by Doug Walker
“Yes, Sir. Have been for some time. It’s strictly a secret, you might say back street affair. We’ve used protection and have sworn to simply keep it as a brief affair. But the young lady seems to have changed her mind.”
“Is there blackmail involved?”
“I suppose. She wants me to divorce my wife and marry her.”
“That would certainly qualify. It doesn’t seem to me like a wholesome basis on which to ground a marriage. You must have said to this youthful intern that you loved her.”
“I did, and in a way I do. She also suggested that taking sexual advantage of a minor might earn me ten to twenty years in prison.”
“She is no dummy. But again, a threat like that would not necessarily launch a successful marriage. There would be a type of dark cloud hanging over the entire scenario. My first thought is to rid the White House of the pair of you. My second is you’ve been a successful press secretary, have great presence and poise from the lectern and seem to have the confidence of the media. Thus I would hate to lose you.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“As President, I cannot advise you in this matter.” Conlon seemed to pale at this statement. He had hoped the Oval office might solve what for him was a hideous dilemma. But then Brooking added, “A similar problem was mentioned to me by my personal trainer, Tarot Jones. You may have met him.”
“Yes, Sir. He is well known in these quarters. A gifted trainer and a fine gentleman.”
“So I advise you to seek his advice. I generally meet with him privately in the early morning. To insure a private meeting with him, I’ll mention to him that you will take my spot tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
After Conlon had departed, Brooking sat back and pondered the niggling small matters that often intruded on the time of a chief executive. Then he picked up the phone and called his ninja to fill him in on the problem and the possible solution.
He suggested Tarot check the young lady’s background to find a few skeletons and see if she might be amicable to a pay-off. Obviously, if she carried through with her plan to expose Conlon, both he and she would be tossed out of the White House. That seemed unlikely.
Three days later Conlon again appeared in the Oval office and said the matter had been settled amiably. “Tarot said he had learned, and I’ll never know how, that Lydia, for that’s her name, has a boyfriend back home in Oklahoma, and another on Capitol Hill, another intern it seems. You see interns get together now and then, there are hookups.”
“Hookups and hookups,” Brooking observed.
“So how was it resolved?”
“I think she was going to plead pregnancy and ask for the money for an abortion. I mentioned that any disclosure would be a scandal that would get both of us bounced out on our ass.”
“And?”
“Lydia cried. Crocodile tears streamed down her pretty face. She kissed me and said goodbye. As a parting shot she said the two of us must never meet again.”
“Dramatic.”
“You bet since she works in my office. That’s how we got together in the first place. She’s something of a flirt. You might say a flashing flirt.”
Brooking sighed. “Well, let’s keep her. I guess she won’t be around too much longer.”
“Two months,” the press secretary said.
The President nodded. “I’d like you to release an incident to the press. It involves Fancy.”
“The cat?”
“Yes, the White House cat that caused such a stir. She brought a dead mouse to my desk the other day.”
“She must like you.”
“Cats have always been fond of me.”
“What happened to the mouse?”
“I dropped it in the waste basket.”
“No autopsy?”
“None. I’ve never thought mice carry diseases. I wouldn’t mind mice except they leave droppings all over countertops. They are not toilet trained, or do not have the good grace to do their business out of sight. By such action, they give their presence away, which sparks different reactions from different individuals. Anyway, the press becomes almost breathless where Fancy is concerned.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
How to reign in big oil puzzled Brooking. The public saw the results with some disgust at the gas pumps. The Congress, both houses, saw big oil through the eyes of an army of lobbyists who demanded continued subsidies, tax loopholes and paid off handsomely with campaign contributions.
The so-called “house” ad campaign also worked nicely for the various companies. What they contributed toward efforts to save the country and the planet.
The President knew he had to walk softly. Big oil supplied the nation with fuel for autos, homes, factories and farms. There were good works being done outside their own special interests. There were big oil executives who were philanthropists and who cared very much for the environment.
But there was also a flip side, a dark side that kept energy costs unnaturally high and chewed away at the economy, much like a crew of mice gnawing away at a farmer’s profits.
Calling in his chief of staff, he asked German to provide him with the names of the top five oil lobbyists in Washington.
“The top one is easy,” German said. “He’s a lawyer, Derek Park. I’ve heard the price for a stranger to get an appointment, actually enter his office, is ten thousand dollars.”
“Some practice. I’d like four others just to keep things balanced. Do they work together?”
“You mean as a group? Yes and no. They form liaisons for certain tasks, then form other liaisons, then always lone wolf-it for special members. They form personal attachments with certain members. Maybe from their home state, or college chums, or simply money. So as far as one all-powerful man is concerned, Derek Park comes close, but he could never work alone on an issue.”
“Would you say there are many issues?” Brooking knew the ins and outs of the oil industry and what the issues might be, but he enjoyed listening to German’s input in hopes of learning something new.
