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are a honky," he would say. He called me Henri Lacoste because I'd gone to Hotchkiss. I was a preppy, an elitist. "Y'all ain't but one-half black--and that's the best part of you. Enables you to intimidate the palefaces, 'specially lib-blabs, and work that voodoo sexual shit with white girls. Ins probably blacker'n you are. I got some slave in me, somewhere. I can feel it."
    "Richard, you are the whitest person in America."
    "Richard Nixon is the whitest person in America. Although, second thought, maybe not. He's got the rage, right? He's a poor boy, right? Someone's gotta be whiter than Nixon. . . . Ahhhh, whattabout Mondale? Walter Mondale is a fucking albino of the human spirit. Y'knowwhattamean? Can't get much whiter than Norwegian. Though French, Lacoste, is pretty damn close. Too damn close for comfort. Right? You listenin' to me? Right?"
    Richard came and went in the early months. He'd pop in for a day or two, then disappear. This was the heavy Winona period and it almost got him into serious trouble. He was particularly obsessed with Jennifer Winona--Jennifer Rogers, one of the press muffins--who really did have the look. He was hitting on her nonstop, but she wa s v ery cool; she could handle him. Which made him all the more crazy--Winona, he imagined, would be able to handle him, too. The day the Ozio business began, he and I were sitting in the litde office. This was our first headquarters, a former Olds dealership just down from the state capitol--a big open space, plate-glass windows, with small offices, including my digs, in the back. Richard was in the ratty chair, jiggling, looking over into the big room, not paying much attention to me--I was talking Midwest fund-raising, looking for Ohio money or something--when he spotted Jennifer over at the copy machine. He launched himself in her direction, and I could see hint fluttering around her, jabbering, arms windmilling, a spastic Lothario. Everyone else saw it too, but pretended not to notice--everyone knew it was Richard, and Richard was nuts. But he was really on her, and I began to think that maybe I should distract him, pull him back. He was talking about his hotel room. "Got everything, y'know. Got movies. Got room service. Winona, it's like, like . . . paradise. Y'all come back there, we gonna walk the snake."
    "The snake?" she snorted. "More like a worm, I'll bet. In fact, an enigma: an asshole can't have a penis."
    "An enigma? It's a fucking python," he shouted. "You don't believe me? You don't believe me?" He was unzipping his pants. I was rushing over toward him, saying, "Hey, hey."
    But it was too late. He had it out.
    "Hmmm," Jennifer said, not flinching, looking right at it. "I've never seen one that . . . old before."
    Richard turned fuchsia. He zipped up and dashed out of there. There were cheers, applause. ennifer curtsied. I took her arm, walked her back into my office and closed the door. "You okay?" I asked. She nodded.
    "You've got his life in your hands now, you know," I said. "Don't worry," she said. "I just hope he's worth it."
    "Don't we all," I said. "But you're okay?"
    She leaned over, took my chin in her hand and kissed me on the cheek. "Very kind of you to ask," she said. Jesus.
    At which point, of course, a knock on the door. "Henry, you got a visitor," said Eric, another of the muffins.
    "Who?"
    "You ain't gonna believe it."
    "Cut the shit, Eric. Who--" But I had swung open the door and now I saw: Jimmy Ozio was sitting atop a desk in the middle of the Big Room, taking a very intent look around. He was a big guy, curly hair, handsome in a lucky kind of way. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt, gray tie. We shook hands. His was a cruncher.
    "So, what brings you to Mammoth Falls?"
    "Business," he said. "Thought I'd stop by to say hi. Nice little operation you got here. Fifteen people?"
    "Twenty-three," I said. "Plus eight volunteers. We got some more in New Hampshire."
    "The volunteers--kids or old ladies?"
    Smart. "Both," I