by John Niven
The left-hand side of his face was frozen in a kind of a rictus grin, more of a snarl really, the lips pulled back from the teeth, the corner of the mouth turned down, the left eyelid drooping down too. He looked like what’s-his-face from the Batman films. Two-Face. He looked fucking deranged. He went to speak, in surprise and disgust, and was stunned to hear his own voice properly again as he said – ‘TRUUMMMPPPP!’
He tried again. ‘Truummp!’ Chops said.
And again. ‘Trummp?’
This seemed to be the only word the stroke had left him with. That and a face like a melted Marvel villain. This was no time for vanity, however. Chops hurried as best he could – a kind of crab shuffle – across the room to the chair where his clothes lay in a jumble, his scarred, battered heart pounding as he rifled through his shirt and pants. Bingo: his wallet and car keys were still there. He pulled his clothes on and moved to the window, opening it and looking down. Once again his God was smiling upon him. He was on the ground floor. ‘Thank you, Lord,’ Chops said, the words coming out as ‘Truuump, Trrrump, TRUMP!’
Out the window and into the bushes, scratching and cutting himself. Up and across the lawn to a footpath. Even with his slow, crab-scuttle walk it only took Chops six minutes to reach the main road. Another ten minutes until he was able to hail a cab.
‘Trruummp!’ he said to the driver.
‘Fucking A, buddy. Where to?’
‘Truummmmp!’
‘Yeah, I hear you. But –’
‘TRRUMMMMMPPPPP!’
‘Jesus Christ, pal …’
Chops got a pen and a receipt pad from the guy and wrote down Frank Brill’s address. Seven or eight minutes later Chops was in the parking lot and opening his car door. He checked the glovebox: his spare service revolver and his Oklahoma PD badge were still there.
He started the engine.
TWENTY-NINE
‘I just wanted to thank you, Mr President.’
‘They sure are thorough,’ Frank said, watching.
‘Wouldn’t want it any other way though, right?’ Brock said.
They were standing in the parking lot of the golf course, watching four members of the Secret Service detail search Frank’s car. One of them was inside, running a hand down all the seat covers and cracks, looking under the seats, into the glovebox. One was in the trunk, lifting the carpet, examining the well where the spare tyre lived. A third was walking around the vehicle, with a kind of mirror on a stick, using it to look underneath, for a bomb strapped to the chassis, while the fourth stood a little way off, searching Frank’s golf bag. He’d already taken out and replaced all the clubs and was now running a hand through all the pockets, rummaging among the tees and balls and markers and old gloves and the ancient, tattered score cards stuffed in there, mementoes in faded pencil of games played with men long dead, matches which had felt so crucial at the time, barely remembered now apart from the odd perfectly struck shot. The wedge hit steeply that arced over a hundred feet in the air and nestled up close to the pin. The well-hit drive, the high draw that followed the treeline and curved soaring around the corner to land in the middle of the fairway. Best of all, the long iron, caught straight out of the socket, travelling two hundred yards and still landing softly, like the proverbial butterfly with sore feet, rolling out into the middle of a distant green – the memories all golfers are left with at the end of their lives. Even now when he stepped onto the first tee it felt to Frank like the possibility of perfection. Like back when he was in charge of the paper and every day would bring the same thing, the possibility of an edition without the bogeys of typos, without poor typesetting, or a badly reproduced photo, or a weak, convoluted opening paragraph, a clunky subheader. It never worked out that way, of course. There was always a fluffed shot. But the first tee, like the blank page, always provided the hope, the opportunity, that this time it would be different.
‘Thank you, sir,’ one of the agents was saying as his colleague closed the trunk behind him, and a caddy came forward to take Frank’s approved, weapon-free clubs off towards the first tee. ‘Enjoy your round.’
‘Come on,’ Brock said, ‘we got an hour or so till we tee off. Let’s go grab a drink.’
