"h.e.l.l no, son! You have to be patient. The goal is to get your law degree and spend time in the General a.s.sembly until you reach thirty. Then we make the move on the governor's race. How many thirty-year-old governors do you know? None, and without that law degree and getting your ticket punched in the General a.s.sembly, you don't have a prayer. But, a four-time All-American wearing a national championship ring who has paid his dues in the General a.s.sembly? You'll have them swarming around you like bees on morning glories."

"Exactly, Mr. J. and I can help with tutors." Deano winked at Tank.

Sam tapped his gla.s.s, and it wasn't long before a waiter brought him a new drink.

"We can mount the campaign right here in Chapel Hill," Deano continued. "Being a dedicated law student while making campaign speeches broadcast from the law library, it's perfect. Mr. J, you're a genius. Nothing like this has ever been done before, and that's why it'll work,"

Sam sipped on his fresh Cutty Sark. "I have to admit, son, I like the sound of it and it'll keep Tank in school."

Deano was on a roll, and Tank could feel the momentum picking up. His father was easily manipulated by the street smart New Yorker. Deano and booze had Sam in a receptive mood, and he intended to take full advantage of it-or at least, let Deano continue taking advantage.

"Hey, Mr. J., how does Grad School a.s.semblyman for a slogan sound to you? It will attract voters of all ages and especially the young voters who usually only vote about two or three percent of their eligible numbers. We can mount a voter registration campaign on campus and-"

"Whoa! Hold up a minute, Deano," Sam said, his gesticulations sloshing his drink to the point of spillage. "You sound too much like a campaign manager already. What do you know about running a political campaign?"

"No offense, Mr. J, but I learned a lot about elections in our neighborhood. My dad was a ward captain. In New York, the mayor depends on ward captains to deliver blocks of votes for his election. It's like what you Southerners call a gra.s.sroots campaign. Only we can't use the same kind of persuasion down here like in New York."

"What do you mean by persuasion?" Sam asked in a wary tone.

"You don't have unions and neighborhood wise guys like in New York to help out. So hire your TV guy George . . . whatever his name is to handle the press and media, and I'll handle the rest from behind the scenes."

Sam gulped down the rest of his drink. "Let's go back to the hotel and finish this conversation in private." Sam grabbed a bottle of Cutty Sark from behind the bar. "Here, Pearl, take my credit card and go shopping while we talk politics. The chauffer will take you anywhere you want to go. Take your time. The boys and I have a lot to talk about."

It was a silent drive to the Hilton. Sam ushered Tank and Deano into his suite and quickly closed the door. Immediately he unplugged the phone and drew the drapes closed. He went around the room, checking the lamps and under the coffee table for bugs. He even looked in the air vents for hidden cameras.

"Jesus H. Christ, Pop, what the h.e.l.l are you doing? You've been watching too much Elliot Ness on TV. n.o.body's bugged this place. Are you getting paranoid in your old age?" Tank tried to calm Sam down as he followed him around the room.

"Son, you never said anything about your family being in the Mafia the three years I've known you. Did you know about that, Tank?" Sam wrung his hands and headed to the bar then poured himself a full gla.s.s of scotch from the new bottle with no ice or water.

"d.a.m.n it, boys that puts a whole different light on things. I'm sorry, Deano, but we can't afford to have you involved in the campaign. You are too big a liability, and this isn't New York."

Exactly, Mr. J.," Deano cut in, "this isn't New York and I never said my father was in the Mafia. Everybody knows somebody in the Mafia in New York. That doesn't mean you're in the Mafia. Jeez, he only knows somebody who knows somebody who they say is in the Mafia. And if you're backing the right candidate, they may throw a little money your way, that's all. A lotta people say they know Mafiaosos to impress people. It don't mean they really do or are out whacking people, okay!

"Listen, Mr. J., a lotta Mafia guys have gone legit these days. The Feds have made it pretty tough on the families the last few years. Mr. Hoover's Mafia taskforce has arrested a lotta the old family G.o.dfathers and broken up the union rackets. It ain't like the old days. If a Mafia guy does you a favor, you don't have to kill somebody to pay him back. That's just stuff in the movies. So relax."

Deano leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms. "Trust me, I'm not in the Mafia, and I'll be so far in the background that n.o.body will know I'm there. I can help this campaign. I know the ropes and how to get dirt on your opponent. With me quarterbacking this team and Klinger out there spinning the media, Tank here will score a touchdown come election day, I guarantee it. Now, let's all sit down and talk about this calmly."

