Them Hustlers Read online

  “Say, Gregg,” might go the seemingly chance conversation, “don’t you forget to give a big hello to that pretty young secretary of yours, the next time you all meet for,” preceded by a big wink “lunch. You do that for me?” And in that one moment all the previous hour of good will banter, and ‘welcome to the world of politics’ would have been realized as political foreplay by the neophyte for the hardball he was sure to receive.

  Many astutely responded by turning tail and withdrawing from running against veteran incumbent Tommy Tucker.

  These revelations from Tanya were juicy stuff and nothing more. Phil had nothing to fear regarding any sort of skeletons in the closet. He wasn’t running for office. He owed no money. He certainly had never preached the gospel of moral behavior. If he kept his mouth shut she would have no cause to harm him. Was she trusting him now to keep quiet?

  It wasn’t the fear of some huge buffoon, probably an ex-convict out of New Orleans, showing up at his door. He too was physically big. He too could use his fists. And he clung close to his new friend, the state trooper for just that reason. Phil's fear of Tanya sprang from a drunken comment made during one of the romantic nights onboard the cruise ship. The brandy, the ocean view, the physical distance from the rest of the world, all loosened the lips of the usually tightly guarded Tanya. He hadn't told Herb the real way he had learned about the voodoo. But it was not the sort of conversation Phil was about to forget.

  “We had this situation when I first got to know Tommy,” and here Tanya had hesitated, "socially. More than him just being a client, you know.

  “There was a candidate of impeccable credentials running against Tucker. A solid, small town Republican. Bank president. Churchgoer. No foolin' around between the sheets. No outside income. Paid his taxes. Served in the first Gulf War. The bastard was bullet-proof. We did all the homework. Nothing usual would work.”

  Phil liked being given the chance to peer into the window of backroom politics. Moments like this, he would later learn, were rare.

  “So what happened?”

  Tanya grinned. “We won, that’s what happened. And boy, it was down and dirty, Louisiana style.”

  Phil pushed to keep her talking. “You sent a beautiful girl to his office at midnight with a hidden tape recorder.”

  “Nope.”

  “A boy?”

  “Nope.”

  “A suitcase filled with gold coins.”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe a good lookin' goat?”

  Tanya laughed. “One more round before bed?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Black magic.” Tanya just blurted it out. Her eyes were wider than Phil had ever seen, as if she was still in surprise herself.

  Phil just snorted. “Tell me what you did,” he tried again.

  Tanya shook her head. “Listen to me.”

  His tough as nails girlfriend was whispering. Phil had to bend down close to hear what came next.

  “Tommy has this woman; he keeps her on the payroll. She does nothing but cast spells. Makes people do things against their will. I’ve seen it. Really. It’s an old Louisiana thing. Creepy as hell, the whole ceremony. And what’s worse,” she blurted, “was Tommy’s warning to me. “You screw us ever and the voodoo will make your life hell like you can’t even imagine.”

  Tanya took a last sip of brandy before delivering the unwelcome prediction. “And that now includes you too, baby.”

  That was the source of his fear.

  That one comment, that one slip of the tongue.

  Others might laugh off the threat of a voodoo curse, but not him. If astrology made sense, if numerology worked, if reading of palms revealed details that would come true, if the tarot showed the way to the future, and all his hunches revealed a hidden world, then so too there must be some truth to the power of voodoo.

  What could happen? He had heard of people unable to eat, who had withered away to nothing. Or had suddenly been unable to have sex, or lose their ability to speak. Foolish of course. Voodoo didn’t really exist, especially in today's world, right? Phil worried nonetheless, just as he wondered how much the cicadas understood what really influenced them in the bigger universe.

  Phil had come to understand exactly this: that because of Tanya he was caught in a drama of unexpected consequences. It went without saying that he didn’t understand all that was taking place. But since he had walked out on Tanya it was as if the parallel universe revealed by clairvoyance or intuition or gut feelings had now become his day to day reality, and it was all connected somehow to the greed brought on by the impeachment drive consuming Washington.

  * * *

  And his fear of Tanya had recently grown even stronger but for a real solid reason.

  Phil realized how on some early mornings a car with a goon-looking driver was parked on the dead end street in front of his house. He had rummaged through the unpacked suitcases and found an old Nikon camera, the gift of his mother a long time ago. Feeling slightly foolish he snuck out of the back of the house, slithered like a snake over the lawn still wet with the morning dew and snapped four pictures.

  The first stop was to get the film developed. Then he took the District of Columbia license plate number to his roommate, who easily got him the name of the car owner. With the photographs and car information he met with Rachel at the Post Pub, her dive hangout. The reporter was really busy, preparing a series of national articles on the impeachment effort. But she took the time to help him, if for no other reason than Phil had helped turn her own life around.

  After months of cajoling Rachel had finally agreed to be driven out to Annapolis for a reading with Herb. Even getting Rachel into the car was a chore. Kvetching the whole way she submitted to a 30 minute session by the master of Annapolis. Herb later pronounced her perfect for being an honest reporter.

