In the last episode of The Crowded Streets, Rocky discovered through secretary Lauren Walters that the crackpot spiritual advisor George Inglehoff had contact with congressional candidate George Wilson before Carl Franklin drove his car off the pier at San Carlos Beach. The following takes place the morning after Rocky's meeting with Lauren Walters:
The morning came, as it always does. It started with the sun, throwing its taunting beams through my window without so much as an invitation. Thoughts of what I needed to do next came up and poked me in the side until I got out of bed, and the remnants of the previous night's ginger ales poked at my forehead until I sat down again. The two sides struggled for a while as I stood up and sat down three or four times in a row until my sense of duty won out and I slipped into the washroom to splash some water on my face.
Eight to five says Wilson hired Inglehoff, I thought, as I filled a basin in the sink. He's in it with him somehow, cashing in on the graft Dixon has been getting away with for years. A fresh face in the office, that's what they're counting on, but the corruption would continue no matter who wins.
I rubbed at the stubbly beard that had gathered on my chin overnight, then cupped a handful of the cold water from the basin, pushed it against my skin, felt every nerve spring to life in my face.
Wanda Marcellus would be in danger. Wilson, if he had half a brain, would know what members of his staff were up to, especially if one member were investigating the man who was supposed to be his opponent.
I ripped my towel off the hook and rubbed my face dry as I made my way to the telephone. It was early yet, but she struck me as the type who would plant herself in the office before anyone else. Her private number, which she had written on the back of her business card, rang twice before she answered it. She sounded bright and cheerful as if she had been up for hours, playing with puppies and small children.
“Mr. Stone, do you have any news?”
“Of a kind,” I replied. “I've been meaning to ask you, kid: how does that boss of yours feel about this investigation of ours?”
He voice lowered. “To the best of my knowledge, he's not aware of it. I felt it best to work on this independently. Why do you ask?”
I ignored the question, since I figured an answer of any kind would only get me into trouble. “Can you get me an appointment to see him? Something he needs to clarify before I go any further.”
“I see,” she said, lowering her voice a few more steps. “Is there something I should know?”
“Yes, there is. When you make the appointment, try to make it anonymous. The less he knows you have to do with this, the better.”
“I agree, but...”
“Listen, kid. I understand that this is your investigation, too, but it's best that I keep you in the dark about this meeting. I don't want what happened to Franklin to happen to you.”
“Are you suggesting...?”
“I'm not suggesting anything. I just need to talk to your boss first. Straighten some things out.”
She reluctantly agreed.
Two hours later, I saw her in person at Wilson's campaign headquarters, which was housed in a storefront on Olvidados that still had a lunch counter on the side from when it was a five-and-dime. Campaign posters in the same shades of red, white and blue covered the surface of the counter, and up on the wall behind it was the largest poster of all, featuring a tasteful photograph of the candidate's disembodied head. I stood in the waiting area. Four men sat in chairs alongside me, hats in their hands, patiently reading provided magazines. I walked up to the wooden barrier surrounding the waiting area and watched to see if George Wilson himself would make an appearance.
Wanda slipped past me. As we had agreed, we made no contact with each other, but I figured I had to make it look good and take notice of her like we had never met. I had almost forgotten how startlingly red her hair was. She wore a white blouse, a navy jacket and a matching skirt and she looked like she could run the offices of U.S. Steel if they'd only get off their keisters and ask. Male staffers in the shirt sleeves were dashing around frantically, sweating, carrying piles of papers, and she just strode away into an office, the calm in the midst of the storm.
A burly woman in glasses pushed through the madness, her brow knit. She pressed in to the swinging door of the barrier and pushed against it, as if it were keeping her in. “Rocky Stone?” she trumpeted, causing one of the men in the waiting room to drop his hat.
“That's me, sister.”
Her left eye squinted at me. “None of that when you see Mr. Wilson. We keep things civil around here.”
“I can see that,” I said, smiling. “Lead on.”
What will happen when Rocky meets with George Wilson? Will he discover a link to Congressman Dixon, or worse, to the death of Carl Franklin? Find out in the next episode of The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
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