Other lobbyists didn't try to sleep with Lisa June Peterson because they assumed she was sleeping with the governor. Dick Artemus did nothing to discourage the rumor, nor did Lisa June herself. It made life easier, not having to fend off so many drooling scumbags. Palmer Stoat was the only one who didn't seem to care. In fact, he often hinted to Lisa June that he and the governor had "shared" other women, as if inviting her to join some exclusive club. She declined firmly but without reproach. In two years Dick Artemus himself had made only one drunken pass at Lisa June Peterson, late one evening when she was alone at her desk. He had come at her from behind, reaching around and cupping both hands on her breasts. Lisa June hadn't protested or squirmed or yelled – she had simply put down the telephone and said: "You've got sixty seconds, Governor."

"To do what?" Dick Artemus had asked, his breath sour and boozy.

"Touch 'em," Lisa June had said, "and you'd better make the most of it, because this is all you'll ever get from me. No blow jobs, no hand jobs, no intercourse, nothing. This is it, Governor, your one minute of glory. Fondle away."

He had recoiled as if he'd stuck his hands in a nest of yellow jackets, then shakily retreated to the executive toilet until Lisa June Peterson went home. To the governor's vast relief, she never mentioned the incident again. Nor did she interfere with, or comment upon, his many liaisons with other staff members. Dick Artemus mistook Lisa June's silence for discretion, when in truth it was plain disinterest. She was no more surprised or appalled by the governor's oafish behavior than she was by that of legislators, cabinet members or (yes) lobbyists. Far from being dispirited by their aggregate sliminess, Lisa June Peterson found in it a cause for hope. She could run circles around these lecherous, easily distracted clowns, and in time she would.

Until then, she would continue to watch, listen and learn. Every morning she arrived at work at eight sharp, poised and cordial and always prepared – as she was on this day, one of the rare days when Dick Artemus had beaten her to the office. He was waiting at his desk when she brought him a cup of coffee. He asked her to close the door and sit down.

"I've got a little problem. Lisa June."

He always used both names.

"Yes, sir?"

"I need to find a man that's been missing awhile."

Lisa June said, "I'll call FDLE right away."

That was the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, the state equivalent of the FBI.

The governor shook his head. "Naw, there's a better way to handle this. If I give you a name, can you get me some information?"

"Certainly."

"Take as much time as you need. The whole day," Dick Artemus said. "It's real important, Lisa June."

He told her the man's name, and what he'd done. She looked surprised.

"I've never heard of him," she said.

"It was before your time, hon."

"But, still ... "

"Ancient history," said the governor. "When were you born?"

"Nineteen seventy-five."

Dick Artemus smiled. "Sweet Jesus, you weren't even out of diapers when it happened."

Lisa June Peterson spent the morning at the state archives, her lunch break on the telephone, and the afternoon in the morgue of the Tallahassee Democrat.That evening she returned to the governor's office with two cardboard boxes of files and newspaper clippings.

"It's all old stuff," she reported. "Too old. He could be dead by now."

"Oh, I seriously doubt it. Who could find out for us?" asked Dick Artemus. "Who would know where he might be?"

Lisa June passed the governor a sheet of paper. It was the copy of a letter from a Highway Patrolman to his troop commander, a seemingly routine request for transfer. In red ink Lisa June had circled the name at the bottom of the letter.

"Hecould probably find out," she said, "and he's still with the department."

"Good," said the governor. "Anything else I oughta know?"

"Yes, there is." Lisa June Peterson handed him a copy of another letter. This one was signed by the man himself.

Dick Artemus read it and said: "Excellent. This is excellent. Thank you, Lisa June."

"You're welcome."

She went home, showered, skipped dinner, got into bed and lay there all night with her eyes wide open. She couldn't stop thinking about the missing man, wondering why Dick Artemus wanted to find him after so many years.

Car salesman turned governor.

How it fried Dick Artemus to hear himself described that way, the snotty implication being that all car salesmen were cagey and duplicitous, unworthy of holding public office. At first Dick Artemus had fought back, pride-fully pointing out that his dealerships sold only Toyotas, the most popular and reliable automobile on the face of the planet. A quality vehicle, he'd said. Top-rated by all the important consumer magazines!

But the governor's media advisers told him he sounded not only petty but self-promotional, and that folks who loved their new Camry did not necessarily love the guy who'd sold it to them. The media advisers told Dick Artemus that the best thing he could do for his future political career was make voters forgethe'd ever been a car salesman (not that the Democrats would ever let them forget). Take the high road, the media advisers told Dick Artemus. Act gubernatorial.

So Dick Artemus dutifully had programmed himself not to respond to the jokes and jabs about his past life, though it wasn't easy. He was a proud fellow. Moreover, he believed he wouldn't have made it to the governor's mansion had it not been for all those hard sweaty Florida summers on automobile lots. That's where you learned your people skills, Dick Artemus would tell his staff. That's where you learned your sincerity and your flattery and your graciousness. That's where you learned to smile until your cheeks cramped and your gums dried out.

Running for public office was a cakewalk, Dick Artemus liked to say, compared to moving 107 light pickups in one year (which he had done, single-handedly, in 1988). Even after winning the election, the new governor frequently found himself falling back on his proven Toyota-selling techniques when dealing with balky lobbyists, legislators and constituents. Wasn't politics all about persuasion? And wasn't that what Dick Artemus had been doing his entire adult life, persuading reluctant and suspicious people to overextend themselves?

While Dick Artemus felt unprepared for some facets of his job, he remained confident in his ability to sell anybody anything. (In interviews he insisted on describing himself as "a people person's people person," though the phrase induced muted groans from his staff.) The governor's abiding faith in his own charms led to many private meetings at the mansion. One-on-one, he liked to say, that's how I do business. And even his most cynical aides admitted that Dick Artemus was the best they'd ever seen, one-on-one. He could talk the fleas off a dog, they'd say. He could talk the buzzards off a shit wagon.

And talking was what Dick Artemus was doing now. Loosening his necktie, rolling up his cuffs, relaxing in a leather chair in his private study, the tall hardwood shelves lined with books he'd never cracked. Talking one-on-one to a black man wearing the stiff gray uniform of the state Highway Patrol. Sewn on one shoulder of the uniform was a patch depicting a ripe Florida orange, a pleasing sunburst of color to take a tourist's mind off the $180 speeding ticket he was being written.

The black trooper sitting in the governor's study had a strong handsome face and broad shoulders. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, wisps of silver visible in his short-cropped hair.

Dick Artemus said, "Well? Has it changed much since you worked here?" He was referring to the governor's mansion.