The Whole Lie (3 page)

Huh. I'd known guys like that who developed complexes, resentments. A few of them would have been taller but for childhood sicknesses. I wondered if that was Saginaw's deal. Looking at his jacketless back, his expensive shirt that had to be custom made, I saw he had a hell of a V shape. Easy guess: He was a fitness guy, a junkie for it. An overcompensator.

Leading his sad little parade through downtown Framingham, the locals avoiding his smiles mostly out of pity, Bert Saginaw was giving the campaign manager hell. He waved, he shook hands with anybody who wasn't quick enough in clearing out of his way, he maintained the grin/grimace. But he was hissing in the ear of the taller man, occasionally grabbing his upper arm in a way that had to hurt. I caught snippets.

“… couldn't even round up a couple dozen
teachers,
for Chrissake?” Saginaw said.

“… Good call. I'll take that bullet,” the man said.

“… Tinker's talking to
three hundred goddamn people
in Brookline right now,” Saginaw said.

“… Worcester promises they'll have 'em hanging from the rafters tomorrow,” the man said.

This went on for the better part of a block. Finally, seconds after the last diehard camera crew dropped away—unable to resist the smells from a
churrascuria
that would pile meat on your plate until midnight for $9.95—we came to a mini-caravan just north of a Salvation Army where I'd bunked a long time ago. Leading was a BMW X5 SUV, black. Behind it, a brand-new Chevy Malibu in the same color.

Saginaw made for the right rear door of the BMW, but the campaign manager spoke in his ear and guided him to the Malibu, with sister Emily right behind. The manager and his flunkies doubled back to the SUV. Savvy and I stood on the sidewalk.

“Take shotgun,” Saginaw said to Savvy, pointing at me. “I want to talk to this one while we ride.”

Me, Emily, and Saginaw made for a tight backseat fit.

“What kind of car is this?” Saginaw said, looking around the gray cloth interior.

“Chevy Malibu,” I said, “the new one. Supposed to be pretty decent.”

“Piece of shit,” he said. “Krall says I have to ride around in American cars during the campaign. Probably after, too.”

“Krall?”

“Campaign manager. Costing us a mint, soul of a vampire, but he's been around the block a few times.”

“He makes you drive American,” I said, “while he rides in your BMW. Pretty ritzy deal for him.”

“Good point,” Saginaw said, half-laughing. “Am I a sap or what?”

“Way I hear it,” I said, “you're nobody's sap. What do you want with me?”

“You were right, Savvy,” Saginaw said. “He does have a short tolerance for talk.” Then he leaned across and forward, putting a blue-sleeved arm through the gap between the front seats, and twined his fingers in hers.

It wasn't a move I expected from Saginaw. It made him look awkward and needy.

It made him look like he cared about Savvy.

A lot.

Huh.

Meanwhile, sister Emily was looking at her brother's arm like she wanted to cut it off.

Double huh.

“Savannah tells me,” Saginaw said, “you're some kinda miracle man for the local AA crowd. Robin Hood for drunks.”

“Did she tell you I'm a convicted felon?”

“She mentioned it. Why?”

“I couldn't vote for you even if I wanted to,” I said. “So stop blowing smoke up my ass and tell me why I'm here.”

Long pause. Saginaw's eyes went stormy.

Then cleared, and he laughed like hell. “You were right!” he said to Savvy, squeezing her hand, still leaning. “You were sure as hell right about this cat.”

“So tell him,” she said. Annoyed? She worked her hand free of Saginaw's and folded her arms.

“Yes,” Emily said. “Tell him.”

“You know the gist of the situation,” he said after a few seconds.

“Savvy had your kid,” I said. “She holed up in North Carolina for a long time, cashing your checks. Now she's back.”

“There's more to it.”

“She came north to squeeze you for more dough.”

“
Ass
hole,” Savvy said.

“She's not,” Saginaw said.

“Of course she is,” Emily said.

“At first, maybe, yeah,” Saginaw said. “Not anymore. But
somebody's
squeezing, all right. Somebody's running all sorts of games to push me out of the race.”

