J. Williams False Truth
I
pulled the plastic tray with a half-steaming, half-still-cold Salisbury steak dinner from the microwave, ready to sit in front of CNN for an evening of palavering pundits and pols. Of course, the phone rang. It was my client, Bart Munson, candidate for governor. “Tommy, meet me at the pub immediately,” he said. “Maybe later? I just—” “Now.” He clicked off. An interrupted evening is an example of what makes me a worse-for-wear middle-aged schlub. I’m ground down from years on the road, eighteen-hour days ‘nourished’ by missed breakfasts, grab-and-gobble lunches, and rubberchicken dinners, topped off by boozy late nights with reporters. Political campaigning is a lifestyle incompatible with marriage, as I proved twice. Folks tell me I look like Humphrey Bogart, only heavier and four-eyed. I sighed, shoved the dinner into the fridge, and made my way to our usual joint, Off the Record. That’s a pub situated in the shadow of the state capitol, and a watering hole for seekers and sellers of political access. I pushed through the door and spotted Bart. Jerry the bartender greeted me, “Hey, Mr. Keller. Scotch and splash, right up.” On the bar in front of Bart, Jerry placed a cocktail napkin printed with the slogan, “I approve this beverage.” He set a drink on it, a Mojave martini—a gin drink with no vermouth, no olives, no shaking, no stirring. My humor aspires to be as dry. Bart picked up his drink and his suit coat from the adjacent barstool and walked towards the back where it would be more private. His shirt was soaked with sweat. Had he jogged from campaign headquarters? We slid into a booth for our tête-à-tête. Bart’s campaign ads showed him with a newscaster-handsome face, graying temples, and gleaming smile. The man sitting across from
SIXFOLD FICTION WINTER 2020
J. Williams
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