The Driver

“Tell your boss if he does anything stupid like that again I’ll be back.”

He stepped back as the doors closed and the car began to ascend.

Then he turned. The two receptionists and the handful of staff in the lobby were all gawping helplessly at him. He pulled at his jacket to straighten it out, squared his shoulders again, wished them all a good morning and then walked calmly and purposefully into the parking and lot and to his car.

33

Arlen Crawford sat at the desk in the hotel room with policy papers scattered around him. There was a stack on the desk, three distinct piles on the carpet by his feet, and a pile — ready to be read, digested and sorted — spread out across the bed. The speech at the Moscone Centre that afternoon was starting to look a whole lot like a coronation and he wanted to make sure that everything about it was perfect. He had CNN on the flatscreen TV that had been fixed to the wall inside a frame to make it look like a painting — it didn’t work — and he was drinking from a glass of orange juice, staining a paper on fiscal prudence with wet, concentric circles.

He looked up at the TV. The newscaster was introducing a panel discussion on the San Francisco killings. A third girl had been found and they were describing the perpetrator as a serial killer. The producers had a stable of pundits for the big crime stories — medical examiners, criminologists, forensic scientists, former prosecutors — and the serial-killer category had its own roster of subspecialists. Three had been deputed to discuss the case. They opined upon what could be discerned from bones that had been left outside and exposed to weather. They considered what the location of the bodies might say about the killer’s signature. They made comparisons with the Green River Killer, explaining how Gary Ridgway had acquired his nickname after burying his victims near the river of the same name in Washington. They discussed methodology, and how Denis Rader had been dubbed B.T.K. after his modus operandi of binding, torturing and killing had been made public. Then they focused on how the most pertinent recent historical analogue, the Zodiac Killer, had never been caught. One enterprising expert even swung for the fences by suggesting that this new killer might even be Zodiac. That hypothesis was quickly rubbished — if he was still alive, Zodiac would have been at least seventy by now — but the discussion was feverish and excited and that, Crawford knew, could only be good for ratings. The discussion moved onto what the newcomer should be called.

The consensus seemed to settle on The Headlands Lookout Killer.

He was roused from his distraction by a soft knocking at the door.

Crawford got up, took a sip of the OJ and padded across the room in his stockinged feet. It was just after breakfast and he wasn’t expecting anyone.

He opened the door. Karly Hammil, the young female staffer who had been with Robinson after the speech in Woodside, was on the other side.

“What is it, Karly?”

She was anxiously chewing her bottom lip. “Could I have a word?”

“Yes, of course. Come in.”

He stood back and she came into the room, closing the door behind her.

“What is it?”

“This is difficult, Mr. Crawford.”

“Call me Arlen.” He felt a moment of apprehension. He pointed to the opened minibar. “You want anything? Water?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Want to sit?”

“I’d rather stand if that’s alright.”

“Well, I’m going to sit.”

She stammered. “I–I—”

She was nervous and that made him nervous, too.

“You better tell me what it is.”

She drew a breath. “There’s no point sugar-coating this, I guess. Alright, then. Okay.” Another breath. “Okay. I guess you know some of this already. Five weeks ago, the governor made a sexual advance to me. I know he has a reputation, everyone knows that, but I couldn’t believe it. And I resisted it at first, I told him to forget about it, it was a crazy idea, but then he tried again the day after that. I told him no again but he was more persistent. You know what he can be like, so persuasive, that feeling you get when he fixes his attention on you, like you’re the most important person in the world. Well, that’s what he made me feel like and he persuaded me that he really meant all those things he was telling me.”

Crawford felt himself deflate, the air ru

“We’ve been sleeping together once or twice a week ever since.”

“You have been — this is past tense?”

“He’s stopped it. I saw him last night, after the speech. He said he couldn’t do it anymore. Something about his wife. It’s bullshit, obviously. I guess he’s just had what he wanted. He doesn’t need me anymore. He’s probably already onto the next one.”

Crawford tried to marshal himself. He needed to deal with this. He needed to be diplomatic. He needed her to think that he was sympathetic and understanding. He had experience of this kind of motherfucking nonsense — plenty of experience — and he knew what he needed to do. “I’m sure it isn’t like that, Karly. You know what he’s like.”

“He’s unsafe for a woman to work around is what he is,” she said angrily.

“Why are you telling me? What do you want me to do?”

She looked at him as if he was stupid. “Seriously?”

“Tell me.”

“You need to look after me.”

“Of course you’ll be looked after. I’ll make sure you get an apology. And it’ll never happen again.”

“Not like that.”

“Then like what?”

“Come on, Mr. Crawford. You want me to spell it out?”

“Money?”

“Maybe I should sit tight, wait until he’s better known. A story like this, what kind of book deal you reckon I’d get if I waited until later? His inauguration, maybe? The day before the election?”

Crawford felt the familiar, cold knot of anger tightening in his gut. “Alright, I get it. I get it. How much do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have to give me a number.”

“Okay. Fifty thousand — that’s what I would’ve earned this year.”

“Fifty.” He felt his temperature rising.

She hesitated, uncertainly. “What do we do now?”

“First time you’ve shaken somebody down?” he spat sarcastically.

Her eyes flashed. “You’re angry with me? Maybe you ought to think a little about him, Mr. Crawford.”

He tried to defuse the tension. “Arlen — call me Arlen, please.”

She ignored the attempt at conciliation. “You don’t know how close I was to putting this out there. A man like him, a weak man, how is that good for our country to have him in high office?”

He forced himself to take a breath, to regain a little composure. “No, you’re right. Quite right. I’m sorry, Karly. It’ll take me a little while to sort this out. It’s not quite as straightforward as you think, that much money. It needs to be done quietly. Is that alright?”

“Of course.”

She exhaled.

He had a moment of empathy: it had probably been one of the most difficult conversations she had ever had. She didn’t deserve his anger. It wasn’t her fault. Robinson, on the other hand, did deserve it. His behaviour kept putting him in intolerable situations. He was irresponsible and childish, ignoring his clear instructions that he had to put this behind him and keep it zipped. Cleaning up the mess that he left in his wake was becoming a full-time job. An expensive full-time job.

Crawford told the girl that she just had to be patient, that he would sort it all out for her, and then he showed her to the door of his room. He switched cha

He decided that there was not.