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“It got her attention. It also worked.”
He studied her resolute expression for a moment, then bobbed his head and brusquely ordered, “Get in.”
He quickly tipped the doorman who’d been keeping an eye on the car, got behind the wheel, and drove cautiously out into the street. The windshield wipers clacked vigorously, but fought a losing battle against the heavy rainfall.
Tate headed north on Main Street, rounded the distinctive Tarrant County Courthouse, then drove across the Trinity River Bridge toward north Fort Worth, where cowboys and cutthroats had made history in its celebrated stockyards.
“Why did you come to get me?” she asked as the car streaked through the stormy night. “I could have taken a cab.”
“I wasn’t doing anything except hanging around backstage anyway. I thought the time would be better spent doing taxi duty.”
“What did Dirk and Ralph say about you leaving?”
“Nothing. They didn’t know.”
“What!”
“By the time they figure out I’m not there, it’ll be too late for them to do anything about it. Anyway, I was goddamn tired of them editing my speech.”
He was driving imprudently fast, but she didn’t call that to his attention. He seemed in no mood to listen to criticism. His disposition seemed black all around. “Why were we summoned to join you?” she asked, hoping to find the root of his querulousness.
“Have you been following the polls?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know that a change of strategy is called for. According to my advisers, desperation measures must be taken. We embarked on this trip to pump up enthusiasm, gain support. Instead, I’ve lost three points since we started.”
“Nelson said something about your maverick image.”
He swore beneath his breath. “That’s how they think I’m coming across.”
“They?”
“Who else? Dirk and Ralph. They thought the bulwark of a family standing behind me would convince voters that I’m not a hothead. A family man projects a more stable image. Shit, I don’t know. They go on and on till I don’t even hear them anymore.”
He wheeled into the parking lot of Billy Bob’s Texas. Touted as the world’s largest honky-tonk, complete with an indoor rodeo arena, it had been leased by Tate’s election committee for the night. Several country and western performers had donated their time and talent to the fundraising rally.
Tate nosed the car up to the front door. A cowboy wearing a yellow slicker and dripping felt Stetson stepped from the alcove and approached the car. Tate lowered the foggy window.
“Can’t park here, mister.”
“I’m—”
“You gotta move your car. You’re in a fire lane.”
“But I’m—”
“There’s a parking lot across the street, but because of the crowd, it might already be full.” He shifted his wad of tobacco from one jaw to the other. “Anyhow, you can’t leave it here.”
“I’m Tate Rutledge.”
“Buck Burdine. Pleased to meet ya. But you still can’t park here.”
Buck obviously had no interest in politics. Tate glanced at Avery. Diplomatically, she was studying her hands where they lay folded in her lap and biting her lip to keep from laughing.
Tate tried again. “I’m running for senator.”
“Look, mister, are you gonna move your car, or am I gonna have to kick ass?”
