"Try to look impressed, sir," Fenton whispered.

J. Talmadge Byrd snorted as they stood in the office doorway. It was his first visit to what his campaign staff called their "blue-collar location"-a large, seedy-looking room on the second floor of a West Side office building. Two of the walls were lined with huge windows, open not only to the gloomy day but to the rather appropriate odor of the nearby stockyards. "I'm a candidate for governor, Freddie," Byrd replied, pasting a wooden smile on his face for the assembled crowd. "Not an actor."

"Begging your pardon, sir, it's the same thing."

Which was about as close as Fenton ever came to opposing a statement made by his boss. As Tally Byrd's personal secretary and PR advisor, he made it a point to agree with Byrd's every opinion-or at least appear to. Freddie Fenton was widely considered the most shameless yes-man in American politics.

"Members of the media," Fenton called, pushing past Byrd and waving a sheaf of papers, "gather round, please. Ground rules. Over here, please."

The half-dozen TV and newspaper reporters exchanged glances and rolled their eyes, but they obeyed. They knew that Byrd would probably soon be the next governor of their state, despite a number of recent lapses in judgment, both professional and personal. Due mainly to the skills of both his campaign manager and Freddie Fenton, Byrd had escaped disaster when the press got wind of his alleged ties to organized crime, not to mention a number of recent affairs with subordinates and staffers.

Thankfully for people like Byrd, politics-like the stock market-is an inexact science, and the most corrupt and least qualified candidate sometimes manages to emerge as the frontrunner in the polls. Members of the news media merely sighed and shook their heads and mumbled the same words into their drinks each night: Only in America.

While Fenton stood in the circle of journalists and reporters and read through a list of what was acceptable and what wasn't, retired oil baron Tally Byrd-slim and silver haired and five foot four on tiptoe-strutted about the long room with an outthrust chin, slapping backs and braying jokes, and pumping the hands of the more notable attendees. Several minutes had passed before he made his way to the old metal desk set farther back in the room. The nameplate on the desk said Nancy Westbrook, and the lady standing at attention beside it introduced herself in a tiny voice as the head of this particular campaign office.

The dapper little candidate studied her a moment as she rattled on about the certainty of his upcoming victory. She was a large woman with thick makeup, a shapeless dress, carrot red hair, and a blue and white byrd for guv button pinned to her collar. As if he cared, she pointed out to him two of the other volunteers-a bald man with a bowtie and a very pregnant young lady-who were seated at desks between him and the far end of the office. Both were speaking on the telephone, and neither looked up. Work at a well-run campaign site never ceases, Ms. Westbrook explained proudly-even during the final minutes before a press conference.

As she rambled on, Byrd tuned her out and began rehearsing his speech in his head. He was halfway through it when he noticed something strange near the back corner of the room, past the volunteers' desks…

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