Amy and Josh joined Dantley at his place for beers as they deconstructed the last several days worth of intrigue. Graham Carlson had pulled out the narrowest of victories in his congressional run. As a dead man.

“Williams Jennings Bryan ran for office three times and lost all three times. Maybe he should’ve tried dying,” Josh said.

“Carlson’s base was more in love with him dead than alive. Which tells me the electorate isn’t as clueless as we imagine . . .” Dantley pondered.

“How do you figure?”

“Carlson was a wild card. Voters didn’t love how he flipped on the issues. He was pancakes one week and waffles the next and that shit doesn’t play. Not on Broadway and not in Butte. What they did love was that big picture message he rode in on. So the void is created and now that message can be fulfilled by a candidate who is going to stick to the original script, lest they become a footnote. Carlson wasn’t dyed in any wool, his colors were too fast and loose. When I interviewed him, I got the very real sense he was running for the cache of having made it into the arena . . .”

“So he didn’t want to win?” Amy asked.

“Sure he wanted to win, but he wasn’t married to the idea. Here was a guy who’d already crossed the finish line years ago. Winning a House seat? That was simply the cheesecake at the end of a glorious meal,”

“What happens now?”

“The Governor holds a special election with someone stepping in for Carlson,”

“Who?”

“Monica Greene,”

“You cannot make this shit up,” Josh laughed.

“It makes sense. She was a cheer wife for Carlson, the dutiful modern day housewife who basically ran the campaign without asking for a title . . or needing one. Whereas hubby was all over the place, she was a constant . .”

“Yeah but what happens if Carlson’s affair with the pastor ever comes to light?” Amy asked.

“Oh, it will come to light . . you can count on that. And if I was betting my own money on it, she’ll provide the leak,”

“I don’t understand,” Amy said.

“She kept all the loose ends from fraying because she was hell bent on carrying that big picture message across the goal line. Her husband was living a double life and she stayed by his side anyway,”

“But won’t people perceive her silence to be a weakness,” Amy countered.

“Au contraire. It wasn’t weakness or fear that kept her by his side but rather, her belief in in that ethereal patch of grass every red blooded American can chew on,”

“How believable is she going to be? Here’s a woman who built her personal fortune through widowhood . .” Josh said.

“That’s a hell of a generalization Josh, and kinda sexist too . .” Amy argued.

“She’s right my man,” Dantley smiled. “Monica is no shrinking violet, she’s fearless and she’s bold and this run for office? It’s going to be her greatest reinvention of all, the one that earns her a place at the table,”

“If by reinventing herself you mean murdering anyone who got in her way, then yeah . . ” Josh said.

“Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t . . but smarter people than us couldn’t prove any of it so she’s your candidate and she’s got a plan. She’ll play the grieving widow, emboldened by the father, son and the holy ghost to serve up a hot slice of American pie, and something tells me the crowd is gonna eat it up,”

“Why would she even want to run for office though?” Amy asked.

“Graham Carlson was living his life as if he’d already crossed the finish line but he was married to a woman who understands how power really works,” Dantley explained.

“And how does it really work?” Josh asked.

“You keep moving the finish line,”

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, the grieving widow prepared for her closeup. Monica Greene was scheduled to formally announce her run for office on the steps of the statehouse in a couple hours and her mind raced with thoughts of the future. As she stared into the mirror, she felt a million years removed from that naïve college girl with a head full of dreams.

The death of Graham Carlson was an ongoing investigation that would eventually be ruled a suicide. Which it was. And wasn’t. Both.

The last conversation Monica had with her now late husband had been in regards to his affair with Pastor McCormack of the Risen Hope Church. It was late at night and Graham was several drinks deep when she informed him that Dantley Grisham had incriminating proof of his secret lover. She told Carlson she’d invited him over in order to pay him off but to no avail. Their daytime romp was her last ditch effort to save his campaign, nothing more.

The lie was crafted in order to have him step down but he did her one better when he took that carbon monoxide bath. Carlson didn’t give a great Goddamn about a failed campaign but he did care a great deal about his carefully crafted image in which he fancied himself a cross between Richard Gere and Walter Goggins. Handsome and affable, a ladies man with a million dollar word for every ten cent problem.

