Close Relations Read Free Page B

all. If Bill had as much coverage …”
    “If he had as much coverage, he’d be better known, period. He’s not the sort to inspire love. Respect, sure. But he can’t—”
    “Bullshit,” Jerry snapped. “You’re talking defeatist bullshit. No wonder …”
    A woman stood on the other side of Jerry, an ordinary, upwardly mobile Puerto Rican woman in a subdued beige coat. She was in no way remarkable except that she was staring at Jerry, her eyes traveling the circuit, her jaw drooping, so that I, on his left, could peer past him and look inside her mouth, where a reservoir of saliva had accumulated around her bottom teeth. She did not, of course, notice me, even when I rubbed against him familiarly.
    Jerry sensed her glance and turned his head to look at her. Most women, upon being discovered, would have averted their heads or pretended to be searching for a friend just past Jerry. That always happened on the subways and at parties. But this one kept staring, examining him unselfconsciously, as though he existed in another sphere and could not sense her presence.
    He leaned down and whispered into my ear, “Weird lady,” and grasped my arm, maneuvering me a few feet closer to the flatbed truck.
    “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the advance man said, his tone growing calmer, almost reverential, “the man who needs no introduction. Ladies and gentlemen of Queens, Governor James d’Avonne Gresham!”
    From where he had been secluded, Jim Gresham strode around the side of the truck and leaped up onto the stage. The crowd bellowed its delight, the roar bouncing off the storefronts on Queens Boulevard and returning to the parking lot, refueling the excitement. Whistles, screams, squeaks, sighs, and gulps of suppressed desire, surreptitious peeks at the bulge, probably visible at ten yards, under the fly of the gubernatorial jeans. This brave new man, this radiant leader, this easy, self-assured great guy beside whom all other politicians seemed as attractive as Quasimodo, sauntered up to the microphone.
    “Hey,” Gresham began, “I’m glad to be here. But I’ve got to tell you something. I didn’t come here because I was in the mood for a drive through Queens. You know why I’m here.” Pause. Grin. Swivel head slowly. “Pretty soon I’ll be asking you for another four years.”
    The blast of noise was even stronger than that following his introduction. Shouts and applause, the thunder of approval, indicated that another four years were his, no need to ask. “Thanks.” Pause. “Thanks a lot.” Another grin. Wait until noise dies down. “I’d like to tell you a few of my ideas.”
    “Listen,” I said to Jerry, “do you think Bill could inspire that sort of reaction? That exuberance? That love?”
    “No.” Jerry ran his fingers through the gray part of his hair. “But that sort of love isn’t necessary. It’s too volatile. It can’t last.”
    Jab a finger at audience. “The rights of the middle class have to be protected,” Gresham was explaining, “because if the majority cannot live in peace, there will be no peace for rich or poor.” The majority seemed to agree, because the tumult began again.
    “It’s lasted three years,” I said.
    “What?” Jerry yelled over the applause. “I can’t hear you.”
    “I said it’s lasted three years!” I stood on tiptoe, my hands forming a megaphone around my mouth, aiming my voice at Jerry’s ear. “They’re as wild about him now as they were during his last campaign.”
    “Horse shit!” The crowd’s excitement had wanted somewhat, so Jerry’s “horse shit” was heard by quite a few people standing near us. Even a cop turned, eyed Jerry suspiciously for an instant, and then, assured that he was not dealing with a potential rat-faced assassin, an Oswald or a Ray, turned away.
    “Not horse shit,” I murmured. “Look.”
    Gresham bent over, reaching out to a woman in the crowd who had maneuvered near the edge of the flatbed truck. She