Most of the buildings in the French Quarter have For Rent signs, like it’d be easier just to sell the whole neighborhood.
Harold got the run-down two-story condo with an empty pear-shaped pool and lounge chairs, three blocks off Bourbon Street, for twelve hundred for the week. There’s sixteen of them along, word about the peachy show in Atlanta having circulated, so no one will get more than nicked by the lodging. Some of the gang Hawk hasn’t seen since the Statue of Liberty Festival, when they worked twenty-hour days for five days, danced on the tables draped with glow-in-the-dark clip-on earrings and necklaces and Lady Liberty headgear, and took turns guarding the booths. They wrapped the stock in canvas tarps against rain and napped under folding tables.
The mood in the condo’s high, remembering those nights.
Only Harold’s getting bad vibes. At the licensing bureau the woman asked why he wanted licenses and when he told her they had a few convention-related items she shook her head and told him to go home. When Harold looked at her with incomprehension she said she’d sell him a license but it wouldn’t be good for any place he wanted to sell. Harold asked her to show him where the boys could sell on a map and she said he didn’t need a map. He could start at the center of town and walk straight north out of town and when he got to a place where all the people’s skin was as black as her black ass he could sell whatever he wanted.
On the tube there’s a clip of Dukakis outside a factory juggling reporters and then inside droning on about equal opportunity for every American, and then, sleeves rolled up, trying to bond with factory workers. If they are threatened by unemployment, he understands their hardship: his parents were immigrants with nothing but sweaty shirts on their backs. If they have family or friends with a substance-abuse problem, he relates: his cousin had a drinking problem. If they suffer from depression, he had a brother with head difficulties. Then he moves through the crowd, signing union hats, asking workers for their support.
Hawk identifies with Dukakis’s shortness, but how can you trust a guy whose hair looks like it was shined and waxed one strand at a time? His favorite from the primaries, Gary Hartpants, monkey-boated his way off the ticket.
Now Peter Jennings comes on with a segment on a thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raiser and there’s a shot of Bush on a caboose, close-ups of his Jell-O eyes, flanked by midwestern politicians in sombreros and his two squinty button-eyed juniors who look like they’ve been tasters in coke-for-arms deals. Party officials start in with doo-doo economics about growth and development in inner cities, the countryside, and overseas, lowering crime rates foreign and domestic. If their candidates are elected, women will have better health care, day care, working conditions, equal pay, greater opportunities for corporate advancement. But what the election is really about is the necessity of restoring the family values that made America great. Even Jennings’s quizzical expression suggests that the pack should be hung by their tongues.
“Sammy’d never believe it. It’s a bought city.”
The word is that there won’t be any street selling tolerated. A private advertising firm paid for all convention marketing rights: a million and campaign contributions. A committee was set up to approve which convention merchandise was legal. Any item with the words Republican, Democratic, or Convention on it will be nixed by the committee. You can get a lawyer and sue. Take a number. The next day the Times-Picayune will feature pictures of George Bush jogging, Barbara Bush kissing a Haitian AIDS baby with a caption calling her a “down-home Mother Teresa,” and on page ten in small letters, “Vendors Protest, Claim First Amendment Violations.”
“If the man in the street gets some crumbs,” Mikey says, “the Republicans don’t enjoy their sandwiches.”
Norman’s face twitches with button-o-logical intensity.
“It don’t look so hot without them licenses,” Greek Joey says, throwing a towel at Mario, then tossing a paperback after the towel. “I’m throwing in the towel. They’ll throw the book at us.”
“Listen,” Norman yells. “First of all, show a little faith in the economy, boys. Second, please shut up you chuckleheaded Greek bastard. You don’t know Du-ka-ka.”
“If it wasn’t for us Greeks you’d all still be uncivilized.”
“Working the streets is out,” Norman says. “The city gave the store owners walkie-talkies. In forty years, it never happened. Harold, get us caucus locations. We’ll work receptions, airports, bus stations. This convention hasn’t started. Keep your focus. There’s thirty thousand delegates and we’ll reach ’em if we have to go door to door.”
Norman’s tapping his forehead, hunched, that old spine twisted from scheming. The overhead fan’s doing maybe seven rpm. Hawk looks at Mario, who looks up from the Times-Picayune and frowns.
“Try to think like you’re a Republican. How you gonna greet people? Hello, sir, hello ma’am. Where you from? Oh, isn’t that nice? How many kids do you have? You’re in the hotel lobby using small boards: ‘Can I interest you in convention buttons? The money supports our local chapter.’ Yada, yada. Do you schmucks hear what I’m saying? Stay focused.”
What Hawk hears is catastrophe and his face flushes at the thought of Sammy’s open safe and packets of money spread out over Sammy’s desk. Norman won’t print any more buttons and the moment they’re out of ear range he’ll wholesale the stock to delegate organizations to get his investment out. So close to settling his accounts, Hawk thinks. It’s like a horse lying down in the stretch.
“Two days you gotta wait,” Norman says. “If you go out now, you’re going to end up sleeping in Central Lockup. They got code law here. It comes direct from Napoleon. Do not pass Go. You’re guilty until proven innocent.”
“Sounds about like everywhere else,” Mikey says.