"You don't pay campaign workers!" Cashman said in horror.
"We will change the rules. While others are playing by the old rules, we will win."
"But-but it's un-American!"
"Exactly. I intend to run the most un-American campaign ever."
At that, Enrique Esperanza stepped from the white Mercedes and walked up to a Mexican man who sat on the gutter, crying tears of shame because he had been too slow and now he and his family would not eat.
Enrique knelt beside the man and laid a hand on his shoulder. He whispered a few words. The Mexican's eyes went wide. He took up the man's toffee-colored hand and kissed it. Lavishly.
Enrique Esperanza helped the man to his feet, and lifted his arms. His voice rose, clear and bell-like. It called up and down the length of Mulholland.
It's like watching a modern Pied Piper at work, Harmon Cashman thought with admiration.
"Drive slowly," said Enrique Esperanza, after he had returned to the car.
At the wheel, Harmon Cashman craned to see out the back window. Mexican migrant workers had formed up behind the white Mercedes in lines three deep.
"Why?" he asked.
"So they can follow," Enrique said simply.
And follow they did. Others were picked up along the way. As they trailed behind the white Mercedes, their voices rang out joyously.
"Esperanza! Esperanza! Esperanza!"
"What did you tell them?" Harmon whispered, his eyes wide with awe.
"What I told them cannot be expressed in words. It is what I gave them."
"Yeah?"
"Hope, Harmon. I gave them hope."
"I getcha," said Harmon Cashman, fingering an Oreo cookie out of his vest pocket. He had taken to carrying them that way. One never knew when a person might need a pick-me-up. It was going to be a hectic six weeks ....
The white Mercedes pulled up before an empty storefront, the first they came to.
"What's here?" Harmon wondered.
"Our second campaign headquarters."
"Do we need two in L.A.?"
"Yes. One where the white people will feel comfortable, and one for the brown people. This will be the brown people's place."
"Good strategy. I never did think that 'Rainbow Coalition' stuff made any sense."
Within an hour, they had the rental agent opening the front door with a key. The storefront had been unrented for eight months. The haggling was brief. It ended when Enrique Esperanza offered the rental agent a second Oreo. The man also promised to vote for Esperanza. His eyes shone with admiration.
By afternoon they had phones installed, castoff desks and chairs in place.
"We have our new headquarters!" Enrique Esperanza announced in a pleased, infectious voice.
Harmon looked around. "Can these guys speak English?"
"English will not be necessary this first week. They will reach out to their friends, their relatives, their brothers of brown skin in far states. They will tell them of Amnistia, and the opportunities to have their voice heard in California. To elect one of their own."
Harmon Cashman frowned. "It's a good start, sure. But what about the Anglos?"
"We call them blancos. As for them, I have a message for them too."
"What's that?" Harmon Cashman asked, nibbling on an Oreo.
"That cookie you are eating. Do you know what the tax on it is?"
"No. Why should I care?"
"The tax is eight and one quarter percent. It is called the snack tax. A terrible outrage."
Harmon Cashman looked at his Oreo, the innocent Oreo of his Virginia childhood.
"You know, you used to be able to buy one whole box for thirty-five cents when I was a kid," he said wistfully.
"Now it is two dollars. Plus tax. How can they tax such a thing?" Enrique Esperanza asked morosely. "Children eat these."
"Damn it, that's ridiculous!"
"We must repeal this terrible, unjust tax," said Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
"Ricky," Harmon Cashman said, his voice trembling with righteous indignation. "I know this is an issue we can make real to people."
"And we will. All we need do is hand these cookies out at rallies."
Harmon Cashman almost choked. "Are you sure there'll be enough to go around? These babies are expensive now."
Esperanza grinned broadly. "Of these cookies, there will be more than enough to win the election, I assure you."
"You've sold me," said Harmon Cashman, separating the two black wafers and scraping the white creme filling onto his tongue with his lower incisors.
Within two weeks, two hard-fought combative weeks, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza had himself a statewide network of staff. They came in all colors, brown, yellow, white.
It shouldn't have surprised Harmon Cashman as much as it did. This was California, after all. People didn't vote color or race, they voted issues. The snack thing, which had festered for a year, suddenly erupted.
Harmon first saw evidence of this at a Burbank rally.