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Lethal Ambition

By Michael Andrew Swiger

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Tuesday, November 3
Cleveland, Ohio
8:55 P.M.

Marcus Blanchard stood in the doorway to the Ambassador Ballroom of the Cleveland Renaissance Hotel, greeting campaign workers and supporters, when he noticed a short old man with weak legs approaching. Marcus guessed him to be in his late seventies. Thin strands of snowy white hair sprouted from a pink scalp freckled with age spots; a weblike network of wrinkles covered his weathered face. Sparse white eyebrows accentuated a rigid brow line, while tired folds of skin sagged over intelligent blue eyes. A splattering of tiny red veins covered his broad, Russian nose. M
“Thanks for coming, Professor Mead,” Marcus said.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Mead had been Marcus’s favorite professor at Case Western Reserve University’s School of Law. The old man had taken an immediate liking to Marcus, and over the years the two bonded academically and personally.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Mead said. “Running for Congress at your age and as an African-American Republican takes courage.”
“Or stupidity.”
“What’s the big shindig over there?” Mead asked, pointing to the Grand Ballroom.
“That’s McGee’s campaign party.”
“You both are holding your parties in the same hotel?”
“A scheduling snafu.”
“Has McGee made his grand entrance yet?”
“Not yet.”
“The man’s so crooked, he’s probably having trouble screwing his socks on.”
“Speaking of the devil, there he is now.” Marcus nodded toward the elevator, where a tall, broad-shouldered black man walked across the lobby, with something between a scowl and smirk on his face.
“He’s early,” Mead said, looking at his watch. “It’s only 9:05.”
As McGee disappeared into a crowd of well-wishers, Mead continued the small talk, but Marcus’s mind drifted a few hundred feet away to his hotel room, where the only woman he ever loved waited for him. A morbid, ironic thought occurred to him. Both his mother and his girlfriend had suffered at the hands of the same man. Maurice Stone. Murderous rage boiled within his heart. Stone must die.
“Look who’s coming now,” Mead said.
Marcus spotted William McLaughlin strolling across the polished marble floor, sweat glistening over his fat face so profusely that it appeared he was melting. No doubt he came to savor Marcus’s impending defeat.
“You know McLaughlin?” Marcus asked.
“Sadly, I do,” Mead said. “And not since Caligula made his horse a Consul has such mediocre ability been so richly rewarded.”
The McLaughlin name had been synonymous with Cleveland politics for over thirty years; both his father and grandfather had represented the Eleventh District in the United States Congress. But after inaugurating his own political career by winning the County Prosecutor’s seat ten years earlier, William McLaughlin had gone on to suffer two consecutive, humiliating defeats at the hands of the ten-term, African-American Congressman Julius McGee. For the past six years, McLaughlin also served as chairman of the Cuyahoga County Republican Party, which caused Marcus no end of grief.
McLaughlin advanced with an outstretched arm, a bright red welt across the back of his hand.
“The early returns have you trailing by four thousand votes,” McLaughlin said, flashing a wolfish smile.
“Thanks for noticing.”
“At least you made a race of it.”
“With no help from you.”
“Now, Marcus, you know I did everything I could for you.”
“I was born black, not stupid.”
“What’s that suppose to mean?” The pupils of McLaughlin’s greenish-blue eyes contracted to pinpoints. “Are you calling me a racist?”
Good question, Marcus thought, biting his lip, as he watched a flush creep into McLaughlin’s pudgy face, starting at his thinning hairline and radiating to the base of his goiter-like double chin.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Mead said, “there’s no arguing on election night.”
McLaughlin gave a dismissive wave, then went inside. A commotion in front of the brass elevator doors caught Marcus’s attention. An attractive black woman in a white mink coat dragged a screaming little girl by the arm into the elevator.
“Look over there,” Marcus said. “She looks familiar to me.”
“Who? The mother?”
“No, the girl. I know I’ve seen that face before.”
