Scuzzy Schwartz now knew he had been tipped off to a story—maybe a big story—but he wasn’t sure what it was. Was this a president-has-a-mistress story, or a militia-still-has-ties-to-the-president story? Who roughed him up? Corcoran’s people? Or did those guys in suits have some kind of ties to Roger Winters and the militia? The suits seemed to be the tip off and that argued for government goons, not militias, who Scuzzy knew were partial to fatigues and combat boots. Still, he really had no way to know. All he knew was that there was a story in this somewhere. He wished “coughing Andy” would call him again.
He had tried to call Sally again at the clinic, but was told she was no longer there. They had moved her, he thought; he had to find another way to find her.
Meanwhile, Scuzzy decided to check in with some friends in Washington. Tabloid reporters who flit from sensational story to sensational story don’t cultivate sources like normal beat reporters. But over the years Scuzzy had developed a few in the capital and now he was curious if there had ever been any buzz about Corcoran and the ladies, talk that would never have made the papers but which real insiders would know about.
What he learned surprised him. No, he was told, there had never been any talk of Corcoran straying. Rather, they said that Corcoran hadn’t been looking well in recent weeks. There was the usual talk of allergies and colds, but this seemed a little worse than normal.
One of his sources was a secretary in the office of the Speaker of the House. Her name was Doris and he had befriended her during the presidential campaign—she was working for Corcoran’s Democratic opponent and when the militia story broke, she was happy to feed him whatever dirt she heard about the Republicans. None of it materialized into another story—it was mostly nasty partisan scuttlebutt—but Schwartz kept her name on his Rolodex just in case. And, as luck would have it, after the campaign she landed in a rather convenient listening post.
“You recover from colds,” she was telling Scuzzy over the phone. “The speaker was saying today he’s surprised how weak and thin the president has looked for several weeks. After all, he’s known for eating snacks in the middle of the night, not for dieting. There was a meeting of congressional leaders at the White House today and I heard the speaker saying how Corcoran looked even paler than he did several weeks ago.”
“Maybe it was that kidney stone attack,” Schwartz said. “That could have sapped his energy.”
“Maybe,” Doris said. “He’s lost some weight—that’s something that’s never happened before. This is a guy who hates to exercise. Turning a page is exercise to him.”
“Think he could have something more serious, like cancer, and they’re not telling anyone?” he asked. “I would imagine they would try to keep the lid on that for as long as possible—wouldn’t want to limit his political effectiveness.”
“But you can’t keep something like that a secret,” she said. “There are annual physicals and they’re all made public.”
“I guess they could hold something back,” Schwartz mused, his mind wandering, sifting again if somehow the militia angle could provide a story line.
“You know,” Doris added, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard another delicious rumor at lunch today.”
“Yeah…” Scuzzy said. He was only half there.
“I hear the Corcorans may now be sleeping in separate bedrooms.”
This was interesting gossip. “Any more details?” Scuzzy asked.
“Something Lisa Corcoran said to the wives of some Republican senators,” Doris said. “It apparently was meant as a joke, but people are wondering whether there’s some truth behind it.”
“It might also be wishful thinking,” Schwartz said.
Not sure which way this story—if it even was a story—was heading, Scuzzy decided to hone in on the militia angle. Who knows? Maybe the two were linked in some way? Maybe digging into one angle will provide some dirt on the other? Scuzzy decided to track down Roger Winters.
His address was listed on the criminal weapons complaint filed against him several years ago in Missouri. He hadn’t moved. Winters ran a gun shop outside Poplar Bluff, Mo., near the Arkansas line, and lived in what looked like a converted barn on a nearby farm. Schwartz caught up with him at his home late one cold afternoon. Winters looked the part. Stogie hanging out of the corner of his mouth, Confederate cap on his head, dungarees, boots, suspenders, full beard—he reminded Scuzzy of pictures of captured Confederate soldiers during the Civil War.
Not that Roger Winters was interested in talking to a tabloid reporter who looked like a member of a local motorcycle gang. Alligator boots aren’t too common in Poplar Bluff. But Scuzzy was a pro. Unlike his talk with Mrs. Winters, Schwartz identified himself as a reporter and said he was trying to get in touch with his daughter, Sally. Could they talk? After staring at Scuzzy for a long five minutes—giving the tall, scraggly, leather-jacketed reporter the once-over several times—Winters finally invited him in. “You look too dumb to be a government agent,” he said, fingering Scuzzy’s business card. “Besides, no fed working out here wears such ugly boots.”
