“What’s wrong with it? He makes the President sound like a child that didn’t understand the workings of the economy. And it sounds like it was Morton’s decision.”
“We had it thoroughly tested and people seemed to think there was just a disagreement and the President wanted someone else.”
“Well, it doesn’t read that way. I think he should be honest and say that he didn’t want to come to town and get messed up in politics, that he liked staying on the farm.”
“We can’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because people will criticize the President for even making that deal. They will perceive him as weak for agreeing to Spiller’s demands.”
Betsy hadn’t thought of that.
“Well, why can’t he at least say he wants to spend more time with his family, like they all do?”
“It’s been so overused, people think that sounds more suspicious than giving an actual reason.”
“The resignation was tested?”
“Thoroughly.”
“What were the numbers?”
“Fifty-five percent thought it was a basic disagreement in philosophy, twenty percent perceived it as Spiller wanting to get back into the private sector to make more money, ten percent thought he was a bad choice in the first place, and fifteen percent didn’t know who he was.”
“Okay, then. But I wish we could get something in there that suggested the job was more than he could take.”
“He would never sign off on that. Let’s just get rid of him and start fresh. We have some very good prospects.”
“Like who?”
“Well, we’re giving the President a list this afternoon. I’m sure he will share them with you.”
“I’m sure he will.”
* * *
The President’s closest advisers sat around the Oval Office going over the names for Morton Spiller’s replacement. All the usual suspects. Men from banking and finance and a few CEOs of big accounting firms. All of them seemed the same to Bernstein. “What’s wrong with this list?” the President asked.
“It’s boring?” Van Dyke answered.
“Not just boring, but what else is missing?” They all stared at it but didn’t see the obvious. “There are no women.”
And the men who were gathered there realized Bernstein was right. As a matter of fact, this remained the very last cabinet position in the United States government that had never been held by a woman. “Why don’t we make history and bring in a sharp gal who can figure out Los Angeles and maybe get the world currency going,” the President said.
“Well, sir, we have to find someone who can get through Congress. That may not be easy.”
“Congress is not going to turn down the first female Treasury secretary unless she’s a half-wit. Get me a list. Take two days and have fifteen great names. This is a real opportunity. It’s always fun to make a little history.”
* * *
The music was too loud at Chelsea Bar, but Paul Prescott liked that because no one could overhear any other conversations. Since he had been in a relationship, which was celebrating its six-year anniversary, he didn’t much go to the bars anymore, although he found them an endless supply of gossip, which he readily admitted he was addicted to. A gay bar in the heart of Washington—God, there was just too much information there.
The first time he saw a congressman dancing the night away, it was such a big deal, but over the years seeing big shots in the bars became routine. Senators, judges—the running joke was if you came in often enough, you’d see the president. Paul was amazed at how sexual urges trumped everything else. And even though the appearance of prejudice seemed to subside with each generation, Paul always thought that was all it was, appearance. Being gay was different from being black or Jewish or Hispanic. When people hated those people they weren’t afraid of becoming one; they just hated them. But hating gays, or at least not being comfortable with them in high office—well, that had more to do with one’s fear of his own sexuality. People who hated gays feared that one morning they might wake up as one, or at least with one. No one who hated black people thought their skin would change color.
As Paul sat down at the bar, his ego was stroked by how many guys were giving him the eye. At six foot one, with all of his hair, he looked thirty-five and was extremely fit.
Over the decades muscle stimulator machines had come and gone, some a gimmick, some not, but they never really caught on big until the early 2020s, when they were made matchbook size and could be worn under clothing. The little stimulators would send a small electrical current into the muscle, tighten it up, and then release, so while you were at work or driving or watching a movie, you would be doing the equivalent of a thousand sit-ups. Not everyone used them, but anyone who wanted that type of physique found them an easy, painless way to get a six-pack. And Paul loved having a six-pack.
Tonight, however, he was only interested in one thing. He wanted to ask around and find out what people knew about the second bus shooting. He immediately saw a guy he recognized, someone he had seen before at several Washington events. He walked over and introduced himself. The man, Jack Willman, was friendly, but seemed guarded. When Paul sat down Jack blurted out, “This is my first time in the club.”
Paul laughed. “I don’t care if you live here. You don’t have to apologize to me. Before I was in a relationship I came here every night.”
“Are you in a relationship now?”
“Six years. What about you?”
“I was married for three years.”
“To a man?”
“A woman.”
“I understand. Don’t worry about it. Find out who you are, have fun doing it, that’s my advice.”
“Thanks. That’s good advice. So what do you do?”
“I’m one of the heads of AARP.”
“Wow, you look so young!”
“I’m not a member, I just have a great job there.” Paul laughed.
“That’s one powerful lobby. I’ve heard my boss bitch about it often, how you can’t get anything done unless AARP signs off.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Hernandez.”
