CHAPTER FIVE
@TwitterGirl
President Turner in NYC today. Over/under on gaffes is four. Bet the mortgage on the over.
“Cassidy. All is not as it seems. You’re still a reporter. Start digging.”
The text did not list a sender. In fact, when I hit reply button I saw something I’d never seen before.
Sender unknown.
This of course had made for a very stressful plane ride home.
After my blood pressure calmed down, I considered the possibilities. The text was from someone in another campaign. It was from a former employee of the Senator who had an ax to grind. Those were the most likely.
Or the worst possibility, it was someone who knew the truth. What that truth might be was anyone’s guess.
But when journalism gets in your blood, it’s as addictive as any drug. Tell a reporter there might be a story, and the reporter will always check it out, no matter how lame the tip might seem. The thought of another reporter getting a scoop because you didn’t bother to do a little legwork drives everyone in the news business. It’s not fear of failure, but fear of getting beaten.
My brother Sam, who is also a digital whiz, said the text was obviously from what is known as a “burner phone” which is disposable and therefore untraceable. He also thinks it’s from someone in another campaign, but wants me to keep my eyes open. Gotta love my brother, he’s always trying to protect me.
Between that text and the quick end to my dinner with Becker’s deputy campaign manager, my reporter radar is up. I’m going to start quietly poking around.
Is Will Becker all that he seems?
Inquiring minds wanna know.
***
Meanwhile, after the “Will Becker is off the table rollercoaster” I went through last week thanks to a combination of my own suspicions and Frank’s practical joke, Ripley and I are officially kicking off our own campaign to turn the Senator’s head by ignoring him. My best friend had been disappointed after hearing that he was spoken for, but she perked up when I told her that he was not in a relationship with his niece. (Of course, had they been from Arkansas, an actual uncle–niece romance would not have raised an eyebrow.)
Anyway, Ripley is dressed to the nines (as far as office attire is concerned) as I lead her into the Manhattan campaign headquarters for her first day as a “volunteer.” She removes her coat with a flourish and this brings every male in the room to a screeching halt. Jaws drop and eyes widen as they lock on her like a heat-seeking missile. The women who had simply glared at me give her the death stare. She follows me toward Becker’s office, sashaying in a form-fitting red dress that shows off her bikini-perfect body even though it has a high neck, long sleeves and a knee-length hemline. Cut-out shoulders offer a little tease of perfectly toned skin while four-inch matching stilettos complete the package. Her outfit is sort of a combination between conservative and slutty, which only Ripley can pull off. I’m thinking I wasted my head start. She has taken ignoring a man to a new level, as no red-blooded male could possible feel indifferent looking at her in that outfit.
Becker’s office door is open and he’s on the phone as we arrive. “Yeah, I think we have more work to do in New Hamp…(long pause) shire…”
Said long pause was caused as he looked up and saw Ripley. She flashes a smile at him as his eyes bug out and jaw drops.
Yep, I’ve seen it before. He’s been hit by the DeAngelo thunderbolt, which renders men momentarily speechless and unable to function, like some sexual Star Trek phaser set on stun.
I hear a voice on the other end of the phone. “Will? Will, are you still there?”
“Huh? Oh yeah,” he says, as he turns his attention back to the phone call. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon as soon as I run this by the staff. Talk to you then. Bye.” He tries to hang up the phone but misses the cradle.
I turn to Ripley and roll my eyes. She bats her lashes and smiles.
Round one to my best friend, no contest. A knockout by a knockout. The judges are unanimous.
Becker hangs up, moves around his desk toward us and extends his hand toward Ripley. “You must be Cassidy’s advertising friend I’ve heard so much about.”
She shakes his hand as I handle introductions. “Senator, this is Ripley DeAngelo. Ripley, Senator Becker.”
“Great to meet you,” she says. “I really admire what you’re doing and hope I can contribute in a small way.”
“Hey, it’s great to have another person to brainstorm with our team,” he says, eyes locked on her as he still hasn’t let go of her hand. He places his other hand on top. “Should help to have someone who’s not in politics. Sometimes we’re too close the problem. I really appreciate you volunteering.”
“Well, my agency can spare me from time to time. Of course, you can do that if you own it.”
“I guess so.” He turns to me. “Oh, Cassidy, Tyler is waiting for you in the conference room. Wants to run some stuff by you this morning.”
“Sure.”
He turns back to Ripley and gives her that famous smile. “And I’ll give our newest volunteer a tour.”
They head out the door as I watch for a moment before I’m off to see Tyler. I have to admit, they look like a couple on the top of a wedding cake right off the bat. There’s some obvious sexual attraction there by the Senator.
Hey, she’s my best friend. I’m happy for her.
Yeah, let’s go with that.
***
“T.G., welcome home!” Tyler’s face lights up as I enter the conference room. “You kicked ass in Iowa.”
“Thank you, but it was the Senator who kicked ass in the debate.”
“Yeah, but you started closing the lid on Marvin Hensler’s coffin. A few more tweets like that and he’ll be dead and buried.”
“Hell, Tyler, he doesn’t have a shot anyway.”
“Yeah, but the best way to wake up his followers is to show that he’s stupid.”
“I think he does that on his own quite well.”
“But you help take it to another level. You’ve heard the term national joke?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“That’s what you’re doing to candidates like him. Some of the late night talk shows used your line. You should demand royalties.”
“Hey, a job in the White House would be payment enough. So what are you up
