Along my street stands a procession of small houses, each one a little different from the others. They were products of the old town, the town of the capitalists, the town of world-famous productivity. The modest houses sheltered workers, who raised families and built a solid and civil community, a place where people could walk to work safely and find a friend on every street.
But the tobacco and textile industries faded. The town, Brightown, North Carolina, became a university town, and, as such, became a Mecca for the contemporary left—academics, self-styled intellectuals, well-to-do bohemians and not-so-well-to-do bohemians, many not connected with the school, but merely breathing the surrounding atmosphere. And they were mostly in political lockstep with a vast minority population that lay like a blanket over the east side of town.
And it was into this mix that I, Ned Bryson, came after leaving the good-old U.S. Army. In need of a trade, I ended up in the security business and, eventually, as a licensed private investigator. The trade had its ups and downs—people weren’t always happy when they found they were being investigated. But I was in business for myself and could choose my own clients, preferring to deal with those who truly deserved help. And I did have a home, a nice little family hand-me-down bungalow on a tree-filled lot, where I could read and reflect—when I wasn’t out making inquiries or keeping and eye on somebody.
And here I was, looking forward to the mid-term November elections. The candidates listed on the ballot would include those for various judgeships, seats in the state legislature, and for the U.S. Senate. But I was especially interested in my district’s Congressional election. Young Dr. Ed Hamilton was running for the seat held by Congressman Wilson Cameron, a smooth-talking liberal and former faculty member at Brightown University.
The race had become even more interesting when I got that call from Mel Phillips, a businessman working for the election of Dr. Hamilton. The good doctor happened to be my choice for Congress. He was a decent man, a traditional American with five children and ten-years experience as a surgeon. But by now, he and Mel Phillips faced a few problems. The opposition was anticipating their moves—much too often. And there were some odd rumors being spread, one was about a supposed mistress hidden away in some far part of town, and another about a medical mistake that Hamilton supposedly made. He was especially upset by the medical-mistake rumor. But I discovered plenty of testimonials to his professional competence from colleagues and former patients.
The mistress story was potentially more damaging. It was something people were willing to believe. It could stay the hands of middle-class and religious-conservative voters—enough to cost Hamilton the election. Rumors are often tough to trace, especially in the world of politics, where hidden interests are involved, and lying and cheating are common. I decided to check it out with the editor of the Brightown Star, a worried veteran of the newspaper trade. It was a good decision—he knew all about that rumor.
It began as a boast by a woman named Maxine Chow, who worked with a local escort service. The boast reached the ears of two local journalists. They didn’t believe it, but did mention it to their editor. Even though his newspaper had declared for Congressman Cameron, the editor decided to ignore the supposed relationship. After all, his two reporters were likely on Maxine’s client list.
Anyway, I decided to visit The Pink Angel escort service. It was located halfway out of town and turned out to be one of those performance-type operations. The available escorts danced on a stage, while prospective clients sat at tables, watched the routine, and bid for the dancers’ favors. Maxine Chow was part-Asian and easy to spot in the chorus line, made up mainly of white women and dotted with two black women, who danced with special jollity. Up close, I noticed the crow’s feet under Maxine’s makeup and the slight sag in here cheeks. It was obvious that she was suffering from a whore’s terminal illness—age.
“Miss Chow,” I called as she approached her high bidder—a cretinous male whose money was his singular appeal.
“Yes—who are you?” she said, pausing to look my way.
“My name’s Ned Bryson—I’m a private investigator. I’m concerned about your alleged relationship with Dr. Ed Hamilton. He denies knowing you, and—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, shaking her head.
“Well—you obviously talked about it to someone.”
“Look—my date’s waiting for me.”
“The rumor you created can hurt Dr. Hamilton—politically and professionally.”
“Who says it’s just a rumor?”
“That’s exactly what it is—and you know it. You realized you were getting old. You needed to improve your take in the bidding wars. So you told one or two of your clients that you had Hamilton on your client list—to add luster to Maxine Chow.”
“Maybe—so what?”
