Free Dirty in Cashmere by Peter Plate Page B

blog. He gets thousands of hits daily. You’re an oracle. The coolest thing around.”
    The flattering remark kindled my paranoia and speeded up my heartbeat. I tried to make like I was indifferent. In my job you couldn’t act too eager, otherwise people would drain you until you were a husk.
    â€œI have a proposition for you.”
    I hoped it wasn’t sex. Please. I couldn’t deal with that. The timing wasn’t good. I was distracted. My hair was poorly combed.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œDon’t you know? We want you to work with our campaign. We’ll pay you three times whatever Branch is paying you. Babe Jones would welcome an oracle on his team.”
    If I jumped ship, Branch would crucify me. The worrisome thing was, I couldn’t predict the winner yet. Something blocked me. The auditorium crawled with too many vibes. It was too soon.
    So this is politics, I thought.
    I was nostalgic for Heller and 2-Time.
    â€œWhat the fuck is going on here?”
    Branch was at my side, devouring Ruth Dick with unconcealed venom, staring at her like she was a short eyes, a child molester. The tic on his jaw had blossomed into a twitch that ruled the right side of his face from his brow to his chin. He couldn’t stop blinking.
    â€œI was talking to the woman, Branch. That’s all.”
    Ruth Dick attempted to speak out of turn.
    â€œI had no idea you’d get so upset, Branch. I apologize—”
    â€œShut the fuck up.” Branch silenced her with an imperial flick of his left hand, three gold bracelets tinkling on his wrist. His oiled black hair was electric with anger. “You’re a goddamn leech. Get the hell out of here.”
    Managing to retain her composure, the campaign worker politely smiled at Branch, spun on her high heels and beat a judicious, swift retreat, merging with the crowd.
    â€œIf I ever see you talking to one of my competitors again, you’re fired.” Branch fastened his right hand around my forearm. “Do you read me?”
    â€œLike the Bible.”
    â€œGood. Now let’s get back to work.”
    The rest of the debate told me nothing. It was a stalemate. The picture was opaque. The sole thing I could predict was no prediction. When the event was over and the crowd filed out of the auditorium onto Twenty-third Street, Branch interrogated me on the sidewalk, holding me hostage against a parking meter.
    â€œYou come up with anything?”
    â€œNo, man, I haven’t.”
    â€œWe’re running out of time. Each day is thousands of dollars going nowhere. You need to step up the pace, or we’re fucking dead.”
    It was a warm San Franciscan night. Faces came out of the dark. Fog pillowed the rooftops, muting the streetlights. The air was thick with car exhaust, the ocean’s salt and incandescent particles of iodine. Branch and I parted ways. I caught a 14 Mission bus to Geneva Avenue. He hopped in a limousine back to Pacific Heights.
    Instead of riding the bus all the way south to Geneva Avenue I had the driver drop me off by the Safeway. It was late. Nobody was out as I slunk to Tiffany Avenue.
    Frank Blake’s house was at the end of the street, a large two-story single family dwelling sheathed in white asbestos siding. The yard was paved over with concrete. All the windows were dark. To one side of the front door was a rusty mailbox. I tippytoed to the box and opened it a smidgen; a torrent of Indian restaurant circulars and Department of Public Health brochures cascaded around my shoes. A handprinted note was taped to the box’s flap:
    POSTMAN. DON’T LEAVE NO MORE MAIL FOR FRANK BLAKE. HE’S DEAD. HEPATITIS C GOT HIM.
    A light blinked on in the house next door. A young half-dressed female appeared in an upstairs window. Bare breasted with tousled hair. Looking down at me. Looking much too much like Vivian Raleigh for my comfort.
    I withdraw to the sidewalk. I start up Tiffany Avenue. I