3 Strange Bedfellows Read Online Free Page B
Author: Matt Witten
close with a second, stumbling expression of sympathy for the Tamarack family.
When he finally finished talking —it was only four or five minutes, but it felt like an eternity—the moderator stood up. "Mr. Shmuckler will now take questions," he said. "Please stand in line at the microphone in the middle aisle."
Thirty people, most of them media, instantly jumped up and raced each other in a frenzy for the microphone. There was pushing, shoving, screaming. "People, please! Calm down!" the moderator called out, but no one listened. Several students standing in the way of the media got knocked down. They pushed back. The cops jumped in and began shoving people around. It had all the makings of a full-scale riot. Will stood up at the front looking stricken.
Eventually the pandemonium died down, and the questions started pour ing in. "Did you kill Jack Tamarack?" was the first.
"No," Will said.
"Where were you at the time of the murder?" came the follow-up.
"For legal reasons I can't answer," said Will.
Flash bulbs were popping, TV cameramen were angling for position. "Where'd you get the gun?" the next questioner asked.
"For legal reasons I can't answer any questions about the murder. I'm sorry," Will said.
But the questions kept on coming. "Why'd you kill him?" "Were you upset that you were going to lose the election?" "Don't you think it will be seen as outrageous that you're still running?"
Finally Will couldn't take it anymore. He mumbled, "Thank you. Good night," and edged off the stage.
I hurried out the back of the auditorium and dashed to the side door to meet him. I found him in the hallway, scurrying away from me.
"Hey, Will!" I called out. He turned toward me, and his eyes widened. He seemed to be looking over my shoulder. Then he took off like a bat out of hell. Behind me I heard people running and shouting Will's name. I turned around to see ten or fifteen media people bearing down on me, chasing after Will. How could I stop these people from torturing my friend? There was nothing I could do . . .
But then, without thinking, I reached out my arms and grabbed the first reporter in the pack, a tall, thin man with red hair and glasses. He gave me a puzzled look as I shoved him in the wa y of reporter number two, a muscular woman with a camera that fell to the floor but luckily didn't break. Reporter number three stopped in her tracks, to make sure she didn't run into the camera. Behind her, a short man with unwieldy TV equipment had to stop, too.
I threw my arms around a cute woman reporter who was trying to make it around the pileup. She stomped me in the foot with a high heel, and that was the end of that maneuver. But by the time the media people got going again, Will had successfully made his escape. A couple of minutes later, when I stood in front of the building looking around for Will, the fourth estate was out there too, doing the same thing I was and cursing their luck.
Later that night, my phone rang. It was Will. "I made an ass of myself tonight, didn't I?" he said.
"I'm afraid so," I replied.
"But I'm not giving up," he said, and when I tried to convince him to at least take a few days off, he hung up on me. When I called him back, his phone was off the hook.
The Hack's funeral was scheduled for the very next day, which surprised me; usually, the only folks that bury their dead that quick are Jewish people and Kennedys. I felt like a sleazeball attending the funeral, since I'd never even met the man—and from what I knew, I didn't like him.
But most of the two hundred other mourners in this huge, impersonal chapel probably didn't like the dead man all that much either. My guess was, they were here because they had to be. I didn't see too many tears, that's for sure. Of course, maybe Republicans don't cry as much as other people.
I recognized the mayor of Saratoga and three or four other local politicos, but no one else. These weren't the type of folks I usually hung out with, and
When he finally finished talking —it was only four or five minutes, but it felt like an eternity—the moderator stood up. "Mr. Shmuckler will now take questions," he said. "Please stand in line at the microphone in the middle aisle."
Thirty people, most of them media, instantly jumped up and raced each other in a frenzy for the microphone. There was pushing, shoving, screaming. "People, please! Calm down!" the moderator called out, but no one listened. Several students standing in the way of the media got knocked down. They pushed back. The cops jumped in and began shoving people around. It had all the makings of a full-scale riot. Will stood up at the front looking stricken.
Eventually the pandemonium died down, and the questions started pour ing in. "Did you kill Jack Tamarack?" was the first.
"No," Will said.
"Where were you at the time of the murder?" came the follow-up.
"For legal reasons I can't answer," said Will.
Flash bulbs were popping, TV cameramen were angling for position. "Where'd you get the gun?" the next questioner asked.
"For legal reasons I can't answer any questions about the murder. I'm sorry," Will said.
But the questions kept on coming. "Why'd you kill him?" "Were you upset that you were going to lose the election?" "Don't you think it will be seen as outrageous that you're still running?"
Finally Will couldn't take it anymore. He mumbled, "Thank you. Good night," and edged off the stage.
I hurried out the back of the auditorium and dashed to the side door to meet him. I found him in the hallway, scurrying away from me.
"Hey, Will!" I called out. He turned toward me, and his eyes widened. He seemed to be looking over my shoulder. Then he took off like a bat out of hell. Behind me I heard people running and shouting Will's name. I turned around to see ten or fifteen media people bearing down on me, chasing after Will. How could I stop these people from torturing my friend? There was nothing I could do . . .
But then, without thinking, I reached out my arms and grabbed the first reporter in the pack, a tall, thin man with red hair and glasses. He gave me a puzzled look as I shoved him in the wa y of reporter number two, a muscular woman with a camera that fell to the floor but luckily didn't break. Reporter number three stopped in her tracks, to make sure she didn't run into the camera. Behind her, a short man with unwieldy TV equipment had to stop, too.
I threw my arms around a cute woman reporter who was trying to make it around the pileup. She stomped me in the foot with a high heel, and that was the end of that maneuver. But by the time the media people got going again, Will had successfully made his escape. A couple of minutes later, when I stood in front of the building looking around for Will, the fourth estate was out there too, doing the same thing I was and cursing their luck.
Later that night, my phone rang. It was Will. "I made an ass of myself tonight, didn't I?" he said.
"I'm afraid so," I replied.
"But I'm not giving up," he said, and when I tried to convince him to at least take a few days off, he hung up on me. When I called him back, his phone was off the hook.
The Hack's funeral was scheduled for the very next day, which surprised me; usually, the only folks that bury their dead that quick are Jewish people and Kennedys. I felt like a sleazeball attending the funeral, since I'd never even met the man—and from what I knew, I didn't like him.
But most of the two hundred other mourners in this huge, impersonal chapel probably didn't like the dead man all that much either. My guess was, they were here because they had to be. I didn't see too many tears, that's for sure. Of course, maybe Republicans don't cry as much as other people.
I recognized the mayor of Saratoga and three or four other local politicos, but no one else. These weren't the type of folks I usually hung out with, and
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