The clubhouse was packed. It seemed like almost every member and their wife had decided to come for lunch that day. There was a palpably different atmosphere from Frank’s last visit, almost an electric current running through the place, the sense of a party that was all set to go once the guest of honour arrived.
‘Jeez,’ Frank said. ‘Is it always like this?’
‘Pretty much.’ Brock laughed. ‘Some of ’em just want a picture, a handshake. Some of ’em know that if they get a minute or two they can mention some issue, some legislation they ain’t keen on or whatnot and maybe it’ll stick and get passed on to the kid, or tweeted about.’ They were walking through the busy patio dining area now, heading for the bar, Brock returning various greetings. ‘That’s his table over there …’ He nodded towards a corner table, roped off, a big umbrella shading it from the morning sun, two secret service agents standing to the side of it, their faces inscrutable as they watched the diners through wraparound sunglasses.
‘Do they keep people away from him?’ Frank asked.
‘Like hell,’ Brock said. ‘Well, they try. But half the time he just waves ’em on in. Has a chat. Lets them sit down sometimes. You can’t tell the big guy what to do, right?’
‘You ever done that?’
‘Oh sure. A few years back.’
‘Really? What did you say?’
‘Ah, same as everyone says, I guess. “I just wanted to thank you, Mr President –” he was still in office then of course – “for all you’re doing for this country.”’
‘What did he say?’
‘Ah, it was something like “I should do a third term, right?” That was when he was still trying to change that. He should have too. Damn Democrats.’
They got a table near the bar, one of the few remaining, and ordered coffee and water. Here it came, Frank knew, watching Brock pull his chair closer.
‘So, how you been feeling, Frank?’ Brock asked.
‘Ah, so-so. Getting harder to keep any food down.’
‘Christ. Doc got you on those anti-sickness pills?’
‘Yeah, they make me sleepy though.’
‘My buddy Roger said that. You know, you get to our age –’ Brock stirred his coffee, sighing, shaking his head, ignoring the close to twenty-year age difference between them – ‘you feel every other conversation is about what medication everyone is on.’
‘Yeah. You know what? Let’s not even talk about it, Brock.’
‘No, I didn’t mean, shit, Frank, you talk about it as much or as little as you like. Is there anything else you could be doing? How’s your coverage?’
‘It’s good.’
‘Because there’s a couple of terrific oncologists here …’ He gestured at the rich, white people eating and drinking all around them. ‘If you’re going to be staying a while I can –’
‘Honestly, my guy’s great, Brock. But thank you.’
‘OK. Well, offer’s there. If it’s a question of money, I can help you –’
‘Seriously, I’m set. But thank you.’
They sipped their coffees. It was strange, Frank reflected, you got them one-on-one, guys like Brock were always generous. When it came to their friends and families there was nothing they wouldn’t do for you. But when it came to strangers, especially strangers en masse, it was ‘fuck ’em’. The man sitting across the table from him – like most of the people in this room – wouldn’t think anything of sliding Frank, or any one of their buddies, a cheque for ten, twenty, fifty thousand dollars for medical expenses. But suggest putting two cents in the dollar on their taxes to do it for strangers and they’d burn the fucking place down.
Suddenly there was a commotion, people leaving their tables inside and heading out onto the patio as a cheer went up. Frank craned his neck,
and turned just in time to see what they were looking at – a flash of white shirt, a red hat, a raised, gloved hand waving as the golf cart sped by the patio, someone shouting out ‘We love you!’
‘Was that–?’ Frank asked, his heart leaping.
‘Yep, he’s off now. Gonna be about four or five holes ahead of us, I reckon. He plays fast.’
A little less than an hour later the two men stood on the first tee for the second time. ‘Right,’ Brock said, taking a few preparatory waggles with his driver, ‘time to get my money back.’
‘Take it away,’ Frank said, indicating the tee box.
Brock stepped up and pulled it into the left-hand rough.
‘Unlucky,’ Frank said.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Brock muttered as Frank took his place on the tee. He ripped it.
‘Shot,’ Brock said.