A stained blue-and-white checkerboard tablecloth covered a rickety card table in kitchen. It looked like a tableau out of a John Steinbeck novel. Other than a small refrigerator, there wasn’t another electrical appliance in sight. The linoleum floor was cracked and wheezed as Schwartz walked in.
“Afraid it’s not exactly your Home & Gardens kitchen,” Winters joked. “Sit down here,” he motioned toward a folding chair near the table. “But don’t get too comfortable. You’re not going to be staying too long.” Then Winters plopped down in a folding chair on the other side of the table; it groaned as he settled his large frame into the seat. Scuzzy wondered how the chair kept from collapsing.
Then he took a deep breath—the barn smelled like an auto body shop, as if cans of lubricant had been left uncapped—and took out his tape recorder.
“Have you talked to your daughter lately, sir?” he asked.
“Nah, she’s sick and in some infirmary in Kansas City,” he said.
“Did you stay in contact with her after your divorce?”
“Some,” he said. “She used to call occasionally, usually looking for money. But not since she got sick.”
“You two talk much when she moved to Washington?”
“Yeah.” He got up and took a beer out of the frig. “Want one?” No thanks, Schwartz said.
“She was getting into right-wing politics, which was nice, but it was all fluffy and proper,” he said. “But I helped her out from time to time.”
“Did you help her get a job with Senator Corcoran?”
“No, she got that on her own.”
Hmmm, Schwartz thought, is he lying?
“She had gotten active in some Republican organization at college,” her father continued. “That led her to volunteer work with some pro-life groups. I guess she met someone there who knew Corcoran needed some help.”
Winters belched, then swallowed.
“Besides, after my conviction, I don’t think she wanted to admit she knew me, no less that I was her father.”
“Do you know John Aldrace?” Scuzzy asked.
“Yeah, I know John a little,” Winters said. “Met him at conventions and such.”
“Ever talk to him about the Corcoran campaign?”
“Naw, this was before he worked there. I didn’t know him well, just enough to say hello.”
The militia angle seemed remote. But did Winters know about anything between his daughter and the president? And who were the suits who threw him out of the Kansas City clinic?
“Do you know where your daughter is staying now?” Schwartz asked.
“Well, I sent her a Christmas card—I think it was the Kansas City Care Center or something like that.”
“She may not be there anymore,” Schwartz said. He told him of his rough-and-tumble effort to talk to her at the clinic.
Winters only laughed. “Guess they hate reporters as much as they hate me,” he said. “Welcome to the club. I know a few lawyers out these ways if you get in trouble again.”
“You wouldn’t know anything about my rough greeting party, would you?”
“Look pal—I try to keep to myself out of trouble,” Winters said. “How would I know what you’re doing up in Kansas City?”
“Sorry,” Scuzzy said softly. “I had to ask. The rough stuff just seemed to come out of nowhere. Can you think of any reason why someone wouldn’t want a reporter talking to Sally?”
“Can’t imagine,” Winters said. “She’s just a kid. And a sick kid at that.”
“Do you know what’s wrong with Sally?”
“No,” he said. “She just gets colds and the chills. Probably from all the drugs she did in college. At least, that’s what her mother says. I don’t know.”
“You haven’t gone to visit her?”
“Nah, I stay right here. The feds get nervous when I start moving around.”
Winters stood up. The interview was over. As they walked to the door, Scuzzy thought of “coughing Andy” and wondered if Winters knew him. If he was a former boyfriend, he might remember him.
“How about a friend named Andy or Andrew?” Schwartz asked.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I do,” the father recalled. “There was a boyfriend named Andy, as I recall.” Pay dirt! Schuzzy thought.
“This was a fella she knew at college near Washington,” the father went on. “Andrew White or Whit or Whitestone—I’m not sure. Actually, she told me he was sick, too, the last time I talked to her. All I know.”
Then he shook his head and let Schwartz out the door. But now Scuzzy had an idea of who “coughing Andy” was and why he had called him. Whatever Sally had, Andy probably had too. Perhaps he was a disgruntled lover. He remembered Andy’s cough and Sally’s cough and then recalled what Doris had told him about Corcoran’s health. Could all this be related? Seems crazy, he thought, but “coughing Andy” seemed to be the key.