catch up: http://bit.ly/miamiHustle
my story: http://bit.ly/quaidBio
I scan the up-front seats for Rosalie as I’m chatting with @coryBooker , but it’s too dark.
“Quaid Rafferty!” he says. “Man. In the flesh.”
“In the flesh,” I agree.
He says, “You know, Newark Collegiate is still sending 98% to college.”
“And we’re working hard on that last 2%.”
I know he is—I’d bet good money he tutors there when his travel schedule allows.
Years ago, Cory and I teamed up for an inter-state charter school initiative. The unions hammered me in Boston until it died, but he pushed it through Newark with #radicalLove . They made it work.
I say, “I’m trying to track down one of your staffers.”
“Sure, Bud. Sure. What’s the name?”
Booker’s wide-open face crimps.
“We had a Rosie in Iowa. My environmental position coordinator is an *Amalie*—any chance you have a syllable wrong?”
I sigh. “Don’t think so. Suppose I could’ve gotten a false name.”
Flashing back to the night we met, I recall that she told me as much—that whatever names we gave would be aliases.
We both glance around, CB pointing out where clumps of staffers sit among the crowd. I feel him wondering how I know this Rosalie, what business we have together.
For my part, I’m considering the odds he’s behind this job to steal questions for the 6/27 Miami debate.
I don’t consider long.
Now there’s rustling behind us, the first notes of commotion.
“What do you know about this Gilly Gillmore?” I say.
Booker’s eyes snap to mine. “Gilly’s not here, is he?”
I explain the whispering behind hairy knuckles and our exchange.
The rustling behind intensifies. Not many are watching Street Fight.
“It’s time to lance the abscess.” #coryBooker stands, stuffing his tie inside his dress shirt. “Go time.”