Baby Face, page 20
part #2 of Bubba Mabry Series
Felicia looked up from her notebook, saw me watching her, shrugged. A write-in campaign was news to her, too.
Dudley didn't mention that his Democratic opponent had dropped dead, but a certain smugness swept through the room, as if the supporters knew it was God's will that no one stand in Quentin Dudley's way.
"Beyond that," he continued, "there's still the work we have to do on Central Avenue. Despite what our friends in the media might think—" He gestured to the clump of reporters, who shuffled uncomfortably at the attention. "—cleaning up Central wasn't just some campaign ploy. It's a job we intend to finish."
The audience clapped wildly, ready to saddle up and resume their Holy Crusade. The whole thing made me queasy.
After another round of thanks, Dudley stepped back from the microphone, raised his hands, and clenched them over his head in the classic victory pose. Cameras flashed, the crowd roared, the band struck up a caterwaul, and Dudley took his time leaving the stage. Marilyn and Jericho followed him.
Their departure – back to their suite to savor more election returns, no doubt – left a hole in the celebration, one that would be filled with drinking at the typical political function. No alcohol was available – I'd already checked – but these folks glowed with victory and virtue. They didn't look like they'd be running home soon to liberate their babysitters. They were having too much good, clean fun.
The reporters were another matter. The TV cameras turned on the talking-head types to do live feeds, and the rest of the pack hurried out to file their stories, looking relieved to escape so much jubilation. Felicia tugged at my sleeve.
"Let's go. I've got to call the office."
I nodded and followed her through the crowd, nearly walked up her back when she stopped suddenly near the door.
"I'll be damned," she muttered, drawing looks from some of the nearby believers. "Look over there, Bubba. Is that who I think it is?"
I followed her eyes, but saw nobody I recognized. Just more cheering Dudleyites. Beyond them, though, hanging near the wall, was a woman in big sunglasses and a head scarf, which seemed odd attire for indoors, at night.
"Who?"
"Don't you know who that is?"
"The woman in the sunglasses?"
"Yes. You don't recognize her? It's Rosie Corona. Now what do you suppose she's doing here?"
Felicia made her way through the crowd to Rosie. I hung back, not wanting another tangle with the SCORE organizer.
Rosie tried to turn away as Felicia approached, but we had her cornered, and she crossed her arms defensively and awaited Felicia's questions.
"You're about the last person I'd expect to see at Dudley's party," Felicia said.
Rosie looked from Felicia to me and back again.
"Well, I wouldn't expect to see you with someone like him."
Felicia shrugged it off, moved closer to Rosie so they could talk quietly. I strained to hear over the crowd noise.
"So what are you doing here?" Felicia asked her.
"I was just wondering that myself." Bitterness in her voice.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I just can't believe myself sometimes. After all Quentin Dudley has done and all he's said about prostitutes, here I am, waiting for him."
"Waiting for him?"
Rosie looked away, thinking over how much she should say. When she turned back to Felicia, her lips were set tight.
"Yeah, waiting for him. Quentin always likes a tumble after he wins an election."
I about fell off my shoes at this news, but Felicia just nodded, scratched something in her notebook.
"But why you? Why doesn't he chase his wife around if he's feeling randy?"
"Have you seen his wife?"
"Yeah, I've met her."
"Would you want to sleep with that cold fish?"
"Well, no . . ."
Rosie looked impatient.
"Look, Quentin Dudley's been a client of mine for years. I never minded keeping it discreet, but since he's started this crusade, I think we're working opposite sides of the street."
The demonstration flashed into my mind, the way Rosie's girls had hissed "hypocrite" at every mention of Dudley's name.
Rosie Corona shook her head, looked down at her fingernails. "Maybe I'll just leave. I don't know why I came here at all. I can't imagine letting that man touch me again."
She edged along the wall, but Felicia stepped sideways and cut her off.
"Wait a minute. Can you prove you've had this relationship with him? Something you know, maybe nobody else knows?"
Rosie thought it over for a second, then a trace of a smile surfaced on her face.
"Well, there is that brown mole on his cock. He calls it his beauty mark. I imagine not many have seen that."
Felicia rose up on her toes, but her voice was calm as she said, "Come on, there's someone I want you to meet."
She took Rosie's arm and led her toward the corridor. I tried to follow, but Felicia said, "You wait here."
I drifted around the edges of the crowd, thought about sneaking off to Nicole's, the bar off the Marriott lobby, decided against it. I didn't know what Felicia was up to, but I didn't want to miss anything.
Reverend Skip Jericho reappeared on the stage, tapped the mike, boomed into it, "Good evening, brothers and sisters!"
The crowd cheered and clustered closer to the stage, eager for the words of their revered oracle.
"Councilman Dudley asked me to come out here and speak to you all, express again how grateful he is for all your help."
Jericho waited for the applause to subside, then said, "And I reminded him it was high time we gave thanks to the One who makes it all possible. Let us pray."
Heads bowed throughout the ballroom, like everyone there wanted a whack across the neck. I kept my eyes open.
"Dear Father," Jericho began, loud enough so that God wouldn't have any trouble hearing, "we come before you tonight grateful and suppliant, knowing that we're not worthy of all you do for us."
Felicia appeared at my side, out of breath.
"Where have you been?" I whispered.
"Just watch. You'll see."
