After he had explained it all, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza leaned forward and let the full beatific radiance of his smile wash over Harmon Cashman. His dark, liquid eyes were imploring. Harmon Cashman understood the nature of personal power. He understood that the simplest, most effective and direct way to cultivate personal loyalty was not to do a person a favor, but to ask one. Somehow, this cemented the wielder of personal power with his adherents.
He had seen it work a thousand times. And for all his savvy and cynicism, it was working on him.
"I accept," he said sincerely. "And proud to do it."
"What do you need to begin?"
"More Oreos," Harmon Cashman said without skipping a beat. "These baby ones just don't have the kick of the big ones."
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza threw his round head back and laughed like distant church bells. The sound reminded Harmon Cashman of Sunday morning back in Virginia, for some reason. But he was scarcely aware of it.
For he had everything he wanted in life: a candidate he could believe in, and a campaign to wage.
But most of all, he had hope again.
He spelled it "Esperanza."
Chapter 6
The days that followed were heady ones for Harmon Cashman.
The election was scheduled for six weeks hence. In national electioneering terms, that might as well have been next Tuesday. On the state level, it was the equivalent to a hundred-meter dash.
"We'll need signatures to get on the ballot," Harmon Cashman had said during the flight to California.
"I have been collecting them," replied Enrique Esperanza, who insisted on being called "Rick."
"It is a good American-sounding name, no?"
"Only in front of the right audience. In the barrios and out in the fields, you're Enrique."
"I am Enrique. And Enrique will have for you all the signatures you will need."
And he delivered. They came, in a torrent of paper. Mostly signed by Hispanic names.
"Looks to me like you got a pretty good field organization to start," Harmon Cashman had said delightedly, as they spread out the petition sheets in the storefront in Los Angeles, their main campaign headquarters.
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza smiled broadly. "I have many friends who like me and wish that I succeed."
"These guys are documented, aren't they?"
Esperanza smiled, "Of course."
"We'll need a hell of a lot more than these to put you over the top, Rick."
"I have a strategy I have devised for this."
"Yeah?"
"It is Amnistia."
"What is that-Spanish?"
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza laughed heartily, and with a total lack of self-consciousness. He patted Harmon's knee.
"Yes, mi amigo. It means 'amnesty.' I am referring to the Federal program which runs out soon. It provides that all illegal aliens, migrant workers-what some call crudely 'wetbacks'-be allowed to petition for citizenship. With citizenship comes American rights. Such as the right to vote."
Harmon Cashman blinked. "How many migrants in California?"
"Not just California. But in all of America."
"Only the ones in California count."
"Not if they come to California for their Amnistia."
Harmon's eyes widened. "Is this legal?"
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza's cherubic face became placidly confident. "There are no restrictions on where they may settle as citizens," he replied. "Is this not a free country?"
"It is not only free," Harmon Cashman said joyously, "it is the greatest country in the world. But how will you get them to come here?"
"Leave that to me."
"Will they vote for you? Most of them, that is?"
Enrique Espiritu Esperanza spread his generous arms like the statue of Christ on a Brazilian hilltop. "Look at me: my skin, my eyes, my voice. Do you think they could vote for any of the others if I am on the ballot?"
"Let's get you on the ballot, then!"
They got on the ballot. With signatures to spare.
"Now we need campaign workers," Harmon Cashman said. "Lots of them."
"Let us go for a ride," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
Harmon Cashman drove the tasteful white Mercedes that seemed to be the perfect vehicle to convey Enrique Espiritu Esperanza from place to place.
"You must sell a lot of grapes," Harmon said, noting the custom interior.
It was early morning. All along Mulholland, brown-skinned men with sad faces and tattered blanket rolls under their arms stood waiting, their eyes watching the passing traffic with expectation. A faint, uneasy light, like tiny bulbs, could be seen deep in their dark eyes. From the first day he had arrived, Harmon Cashman had seen this phenomenon all over Los Angeles. He figured the bus system must be very, very bad.
They parked. A pickup truck rumbled up and the driver called out a summons in Spanish. Harmon didn't catch the words. He wouldn't have understood them if he had.
But the Hispanic men with sad faces piled onto the open bed of the pickup until they were spilling off the sides. There was room for perhaps thirty men, and near to fifty were scrambling for a place. A fistfight broke out. It was brief. The winners found places in back of the truck and the losers ended up sitting on the asphalt, tears streaming down their unwashed faces.
"They will be paid twelve cents an hour to break their backs in the fields," said Enrique Esperanza, his voice for once sad.