“Hernandez? At Justice?”
“That’s the one.”
“Wow. Big-time boss. Whoever thought he’d bitch about little old us.”
“Right. Little old us. Everyone worries what you guys think. So what are you doing here tonight?”
“I’m actually trying to find out some information, and so many people in the know come here I thought I could score … information.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Do you guys know much about the latest bus massacre?”
“That’s all we’ve been dealing with the last few days.”
“What can you tell me?”
“Gee, I don’t think I can tell you anything. I could get in a lot of trouble.” Then Paul did something that might have backfired big time, but it didn’t. He leaned over and gave Jack a kiss. On the mouth. No tongue. But a real kiss. Jack was blown away, not just at the kiss but at the balls of this guy. Then Paul finished it off with some words of wisdom.
“Listen, there’s something you have to know. Our kind of people stick together. We always help each other—anonymously, of course, but that’s how Washington works. There are thousands of people who trade information, and one way to distinguish who to talk to is by who goes through the same shit all the time. And we do. That forms a trust. You help me, I help you, no one knows anything, but we’re bonded. Bonded by who we are. Does that make sense?” Jack’s answer showed Paul that it did.
“It looks like there might be a conspiracy,” Jack said, “although it’s in the infant stage and right now there is no organization. It’s just hostility coming out here and there, but we think it will only get worse. And more organized.”
“What kind of conspiracy?”
“Some young people are reaching the breaking point. They feel burdened
and angry. It’s not widespread yet, but it’s growing. We expect the violence to ramp up.”
“And what’s the solution?”
“Nobody knows. Maybe the government has to step in and take some of the pressure off.”
“How would they do that?”
“I don’t know. That’s your department.”
“Any names? Any groups?”
“I haven’t heard a name of any group yet. Right now we’re looking at individuals.”
Paul reached into his coat and gave Jack a card. With all the new technology, the simple business card had made a surprising comeback. It was so retro. People had them in wild colors and with holograms, and sometimes they smelled like the ocean or the forest.
“Call me if there’s something I really need to know. And I will return the favor with anything I can do for you.”
Jack took the card. “Okay. That sounds reasonable.”
“What is your name?”
“Jack Willman.”
“Thanks, Jack. You don’t mind if I call you from time to time?”
“No.”
“I appreciate it. And maybe we’ll have a meal, all four of us.”
“I’m single now.”
“Well, that won’t be a permanent condition. You seem like a great guy. If I meet someone I think you’d like, I’ll set you up.”
“Not another woman.”
“No, I gathered that.”
* * *
The smell inside the tented Rose Bowl was horrible. The ventilation system was broken and no one had come to fix it. Brad Miller lay on his bunk and stared at the springs on the one above him. He was so depressed. For days no one would give him any meaningful information. He was told his concerns would be attended to, but that was not happening.
A woman came by once a day and asked people how they were feeling. It wasn’t so much out of concern for the actual person as it was to anticipate a flu that could spread through a tent like this in an instant.
So many medical wonders had taken place over the years, curing some of the major diseases of the twenty-first century, but the flu wasn’t one of them. It was just too smart. The flu virus could not only adapt instantly, it lived in the mucosa, not the genes, so there was no real fix. There were drugs to reduce the severity, and shots to give immunity, but every few years a virulent strain swept down and took over the human body and nothing could be done to stop it. There was also a growing fear that in the race between the virus and the cure, if the virus got too far ahead it would wreak disaster. Since each new strain was immune to the drugs that came before, there were many scientists who were convinced the flu virus would one day win and be immune to anything medicine could come up with. So with all the medical breakthroughs, the flu was still something to be avoided at all cost.
“How are you doing today, Mr. Miller?”
“Not well. I’m feeling depressed.”
“We can help that. Let me take a drop of blood and see what medication can make you feel better.”
“I know what medication I need.”
“Fine, what is it?”
“Money. I need to be injected with the money you stole from me by throwing me off my property. You got money on you?”
The woman smiled and told him the same party line. “Someone will deal with that at the appropriate time.”
“What time is that? Before or after I die?”
“Thank you, Mr. Miller. If you need anything else, tell us.”
As she walked away, Brad yelled after her, “Money! I need money! Give it to me in pill form, I don’t give a shit!”
Brad lay down on his cot and fell asleep. When he woke, a young man in a suit was standing over him. “Mr. Miller?”
“What happened? Is this heaven?”
“I’m Steven Collard. I’m with the Department of the Interior. Would you come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“Just to talk in private. To the office structure, outside.”
“Are you the guy that can help?”
“I can certainly try. Let’s talk.”
They exited the giant tent and walked three hundred yards to a temporary office building. It was three stories, made out of steel that could be put together like a LEGO toy, and it looked very active. Each office was occupied. Brad followed the younger man up the stairs to the second floor, went down a hall, and stepped into a cubicle. It was tiny, just enough room for a desk and a small couch. Collard sat down behind his desk and motioned for Brad to sit. Brad said he preferred to stand.
