Heads You Win

“The only problem with having you on my team,” said Lawrence, “is how many voters are saying you’d make a far better candidate than me. More people are turning up to hear you speak than ever attend my rallies.”

“But the Lowell family has had a representative in Washington for over a hundred years,” said Alex. “I’m just a first-generation immigrant, fresh off the boat.”

“As are many of my supporters, which is why you’d make an ideal candidate. If you ever decide to stand for anything, from dogcatcher to senator, I’d be happy to support you.”

*   *   *

Evelyn and Todd boarded a flight back to Nice that afternoon, as they didn’t want to be in Boston when the first editions of the papers hit the streets the next day.

“Did you post the package to Hawksley?” asked Todd, as he fastened his seatbelt.

“Hand delivered it to his headquarters,” said Evelyn. “Couldn’t risk the mail after what they charged me for those photographs.” She smiled as the stewardess offered her a glass of champagne.

“What if Lawrence finds out the truth?”

“It will be too late by then.”

*   *   *

“But you must get a hundred crank calls every day,” said Blake Hawksley. “Why take this one seriously?” he asked, pointing at a dozen photographs strewn across his desk.

“I don’t get many hand-delivered by a smartly dressed woman with a clipped Brahmin accent,” said his campaign manager.

“So what are you advising me to do about it?” asked the Republican candidate.

“Let me share the information with a good contact I have on The Boston Globe, and see what he makes of it.”

“But the Globe always supports the Democrats.”

“Perhaps they won’t after they’ve seen these,” said Steiner, collecting up the photographs and placing them back in the envelope. “Don’t forget their first interest is selling newspapers, and this could double their circulation.”

“When they see them, the first person they’ll call will be me. So what do I say?”

“No comment.”

*   *   *

Alex read the lead story on the Globe’s front page a second time before he passed the paper to Anna. When she finished the article he asked, “Did you know that Lawrence was gay?”

“Of course,” said Anna. “Everyone did. Well, everyone except you, it would seem.”

“Do you think he’ll have to step down as candidate?” said Alex, looking at the photographs spread across the center pages.

“Why should he? Being gay isn’t a crime. It might even increase his majority.”

“But having sex with a minor is a crime.”

“It was obviously a set-up,” said Anna. “A street hustler who’s fifteen, going on thirty, traps Lawrence, having no doubt been paid handsomely for the part he played. It wouldn’t even surprise me if the Republicans are behind it.”

“Did you see what Hawksley said when the Globe called him?” asked Alex.

“No comment. And you should advise Lawrence to do the same.”

“I don’t think the voters will let him get away with that. I’d better go over to Beacon Hill immediately, before he says something to the press that he’ll later regret.” As Alex got up from the breakfast table he smiled ruefully. “It doesn’t help that he’s addressing the Daughters of the American Revolution at lunch today.”

“Give him my love,” said Anna, “and tell him to tough it out. He might be surprised how sympathetic people are. We don’t all live inside the Washington beltway.”

Alex took Anna in his arms and kissed her. “I got lucky when I stepped onto the wrong train.”

Urged on by Alex, the cabdriver broke the speed limit several times in an attempt to get to Lawrence’s home before the press beat him to it. But his efforts were in vain, because by the time they reached Beacon Hill a marauding pack of journalists and photographers had already pitched their tents on the sidewalk in front of Lawrence’s town house, and clearly had no intention of budging until the candidate emerged from his castle and made a statement.

For the past month Alex had been trying to get even one of them to attend one of Lawrence’s rallies and give him some coverage, only to be met with, “Why should we bother, when the result’s a foregone conclusion?” Now they no longer believed that was the case, they were hovering like vultures who’d spotted a wounded animal attempting to hide in the undergrowth.

“Is Mr. Lowell going to withdraw?” shouted one of the reporters as Alex stepped out of the cab.

“Will you be taking his place?” Another.

“Did you know he had sex with a minor?” A third.

Alex said nothing as he pushed his way through the baying pack, almost blinded by the photographers’ flashbulbs. He was relieved when Caxton opened the front door even before he knocked.

“Where is he?” he asked as the butler closed the door behind him.

“Mr. Lowell is still in his room, sir. He hasn’t appeared since I took his breakfast up over an hour ago, along with the morning papers.”