"I wish I was as sure about that as you are, son." Sam slumped down on a couch facing the window. He stretched out on the couch, and Tank pulled his Tony Lama cowboy boots off.

"Tank, we're going to have to change our plans and start your campaign as soon as possible. Here's what we have to do. Take advantage of all the publicity from the Orange Bowl and the upcoming Senior Bowl and . . ." Sam's voice trailed off until his eyelids closed. His head drooped into a wheezing slumber.

Chapter 20.

"Those old warhorses were older than most of you who repaired them and contributed to the great Allied victory as much as President Harry Truman's atomic bomb."

a.s.signment of a lifetime Rick didn't walk at his graduation commencement. It didn't seem important since he was practically working fulltime at the Raleigh Times Herald already. Neither of his parents could come. Roy had a severe stroke on Thanksgiving Day. Rick called regularly on Fridays to check on Roy's progress. Some movement had returned in his right arm, but his leg was useless. He had to be lifted into and out of his wheelchair. Mary Beth had to bathe and dress him and do almost everything else except feed him. Roy had learned to use his left hand for that. His helplessness was a strain on Mary Beth, who had lost weight to the point of looking frail.

On graduation day, Mary Beth called Rick.

"Hi, it's me," she said over the line, her voice meek. "I'm so sorry for not sending you a graduation card. I won't be able to send a birthday card this month either."

"Hi, Momma. I was just getting ready to call you. And don't worry about the cards. I know you aren't able to get out much. I didn't even go to graduation. They sent my diploma in the mail. Besides, I would much rather talk to you."

"Well, I just feel awful about it. I wanted to call and let you and Wil know that your daddy isn't doing well at all. If the stroke wasn't enough, the doctor said the blood tests came back, and he has lung cancer." There was long silence on the phone.

"Just keep him comfortable and make sure he eats and drinks plenty of fluids. That's about all I can do," she said in a chocked voice. "He's awake now. I'll let you talk to him."

Mary Beth held the phone to Roy's ear. There came a grumbled muttering, which Rick took to be his father.

"h.e.l.lo Daddy, how are you doing?"

More muttering came through, and the only thing Rick understood was, "proud . . . son."

"Thanks Daddy, that means a lot to me. Listen, you take care now, and we'll talk again next week."

Mary Beth came back on the phone.

"He doesn't sound very good, Momma. Isn't there anything they can do for him?

"The doctors say there isn't anything to be done."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"But, Rick, honey, I know your father wouldn't want you to worry. Keep working hard."

"Okay, you take care of yourself. I'll call you next week."

"I love you."

"I love you too. Goodbye now."

Rick slid back in his chair and thought how sad it was for his father to say he was proud of him on what was likely his deathbed. It was the first time Roy had expressed his feelings about Rick becoming a journalist since he covered the strike as a freshman at Cannon College. It was a long time coming and the words echoed over and over in his head until his eyes teared up. He was ashamed for not calling them regularly before his stroke. It took a stroke and two-packs-a-day smoking to make him realize how fragile life was. Rick never thought of his parents as getting old. They would just always be there. But now he faced the realization his father wouldn't live much longer.

David Brinkley Award Rick sat patiently through the introduction speech by Lt. Gov. Hadley Weandt, who had finally won the Lt. Governor's job after losing twice at the top spot. Rick was humbled at being the honoree of the David Brinkley Award, which was given annually to the top Journalism student. It was definitely worth the wait.

A native of Wilmington who spent time at UNC, Brinkley was supposed to present the award during the June commencement ceremony. But, he had a conflict because of a head-of-state interview in the Far East. The event was rescheduled to present Rick's award at a special ceremony before an a.s.sembly of NC State's School of Journalism's graduating cla.s.s a week later.

Rick's investigative story on the cover-up by tobacco companies of the addiction of cancer causing nicotine in cigarettes had attracted the legendary journalist's attention. Brinkley, the Southern half of the Huntley-Brinkley Report, featured highlights of Rick's work on NBC's nightly news report. Parts of his research were added to the data the federal investigation was conducting into the cigarette industry. He was proud of his work, but it had no effect on his own father's smoking habit. For that he was truly sad.

Dan Jenkins was there to applaud Rick's achievement and was introduced to Brinkley after the ceremony before Brinkley was whisked away in his limo.

"Let's get some dinner to celebrate," Dan said. "Your choice. I'm buying."

"How about The Greasy Skillet? They have this sausage and eggs platter that they serve all day."

