The Means by Douglas Brunt Page A

though trying to prove to them that he does have ten fingers. He starts his short prepared speech crediting his Carolina education, thanking his wife and the community, and saying that he plans to hit the ground running once his term starts in January.
    Since the earlier interruptions about Tom being gorgeous were met with amusement and not rebuked, the crowd presses to find the limits, the way crowds and toddlers do.
    Tom says, “Jobs will be a top priority of my administration. Not only can we rebuild our manufacturing industry here in North Carolina, but we can create more services jobs—banking, technology . . .”
    â€œHey, Guv!” Tom and Alison both look ninety degrees to the right where the shout came from. There’s a row of five guys standing shoulder to shoulder. It feels like a choreographed formation, like part of a coed cheerleading team.
    As soon as Tom looks, the five drop down in a squat. Immediately behind each one of them is another crouched guy with a girl sitting on his shoulders. In unison the five guys from the back row pop to a standing position and the girls yank their spaghetti-string tank tops over their heads and wave their breasts from side to side. The guys lower the girls down and all fifteen scatter.
    Tom turns back to the center of the crowd. “Possibly some jobs in the entertainment and hospitality field for our friends there.”
    The crowd laughs but Alison manages only a half smile, which is worse than a disapproving look because it shows she’s uncertain.
    The event no longer has the gravitas of high office, of hard work and ideas building things that last more than just a lifetime and ought to be housed in the timeless marble structure of a capitol building so that future civilizations will see the bones of the structure still standing and know that it meant something. This now feels like celebrity, to be housed in a thrown-together set of a studio catering to fanciful notions and perverse motivations. Alison hasn’t anticipated this part of the job her husband has just won.
    Things are changing, she thinks. Tom has the same thought at the same time.

SAMANTHA DAVIS

12
    The wrap of yellow plastic police tape makes the poolside cabana look like a piece of installation art. The Delano attempts business as usual despite the spectacle. It’s January and they can’t afford to close.
    Samantha Davis had flown to Miami that morning. Enterprise had given her the choice of a candy apple red or an interstate blue PT Cruiser. Both underpowered. She chose red and drove to the Boulevard Hotel in South Beach. She checked in and walked the mile north to the Delano Hotel.
    Two hotel security guards flank either side of the cabana. Samantha walks along the edge of the pool and shows her press credentials to one of the guards. “I’d like to take a look at the scene.”
    â€œYou can go as far as the yellow tape.” The guard seems already out of patience. Since the police allowed the hotel to stay open, the police tape has become an attraction unto itself and good for business.
    The cabana has its own patio that faces the Delano pool. There are lounge chairs with thick, white cushions, small tables, and an oversized canvas parasol. The patio is taped off and there’s no sign of anything out of place. Samantha looks at the solid white door of the cabana at the back of the patio. It’s crossed with more strips of yellow tape like the bars of a jail cell.
    â€œLooks dramatic,” she says.
    The guard nods without looking at her.
    â€œIs there anything you can tell me about what happened here?” He’s not a cop, just hotel security but it’s worth trying.
    â€œLady, I don’t know anything about what happened here.”
    Lady? There’s a steady trickle of passersby, like trick-or-treaters, drinking a cocktail with one hand and taking pictures on their phones with the other. “Who found the