, opened a lunch box and took out a powder puff, dabbed at his nose and the thin rings
Clark Alfred’s anti-war group had started out protesting the Vietnam War, had gotten involved in populist politics after the farm crash of the eighties, had short, local revivals during the first and second Gulf wars. At the moment, it seemed to have only one member: Alfred himself. Alfred, according to Wood’s information, was ninety-four years old.
After a moment’s consideration, Lucas decided to look at Leonard first, and then Likely. Given his age and history, Alfred didn’t seem like much of a candidate for a violent conspiracy.
—
WHEN EVERYBODY WAS OFF their respective phones, Henderson asked Lucas, “You got them yet?”
“No, but I’ve got some things to work with,” Lucas said. He gave them a quick recap of the information he’d scraped up, then said, “I’m going to Atlantic first, then over to Mount Pleasant. I’ll need your travel schedule and some phone numbers, to stay in touch.”
“We’re going down to Des Moines for a picnic with Catholic Social Services and a cocktail party for possible donors, and then to Iowa City,” Mitford said. “We’ve got a private event there tonight, then a rally tomorrow morning. Then we go to Cedar Rapids and Cedar Falls. That’s the University of Iowa, Kirkwood Community College, University of Northern Iowa, all tomorrow.”
“Hitting a lot of colleges,” Lucas said.
“I’m a lefty,” Henderson said. “If a lefty needs a crowd, he goes to colleges.”
“If you’re going to Mount Pleasant this afternoon, that’s close to Iowa City. If you want a room in Iowa City, call me and I’ll have our travel planner get one for you,” Mitford said to Lucas.
“Thanks. Right now . . . do you know where Bowden is?”
“She’s in Chicago right now, a fast day trip to talk to her money people this morning. She flies to Burlington, that’s here in Iowa, this afternoon, for a speech, then she heads up to Davenport by car,” Mitford said. “She has a fund-raiser on a riverboat out of Davenport at five o’clock and will be back in town for a speech at six-thirty.”
“Where exactly is Burlington?” Lucas asked.
“On the Mississippi, down in the southeast corner of the state,” Mitford said. “As a matter of fact, it’s only about thirty-two miles from Mount Pleasant and about forty minutes by campaign bus. You could probably drive it in twenty-five.”
“Really? You know that off the top of your head?” Lucas asked.
“Yeah, really,” Mitford said. “I have a map of Iowa, with all the mileages and travel times, tattooed on my chest and stomach. That little teeny bit of the state that dangles down to Keokuk? That’s on my dick.”
Henderson said, “Jesus, Neil,” and tipped his head toward Green.
“That’s all right,” Green said. “It’s only a little teeny bit.”
The governor smiled and turned back to Lucas. “You’re going to talk with Bowden?”
“Well, with her weasel, anyway, if you can get your weasel to set it up,” Lucas said.
Henderson nodded at Mitford, who said, “I think of myself more as a wolverine.”
“A wolverine’s a weasel,” Green said.
“Yeah, but it’s the biggest, meanest one,” Mitford said. To Lucas: “I’ll call Norm, tell him you’re coming.”
—
A WOMAN WITH A CLIPBOARD hustled into the room and said, “Governor, I know it’s not on the schedule, but a WHO van’s outside, they’d like one minute with you, if you could. Jack Gardner says you’re an unrealistic dreamer and that Congress wouldn’t pass any of your policies—”
“One minute? I’ve got one minute,” Henderson said.
They all drifted through the motel to the parking lot, where a TV cameraman was pointing his camera at the HENDERSON banner on the side of the campaign bus. The woman with the clipboard stopped Henderson before he got to the cameras, opened a lunch box and took out a powder puff, dabbed at his nose and the thin rings
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