“Mr. Miller, if it’s any consolation, I know exactly what you are going through. I have an uncle in your same situation.”
“Is he here?” Brad asked.
“No, he’s staying with us. He didn’t come to Pasadena.”
“Well then, he’s not in my same situation.”
“I meant financially. He also had a condo that was leveled and has nothing to show for it.”
“Great. So how does that help me?”
“Well, first of all, you did have insurance, correct?”
“Of course. American Life.”
“And what do they say?”
“They say nothing. They don’t answer. They claim they are overwhelmed, and I’m hearing in the tent that they, and all of them, are going Chapter 11. Without Uncle Sam we’re fucked, excuse my French.”
“Well, they’re not all going out of business, but many of them are, yes.”
“So what do I do?”
“The plan is to make you whole. The government doesn’t want to see people who had insurance get nothing, but it’s going to take some time. I know the President has stated that people who were insured should get their money; we just have to figure out how that can happen.”
“The government can write me a check and then go after my insurance company, how about that?”
“It’s not that easy. But I just want you to know that people are thinking of you and at some point in time there will be a solution.”
“At some point in time? Well, what the hell am I supposed to do to get to that point?”
“We can keep you here for as long as necessary and feed you and take care of your medical needs.”
“My boy, I had a condo! I owned it outright! I don’t need people feeding me or housing me; if I did, I would have moved into a nursing home. I am owed that money! As a citizen of this country, I am owed that money!”
“I agree, Mr. Miller. My uncle feels the same way.”
“Well, good for him. Hey, does he want to trade with me? I’ll live with you for a while and he can stay in my bunk.”
The man smiled. He realized there was nothing more to say. “Mr. Miller, I just wanted you to know that you are not invisible. We are trying to come up with real solutions to a problem that has never existed before.”
“Well, that makes me feel better. Hey, would you like to stand in line with me for two hours? I have to take a piss.”
* * *
Kathy and Max were on the road to Chicago. It was a beautiful day in the Midwest: mild temperatures, blue skies. It would have been the best day of her life if her father’s urn weren’t sitting on the backseat.
Max’s car was a lot nicer than one would have thought listening to him at that first meeting. Max Leonard came across as someone who had no finances and who had to bum rides with someone else, or who had a broken-down car that was twenty years old. That wasn’t the case. He had a German sports sedan with everything on it. Huge electric power, auto drive, a sound and visual system that would rival a home setup. You could cruise along at a hundred miles an hour and actually forget you were in a car, especially if you chose the auto drive. The advanced radar systems were so good, they would simply not allow you to get into an accident. The sensors could see front and behind up to a mile, and off to the side up to a quarter mile. If someone was about to sideswipe you, the car would take evasive action, and then ask you to take over. Other than that, it would never bother you. It could
easily turn corners by itself and stop before anything got in its way. If an animal or a human ran in front of it, the auto drive would stop the car faster than if it were being driven by a person, so driving was more about having something to do than for safety.
As they cruised along Highway 41, Max told Kathy his life story and how he’d gotten to this point, and as he talked she couldn’t believe that she’d found him. This was her dream man. A rebel with money. Someone who could offer actual comfort but still want to change the world. What a combo. She hoped she wasn’t too materialistic wanting this kind of guy, but screw it, why not? She wasn’t asking him to pay off her loans. She wasn’t asking for anything. That was why it seemed great. The love came first and the other good stuff just happened to be there.
Max was aware of her $350,000 debt and he brought it up on the trip. “You know what I think is really fucked?” he said.
“What?”
“That medical loans have to be paid off even when the patient dies.”
“Let’s not talk about it. It’s beyond fucked.”
“What if you just don’t pay it?”
“I don’t know. Jail, I would imagine.”
“Maybe there’s a way around it.”
“Let’s just have fun. I don’t want to talk about it in front of my dad.” Max looked behind him at the copper urn.
“I understand. But from everything you’ve said about your father, I bet he would be the most angry of all.”
Kathy picked up the urn, rubbing it as if a magic genie would appear. “He would really like you,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The President’s mother, Bernice Bernstein, had been moved to a facility in Baltimore, a sophisticated recovery center where people rarely recovered, mostly living in a coma forever, mostly on the government’s dime.
Bernice was in suite 401. It was a large room, overlooking a parklike setting, with six machines working 24/7. She lay there with her eyes closed and no expression on her face, and to look at her, one would have no idea if she was even alive, but the machines confirmed that she was.
The President came a week after she was installed, as he liked to put it, and sat in the room and allowed a few private pictures—nothing for the press, just photos taken by the White House photographer for the family. There were shots of him kissing his mother’s forehead, holding her hand, sitting on the end of her bed, and standing at the window, looking reflective.
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