He was already spiraling after his lover ceased all communication with him days earlier. Of course, she left out the part where she’d placed a call to McCormack, letting him know that he would go radio silence with her husband or she would hold a special sermon for his congregation.

So . . no murder weapon necessary. Unless you counted hopeless desperation and a ledge to get pushed off. But that would never hold up in court seeing as how Graham wasn’t available to take the stand. He was the third husband she would have to bury and she would miss him least of all, because their union had always been a professional arrangement; soulless and utterly devoid of passion.

She was a candidate now, and she wasn’t running to lose. She’d experienced a lifetime’s worth of losing as that naïve college girl. It had stolen away her youth and now it was time to get back and get even with all the fates. She would build her political machine on illusory appeals to a bygone era that never existed to begin with. In a profession where words carried all the water, she would liberate the disenfranchised populace that yearned for the margins to be filled with that mystical sense of purpose. After all, politicians were the new televangelists.

She was made for the pulpit.

Sweet Dreams + White Stripes Mashup

Dantley sprawled out on a chaise lounger in the courtyard tucked inside the big fat center of the home of Monica Green and Graham Carlson. His face sprawled into a wicked blush as he clinked glasses with Nicholas and Amy as Monica had popped a second bottle of champagne for the ‘occasion’. As far as dating stories went, Dantley was outdoing himself with this one. He figured such an ill conceived ensemble cast was full of risk, but with two healthy glasses of Veuve Clicquot swimming around in his stomach, he was brimming with the newfound freedom of a man on the ledge.

“What a beautiful home you have,” Amy smiled as Monica handed her a glass.

“Thank you love. It was designed by Pedro Mel, are you familiar?” Monica asked, knowing the answer full well.

“Not in the least,” Amy replied with no shame or shyness.

“He was the darling of la haute bourgeoisie in Paris. Mel was an architect in the city back when Francois Mitterand was busy playing Robin Hood and all the old money socialites were fleeing as if it were the second coming of the Third Reich. So Mel being the restless prodigy that he was . . he followed,”

“Where’d they go?” Amy asked with serious interest.

“Most went to the UK, Switzerland, the states. A handful, Mel included, made way for Belgium, they settled in the foothills of Bruges,”

“The Venice of the North,” Dantley said.

“And they say Americans are shit for when it comes to geography,” Monica winked.

“Mel was a trust fund kid whose favorite hobbies were . . elaborate,”

“Yeah, married women and money laundering,” Nick belched, his champagne glass already empty and his slurred speech proving it.

“Honey you’re such a lightweight with your drink. Just like your father,” Monica tsked. “Don’t mind Nick, he loves to embellish. No . . Mel was a brilliant mind who was charmingly rudderless,”

“And he designed this place,” Amy said, cutting off Nick’s next bubble burst.

“I asked Mel to think up a home that was equal parts pre-revolutionary war and something out of a Moroccan wet dream,”

It was of course, the perfect description of the three-story mansion with the gambrel roof and flared eaves of a Dutch Colonial that also featured the Moroccan influence of a broadly arched ten-foot high set of intricately carved Atlas cedar double doors scrubbed in marine spar varnish; the stain providing a warm embracing glow for its visitors.

“And so that’s what Mel does now? Designs homes?”

“Did. Yes, he passed several years ago. Heart attack,”

“Yeah . .  heart attack,” Nick repeated, each syllable brushed with a thick layer of snide.

“More champagne?” Monica asked Amy and Dantley.

“Oh not me, thank you . . I’m driving. And Dantley, I feel like you probably need a ride from here,” Amy said.

“One for the road then,” Dantley said as he held out his glass.

“Atta boy,” Monica said as she refreshed his glass.

“You know what mom? I’m happy for you . .” Nicholas remarked, without the slightest hint of deprecation as he poured himself another glass and took a healthy swig.

“Happy for me dear?” Monica asked as she sipped from her fluted glass.

“For ordering out when it comes to your romantic entanglements . . .” Nicholas explained.