  “Her future is to find out hidden truths,” Herb concluded. “She is very comfortable with power and with using her own to help others.” Added Herb helpfully, “this is all really healthy.” But this was all conveyed to Phil after the fact, as Rachel, careful as always, had insisted on having the reading alone, without him present. So Phil had waited outside on West Street.

  Once the reading was completed the real reason for the visit was taken care of.

  Herb gave Rachel the name of a client of his, a doctor named Donny Randolph who lived on a horse ranch outside of Annapolis. His wife had passed away in a car accident the year before. Based on the tarot cards and what Phil has spoken about Rachel, Herb sensed the two were a good fit: Donny was seeking an independent woman with a good mind. Rachel wanting a boyfriend from outside the Washington political community.

  Rachel accepted Herb’s involvement, even though she now referred to him as Phil’s psychic pimp. The title had stuck and it was not meant by Rachel in the kindest of ways. In the bar she had peppered Phil with questions. Did the fortune teller get any kickback? What was in it for him? Did Phil tell the intimate details of his sexual encounters?

  But Rachel had taken the name offered by the Psychic Pimp. Now a romance was blossoming between the doctor and the reporter and it was a grateful Rachel that met with Phil at the front bar of the Post Pub.

  She also voiced the first compliment towards him. “You know Phil, not many men would walk away from Tanya.”

  He wasn’t sure whether to admit to her the strong feelings he was still feeling.

  “The lifestyle, the access to the top politicians, the chance to mingle with the power brokers. In your own way you made the right choice. And Phil…”

  “Yeah?”

  A maternal tone crept into the hard-nosed reporter’s voice. “I’ll always be there for you, like you were for me.”

  That meant a lot. But the information she provided two days later gave him no maternal comfort. That car outside his house belonged to a private investigation service used by K Street lobbyists and political operatives.

  Tanya Lyn was watching him.

  ~ ~ ~
r />   Part III

  Imperfect People

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter 21

  Upper Marlboro, Maryland is hardly a well-known destination to the politicians and lobbyists of Washington. The town itself serves as the municipal center of Prince George County, a huge swath of country that encompasses the land south of Annapolis, north of Annapolis, west of Annapolis, but not Annapolis or the Bay towns. Today PG County has become a commuter extension for the government’s workforce, housing a NASA center and dozens of other major facilities, including the National Security Agency and Andrews Air Force Base, where the President’s Air Force One is housed.

  This area of Maryland was for Herb and his parents the buffer zone that separated their way of live from the nation’s capital. Here was a life still based on the strength of one’s arms, whether a fisherman, a crabber, an oysterman or farmer. You didn’t need an education to do well in Southern Maryland.

  It was all different before the Chesapeake Bay Bridge opened in 1964. Different sensibilities. Folks held a pride that their towns were the destination for government workers to steal away for a vacation eating bushels of blue crabs, doing some fishing or just finding an escape from the humid Washington summers. His own father took comfort in the huge expanse of the Bay on one side and the emptiness of PG County on the other.

  Not that there was nothing noteworthy around Upper Marlboro. For over two centuries this area was the epicenter for tobacco production. The cultivation of the crop was the historical rhythm of rural southern Maryland. The annual ritual began with the planting of the seedlings in the winter. Next came the moving of the small plants into the flat fields come June. The long summer months were feared by the workers for the labor-intensive caring required for the plants. But autumn was worst. That was the backbreaking harvesting of the six foot tall crop, which involved the entire plant being stored in the open air barns for months of drying.

  Only during the following winter were the precious leaves stripped off the hulks and packed into the huge tobacco casks. It was a way of life that must have seemed immortal. What could possibly cause the harvesting of tobacco to fade away?

  But the collapse in smoking habits did bring to an end this cycle of agricultural life. Herb regarded it as a pity in the abstract. In reality, the whole damn system couldn't have ended too soon. Because it was an industry nurtured on the shoulders of African slavery. Most people associate American slavery as having flourished in the Deep South alongside the cotton crop. The economics that supported Upper Marlboro were a different part of the same sad story. Southern Maryland thrived on tobacco. Though loyal to the Union during the Civil War, at one point the majority of Prince George’s County inhabitants were African-American slaves.

  A few years ago the last of the tobacco farms began shutting down. The once thriving central markets and inspection facilities melted into history. And the historic main auction house where the largest plantation owners had for decades transported the harvest was transformed into a tourist attraction.

  The way of life may have been gone, but the flatness of the land whizzing by Herb’s car still made the landscape seem primeval, as if the newly built shopping malls and gated communities and huge suburban churches had risen up not by the hand of developers but through some cataclysmic force of nature.

  Herb's focus was on the churches of Prince George’s County.

  The unexpected cash offer from Larry Flynt and the resulting concern that the Louisiana delegation would strike out at Phil using anything--including black magic--propelled Herb to rack up hundreds of miles looking for one of his first customers. Herb believed that a former client of the Tarot Tales by the name of Gregory Davis Jr. was the best hope for Phil’s safety. That is if Davis hadn’t passed away by now. And taken to his grave the family secrets.