“So—you could get sued. And I’ve got a friend downtown who’d love to close this whorehouse.”
“All right—I’ll lay off, if you do the same.”
“Would you make a public statement?—denying any relationship?”
“I will—if my name comes up.”
“Good—we’ll hold you to that.”
Well, maybe I helped save the conservative middle-class vote. But of course, there was that other middle class, the one that worked for the university or for the government—the distinction was ever more blurred. And that middle class would vote for Congressman Cameron, even if Ed Hamilton sprouted wings and a halo. They, along with the minorities, represented the dominant political element in the town, though not in the rural parts of Bright County. To win, Hamilton had to get the conservative farmers, tradesmen, shopkeepers, and business people to the polls, including the thoroughly discouraged religious conservatives.
Soon after the call from Mel Phillips, I visited Hamilton headquarters. His party had set it up in a storefront on a side street in downtown Brightown. There were several rows of long tables with accompanying chairs and telephones. But only a few of the phones were manned, and early-voting time was getting close. It was after five when I entered the place, primetime to call families—heads of households, breadwinners. Where were the enthusiastic volunteers?
I knew Sam Miller, a gruff and gray real-estate man who had volunteered his time to oversee the headquarters activities.
“Where is everybody?” I asked him.
“I don’t know, Ned. They come here full of enthusiasm, but most of them just drift away.”
I noticed the people on the phones. They had a ratty look—a familiar look—and they didn’t seem pleased at my being there.
“Did the ones who left say why they were leaving?”
“They just said they weren’t wanted.”
When I arrived home, I called Mel Phillips and gave him my impressions of the Hamilton headquarters. The people remaining at the phones were members of the same family—brothers, sisters, cousins—a family filled with assorted felons and given to thievery and drug dealing. From time to time, they killed somebody, mostly unwanted wives and girlfriends. Yet their money had brought them close to the old-boy political network. And the old boys’ candidate was, of course, Wilson Cameron.
“Well—that tells me plenty,” Mel said, after I explained things. “Like how Cameron manages to show up to meet the folks—a day or so before we get there.”
“They’re running off the genuine volunteers.”
“I’m going down there right away. I’ll re-staff the place. I’d like you to check the headquarters from time to time. Sam’s a good man, but he doesn’t know the seamier side of the town.”
“I will, Mel. What’s your candidate’s itinerary?”
“He’s appearing at the university tonight. Friday night, he debates Cameron—at the Civic Center. I’ve publicized both events.”
And so, I was present as Dr. Ed Hamilton endured the university audience. There was a tribe of activist hecklers scattered around the room. They encouraged others in the crowd to heckle spontaneously. After all—as Mona Charon put it—the college campus was “the playground of the ultra-left.” Hamilton was stunned by the naiveté of some of the questioners. He managed to speak words in favor of the free market, urging the students to read the “bourgeois economists.” After the talk, a few students who didn’t like the heckling came forward to shake his hand. Maybe he actually picked up a few votes. If he converted one mind to freedom—maybe the evening’s embarrassments were worth the trouble. Still, the good doctor did leave the auditorium scratching his slightly gray temple. I stood in the background, listening while he complained to Mel Phillips.
“I can’t believe it, Mel. These kids are here because of money made through capitalism—in a school established through the generosity of capitalists. Yet they’re willing to let the government control production and distribution—to narrow the gap between rich and poor. How do they think people get rich? One way is to invent those iPhones they all carry. And where is the pride in America?—in being a citizen of a free country.”
“Maybe it’s just a phase they’re going through.” Mel said.
Some phase—maybe it would be better to let the statists screw things up one more time. Maybe then the good guys could analyze the crack-up and show the false ideas that led to it. But such analyses had been made after previous crack-ups, yet most people had overlooked the obvious lessons. I left the university’s auditorium wondering whether a college education was worth the money. And I worried about the coming debate between Ed Hamilton and that smooth-talking oracle of contemporary leftist politics, Congressman Wilson Cameron.