The elevator door closed, and Mead slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you inside.” Marcus looked at his watch as Mead walked away: 9:15 P.M. He wondered if he had enough time to run back to his room and kiss Alontay one more time—just for luck. Sighing, he licked his lips, trying to taste her last kiss. An odd premonition struck him. He glanced around the lobby and saw the back of an enormous, baldheaded black man striding toward the fire escape stairs. Maurice Stone? What would he be doing here? Marcus watched the man disappear inside the stairwell and caught a glimpse of his profile. Marcus could swear it was Stone.
“I must be seeing things.”
Shaking his head, he went inside. Three crystal chandeliers bathed the large, rectangular room in dim, incandescent light. The royal-blue draperies adorning the vaulted windows combined with the salmon- colored walls gave the room a regal feel. A smattering of people sat at the circular tables adorned in red, white, and blue bunting. Most of the
crowd milled around in front of the bar or near the large-screen television. A banner stretching almost completely across the far wall read KEEP THE DREAM ALIVE. Campaign signs and bumper stickers covered the walls. Marcus knew few of these people. It felt surreal, surrounded by so many strangers gathered on his behalf. He walked over to the television where Lee Jordan, Channel 5’s perky newscaster, read the latest tallies.
“Shhhh...,” someone yelled. “Here it comes.”
“With 20 percent of the precincts reporting”—a camera zoomed in on Lee Jordan’s face—“Democrat incumbent candidate Julius McGee is leading challenger Marcus Blanchard by three thousand votes in the Eleventh District Congressional race.”
“Don’t panic,” Mead said, appearing at Marcus’s right shoulder. “Those are the Westside votes.”
Mead offered sage advice, but his words made no more impression than rain on a window. Marcus smiled and nodded and thought of Alontay, hardly wrapping his mind around the horrors she’d suffered over the past seven years. He blamed himself. Had they stayed together, he could have spared her so much pain. Then again, if they hadn’t broken up, he wouldn’t have graduated college or went to law school or run for Congress. Why did his grandfather give him that terrible ultimatum?
“Marcus?”
“Huh, what?”
“What’s the matter?” Mead said. “All this political stuff boring you?”
“I’m sorry. My mind is somewhere else.”
“You’d better go find it. The press is starting to arrive.”
“They smell blood in the water.”
“Just remember,” Mead said, “when in doubt, mumble.”
Reverend Blanchard, Marcus’s grandfather, rolled over in his electric wheelchair, his dark face pasty gray. Deep lines dug into his high, square forehead. His left eye—partially blind—looked swollen and inflamed.
“What’s the matter, Pap?” Marcus asked.
“I’m not feeling too swell.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Too much excitement for an old man. I’m going back to my room.”
“Do you want me to help you?”
“No, no. This is your night, son, enjoy it. I’ll be all right.”
The old man rode away, and Marcus’s heart sank. He hated himself for harboring a grudge against a man who loved him so much. Marcus knew he wouldn’t be standing here today if it weren’t for that man’s love, protection, and guidance. Guilt mingled with mental strain. His nerves seemed to be unraveling with each dip of the night’s emotional roller coaster. He felt a headache coming on like an iron ring tightening around his forehead.
Lee Jordan’s face reappeared on the large-screen television. She brushed a blond finger curl away from her eye then looked into the camera. “With 55 percent of the votes counted, Julius McGee is holding on to a narrow two-thousand-vote lead over Republican challenger Marcus Blanchard. I am being told all the votes should be counted within the next thirty minutes. Stay tuned.”
“We’re still in this,” Mead said.
The reality of the situation struck Marcus like a blow. By the end of the night he could be a United States Congressman. He actually had a chance to fulfill his lifelong dream, and the only thing that would make this night more complete would be to share it with Alontay. Even if he lost, it wouldn’t matter as long as they were together. He longed to hug her and kiss her and...and...and ask her to marry him! That’s it!
“I’ll be right back,” he said to Mead.
“Where’re you going?”
“To my room.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Everything couldn’t be more right.” Marcus dashed toward the door.

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