  Herb had taken it on himself to find the retired postal worker. His new preoccupation pleased his wife - since her husband had found something to occupy his mind outside of her puzzling medical condition and the daily grind of the shop. The fortune teller didn’t tell Phil about his effort during their breakfast get-togethers. His friend was too engrossed in his good fortune with Herb's clients. 'Panning for a wife,' Phil was calling what he did these days. "And what a good moving stream you've given me."

  Herb did lay out what he was thinking to Tamay. As the fortune teller saw it, the game was far more complex than normal. Flynt was going for the jugular in a very public way. But there was no way to go on the attack against Flynt. What skeletons could this man have? Nor was he even from the Washington community. The publisher from Beverly Hills wasn’t playing by Washington’s unwritten rules and so a very un-Washington down-in-the Delta response would be forthcoming from Tommy Tucker.

  The reasoning from the Annapolis fortune teller was based on more than intuition. No one fully appreciated, except maybe Phil, how Herb had a stable of Washington-area professionals who had their fortunes read on a regular basis. Not just spiritually lost women but government bureaucrats of all stripes. Picked up by Herb from the years of idle chatter and card readings was just how a politician like Tucker behaved when threatened. The easy answer is that a Tommy Tucker would stop at nothing to remove an unexpected obstacle to his climbing further up the ladder of influence.

  Herb surmised Tucker was afraid not just that Phil would feed information to his reporter friend Rachel, but that Phil could easily correct his sinking business and get back at Tanya, just by telling Flynt what he had learned in the last six months. Phil had walked away knowing of the mistresses and sex intrigues large and small that swirled around these politicians. A million dollars could be had just like that. Easy as pie.

  Funny enough, Phil hadn't given a moment's thought that his inside knowledge might be worth something to Larry Flynt. No, that line of thinking fell instead to the fortune teller of Annapolis.

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter 22

  Herb may not have known where Davis lived, but he remembered the man well. You don’t forget the first steady customer when still uncertain is whether you’ve been a fool throwing all your savings into a business based on clairvoyance in the center of a bustling tourist town, with high rents and continued retail turnover. And there was another reason not to forget Gregory Davis Jr. As a black man, he had provided Herb a stamp of approval into the local Annapolis community. All knew Mr. Davis as the man who on every Sunday afternoon could be seen on West Street outside of the First Baptist Church in his three piece suit, gold pocket watch and impeccably shined black shoes and engaging smile for friends and strangers alike.

  The church may have been on West Street, just like Herb’s store and the chic tourist attractions, but it wasn't the same community, not by a long shot. Davis's world was a mile up from the famous harbor, in the Old Fourth Ward.

  Neighbors and churchgoers alike took notice that Davis crossed over into the tourist area to visit the Tarot Tales like clockwork every Saturday morning. There was many a month in that first year when it was the women from the black community, and not the Washington professionals, that were the backbone of his business.

  Davis was a quiet, dignified gentleman, who carried with him the gravitas of a unique family history. That was the way Herb saw him, as a gentleman. Soft of voice, polite out of strength, not weakness, Davis was the sort of local landmark like the Maryland tobacco fields and Chesapeake oyster beds, each the foundation for a way of life that was all but gone.

  Davis’s father had been part of the migration of African-Americans that came up north after World War II, seeking escape from the Jim Crow south. The Army veteran settled in Highland Beach, which was the first African-American town to be incorporated in Maryland. The town was further east from Annapolis. Segregation still, but far less dangerous and far more opportunity than that found in his home state of Louisiana.

  The father was able to pass along to his son the family house and a connection into the post office. A part time night job was all Gregory Davis Jr. needed to find his o
wn wife, start a family and rise through the postal system, finally retiring as the district administrator in the 1980s.

  It was a long shot, but if he were right, than Davis had the right connections for providing Phil with protection from whatever an angry Tucker, and a jealous Tanya, would do to crush any opposition. Given all the crazy things happening in Washington, why not?

  * * *

  Herb first sought to find Davis at an address that was more than ten years old. His wife used to keep the accounting books by hand, and there, on the first page, was the name of Gregory Davis Jr. and his home address. But Highland Beach was no longer the black community of a generation ago. It had blossomed, or devolved, depending on your point of view, into a year-round vacation community offering million dollar homes to Baltimore and Washington white-collar workers. Most of the locals had long ago sold their property, including the Davis family.

  Through a connection in the post office Herb learned that the family had moved further along the shore, out to a small town called Chesapeake Beach. So Herb closed the shop early one afternoon and took the thirty minute drive to the coastal town. The first surprise was that the beach was just about gone, a result of the slow rising of the Bay. But also gone was the Davis family. A minister in a local church remembered they had moved some six years before. He wasn’t sure exactly where. Still local, but far enough away that they had stopped coming to town.

  By now the poor Republican showing in the mid-term election results had forced Gingrich to step down and Livingston had formally announced his intention to run for speaker. According to Rachel, rumors were flying through Washington that Livingston was target number one by Larry Flynt. Had Livingston fooled around…did he have a mistress….had he attended the fetish parties and tagged along on the all night bar hops with Tucker? Only those close to Livingston knew the answer. Would anyone of them talk?