The Competition

By Michael R. Shoulders

The Competition is a new kind of novel -- a fast-paced, sophisticated architectural thriller. The books dry humor and intriguing characters, along with its intricate, suspenseful plot, provide all of the necessary ingredients for a brilliant new genre.

When washed-up architect William Lightstone Travers enters a design competition for the new Governors Mansion in Indianapolis, he discovers graft and murder are part of the process. Can Travers save his troubled career and win the competition, despite corrupt officials determined to ruin him? Or will the large Chicago firm, where his daughter works, buy its way to the winning competition entry?

In the end, Travers must choose between a victory that could save him or a secret that might kill him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 27, 2007
• ISBN: 9781467078795

Michael R. Shoulders

Michael R. Shoulders is an architect, digital artist, city planner and writer who lives, with his wife Becky, in Southwestern Indiana and on the Gulf Coast of Florida. Sons Ben, an athletic administrator, and Jon, a musician, live in Bloomington, Indiana. The author’s professional interests include affordable housing, neighborhood design and urban agriculture. His digital photographic art is displayed throughout the Midwest.   Michael’s short fiction has been included among the top 30 in the Writer’s Digest Writing Competition and his articles have been featured in professional magazines concerned with design, planning and the environment.   The Competition is his first full-length novel.

Book preview

The

Competition

A Novel

by

Michael R. Shoulders

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2008 Michael R. Shoulders. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/17/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4259-8069-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4343-6005-2 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2006910261

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

CHAPTER SEVENTY

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Becky, Ben and Jon:

My love for you is boundless and unbridled, without width or breadth, eternal and ever expanding.

PROLOGUE

The narrow corridor stank from decades of human waste. Buford Bump Dundee breathed through his mouth but the stench remained overpowering. He lengthened his strides, attempting to shorten the duration of his trip to the Bunker, a below-ground arrangement of rooms that made modern prison cells look like celebrity suites. The dank spaces on either side of the corridor were a remnant from the days when the place had been called Immaculate Heart Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

He stared up at the light tubes, connected by a metal conduit that ran on the surface of the concrete ceiling. The bulbs were protected by metal cages and several of the tubes farther down the long corridor had blown out, leaving dark places on the floor between pools of white light. The area was normally off limits to Bump Dundee and the rest of the staff. The only personnel who had been officially cleared for the catacombs beneath Immaculate Heart were biochemists, pharmaceutical researchers, and a handful of medical doctors. Dundee had been head of maintenance and grounds at Immaculate Heart for thirty two years. So he was trusted to change a light bulb occasionally or to check on the antiquated fuse boxes. Per instructions from the Monsignor, he spent as little time as possible in the catacombs, yet each time he descended one of the concealed stairways that accessed the Bunker, he got a feeling that something cruel was going on down below. There had been no activity in the catacombs for as long as he could remember, then sometime about six months ago, the catacombs under Immaculate Heart began to come alive.

Bump Dundee was two years from retirement. He had no intention of asking questions or making trouble. He just wanted to get along. Whatever the researchers were doing didn’t concern him. It was none of his business. But, nonetheless, it bothered him.

The rubber soles of his work boots made a squealing sound on the concrete floor. He approached a metal fuse box in the corridor wall to his right. He stopped, clicked on his flashlight, unsnapped his key ring from his belt, keyed the fuse box and pried open the door. Strangely, he continued to hear the squeak of his boots, even though he was standing still. And then the entire right side of his body was smashed by a tattered, hairy figure that smelled like last night’s garbage. Dundee’s body hit the ground and his head bounced off the base of the stone corridor wall. His flashlight and key ring slid down the corridor out of reach. Dundee tried to prop himself up on one elbow but was too dazed. He managed to see the hairy figure of a man swipe up his keys and head for the stairway. Ready to hurl his lunch, Dundee made it onto all fours and then to his feet. He knew he had better catch the shaggy man or face the consequences. Monsignor Klaus did not like surprises or excuses. And Klaus liked to blame Dundee when things didn’t go perfectly.

Still somewhat dazed, Dundee shuffled slowly toward the stair. After four shuffles, he began running. From somewhere near the end of the corridor, Dundee heard a door slam shut. The tattered, hairy man had made it into the courtyard, Dundee’s worst fear. A clean escape would mean repercussions. Dundee had always hoped that he would be able to continue living in the caretaker’s cottage, even after he retired. But if this fugitive escaped, it would be bye-bye, Bump.