Since Dan was buying, Rick ordered a short stack of pancakes to go with his sausage and eggs while Dan had a cup of coffee and dry toast.

"How can you eat that stuff this late at night? You won't live to be my age if you keep that up. As a potential Pulitzer winner you should take better care of yourself," Dan teased. "Hurry up. Let's get over to the office I've got something I want to show you."

Dan walked Rick past the front counter and into the boiler room, where night reporters' desks faced each other only inches apart. Shortwave scanners squawked as they pa.s.sed by the police desk.

Rick was puzzled when they pa.s.sed the conference room to a row of offices in the back just before the entrance to the press room. They stopped at a small dark room next to Dan's.

"Well, how do like your new office, Rick?" Dan smiled and turned the handle to let Rick into his new home away from home. The old City Desk plaque was yellowed from cigarette smoke stains.

"It's not much," Dan said, "but a David Brinkley Award winner deserves better than a desk out in the reporters boiler room. You'll have your own s.p.a.ce now and won't have to play musical desks anymore. You can close the door to hear yourself think while you're writing. That IBM is almost new. It sure beats the old manual Smokie Tanner used the thirty years he rode that desk. He refused to use one of those newfangled gadgets, as he called them.

"This is a big step, Rick. You'll be working the city beat mostly along with special a.s.signments for me. Not many Journalism graduates walk into a job like this, but you've earned it, and I have faith in you. I believe you have a bright future in this business. Prove me right."

"I won't let you down. You taught me too well for that." Rick slid into his swivel chair that wobbled and had silver duct tape over the frayed padding on the armrests. His desk was cleared off with nothing but cigarette burns and a coffee-stained dictionary lying next to his typewriter. He raised the chair up so his elbows were even with the desk. Rick sat in his chair for a minute and then asked Dan, "Did you happen to catch the governor's commencement address at Chapel Hill last week?"

"I heard parts of it. I was in here planning the layout for State's graduation coverage for Sunday's paper, why?" Jenkins tilted his head and arched his right eyebrow the way he always did when he asked a question.

"Didn't you think it was a little strange for a commencement address? It sounded to me more like a campaign speech."

"Governor Mathews sure sounded worried for an inc.u.mbent. Makes you wonder where that was coming from." Jenkins sat on the corner of Rick's desk. "What's the word on the street say about the election? I know you've been snooping around."

"Not much, really. Like you said, Mathews has made a few enemies. And I'm getting some feedback about his stand on taxing the tobacco industry. He promised to raise the cigarette tax in his speech and the silence was deafening in the packed stadium. R. J. Reynolds probably turned over in his grave."

"That has always been a hands-off issue. Why the sudden shift now?" Jenkins gave Rick a wry smile to egg him on.

"Well, here is what I know. Sam Johnson has been running a warehouse and distribution business out of Winston-Salem for several years now. He has his own rail spur to a warehouse where he ships two or three carloads a day to New York, filled with what I think are illegal cigarettes.

"Laws restricting the bulk sale of cigarettes over the counter aren't strictly enforced. Hundreds of little retailers near the state line are selling as many cartons as people want. The state relies on county enforcement and they are stretched too thin to do the job. There's even grapevine chatter that some of the county officials are on the take to look the other way. Sam is reportedly getting away with sending boxcar loads of cigarettes up North. SBI believes he puts forged New York State tax stamps on each pack, which is almost a dollar a pack. He's making a fortune. They don't know his source for the huge volume he ships. They suspect he has a well-paid contact working in R.J. Reynolds shipping department. Sam runs a tight ship and so far n.o.body has been able to get a lead on his operation.

"He's smart, pays his North Carolina taxes legally. Sells them in New York at their tax rate, minus a small discount to the mob. We a.s.sume they operate the dummy storefronts that account for the sheer volume of his sales. There's no doubt he's bringing in millions of dollars."

"Do you have any evidence, any witnesses to verify your theory, Rick? We have to be careful about this. A story like this can blow up in your face. There has to be hard, verifiable evidence before we can print a word of any of this. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes sir. I talked to Wil and he says they're suspicious of his operation but don't have enough to try for a search warrant. Neither has the SBI been asked by local authorities for help. They have tried to get somebody undercover hired in there, but haven't had any success. Wil has tried to get some cooperation from the County Sheriff, but his hands are tied too. Wil promised me an exclusive if he gets any breaks on the case. Meanwhile he's working on his unit Captain to let him do some investigating on his own."

"So, what does all this have to do with Sam's push to put Tank into the General a.s.sembly and eventually the Governor's mansion?"