“Everyday. Oil spills, pipeline debates, issues with foreign powers.”
Brooking interrupted to ask, “Do these lobbyists reach into oil producing countries?”
“Damn right they do. They have sources and operatives worldwide. Big oil is dependent on them. A problem flares, they’re expected to tamp it down.”
“And the oil companies, they work in partnership too, don’t they?”
“Of course.”
“See if you can get me four more names anyway. I’d like a manageable group of people.”
German smiled slyly. “If you think you can manage big oil and their lackeys, well, more power to you. It’s been tried before.”
“I don’t intend to manage them. I simply hope to work with them for the common good. You know, oil production through hydraulic fracturing, or fracking, is driving the EPA crazy. Farmers, ranchers and simple home owners complain that it’s ruined their water supply.”
“I’m sure it has in some cases, but the system works.”
“I understand that,” the President said. “And it’s created an old-fashioned boom town in the western and northern tier of states, complete with drugs, prostitution and high crime. With the good comes the bad, then there’s the water supply.”
“I’ll get you four more names,” German promised.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Brooking had been studying the process of extracting natural gas from methane hydrates for some time. He didn’t fully understand it, but he had been instrumental in funding the ongoing experimentation. The secretary of energy was in charge of the program.
Results could not be expected overnight. The Energy Department’s investment in shale gas research during the 70s and 80s helped pave the way for the ongoing boom in natural gas with a projected cost slash of thirty percent.
He had gathered from his reading that these methane hydrate formations were widespread around the globe. Ongoing effo
rts would likely safely extract natural gas from such formations in the Arctic and along the U.S. Gulf Coast.
Brooking was distracted from his energy studies by Tutor Conlon who said there had been numerous press inquiries about the cat and mouse incident.
“You mean Fancy and that dead mouse?” he asked in surprise.
“Yes, Sir. The public seems fascinated by the White House cat and the adventures of that cat.”
After a thoughtful silence, the President said, “Yes, I’ll drop by the pressroom after lunch, say at 2 p.m., and discuss that compelling issue.”
“They’ll be pleased, Sir. Nothing like a good feline tale to startle the news cycle.”
Brooking stepped into the pressroom sharply at two, no reason to keep the newshounds waiting. When Conlon suggested the press was eager to learn more, he had immediately thought of his mouse analogy and planned to work it into his statement.
“I’m told you’re interested in the activities of Fancy the cat. Of course she is my favorite cat, in fact the only White House cat.”
“Would you enjoy a second cat, a companion for Fancy?” a woman from the Post questioned.
“The thought never crossed my mind, possibly because it would be offensive to Fancy. The idea of a companion cat would likely be foreign to her. Cats are often solitary beings, although I’ve known them to pair off. Down on the farm in Iowa there were quite a few cats coming and going. So during my growing up years I had an excellent opportunity to observe the, you might say, ecology of the domestic cat.”
“The cat population on the farm then was made up strictly of domestic animals?” A question from the Kansas City Star.
“Excellent line of thought there, Carl. Very likely there were feral cats mixed in with the lot, cats that had simply come out of the woods to enjoy the easy farm life and share companionship, if only for the moment. So we had a mixture of domestic and others you might classify as wild.”
A female reporter from the Newark Advocate raised her hand and asked, “Did you feed these animals and take them on regular trips to the vet?”
This brought a smile to Brooking’s face. “Yes, we bought large bags of dried cat food, quite inexpensive, really. It was my job to pour what I considered the proper amount into a trough each morning and to make certain two large bowls were filled with water. As for trips to the vet, on Iowa farms, the only vets are those that treat large animals. Cows, horses, pigs, sheep and so forth. Small animals lived much like we did, hoping we wouldn’t fall ill.”
“That’s inhumane,” the woman scoffed.
“Perhaps, but you might call it a lingering pioneer spirit. I’m guessing the same situation is true at this moment on the majority of family farms across the nation. The cats do serve a useful purpose. They catch and destroy mice, just as Fancy has done in the White House.”
“A modern task for exterminators,” the same woman tossed in.
“I might give you an analogy that came to mind recently. I’ve been debating with my staff the pros and cons of big oil. On one side, big oil is good; it gives us energy, provides jobs and does other good work.
“On the flip side, excessive profits keep prices high at the gas pump, the government provides unneeded subsidies and there are tax loopholes that steal money from the American public. This bad side is aided and abetted by an army of highly financed lobbyists. You might liken them to an army of mice eating away at the farmer’s profits, and thus bringing grief to the consumer.”
“Is your administration at war with big oil?” the Boston Globe asked.
“The term ‘at war’ has been used and abused entirely too much. I began my statement by pointing out the good side of big oil. What I intend to do is work hand in hand with big oil and help them help themselves to a much brighter future.”
“They can’t do that alone?” the Canton Repository asked.