The first half of the round went pretty much the same as it had the last time and Frank was three up when they reached the ninth tee. ‘Look out for those trees,’ Brock said as Frank teed it up, remembering the one wild drive Frank had hit here two weeks back. Frank set it up to hit his accented fade, the clubface open, the ball far forward in his stance, the club taken back outside the line. He swung hard and – disaster struck. Some golfing sensor built into his hands seemed to detect what was going to happen on the way down and automatically corrected the plane of the swing, bringing the clubface squarely through the ball, sending it screaming off.
‘Golf shot,’ Brock said respectfully.
Oh shit, Frank thought, as the ball settled in the fairway.
Brock hit his own drive well, down the middle, but a good sixty yards short of Frank’s. They rode down in the cart, Frank thinking.
‘Shit, I gotta go …’ he said as they arrived at Brock’s ball.
‘There’s a restroom at the next tee,’ Brock said, pointing ahead.
‘No, I really gotta go, sorry. You know with the …’ he tailed off.
‘Oh.’
‘Look, I’ll take this.’ Frank reached into the bag, taking out his rescue club. ‘You hit your shot and I’ll scoot in there –’ Frank nodded towards the trees and shrubs over to their right – ‘then I’ll hit mine, walk up and meet you on the green.’ Brock hesitated, as though he were about to point out that peeing in the woods might be OK back in Schilling, but this was Trump Palm Beach for Christ’s sake. Frank headed off towards the treeline at a half-jog. As he reached it he heard the clang of metal on ball followed seconds later by a resigned ‘Shiiiiitt’. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Brock’s ball hooking, heading towards the bunkers short and left of the green.
Frank entered the cool canopy of the trees. He looked back towards the tee, trying to work out the line he’d come in on that last time. Panicking now as he tried to locate it, running from trunk to trunk, seeing nothing, just identical trees. What the fuck? What had he been thinking? In the distance he heard the electric whine of the cart as Brock headed off down the fairway, away from him.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.
An ‘X’ carved into the bark.
Frank dropped to his knees and started digging frantically with his bare hands, right beside the roots, getting nothing at first, just handfuls of warm earth and leaves. Then, growing increasingly panicked, he’d felt something hard with the tip of his right little finger. He burrowed harder and got his hands around it.
Just over five minutes later, slightly out of breath, having taken two shots to get on the green, he rejoined his playing partner. Brock looked disgusted. ‘What’s up?’ Frank said, conscious of the extra weight digging into the small of his back. ‘Took three out of the trap,’ Brock said, defeated.
Once again, Frank won the hole with a two-putt bogey.
THIRTY
‘This is America, son.’
Chops cut through the traffic of West Palm Beach. He was sweating, driving fast, terrifying his fellow motorists as they saw the crazed rictus grin coming up behind them in their mirrors, or glimpsed it when he passed them on the right, affording a view of the bared teeth and his insane, fixed expression as he honked the horn and flashed his lights.
As he drove Chops was talking to himself, shouting really, as he tried again and again with his voice, hoping against hope, praying that suddenly there would be a kind of unblocking, like that chunk of McMuffin coming out, and that he’d suddenly be able to speak again. But no. Although there had been an improvement – he was now able to growl the single word ‘Trump’ with varying degrees of emphasis.
There was an enquiring ‘Trump?’
A plaintive ‘Trump’.
A surprised ‘Trump!’
And a furious ‘TRRUMMMMPPPPPP!’
It would have to do, he thought, as he threw a hard left across three lanes of traffic, causing tyres to screech and horns to blare as he pulled into a service entrance of Trump International Golf Club, Chops leaping out of the car and running towards the security booth, leaving the engine running and causing the two Secret Service agents on duty to leap to their feet as he approached.
‘Trump!’ Chops yelled, gesturing, pointing behind them. They were guarding a pathway that ran off towards the clubhouse, other paths leading off it towards the golf course, the parking lot, etc.
‘Yes, sir, the president is here.’
‘TRRRUMMMPPP!’