“Isn't it a little late for that?” I said.

“Not
too
late, not with this state's screwy laws.”

“Okay,” I said, “you should know. But let's get down to it. I assume you're talking about the guy Betsy Tinker's up against. What's his name?”

“Thomas Wilton,” Emily and Savvy said at the same time.

“What I don't get,” I said, “is why's this Wilton working on you instead of Tinker?”

The car went quiet.

“Tell him,” Emily said.

“Yes, tell him,” Savvy said. “In for a dime.”

Saginaw leaned forward so he could look across his sister at me. “I'm pretty sure the squeezer is my bosom-buddy running mate. Sweet Betsy Tinker, the next governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Then it was quiet some more. Savvy broke the silence. “Strange bedfellows,” she said.

The driver swung right. I remembered reading about Saginaw's massive house when he built it. The place was in Framingham, but barely: If we'd continued two hundred yards we would have been in Sherborn, one of the swankest towns around.

The driver pushed an overhead button and waited for a wrought-iron gate set between stone pillars to roll open. We eased up blacktop that was technically a driveway but was as wide and well-crowned as most public roads. We burst through a final stand of pines and there was the home of Bert Saginaw, rent-a-fence tycoon.

“Well,” I said.

More money than taste
was my first thought. I'm not Frank Lloyd Wright, but as I climbed from the Malibu I saw something had gone wrong with the mansion. The place had started as a good-sized stone house, nicely balanced. Then the shit had hit the fan. It looked like each time Saginaw made another ten million, or found a new girlfriend, or tried a new hobby, he'd added a wing to the place. But the wings had nothing to do with the original building, or with each other. So this handsome French (I guessed) home sprouted on one end a Japanese-looking atrium, which sprouted a redbrick gentleman's library, which sprouted a damn indoor squash court, which sprouted something Danish-looking—a deluxe sauna?—with dark vertical siding, which sprouted …

Like that. And that was just the side of the house nearest me. The other end of the place, hard to see from where we stood, had its own set of sprouts.

“Wow,” I said.

“Wow,” Savvy said. Poker face.

Saginaw and Emily jumped from the car. “I'll be there in four minutes!” Saginaw said to his sister, loosening his tie as he strode to the main house.

“I'll be there in three!” she said, sprinting past him.

Savvy and I stood by the car.

“Wow,” I said.

“They work out together,” she said. “Religiously.”

We followed Krall inside.

It looked just the way I'd figured, given the outside. Each section of the building was a perfect version of what it was supposed to be—but had nothing to do with the next section. “We'll wait here,” Krall said to Savvy at one point, and he and his flunkies peeled off.

I elbowed Savvy, made a
what the hell?
face.

She knew what I meant. “Rite of passage,” she said. “Bert and Em like to show off for newcomers in the gymnasium.”

“Why?”

“It's their fave place.”

“Weird dude,” I said. “Weird house.”

“No comment,” Savvy said as we walked. We cruised through a room full of pinball machines, then what looked to be a museum for suits of armor and swords and shields, then a full-fledged soda shop plucked straight out of 1956. Savvy clipped through each space, paused at a set of double doors, showed me her best deadpan, and shouldered us in …

… to a fitness center that would cost yuppies a couple hundred bucks a month in Boston. Blue carpet, mirrored walls, spinning bikes, pro-caliber treadmills and elliptical machines, medicine balls, free-weight area, Pilates area, white-painted Nautilus gear. You name it. Disco-pop blasted. Bert Saginaw, changed already into shorts and a T-shirt, held a pair of boxing trainer's paddle-style gloves and used them to catch the punches of Emily, who was dressed in a hot-pink running shirt and black workout pants that left no doubt she was in great shape.

“Hi! Hi!” she said with a left-right combo. “Hee-hee-hee!” she said, right-right-left. “Hoof! Hoof!
Hoof!
” On the last
Hoof!
, she fired an uppercut from her belt line that looked like it could do some damage.