When Dundee reached the stairs, he pulled himself upward along the handrail. His head had started to throb at the base of his skull and daggers flashed into his forehead, just above his eyes. His stomach roiled and he could taste the black beans he’d had for lunch. Once at the top of the stairs, he felt in his pocket for the spare grand master key that unlocked every door in the complex. He spun the key in the lock cylinder and threw open the exit stair door. A blast of the last throes of winter blew back his hair and stung his eyes. He took his communicator from his belt and screamed, Man loose at Bunker stair three, proceeding across courtyard. This is Bump and I’m in pursuit.

Shortly after his pronouncement, the courtyard’s perimeter lights, mounted on top of massive brick walls, notched up in brightness and began to flash, giving the courtyard a weird, strobe-like aura that Dundee considered a precursor to a migraine. Siren horns from above him shrieked suddenly and Dundee’s heart leapt. It had been over a year since he’d heard the sirens go off and the last time had only been a test. On this occasion, they were blaring for real.

He squinted at the eerie sight of guards and orderlies from the sanitarium scampering in every direction. Two orderlies and one doctor burst from the infirmary doors into the yard. One of the orderlies pointed at a far corner of the brick perimeter. The man with long, dirty gray hair and a shaggy beard pawed at the ivy-covered wall, groping for a handhold, trying to scale the ten foot wall to freedom. Dundee heard two gunshots and began to run toward the fugitive.

Don’t shoot. Stop the fire, Dundee screamed. His breathing was short and his heart pounded against the inside of his work shirt.

The tattered man reached within two feet of the top of the wall and suddenly the right side of his body went limp. Dundee watched closely while the searchlights, still strobing on and off, washed the man with an other-worldly glow. His clothes hung like rags and half of his body had gone lifeless. Hanging on the vines with his left hand, the old man’s torso swung in Dundee’s direction. The muscles on the man’s left side clenched while those on the right withered and drooped as if they were melting.

A doctor came running from behind the laundry building toward an orderly who was poised beneath the old man, pointing a hypodermic needle. Fifty feet down the wall from where the old man dangled, a guard sighted along the snubbed barrel of a sawed-off shotgun, pointed in the old man’s direction.

The doctor shouted, No tranquilizer! Stop. He’s had a stroke.

The doctor’s warning came too late. The man slipped, a needle dangling from his calf, and slithered to the ground, collapsing into a mass of loose flesh. He lay motionless.

Dundee rushed to the body, arriving with the doctor. The doctor charged the orderly who’d administered the syringe and stuck his nose in the orderly’s face.

You idiot, the doctor screamed. You can’t use that goddamn horse tranquilizer on a patient who’s had the drug. Can’t you see the man had a massive stroke?

The orderly shrugged and backed off. The guard ran up and placed his shotgun’s barrel close to the cheek of the prostrate lump of flesh.

Get away from him, the doctor gasped, pushing the guard with both arms. The guard stumbled backwards and dropped the shotgun. Dundee knelt alongside the motionless body. He had never been this close to one of the subjects. The poor man’s left eye was still wide and wild while his right eyelid was half closed. Doctor Hughes, now squatting, turned to Dundee.

He’s dead, said the doctor.

Dundee felt the doctor’s accusing eyes crawling over him. There was nothing to say, nothing that would change the matter. From behind them, Dundee heard slow, steady footsteps. The pounding pace, so relentless, could be that of only one man on earth. Dundee turned to greet the priest, whose white collar flashed in the floodlights and whose coarse blond hair stood straight, motionless in the chill wind.

When the priest reached the circle of men surrounding the body, he glared down at Bump Dundee.

If you’d been doing your job, none of this would have happened. The Monsignor’s voice sounded as though it were coming through a six foot concrete sewer pipe. The sound waves vibrated Dundee’s ribcage.

He looked up at the Monsignor who had his arms folded across a massive chest cavity. The priest’s angular jaw line jutted like a rock outcropping. Dundee felt like replying, And if you hadn’t caged him like an animal, he wouldn’t have had to escape. But he remembered his pick-up truck and his easy chair at the caretaker’s cottage. And instead he said, Yes, sir. I’m sorry, Monsignor.