Even before it began, there was something outrageous about the debate. Local radio and television stations wouldn’t be carrying it—not live. At first, I couldn’t imagine why, but Mel Phillips and I finally figured it out. Without live coverage, should Cameron lose, his friends in the media would ignore the debate—hardly mention it. With it, Cameron had little to gain—the polls showed him leading—but plenty to lose. Did he refuse to debate with live coverage? No—he had quietly persuaded his friends at the various stations to stick with their regular schedules.
I was a little depressed when I arrived at the Civic Center. It was in Brightown’s downtown, that lost kingdom that everyone was trying to revitalize. Alas, the greatest revitalizers of the all, the entrepreneurial class, had fled the town and sent its industries overseas. But I was cheered when I found the place mobbed—with an SRO crowd nearly hanging out the doors. The boo-birds had got their early and clustered in the small balcony. But overall, the turnout was amazing. The snub by local radio and television had actually brought more people to the debate. That suggested Cameron might be in more trouble than he realized. Recent polls put his lead at five percentage points—but the polls vary with the pollsters and their political preferences. This crowd could influence the election’s outcome by simple word-of-mouth.
Dr. Ed Hamilton spoke first and, presenting his views on the economy, advocated a moratorium on all business taxes, the freeing-up of the banking system, a return to the gold standard, and the abolition of the income tax. He said emphatically that a person’s income was none of the government’s business. He denounced the medical insurance mess, the immigration mess, the rise of the “intrusive state,” the attack on the Constitution and the rule of law by the Executive Branch and the Supreme Court, and warned of a coming tyranny through bureaucratic regulation.
The moderator sat between the two candidates. She was a typical television anchor-person, attractive, well-dressed, well-coiffed—and clueless. She had wanted this assignment, thinking the debate would be televised live. Her disappointment showed itself in her indifferent tone, her tired reverence for Congressman Cameron, and her
obvious annoyance at Dr. Ed Hamilton. The good doctor looked her straight in the eye as he concluded his remarks. He had finished strong, showing how government restrictions on cars had actually killed people on the highways.
The moderator asked Cameron for his opening statement. Speaking in the smooth, fatherly tone that matched his silver-gray hair, he thanked everyone for being there and for the opportunity to debate the issues. When he addressed what he saw as the issues, he must have bored even the boo-birds. He mentioned the appropriations for education, the student loans, the research grants, the art and literary grants. He praised the economic recovery, urged a tax on carbon to avert climate change, and praised the new normality that had narrowed the gap between rich and poor.
Hamilton clearly won the rebuttal. He steamrolled the issues brought up by Cameron. Climate change was a non-issue, global warming was a hoax, and the new normality was bankrupting the middle class. Government money had corrupted institutions, ruined the education system, and led to a decline in the arts—in literature, in poetry, in painting. To this, Cameron had little to say—he merely congratulated himself for the money that had flowed into the district through his efforts. Those inflated dollars had produced highways, a zoo, and a public park—Cameron Park. And all the money had produced “jobs”—ah, that tired word.
The debate ended, and the two candidates shook hands. But I noticed an odd look on Wilson Cameron’s face, the sly look of a man with something up his sleeve. It couldn’t have been the girlfriend story. Mrs. Hamilton, active and attractive, had already threatened to punch Maxine in the kisser. No—what he had up his sleeve was something tougher to handle.
The problem came to light during the last full week before the election—the eleventh hour. One of Hamilton’s TV commercials, the one most often shown, was narrated by Bill Wellborn, a staff announcer at a local radio station. It was a typical campaign ad, showing Ed Hamilton and his family and ending with a plea for votes by the candidate. Unfortunately, the announcer’s voice sounded just like that of a well-known Hollywood hero named Fran Ranashan—a widely worshiped male sex symbol and king of the contemporary adventure movies. Many who watched the TV spot assumed it was an implicit endorsement of Hamilton by the aforementioned Hollywood hero. It happened that the hero was a typical left-leaning Hollywood liberal. When Congressman Cameron asked for his opinion of Hamilton, he replied that he would never endorse “that reactionary bastard.” The Congressman then publicly accused Ed Hamilton of fraudulently claiming an endorsement from the immortal Fran Ranashan.
