"Yes. Wild horses couldn't drag it out of me."
"What," the campaign manager wondered, "would be big enough to drag you out of that thing?"
"I'll come out once I'm elected," Barry Black, Junior answered. "On inauguration day. We'll airlift me to the capitol and I'll emerge in triumph and fanfare, like a born Republican."
"Somehow I have trouble envisioning that."
"Try meditation. After I've meditated two-three hours, I see the most unbelievable colors."
"I'll bet you do. But you gotta do more than sit on your behind if you're going to beat Esperanza. He's moving major numbers in the polls."
In the New Age security of his pyramid, Barry Black, Junior put his agile mind to the task of winning over the voters of California. He closed his eyes and watched the colors his retina picked up. He got purple. Just purple. One color. No matter how much he squinched his eyes tight, no patterns or symbols emerged. Barry Black knew it had to mean something. But what?
"Enrique Esperanza is a one-note candidate," he said at last. "He's Mr. Multiculturalism. Multiculturalism is good, but it won't solve the problems of this great state. The recession. Taxes. The drought. The poinsettia whitefly. These are the issues that must be addressed with Republican forthrightness."
"You should be saying these things before the camera," his campaign manager pointed out, "not inside a formstone teepee."
"Teepee!" Barry Black cried. "That's it! We'll break the drought!"
"We will?"
"Not we, directly. I want you to scour the Indian Reservations. Find me a medicine man. A photogenic one, with lots of seams in his face and sad but wise-looking eyes."
"Sad but wise?"
"One who knows how to perform the sacred rain dance."
"Rain dance . . . ?"
"Go for a Chippewa. They have the best karma. Have him perform the dance in my name. Pick someplace splashy, like the La Brea Tar Pits. When the rain pours down, hand out umbrellas that say 'Vote For Black.' "
"We can't afford preprinted umbrellas, Barry."
"Use the tiny paper ones you get in Mai Tais."
"Barry," the campaign manager protested in exasperation, "if it works, the voters will be drenched. If it doesn't, we'll look like fools. We can't win."
"We can't fail. And voters will be soaked by election day. And a soaked voter is a Black voter. I want bumper stickers that say that."
"If you go through with this, they'll go back to calling you Governor Glowworm."
"As long as I'm governor again, who cares what they call me?" Barry Black retorted firmly.
The Black for Governor campaign manager let out a leaky sigh.
"Barry," he said wearily, "I'm going downstairs and renew my acquaintance with Valium. When I feel up to it, I'll come back and we'll have this conversation again. Okay?"
"Remember. Chippewas are best. A Hopi might do in a pinch. But no Sioux. They were scalpers. The bad karma will rebound on us. And bad karma doesn't wash off. I learned that in India."
In the dark confines of his personal pyramid, Barry Black, Junior listened as his campaign manager descended the attic stairs. It was going to work out. It would all work out, if everyone found their centers and held on for dear life.
And as long as Barry Black, Junior remained in his pyramid, safe from assassins.
Chapter 19
Remo Williams had tried every Barry Black for Governor campaign office in San Francisco.
All were under police guard, and all were deserted.
At the third deserted storefront, Remo presented a UPI press pass in the name of "Remo Cannon" to an SFPD sergeant and asked, "Did Black pull out of the race?"
"Not that I heard," the sergeant said.
"So where are his campaign people?"
"Hunkered down in bomb shelters, from what I hear."
"I thought the attempt was on Black's life?"
"That's what everyone says, but the only ones who died were campaign staff. Now the bomb threats are pouring in."
"Bomb threats?"
"Every campaign office received one. When the staffers heard that, they went home. A lot of them quit outright. Guess they decided it was too much trouble to give the Glowworm a third shot at Sacramento."
"Thanks," Remo said, returning to his rented car.
At a phone booth, Remo called Folcroft.
"Smitty, I can't join the Black campaign."
"Why not?" "Because there is no campaign."
"He pulled out?"
"No, his organization did. They all got bomb threats and decided to call it a day."
"Peculiar," said Smith.
Ignoring an intermittent whistling in the background, Remo said, "I think it's interesting that Black's people got hurt, but he wasn't."
"You do not think Barry Black has engineered this entire charade?" Smith said, his voice rising.
"Why not? He was taking a beating in the polls. Esperanza was pulling ahead of him. This was his way of recapturing sympathy."
"A little while ago," Smith pointed out, "you suggested that Rona Ripper might have engineered the attempts on Esperanza's life."