I want the ivy cut down from these walls by tomorrow evening, Klaus said. Is that clear enough for you? The priest’s sharp eyes could have cut holes in Dundee’s work shirt.

Yessir, Dundee said.

Monsignor Klaus pivoted and turned his back on the crowd.

Back to work people, Klaus said, over his shoulder. Get this mess cleaned up before dawn.

PART ONE

THE SOLICITATION

The position of the creative

architect is a lonely one, for

to originate means to have made

the creative venture first, and alone.

John M. Johansen, Architect

CHAPTER ONE

Friday, May 27, 11:35 a.m.

In his twenty-five years of practice, William Lightstone Travers had never seen a client’s face as red with rage as Gretchen Grabel’s. A few had come close. And when she started screaming at him, the piece of flesh in her throat, the one often confused with the tonsils, looked just as raw and angry as her face. You are one arrogant prick, Travers, she hollered in as loud a voice as the walls of his studio had heard in the past four years, since he’d moved in. She flung a ceramic mug at him, still half full of tepid coffee. Travers ducked just in time. The mug hit the wall, squarely in the middle of a hand-rendered floor plan of Gretchen Grabel’s kitchen. Brown streaks ran down the drawing.

Hey, that mug was special to me, Travers said. His draftsman, Wayne Chambliss, kept his head down, staring into the monitor at his computer station, pretending he was paying no attention to them.

Add it to my bill, she said. The one I’m not paying. She picked up her handbag and stormed out the door. Travers was glad to see her go.

The door vibrated for five full seconds after she slammed it. Both men watched the door, wondering if the frosted glass was going to melt. You have a way of doing that to certain types of people, you know, said Chambliss.

Doing what? Travers said.

Ticking them off.

We’re better off without her. We were getting nowhere. She just doesn’t get it.

Chambliss shifted his mouse. You didn’t have to tell her that her taste was…what did you call it…southern outhouse?

No, said Travers. I think I called it outhouse chic.

Chambliss sighed. You think it’s funny, don’t you Will?

Travers was picking up pieces of his favorite coffee mug. He looked at Chambliss. Funny? he said. Not funny. Just a bit bizarre.

Look, Will. I’ve got three little girls and a wife at home. It gets old wondering if and when the next job is coming in, and then when it does, whether you’ll piss the client off.

Don’t worry, Wayne. I’m working on a big deal, having lunch with Edgar to discuss it. Travers slid his arm into a lightweight sports jacket. Lock up when you finish today, okay? I’m heading to the lake after lunch.

Chambliss stared at his computer screen again, his face glum. Have fun at the lake while I’m here wrapping up the Amax job, he said.

Travers smiled. Chambliss was a passive-aggressive worry wart, but he was also one hell of a conscientious technician. Travers rarely had to correct Chambliss’s detailing. You have a good weekend, Wayne. And quit worrying. Everything’s going to work out fine when we get this new deal going. You’ll see. Travers checked his pants pocket for keys and money. Tell your girls hello for me.

Sure thing, Chambliss said, without looking up.

Heading for St. Elmo in his Porsche, Travers realized he was about to ask for another favor, even though he hadn’t thanked his brother for all of the things he’d already done over the past five agonizing years. It occurred to him that the only time he called his younger brother was when he needed something from him. Some day he would do something for Edgar, but it was hard to help a man who needed nothing.

Travers arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early, in time to sit at the bar and finish a Bloody Mary before Edgar arrived. He was half way through his second drink when Edgar, the beloved, prominent and well-connected Indianapolis attorney, came through the front door. The manager of St. Elmo kept the lights low, even at midday. Edgar squinted, adjusting his eyes to the dark interior after basking in the spring sunshine outside. Travers crushed out his cigarette and slid his unfinished Bloody Mary toward the bartender.

Ed, Travers said. Over here. Travers motioned to his brother.

Oh, there you are, Edgar said. He moved in Travers’s direction and extended his hand. Travers had no doubt his brother would shake his hand. Edgar shook hands with everyone, regardless of their kinship to him or their gender. What’s this all about? Edgar said. His grip was crushing.

Let’s get a table first, Travers said, in the back room, where we can talk.

The back room at St. Elmo was a smoking room, but Travers decided he wouldn’t light one of his Camels at lunch. Edgar detested cigarette smoke. Travers gestured to the hostess for a two-man table against the wall. The hostess led them to the table and set two menus at their places. There was only one other couple in the room and they were several tables away.