“As the song goes, The Times They are a’changin’. We have fracking, sometimes at odds with the EPA, we have a multiplicity of other energy sources in the development stage. I have the Department of Energy. This administration holds out its arms to embrace big oil. We look forward to a balmy courtship.”
Brooking noted with pleasure that the print scribes were scribbling at their best pace. He was pleased with the ‘balmy courtship’ phrase. But to end the session on a light note, he turned back to the cat.
“I’ve made the statement that cats seem to be fond of me. As you know, they are independent creatures and do as they please. My impression of their fondness for me comes from the observation that they do not reject me. There is a difference between fondness and the lack of rejection. So I must say they tolerate me.”
“Is there some depth to these feelings of inadequacy?” the reporter from Le Monde questioned, bringing a prolonged snicker from the crowd.
Brooking too smiled. “You French, you are so, what should I say, charming in your dialectics, if that is the proper word. My point is the cats, like the French, are loyal to their food bowl.” A howl of laughter from the press corps and a look of indifferent disdain from the Parisian reporter. “I fed the cats on the farm so they may have actually enjoyed my company. I also feed Fancy.”
“You feed Fancy?” the Post reporter asked in disbelief.
“I do. I have small cans of quality food that I open with a pull top. One can a day. I do not clean the cat box. The regular janitorial service takes pains with that chore. So, good day ladies and gentlemen.” He turned and retreated to the safety of the Oval office.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Curtis German supplied the names of four additional prominent big oil lobbyists: Samuel Gilkes, Alexander Thompson, Hugh O’Brien and Erin King.
Brooking asked him to arrange a breakfast or luncheon meeting with the man he considered the top lobbyist, Derek Park, at the White House. German came back with the message that Park was reluctant to come to the White House, that he preferred neutral territory.
Brooking shrugged. “Hardly worth fighting over a location. The request indicates a reluctance to cooperate. Just don’t carry it any farther.”
“Shall I tell Park that?”
“No. Just forget the request.”
The President decided to wait a day or two and then go to the second tier of lobbyists, maybe all four.
Two days later German reported that that Park had a change of heart and would come to the White House. Brooking was tempted to inform him that other arrangements had been made with other lobbyists, but decided not to play hardball at this stage in the game, and it was a game. Something akin to romance.
While German was in the office the President related a story about a White House cat from long ago. It seems that a small town banker was invited for breakfast with the president. Although a worthy citizen, the banker was nervous about just how to act. An advisor told him to watch the president and do what the president did.
Coffee was served, and the president poured quite a bit of cream in his, then poured a portion in his saucer and blew on it, as if to cool it. The banker did the same. The president than placed his saucer on the floor for the cat.
German had heard the story before, but complimented Brooking on his wit and went about his business.
The weather was fine the morning Park arrived, and the two of them adjourned to a small table under the Truman balcony. They were served a pot of coffee and bagels, cream cheese and lox.
“Keep it simple,” the President said smiling.
“Simplicity, the secret to a good life,” Park agreed.
After a few silent moments of cutting and assembling the bagels, the President began his pitch. “I thought we might agree to address some of the problems perceived by the public to hound the oil industry on a mutually acceptable basis.”
“Public perception?” Park questioned.
“My job is to serve the public. In a way, yours is too.”
“I suppose anyone in a position of power is honor bound to care for the general population,” Park agreed. “
What is it you have in mind?”
“The usual. There will always be oil spills, and the industry seems perpetually ill prepared for such spills, tax loopholes, subsidies, excessive profits.”
“You want me to help you with all these things, or do you task me with doing it alone?”
“Working together with you and other lobbyists, with the Congress, with the executive branch, with the EPA. I thought we might diffuse disputes through a spirit of cooperation and make some real progress.”
Park appeared to be thoughtful. He applied more lox to his bagel, took a small bite followed by a sip of coffee. “I think you might be asking me to do what I am paid not to do, Mr. President.”
“And very well compensated, I’m certain. But in the end the public and the oil industry would be well served.”
“And I might be out of a job. The ball game would be over.”
After a few more minutes of low-key wrangling, all the pair could do was agree to disagree.
As a parting shot, Brooking asked if Park participated in a health club in the newly trendy part of the city.
“I’m not certain what you mean,” the lobbyist replied.
“I was looking over a list and believe I saw the name of your firm and others as contributors; I assume for good health services. Myself, I have a small workout room here at the White House.”
“It could be some members of my firm use a downtown facility, perhaps at lunch. Of course I’m a country club member. I often take clients for a loop. You might join us sometime, Mr. President. Some of my clients contribute to political parties and to individuals.”
“I’m sure they do, Derek. I’m sure they do.” He rose and the two shook hands. Park had seemed to decline any compromise. But the game was afoot.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Park returned to his office at a slow boil, which quickly turned into a rage. He railed at his private secretary, “I want every record for payments to the Federal Health Club, that place on 14th Street. How in God’s name did he get a look at those records?”
