Death of a Political Plant Read Free Page A

one of the clients of the fundraiser rather than a benefactor. “So that’s the infamous Willie,” she said, “and he’s only in his twenties: I guess that makes him a political prodigy.”
    “Depends on how you define prodigy. That California senatorial campaign he ran for Rawlings wasn’t genius—it waspure sleaze. But of course their guy won.” He nodded his head at the group clustered near Upchurch. “And you can easily pick out Ted French, Willie’s number one man; he’s the tall muscular guy over there with the crewcut who looks like a leftover from the Hitler Youth. Only thing missing with him is an armband with a swastika, and a Sam Browne belt and shorts. And of course he’s taken lessons from Miss Manners on smiling. I tell you, Louise, they are vipers, and the babies of the family are the worst. French can’t be more than in his late twenties, and he’s vicious—doesn’t know the definition of ‘going too far.’ Collectively, they have become known as the most cutthroat political players Washington has ever seen: That, as you realize, takes one hell of a lot of doing. Of course, it wouldn’t matter so much if we weren’t in an era of yellow journalism: Not one damned paper, including the Times, the Post, the L.A. Times, is above printing their garbage. Up and down the media food chain, it’s all the same bait. This was stuff that only the tabloids used to print.” He glowered at his enemies. “You might call it the twilight of the media. God knows if we’ll ever recover.”
    At that moment, the blond man looked over at Paschen, then at Louise, and his smile became a leer. In a few long strides, he had joined them. “Well, Tom, I guess the news of the day hasn’t made you happy.” His voice was high and nasal. He was talking to Tom, but his eyes stayed on Louise; his hand reached out tentatively as if he wanted to touch her black jet hanging earrings. She instinctively drew away from him and looked at Tom.
    Paschen practically barked at him. “This Vietnam stuff is your lowest moment yet, French: it’s all fabrications and lies, and don’t think we won’t prove it and throw it back into your face.” Not even deigning to look at the younger man, he tookLouise’s elbow and propelled her away to a place farther along the balcony where they could talk.
    French delivered a parting shot in his sneering voice. “Remains, to be seen, Tom. Just keep your eye on those dwindling poll numbers. I just called CNN: You’re down another two points!”
    Pascnen and Louise were now wedged against the rail by the growing crowd, and she could see her companion was feeling claustrophobic and anxious to get his message across and bail out.
    “See what I mean?” he growled. “It beats me how the public is willing to believe the worst kind of lies put out by people like him. We need damage control, and that’s where you come in, Louise. We both know President Fairchild’s environmental bill is the linchpin of his four years as president.”
    At last he turned his eyes toward her, and she could see he was battling a tendency to look at her cleavage. “Louise, you have a good program. It’s earned you a lot of a good press—I mean the program, and those other escapades of yours.”
    “You mean, finding a murderer.”
    “Finding two murderers,” he reminded her. “And the President thinks very highly of your program content: That’s why he named you to that environmental group. So, what I’d like you to do is feature the new law on one of your programs. I know you have a short lead time. Do it, maybe, in early October?”
    Paschen’s stormy gray eyes, not quite level with hers, now had a hard-driving, focused expression. He wanted a quid pro quo for her appointment to the National Environmental Commission, it was as simple as that. She realized then how desperate the man was. He would try everything, even a PBSSaturday morning garden show, to strengthen Jack Fairchild’s chances for