They ordered drinks, Travers a Bloody Mary and Edgar a mineral water. Edgar gazed at Travers, buttering his roll in the right spot without looking at it. What’s this all about?

I need someone at City Hall to help me get a project, Travers said. I’m tired of doing work nobody else wants. The waitress set the drinks down and then moved toward the other couples’ table. Travers stirred his drink and took a sip. He had sent so many of St. Elmo’s drinks back to the bartender lately for being too weak, he didn’t have the nerve to send this one back for being too strong on the vodka. He decided to endure.

What kind of project? Edgar asked.

I heard they were putting together a design competition for the new Governor’s Mansion.

Edgar tilted his head as if he hadn’t heard Travers, but Travers knew he had. Governor’s Mansion? Edgar repeated. They already have a Governor’s Mansion. I was over there on Meridian at a reception last week. It looks fine to me. He took a large bite of buttered roll.

Travers tasted his drink again and sloshed a mouthful around before swallowing. He smiled, marveling at how different the two of them were. If you didn’t know them, you would never guess they were related. Edgar took after their father, built low and solid with thinning sandy hair. Travers, on the other hand, favored their mother, lanky with dark features.

Edgar was blunt and easy to predict. Travers might say anything.

Edgar approached things directly and Travers liked to dance.

Edgar was still married to the same woman he’d fallen in love with twenty-nine years ago. Travers was divorced.

Edgar was an attorney, the Deputy Prosecutor.

Travers was an architect, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.

What I’ve heard is that they are going to build a brand new, modern Governor’s Mansion, Travers said. He finished the Bloody Mary, the last swallow full of salt, pepper and Tabasco. I can’t go on doing what I’m doing much longer. Watching men with less talent get the plums, while I get the crap. I need this chance.

The waitress came back to the table, ready to take their orders. Travers ordered a filet mignon with garlic mashed potatoes. Edgar got the shrimp and scallop salad.

What about that kitchen renovation job I got you with Gretchen Grabel? She was a good client of mine, Edgar said. What’s the matter with that work?

It was going fine until I told her she had no aptitude for interior design and her taste was strictly outhouse chic.

Edgar’s reaction was familiar to Travers. His face reminded Travers of the expression his ex-wife had the first time she ate escargot.

Look, don’t get me anymore of those residential jobs, those kitchen and bath remodeling jobs for desperate housewives, Travers said. Gretchen came on to me and when I didn’t respond, she morphed into a cold, deceitful witch. The waitress brought another Bloody Mary and Travers took a big gulp.

Gretchen’s not like that. You misinterpreted her. By the way, how many Bloody Marys is that? Edgar asked.

You mean full ones?

Yes. How many?

This is only the third, Travers said.

Edgar assumed the escargot look again. Will, you know you won’t get that new Governor’s Mansion project. You’re a dreamer. If you heard about it out on the street, then it’s probably a done deal already. It’s going to go to one of the big local firms.

I don’t think so, Travers said. The fact that it’s a design competition and not just a review of credentials means they are looking for something special. I can give them something special.

You’re dreaming, Edgar said.

Okay, so I’m a dreamer. That’s what guys like me do. We dream. And the bigger our dreams, the greater we become, Travers said. I know I can win that competition if I just get the chance to show what I can do. Travers pulled his pack of Camels from the inside pocket of his jacket. He withdrew a Camel and tamped the filter end on the face of his wristwatch. All I know is I’ve got to get something going or get out. If I can’t start working on projects with substance, projects that mean something, important projects, then I’ll go back to being an ironworker, like grandfather Lightstone did in New York. I can’t keep doing these penny ante little projects that don’t amount to anything important. He placed the cigarette between his lips but didn’t light it.

Okay. Take it easy, Edgar said. I don’t want you getting all worked up. It’s been five years since the collapse. I remember how you were then. You were devastated. That kind of thing takes awhile to heal. Edgar looked away for once, allowing them to finish their meal in silence.

Travers was not certain if he had healed or not. What he did know was that he was dying inside. He was dying to get back to the work that meant everything to him, to projects like the ones he was doing before the collapse. They were real projects, significant projects, projects that didn’t hinge on whether he was willing to diddle a housewife or not.