“All
right
!” Saginaw said, wiggling his hand to show the punch had stung. Then, in what was obviously an old and frequent custom, they both snapped their wrists, flipping their gloves to the floor, and jumped against each other—performing one of those chest-bumping high-fives that were big in the NFL that year.

Emily walked over, water bottle in one hand and sweat towel in the other. “I don't think my rude brother made a proper introduction,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Emily Saginaw.”

I said my name while she tried to break my hand. She was strong. Hell, if my hand hadn't been twice as big as hers, she might've hurt me. As it stood, she was a mouse trying to judo-flip a cat.

“Fill him in while I do cardio,” Saginaw said. He walked off without looking at me, snapped a jump rope from a hook, and began to use it.

Emily led me to a pair of weight benches, nodded at one, sat on the other. I sat and let her look me over. Her face was a little red from the workout, with a tiny sweat sheen, but she still managed to hold herself like a vice principal. She wanted me to feel like I was in a job interview. I wanted to let her know I didn't give a damn about her brother's problems.

“I hear you're not much for politics,” she finally said.

“That's right.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Anybody who wants to wear a suit and sit in meetings all day is crazy as a shithouse rat. Hard to imagine why you'd trust a bunch like that to run a country.”

“Or a state.”

“Or a state.”

“But even a guy like you must know Betsy Tinker,” she said. “She transcends politics around here.”

“Her husband was a politician for a long time,” I said. “They were rich going back to the
Mayflower
or somesuch. When he died in a car wreck, she took his seat in the Senate.”

She nodded. “Won reelection on her own, in a landslide. Adored by all. The Darling of the Bay State.” Emily's lip curled when she said that. “Tinker's so damn beloved that she's running as if this is 1796.”

I looked a question at her.

“Back then,” Emily said, trying to be patient with me and almost pulling it off, “'twas considered beneath the dignity of a statesman to actually campaign. Pete Krall and some of the Harvard twerps advising Tinker told her to try the same thing. It's a tough sell, but so far she's pulled it off.”

“Bert does the roadwork,” I said, “while she coasts along.”

“Exactly.” Emily paused. “The question is, why does she want to be governor in the first place?”

“Why not?”

“She could have held her Senate seat for life. It's the best job in politics. It's an exclusive club, and you only have to run every six years. Best of all, you don't
do
anything. You sit in hearings. You move your mouth on unwatched Sunday morning TV shows.”

“Governor's a pretty good job, too,” I said.

“Like hell it is. Every time there's a snowstorm, you ride around with a plow-jockey for TV. A flood in Hull? You're up at three in the morning, wading around with the locals, trying to look like you give a damn. You kiss the state cops' behinds, and the teachers', too. And I haven't even gotten to the senior citizens.”

“Okay,” I said. “I give up. Why does Betsy Tinker want to be governor?”

“If you've already got the money and the power, there's only one reason that makes sense.” She leaned toward me. “It's what you do if you want to be president.”

“So?”

“So Betsy Bite-My-Bag Tinker will be president over my dead fucking body,” Emily Saginaw said, snapping off each word, her face going a deeper red.

Then she slapped a hand across her mouth. If she could have reached out with the other, grabbed the words and stuffed them back inside, she would have.

I smiled and let the moment stretch against the disco-pop and the jump rope's thwap. “Why's that?” I finally said.

“My brother,” Emily said, composed again, “will be president someday. Sooner rather than later.”

“And two Massachusetts pols grabbing at the same brass ring is a losing proposition.”

“For both parties,” she said. “Now if you'll pardon me, I'll do a little cardio of my own.”

She shot from the bench and bounced toward her brother, grabbing a jump rope on the way. Facing Saginaw, she took a moment to figure out his timing, then got to work in perfect synchronicity.

They faced one another.

They smiled at one another.

They were still skipping and smiling when I left the gym.

“Care for a banana split?” Savvy said as the door closed. “Maybe a nice root beer float?”

She stood behind the counter of Saginaw's bizarre transplanted ice cream shop. Across from her, Krall sipped a drink from one of those classic soda-fountain glasses.

I looked at Savvy. I was poleaxed by the Bert and Emily Show. Didn't know what to say.