‘He’s on the golf course right now. But it’s members only.’
Chops shaking his head, frantic, pointing at their golf cart now. ‘Trump! Trump! Trump!’
The two guys looked at each other – Jesus. We got a live one here.
‘I’m sorry, sir, we’ll have to ask you to move your vehicle. You’re blocking this entrance.’
‘Mmmm, huuuuuuhh, Trummmp,’ Chops said, wagging a finger at them as he ran crazily back to his car. He grabbed what he was looking for and scuttled back towards them, scribbling frantically on the pad as he did so.
‘What the fuck is with this guy?’ One of the agents, opening the gate and coming round, discreetly slipping the catch off his shoulder holster in the process as Chops thrust the pad at him, the scrawled words ‘HE’S GOING TO KILL TRUMP’. The agent looked up at Chops, looked into the frozen, demented face beseeching him to understand.
‘OK, up against the wall,’ the agent said, his hand going towards his armpit.
‘Don’t hurt him, Murray,’ the other guy said, Chops seeing him out of the corner of his eye, twirling his index finger around his temple.
Chops realised that it was hopeless, that, at best, they were going to send him packing, at worst lock him up and question him. Right now Brill could be in there somewhere, moving towards the former president, the man who had saved the USA, who had fought so hard and tirelessly against incredible odds and opposition, against the liberals and the deep state and the Democrats and the Lame Stream Media. Who had never taken his salary, who had given his all for his country. A split second was all it took Chops to decide. It was up to him. No one else was going to do it.
He pulled his revolver and shot this Murray in the head, brains and bone and blood blossoming behind him, coppery across the white metal gates.
Swinging the gun around, pushing the barrel between the bars of the gate, shooting Murray’s partner twice in the chest as he went for his own gun, the booms of the gun deafening, Chops’s ears ringing as he stepped over the dying agent and got into their golf cart. He raced off down a gravel path, following the sign that said ‘GOLF COURSE’, aware of shouts going up in the distance, off towards the clubhouse.
At the eleventh, it finally happened.
Frank and Brock came trundling along the cart path to see a small knot of golfers blocking their way, two four-balls, eight guys, all old, dressed in chinos and polo shirts, and, in the middle of them, visible over their heads – the red KAGA hat, the wild pale hair flying out from beneath it. Brock, driving, stopped the cart and asked, ‘Wanna go over and say hi?’
Frank swallowed, almost shaking,
his voice hoarse as he said, ‘Sure.’
‘Hey, don’t be nervous. He’s always real nice. He loves it. Just a quick “hello”.’
They approached the gaggle, hearing laughter, seeing now the Secret Service detail hanging back, the two agents wearing windcheaters even in this heat. They looked bored shitless, like they’d done this countless times, even as they cast an eye over Frank and Brock as they approached, seeing just two more rich, elderly white golfers.
Frank could hear his voice as they walked the last twenty yards. Twenty yards. Twenty paces. It took maybe fifteen seconds to cover the ground as Frank heard that roughcast Queens accent, the one he’d been hearing for so long now that he couldn’t remember a time without it. The accent was saying ‘Hey, they got creamed, and you know what, fellas? They’ll get creamed again in ’28. If I ran again I’d win again. You know that, right? Right. I’d clean their clock. Even now.’
Off in the near distance, a whine, an electric golf cart at full speed as he went on, ‘Ivanka knows that too. She’s my baby, I love her. But I kid her. I say, “Baby, you’re lucky it’s set up the way it is because if I could run again I’d get elected again.” Because people – and you all know this, right? – but people are only just realising how popular …’ He was signing a golf cap for someone, Frank saw, as they reached the edge of the group. ‘… I was. Like with Reagan, right? Or Lincoln. The Republicans only know how great someone was after he’s gone. But that’s, you know, I can take it. I’m tough.’ People parted a little, to accommodate Brock and Frank’s arrival. A clearing forming, bringing them almost face-to-face. That electric whine, getting closer.