When Edgar finished his last shrimp he said, Okay, you know how political a job like the Governor’s Mansion is going to be, don’t you?

Travers nodded. He hated politics. He knew how the political system worked, but had never been any good at playing politicians’ games. Petty favors and the scratching of backs were not talents that came naturally to him. He had neither the instinct nor the stomach for the political scene and had always relied on Edgar to help with the political connections. But Edgar had done so much work for him in the past five years, in order to keep his legal fees to a minimum, Travers felt terrible asking for this one last favor.

Yes, Ed, I know all about kissing the right rings and ‘you scratch my back’ and all of that. I just need a meeting with somebody who can help me get an invitation to the competition and I’ll take care of the rest. I can promise you that. Travers decided to put his cigarette back into his Camel pack and the pack in his jacket.

All right then. I have a meeting set up for you at one thirty, Edgar said.

Today? Travers asked.

Yes today. When you called and said you needed to talk to somebody at City Hall, I made an appointment for you with Buddy Peeple. She asked what you wanted and I said I didn’t know.

Travers looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes past one o’clock. Are you going with me?

No, I can’t today. I have to be in court, Edgar said.

Travers remembered Charline Buddy Peeple from a couple of ground breaking ceremonies in the late nineties. His recollection was that she was not the warmest person in the world. What is her title now? Travers asked.

Geez, Will, you don’t know anything about the power structure in this town, do you? Don’t you read the newspaper?

Arts and Entertainment section, Travers said. And sometimes the sports.

Edgar shook his head and sighed. She’s the City Manager. She works directly under the Mayor and the President of City Council. She knows everybody in state and local politics from both parties. She’s brilliant. If there is going to be a design competition for a new Governor’s Mansion, she’ll be heavily involved. She’s in the same party as the Governor and she headed his campaign.

What’s her hot button? Travers asked.

She has no buttons. And don’t try to bullshit her, Edgar said. She’ll throw you out of her office if she thinks you’re wasting her time.

I wish you would have told me about this sooner. I wouldn’t have had four Bloody Marys if I’d known about this meeting, Travers said.

I thought you only had three, Edgar said.

Well, actually three and a half.

Edgar laid a fifty and a five dollar bill on the table and brushed the crumbs from his lap. You need to quit drinking so much. You’re going to pickle your brain, he said.

Some real work is what I need. My brain is fine.

Both men pushed away from the table and stood. It was now twenty-five minutes after one. Travers had five minutes to walk four blocks to City Hall. From what he recalled of Buddy Peeple, it was probably a bad idea to be late to her meeting.

I’ll call you tonight, Travers said.

Edgar looked him over and stepped aside, letting Travers pass. Good luck, he said.

CHAPTER TWO

Friday, May 27, 1:26 p.m.

Travers lit a Camel and walked briskly toward City Hall, cutting through an alley. The weather was perfect, late May being the absolute best time of year in Indianapolis. Banners announcing race day were strung up on every street. He felt lightheaded from the drinks, but the breeze and the cigarette helped clear his mind. He could always count on Edgar to come through. In fact, Edgar was too efficient. Travers would have preferred some time to discuss strategy with his brother about how best to approach Buddy Peeple. When he made it to the front steps of City Hall, his watch read twenty-nine minutes after one.

He decided he would lay his cards on the table and convince her that he needed a chance. Living and working in Indianapolis for the past quarter century, after graduating from Ball State University, classified him a local boy. He deserved this opportunity to show what he could do and wouldn’t be shy about asking for it. Yet he wished Edgar could have come along with him. Edgar was more diplomatic.

Regardless, it was time for Travers to play the game and sell himself. He had always been good at selling his designs, the thing he was most passionate about. Now he would need to use that passion in convincing Buddy Peeple to let him into the competition. After crushing out his cigarette in the sand on top of a waste container outside City Hall, he checked his fly. It was closed.

The building directory kiosk in the rotunda indicated the City Manager’s office was on the second floor in room 202. Travers climbed the winding marble stairs quickly, his footfall echoing up toward the large translucent dome. When he’d made it to the second floor, he reached into the left side pocket of his sports jacket and pulled out a metal tin of peppermint Altoids. He opened the tin, picked out four mints and popped them in his mouth, two on either side.