The door behind the stage opened and Marilyn Dudley stepped through. Her face was bright red and her white-knuckled hands clutched her big handbag in front of her like a shield. She froze when she saw people praying, but didn't bow her head, just stood there glaring at Jericho, twitching and chewing her lower lip.
"We want to thank you, Lord, for helping your servant, Quentin Dudley, prevail in today's election. And we ask for your continued help in our work to make Albuquerque a Christian city, a law-abiding haven of God."
Jericho peeked out from under his brows, saw Marilyn waiting, wrapped it up with an "Amen" that was echoed around the room. I glanced over at Felicia, but she revealed nothing, just beamed at what was to come.
Marilyn strode to the podium. Jericho saw her coming, tried to make it smooth: "And here is the woman behind the successful man—"
"I'll take the microphone now, Reverend," Marilyn said through a clenched jaw.
Jericho scowled, realizing something was wrong. "Just a second, Sister Dudley—"
"Move it, Skip."
Jericho stepped aside, sort of bowed to the seething hostility before him.
Marilyn Dudley cleared her throat, glanced around the room, looked like she was getting cold feet. Then she leaned stiffly forward to speak into the microphone.
"You all know me, and you know I never lie. I learned tonight that my husband, your beloved councilman, is a whoremonger, and that he'll burn in Hell."
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Jericho looked as if he'd jump straight out of his socks. He reached out toward the microphone, but Marilyn swatted his hand away with her purse.
Quentin Dudley flung open the door behind the stage, looked around hurriedly, like he didn't really expect to find his wife in the ballroom. When he saw her, the color drained from his face. His appearance was met by an awkward silence. Marilyn didn't seem to notice, just kept spitting her invective.
"Quentin's been carrying on for years with a prostitute here in town. That one who's in the newspapers all the time, Rosie Corona. I just received absolute proof from her own lips."
Dudley, looking shaken, hurried across the stage to her, swimming through the silence.
"Do you hear that?" Felicia whispered to me.
"What?"
"That flushing sound. That's Dudley's political future going down the toilet."
Quentin snaked an arm around Marilyn's waist, smiled nervously at the crowd. She tried to push away from him, but he clutched her tightly, began backing her away from the microphone.
"Sinner!" she screamed as she struggled against him. "Whoremonger!"
Jericho snatched the microphone from its stand and tried to explain it away.
"It's clear Sister Dudley isn't feeling well tonight, that she's, um, upset about some, uh, misunderstanding."
The crowd wasn't buying it. People stood frozen in place by the betrayal of their beliefs, watching their hero wrestle his howling wife through the backstage door.
"Let's raise our voices in glory to the Lord!"
Jericho tried "Bringing in the Sheaves" at top volume, but after a verse, he blushed at the realization he was singing a solo. People began moving grumblingly toward the door.
A shout went up in the corridor and reverberated through the room.
Felicia said, "Uh-oh," and raced away toward the door, elbowing people out of her way. I followed as best I could, though I didn't know what had gone wrong.
A clump of baying churchmen had Rosie Corona treed in the corridor, her back against a wall as they menaced her with words and cold stares. Rosie still wore her sunglasses, and her head was bowed. TV cameras threw white light over the scene, their glare the only thing keeping the angry followers from ripping the Jezebel apart and feeding her to the dogs.
Felicia pushed her way through them, clutched Rosie's arm.
"Back off, you jerks!" she shouted. "All this woman did was tell the truth."
"Harlot!" someone shouted from the back.
I pushed through the last layer of Bible-thumpers and stepped between them and the women. A red-faced man reached out to push me in the chest, but I raised a finger to get his attention and it pulled him up short. I reached behind me, under my shirt, and pulled the snub-nosed Smith & Wesson from its holster. His hand retreated like I'd scalded it.
"The lady said back off. Now do it."
It's easy to sound like Gary Cooper when you're the one holding the gun.
The crowd parted as we edged toward the outside door, and I was able to put the gun away after we rounded a corner. No one dared follow us, crazy sinners that we were.
The night air was cool as we hustled Rosie to her car. I kept glancing over my shoulder, but none of Jericho's people followed. Even the TV cameramen had held back after seeing the pistol. I could just imagine what the live reports must be saying.
Felicia touched Rosie's shoulder, made her turn before she could duck into her little Honda Civic.
"Thanks," Felicia said. "I didn't mean for you to get caught in there like that and have to take that abuse."
Rosie took off the dark glasses, looked Felicia over.
"I guess I should've left after I talked to that woman, just like you said, but I had to stick around and see what happened."
Felicia nodded understandingly. "So what happens now?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"With SCORE. With you."
Rosie's face cracked into a grin, and she glanced around the parking lot before answering.
"You know, I was thinking about that before those guys spotted me. I've been working my ass off, organizing and lobbying, and look how little good it's done. After what happened tonight, I'll be remembered as the hooker who ruined Quentin Dudley's career, not for everything else I've done."
Felicia tried to interrupt, "No, Rosie, you'll—"
Rosie held up a hand and smiled, showing she didn't need to hear it.
"It's okay. But I was thinking, maybe it's time to take advantage of the limelight."
"What do you mean?"
"The Democrats are still going to need somebody to beat Quentin in November. Maybe I'll start a write-in campaign."
Felicia and I looked at each other and laughed, a high-pitched crazy, laugh, anticipating what was to come. Rosie joined in, making a joyful noise over the trouble she'd be starting.
"Politics is just people screwing each other, right?" she said. "I'm an expert."
Steve Brewer, Baby Face