“Are you being coy?”

“Not in the least.”

Monica’s smile transformed itself into a slow blinking feline curl; the shape of her lips thick with the guile of a woman who was so thoroughly dismissive of the rules that being found with a paramour by her own son didn’t faze her in the least.

“Nicholas is not a fan of Graham’s,” Monica said matter of factly.

“Understatement of the year,” Nick replied cooly.

“Family is complicated,” Amy blurted out in a desperate attempt to provide a modicum of normalcy to an otherwise clusterfucked situation.

“He’s not family,” Nick replied bitterly.

“Honey don’t be morose . . .”

“Yeah Nick, let’s keep things light,” Dantley said.

“I’m sorry Amy, I didn’t mean to snap like that,” Nick said as he gently weaved his hand inside Amy’s.

“Hush. You’re fine,”

“Am I late for the party?”

It was Graham Carlson. Because why fucking not?

“This is officially what they mean by a bridge too far,” Dantley whispered to Amy as Carlson pecked Monica on the cheek and filled a champagne glass for himself.

“You weren’t officially invited but that’s never stopped you before dear,” Monica replied.

“So Dantley, I see you’ve made yourself right at home,” Carlson said, a boiling enmity filling his eyes.

“I was just leaving,” Dantley said as he and Amy rose from their chairs now.

“Don’t leave just yet. Carlson is just being his typical childish self,” Monica said, but Dantley was heading for the door as Amy gave Nick a goodbye kiss on the cheek.

“Can’t wait to read your piece,” Carlson shouted as Monica saw them out.

“I’ll have your car delivered to your place first thing in the morning,” Monica promised.

“Ah, you don’t have to do that Monica. I can Uber out here and get it,” Dantley said.

“Nonsense, I insist . .” She replied, supplying him with a rather friendly peck on the cheek.

Amy and Dantley rode in silence . . for all of about five seconds before the post-date romantic comedy analysis got cooking.

“Yanno handsome. When I decided to go to dinner with you, I figured you would be good for a few laughs but I have to say . . you exceeded all expectations,”

“How so?”

“Is this a normal day in the life for you? I mean, sipping champagne with the family of your married lover after playing in her jungle room?”

“This was an outlier and for the record, I didn’t invite anyone else over . . that just happened,”

“You happen to notice how a LOT of shit just happens around you?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you want a list?”

“A list would be nice,”

“Hmm . . let’s see. Dead guy in a wall, a mysterious bag full of cash, an almost dead detective in your parking lot, an affair with the wife of the guy running for office? The same guy you interviewed this morning? And if that wasn’t enough of a shit list . . a champagne party with every single person who didn’t want to be there! Excepting for Monica, that is. She seemed unnervingly comfortable with the situation,”

“She did, didn’t she?”

“What’s the attraction?”

“She’s a West End girl,” Dantley replied.

“I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, remember the Pet Shop Boys song . .”

“Yeah, yeah . . and?”

“West end girls are posh, glamorous and mostly unattainable to working class boys such as myself. It’s the merging of social classes through primal negotiations,”

“And here I thought it was just a really good song with a beat you could move your hips to,” Amy said.

“I overthink things sometimes,” Dantley admitted.

“You also underthink things sometimes,” Amy said.

“You think I made a mistake here?”

“You have to ask?”

“I didn’t know she was married. I didn’t know she was married to Graham Carlson. I thought she was his com director for chrissakes!”

“But come on handsome, you roll up to a two million dollar villa and you don’t ask questions? What? You took off your reporter glasses and put on your panty blinders?”

“I didn’t know, I told you . .”

“Of course you didn’t know. But maybe you should’ve vetted Lola a little better than . . oh, I don’t know, asking her whether she preferred taking it on all fours or riding you like a stripper,”

“I like to think I was a little more appropriate than that,” Dantley sniffed.

“Were you?”

“Okay, maybe not,”

“Well, there’s some very shady shit going on with this filthy rich little clan and we should be spooked as hell about it,” Amy confessed.

Dantley knew she was right. About all of it.

Pet Shop Boys- West End Girls