The receptionist in 202 was chewing gum like it was going extinct. She asked him to have a seat in the small waiting area next to her desk while she checked to see if Mrs. Peeple was ready for him. Travers took a seat next to a square glass table covered with magazines, Indiana Business Journal, Indianapolis Quarterly, and Public Administrator. None of the magazines looked terribly interesting to Travers. By now, he had developed a strong urge to urinate, but his watch said thirty-four minutes after one. This was not the time to excuse himself.

The receptionist came back to her desk. Mrs. Peeple will see you now, she said, pointing him down a short hallway to Buddy Peeple’s office. On his left was a drinking fountain and a men’s room. He thought about ducking into the restroom but passed it by, arriving at Buddy Peeple’s threshold.

Come in, Mr. Travers, Buddy Peeple said, without looking up from her laptop. She sat at a large expanse of desk with few objects on its surface, only a picture of her husband, a notepad, and a pencil. I’ll just be a moment. Please have a seat at the table and I will join you shortly.

All right, Travers said.

Travers sat at the round table in one of the four chairs. Her office had a good view of the courtyard and fountain in the City Hall grounds below. Two of her walls were covered with degrees, certificates, achievement awards, honorary memberships, pictures of her at building dedications, and framed notes penned by a variety of politicians and celebrities. One wall was covered from floor to ceiling with books on management, personnel and politics. She had a Bachelor’s degree in political science from the University of Michigan, an MBA from The Wharton School, and a Masters Degree in Public Administration from Stanford.

She tapped away at the keys of her laptop, with eyeglasses slid down toward the tip of her nose, completely absorbed. Her hair was piled on the top of her head with no discernible pattern or intention that Travers could recognize. The eyes were set deep inside their sockets, appearing guarded. She wore a gray suit jacket and plain white blouse. Travers could not see her lap, but assumed she was wearing a gray skirt to match the suit jacket. She wore little, if any, make-up and no jewelry except her wedding ring. Her nails were trimmed close, without polish. The diamond in her ring had pivoted in the direction of her pinky finger as if it had wilted.

After five minutes, she finally looked up from the laptop. Okay, Mr. Travers, she said. How may I help you?

Just let me get into the competition, he thought, and I will get out of here and take a glorious piss.

Buddy Peeple moved from behind her desk, closed her office door and came to sit at the table with Travers. As he’d envisioned, she was wearing a gray skirt that matched her suit coat. The skirt extended down past her knees. She wore sensible black shoes with mid-height heels. She sat with her back erect, not touching the chair back. Her complexion, though light, could not be called fair. Ruddy splotches broke up the pallor. Once she was settled in place with her hands folded on the table in front of her, Travers spoke.

I came to ask about the design competition for the Governor’s Mansion, he said.

What about it?

Travers realized that this was not going to be an easy sell. From all indications, he would have to sweat blood. Is there going to be one? he asked.

Yes.

Can you tell me any details about it? Rather than an architect, he was beginning to feel like a dentist pulling impacted teeth.

I would be glad to tell you what I know, she said, removing her eyeglasses and laying them on the table in front of her, then re-folding her hands. The Governor, with bipartisan support, wants to build a new Governor’s Mansion that has improved facilities for public functions, receptions, entertaining of international guests, and conducting of some of the state’s business away from the Governor’s office at the Capitol Building. He feels that a building of the stature of the White House, on a more expansive rural site, is appropriate for the state of Indiana, a rural state. The current Mansion, he feels, is too land-locked and has little distinctiveness from the other residences along Meridian Street on either side of it.

Do you agree with him? Travers asked.

What I think is immaterial. I’m not an elected official.

But what do you, as a citizen of the capitol city and state of Indiana, think?

From a tradition and a fiscal standpoint, I think it should stay right where it is, she said. But, as I said, my views are irrelevant.

Travers mustered his courage and took a deep breath. What would I have to do to get an invitation to the design competition, Mrs. Peeple? he asked.

You may call me Buddy, she said.

Travers, try as he might, could not picture himself calling this woman Buddy. She had probably been dubbed with that nickname because she was capable of endearing herself to the party faithful, the precinct committeemen and the wretched refuse who stood in line waiting to receive their share of the patronage they could buy with their loyalty, their hard work on behalf of the party and their straight-ticket vote. But she wasn’t his buddy. Far from it. In fact, he was starting to pity the poor slob who had to bed her down every night.

"Is there still a chance for