“We need integrity in government—not fraud,” Cameron declared.
Of course, Dr. Hamilton, a professional man, was sensitive to having his integrity questioned. At no time did he ever claim to have the endorsement of Fran Ranashan. But he decided to apologize, drafting a statement reeking with remorse. I happened to be at Hamilton headquarters, when he read the statement aloud to his staff, including Mel Phillips. They were all amateurs, many young and eager, all of them great on the issues, all ready to prove that government wasn’t God.
But they were weak on the finer points of political maneuvering. The nearest thing they had to a professional pol was yours truly, Ned Bryson. At least, I knew the hard facts of political life in Brightown and the surrounding countryside. I had dealt with the good and the bad. It was obvious to me that the people most likely to vote for Ed Hamilton didn’t want an apologetic candidate—and a wrong move this late in the campaign could do damage beyond repair. In my opinion, a candidate should never apologize during a campaign. He should always do what Lady Thatcher said to do—always speak to his strength. And where was the strength in Ed Hamilton’s campaign?—in the issues, of course. As to the controversy over Fran Ranashan—the thing to do was push back.
Well—I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to speak up. “Are you people nuts or what?”
Mel Phillips looked at me over his reading glasses. “Ned—what do you know about it?”
That was a question the ignorant often asked the wise. I was in no mood for it.
“I seem to be the only one here who hasn’t lost his noodle—or his nerve. You never apologize during a campaign—never, not even if you’re caught with your pants down. The last thing you need is to look like a wimp or a whiner. Your statement has got to move the focus back to the issues. Tell the world you’re running to re-establish constitutional government, the rule of law, individual freedom. Tell the world you need the support of a Hollywood liberal like you need the fleas. But for crying out loud—don’t apologize.”
Nobody said a word—all the young telephone jockeys were wide-eyed. Finally, Dr. Ed Hamilton spoke up. “Look, Ned—I have to protect my professional reputation.”
“If you were worried about that, you should’ve stayed out of politics. It’s not a fair game.”
Hamilton mulled it over. Then he gazed at the statement lettered in his own hand, folded it neatly, and dropped it into nearby wastebasket. He sat down in a far corner of the room and wrote another statement. By the time he completed it, he had got a dose of his own adrenalin—he liked the idea of pushing back. His new statement followed my suggestions, including the one about the fleas. But he concluded with a line of his own: “I don’t need a lecture on integrity from a self-indulgent, left-wing, Beltway barnacle.” And the entire statement was a four-star hit with the public.
******
Ah, well—here I am again, back at Hamilton headquarters. It’s mid-afternoon on the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November, and the election is now a cliffhanger. The telephone jockeys are calling all the registered voters of their party, urging them to get to the polls. Mel Phillips and his assistants are calling the poll watchers, trying to get some idea of how the election is going, looking for hopeful signs. A flat-screen television set hanging on the wall is showing some election coverage. It already gave one hopeful sign. In an interview, Wilson Cameron, the smooth talker, actually stammered—even the interviewer looked puzzled.
Earlier, Mel Phillips thanked me for my efforts and handed me a white envelope with the campaign logo on it. The envelope contained a check—a really big check made out to yours truly. Wow—the things I could buy with such a check. But I would never spend a nickel of this one—not on myself. I handed it back.
“Keep it,” I said. “It can help with the campaign debt.”
Mel looked at me, puzzled and obviously moved. “O.K., Ned—thanks.”
“Forget it—I’m just another volunteer.”
But will Dr. Ed Hamilton score the upset? Will the country be spared the dubious services of Congressman Wilson Cameron? The people in my district will decide—those who take the trouble to stand in the voting booth and fill in the ovals next to the names on the ballot. Some of the voters may study the issues. Others may choose names based on the handouts and handshakes they get at the polls. Careful or careless, right or wrong, the people will decide.