"Come on, you know what he's up to," Rick said with an incredulous laugh. "If he gets Tank elected, he'll have control over state interference with his cigarette underground railroad and will have made millions of dollars right under our noses."

"Okay then, all we have to do is prove that supposition and you may break the biggest story in this town in years. Keep your ear to the ground, but don't forget you have a City Desk to run. Welcome to the real world of newspaper journalism, Rick. It's good to have you aboard fulltime." Dan stood and stretched before patting Rick on the back. "Enough shop talk, how about we get out of here and have a beer at Wimpy's before they lock the door?"

"Sounds good to me. Thanks, Dan. I appreciate you giving me this story. I'll break it. You won't be sorry."

"Don't thank me yet. Let me know a year from now how you feel about your job. Just remember, don't let your personal feelings get in the way of your objectivity."

Once they got to Wimpy's, where politicians hung out during the legislative sessions, they clicked two Budweisers together.

"Here's to the future of Raleigh's newest reporter," Dan said, "and by the way, I'll see what I can do about getting you another chair. I can't afford a Workmen's Comp. claim."

Chapter 21.

"As many as seventy-five steam engines a day were serviced through these shops running three shifts a day, every day, during those difficult times."

Summer of 1962 Ann was happier than she had been in years. She and Jerry had been married for almost three years and Ricky called him Dad, even though Ann wouldn't agree to let Jerry adopt him. She loved Jerry unconditionally but couldn't make the final break from her subconscious attachment for Rick. She couldn't bring herself to give him Jerry's last name.

Being a good father and husband didn't complete the family for him, though. Jerry wanted a son or daughter of his own. The subject had been off-limits since the beginning, but Jerry was confident enough now to have that conversation with Ann. He loved Ricky like a son, but it was time they had a child of their own. He just hadn't found the right situation to discuss it with Ann.

Hundreds of T-Ball players swarmed the park where four Pee Wee sized baseball fields were laid out in opposite corners. Jerry had warmed Ricky up for the game while waiting on the coaches meeting with the umpire.

Ann embarra.s.sed Ricky with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek for good luck before he trotted onto the field.

Ricky was the Yankees team pitcher. Although the pitcher didn't actually throw the ball to the catcher, he stood on the mound and waited on the batter to hit the ball off the T. Ricky was their best fielder, and most b.a.l.l.s dribbled right back to the mound. His sure-handed glove and strong right arm were no match for most batters he faced.

"Play Ball," the umpire shouted as he motioned the teams to take the field.

Jerry and Ann had taken seats in bleachers with parents of the other players.

"I'll get us something cold to drink," Jerry said.

Ann couldn't ask for a better life but still worried about her mother being home alone with Red, whose senility was getting worse. He had started having violent outbursts without warning. Most of the time he just sat in front of the TV without saying a word, but in one of his recent episodes he went after Alice with a butcher knife. Alice refused to put him in a nursing home and made excuses for Red's violent outbreaks just like she had done about his drinking.

Watching Ricky and his teammates try their best at T-ball kept her in the moment, and it wasn't long before Jerry had returned with a drink in each hand.

"Here we go. One large c.o.ke for you and a Cheerwine for me. I promised Ricky we'd treat his team to cold drinks after the game, win or lose," Jerry said.

Ann sipped her c.o.ke to cool off in the hot afternoon sun. "You really enjoy spoiling those kids, don't you?"

"And who suggested ice cream at the Dairy Queen after last week's game?"

Ann smiled then avoided an answer by taking a long pull on her c.o.ke. "Those little guys get hot and thirsty out there even though they spend most of their time just standing around or playing in the dirt like our first baseman is doing. He had two b.a.l.l.s. .h.i.t to him last week and he was so busy building little sand hills, he didn't even see the ball go by." Jerry laughed and took a swig of his Cheerwine. "It doesn't matter. They're having fun and that's what it's all about, isn't it? I just want them to get a little exercise and have some fun. They have plenty of time to get serious and be compet.i.tive in sports."

"Well, thank you, Dr. Spock," Ann teased.

Ann gazed across the dinner table at Jerry, who intensely watched Ricky wolf down his foot long hotdog heaped with chili, slaw, and onions.

"You boys really played a good game today. You didn't let a man on base until the third inning. Some kind of defense you threw at them."

"Fank wou," was all Ricky could get out of his hot-dog-stuffed mouth before washing it down with Cheerwine.

"Slow down," Ann said. "You're going to choke, and it isn't polite to talk with your mouth full."