plus-or-minus 9%.
I looked around. “Shall we cut our losses, or go on gallantly to defeat?”
“We aren’t licked yet,” Tom pointed out.
“No, but we’re going to be. All we offer is the assumption that I’m better
qualified than the little girl with the big eyes-a notion in which Joe Public is
colossally uninterested. How about it, Mrs. Holmes? Can you make it up in the
precincts?”
She faced me. “Jack, to be frank, it’s all uphill. I’m working the old
faithfuls too hard and I can’t seem to stir out any new blood.”
“We need excitement,” Tom complained. “Let’s throw some mud.”
“At what?” I asked. “Want to accuse her of passing notes in school, or shall
we say she sneaked out after taps when she was a WAC? She’s got no record.”
“Well, tackle her on housing. You’ve let her hog the best issue.”
I shook my head. “If I knew the answers, I wouldn’t be living in a trailer.
I won’t make phony promises. I’ve drawn up three bills, one to support the Federal
Act, one to revise the building code, and one for a bond election for housing
projects-that last one is a hot potato. None of them are much good. This housing
shortage will be with us for years.”
Page 107
Tom said, “Jack, you shouldn’t run for office. You don’t have the fine, free
optimism that makes a good public figure.”
I grunted. “That’s what I told you birds. I’m the manager type. A candidate
who manages himself gets a split personality.”
Mrs. Holmes knit her brows. “Jack-you know more about housing than she does.
Let’s hold a rally and debate it.”
“Okay with me-I just work here. I once threatened to make her debate
everything from streetcars to taxes. How about it, Torn?”
“Anything to make some noise.”
I phoned at once. “Is this the Stooge with the Light Brown Hair?”
“That must be Jack Ross. Hello, Nasty. How’s the baby-kissing?”
“Sticky. Remember I promised to debate the issues with you? How about 8 p.m.
Wednesday the 15th?”
She said, “Hold the line-” I could hear a muffled rumble, then she said,
“Jack? You tend to your campaign; I’ll tend to mine.”
“Better accept, kid. We’ll challenge you publicly. Is Miss Nelson afraid to
face the issues, quote and unquote.”
“Goodbye, Jack.”
“Uncle Sam won’t let you, will he?” The phone clicked in my ear.
We went ahead anyway. I sold some war bonds and ordered a special edition of
the Civic League News, with a Ross-for-Councilman front page, as a throwaway to
announce the rally-prizes, entertainment, movies, and a super-colossal, gigantic
debate between Ross in this corner and Nelson in that. We piled the bundles of
papers in Mrs. Holmes’ garage late Sunday night. Mrs. Holmes phoned about
seven-thirty the next morning-“Jack,” she yipped, “come over right away!”
“On my way. What’s wrong?”
“Everything. Wait till you get here.” When I did, she led me out to her
garage; someone had broken in and had slit open our precious bundles-then had poured
dirty motor oil on them.
Tom showed up while we were looking at the mess. “Pixies everywhere,” he
observed. “I’ll call the Commercial Press.”
“Don’t bother,” I said bitterly. “We can’t pay for another run.” But he went
in anyhow. The kids who were to do the distributing started to show up; we paid them
and sent them home. Tom came out. “Too late,” he announced. “We would have to start
from scratch- no time and too expensive.”
I nodded and went in the house. I had a call to make myself. “Hello,” I
snapped, “is this Miss Nelson, the Independent Candidate?”
“This is Frances Nelson. Is this Jack Ross?”
“Yes. You were expecting me to call, I see.”
“No, I knew your sweet voice. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I’d like to show you how well your boys have been campaigning.
“Just a moment- I’ve an appointment at ten; I can spare the time until then.
What do you mean; how my boys have been campaigning?”
“You’ll find out.” I hung up.
I refused to talk until she had seen the sabotage. She stared. “It’s a
filthy, nasty trick, Jack-but why show it to me?”