The President's Ninja

by Doug Walker

  “Quite a persuasive argument.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Brooking’s end-of-life speech had drawn heavy media coverage resulting in an onslaught of opinions from across the nation and abroad. E-mails, faxes, snail mail, overnight deliveries and even petitions brought to the White House gate crammed the office tasked with responding to such pleas.

  The pro opinions far outnumbered the con. But there were death threats from a few wild-eyed constituents, duly handed over to the FBI for reaction. The President spent at least half an hour daily reading a selection of the communications. Some he personally answered. Of course his staffers attempted to answer each and every one.

  Meanwhile his end-of-life bill was the subject of committee hearings and should soon work its way through the Congress. It offered strictly the option of euthanasia to the individual who had lost cognitive faculties as well as the ability to care for himself, and only if prearranged when the individual was mentally and physically stable.

  The pro-lifers who opposed abortion, certain Christians and others who felt deeply about the sanctity of life, were the major opponents.

  But the horror stories that flooded in that supported the bill caused the President to feel he stood on solid ground - stories of families that had emptied their savings accounts and depleted their energies caring for a once robust individual now reduced to less than zombie status. And there were mixed feelings about the value of a person in a vegetative state.

  Many such missives contrasted the difference between life and existence. Some expressed guilt about keeping a totally debilitated loved one alive. And there were black marks for the medical community, skilled in keeping a person alive in a society that fails to understand the wrenching cost to the surviving family members.

  Some said their parents died long ago, but lingered on to take a terrible toll on their children. Speak of the undead!

  And there was a person who was told by the doctor that his father had made a miraculous recovery. He felt like striking down the doctor on the spot. What member of the medical profession would perform major surgery on a person who is unable to feed or go to the bathroom by themselves and who cannot recognize their own children?

  Some of those who lived through what they described as agony and torture caring for a gravely ill person with dementia had devised their own suicide plans to cleanse themselves and the world of at least one future mishap.

  Of course Brooking knew through his own research and the input of others that the problem would grow far worse in years to come as the nation aged and as life spans increased even more. Read the obituaries. Then consider a hundred years ago. Does one believe there would be such a batch of people in their late 80s and early nineties?

  The death threats, some of them anyway, were taken seriously. Brooking had planted his signature firmly on the legislation. Abortion clinics had been bombed in the past and doctors murdered. Sadly, some of those making such threats were not uneducated snake handlers. Some were respected members of their communities who carried their own ideas to the extreme. Of course, those who valued life in any form were not crackpots. But where to draw the line?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  At times Brooking fell into what had once been called a purple funk, a type of mild depression. Things happen. His wife dead, Tina dead, he had not heard much from Renee recently. He relied on Tarot, often thinking out loud during their workout sessions.

  On this day he had received a petition with an impressive number of influential names affixed thereon. It demanded effective environmental legislation to protect entire ecosystems. There seemed to be 20,000 species of animals and plants on this globe that were candidates for extinction.

  The petition made a strong case that these plants, animals, reptiles, fish and so forth were of great value to the environment, if not vital.

  Brooking did not know the exact number of folks employed in the White House. He guessed about three hundred. But the late President Harry Truman had the placard on his desk: The Buck Stops Here. And that was still the case.

  The petition did not totally surprise him. He was aware that the International Union for Conservation of Nature kept a list of those species at risk, and that the United Nations had taken steps to provide scientific background for possible solutions.

  He was surprised at the number of species known to have gone extinct since the year 1500. The list included 136 birds, 68 fish and 79 mammals. And for every known species there might be as many as two more still undiscovered.

  In his present state, the petition puzzled him. Why was it on his desk? What should be done about it? Who should he hand it off to? Obviously the buck didn’t stop here. He had to pass the buck off to some lesser official, along with a demand for a solid attempt at a resolution – obviously impossible in the short term, not too hopeful in the long.

  While he pondered the possibilities, his secretary, Penny, entered his office and silently approached his desk. Aware of her presence, he eventually said, “What is it, Penny?”

  “A rumor, Sir. Something that might interest you.”

  “Gossip?”

  “More than that, Sir. Much more substantial.”

  “Well, let’s have it.”

  “It seems that the vice president’s secretary walked into his office unannounced and found him in an oral sex situation with an intern.”

  Brooking tried to remain calm. This was not good, yet it bore out something he had suspected. Old dogs cannot be taught new tricks. His reply to Penny consisted of three words, “In flagrante delicto.”

  The words puzzled Penny. “What does that mean, Sir?”

  “Caught in the act of illicit sex. Perhaps it’s out of fashion. It also means a pile of trouble. How good is your information?”

  “Very likely one hundred percent correct. We secretaries network.”

  “Ring up Jairo Ducote, the pride of the bayous, and have him visit me as soon as possible.”

  “Will do, Sir.”

  “And try not to spread the rumor. Also, I assume the intern in question is female, and it is my fervent hope that she has reached the age of consent.”

  “I believe you are right on both counts, Sir.” Exit Penny.

  Derek Park, arguably the top lobbyist in Washington, dropped by to discuss several subjects. They had become great and good friends and were in the business of helping one another.

  At one point in the conversation the President asked Derek for his rags to riches story.

  “You mean riches to fabulous riches. My Dad headed a prosperous law firm. He was a multimillionaire when I entered college. Never any worry about college fees. So I became a legacy lawyer – the kind that steps from law school into the family’s established firm. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of poor fish emerge from law school saddled with college debt and have to scramble to find even an entry-level job. No wonder so many lawyers enter politics. Look at Abe Lincoln.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Not as such, but in reality, yes. I went for the big bucks.”

  “Conservatives?”

  “Of course. Someone asked Willie Sutton why he robbed banks. He said that’s where the money is. So it goes with conservatives, big firms and so forth. You’re looking at millions, not thousands.”

  “But you did need brains, Derek. If you weren’t aligned with the wrong party, I’d suggest you as vice president.”

  “If that were the only hurdle, I’d be eligible, Mr. President. We share the same party. I even voted for you in the primary and the general.”

  A pregnant pause on Brooking’s part, then, “You damn traitor.”

  “If I’m a traitor and a turncoat, I’m a very rich one. I still share your values. A job’s a job. Anyway, you have a vice president.”

  “Tina was my vice president. I now have a bad boy, a very gregarious, popular, hale fellow well met bad boy. Not VP timber.”

  “Your suggestion interests me.” If anything, Derek could be frank when he sen
sed an opportunity.

  “Let me do some checking. I’ll get back to you soon. Very soon. Promise.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Shortly after lunch Vice President Jairo Ducote came to the Oval office. “What can I do for you, Mr. President? Penny had some time running me down. You know, busy, busy, busy.”

  Brooking grinned. He had recovered his good humor after an early morning downer. Derek Park had cheered him considerably. There was a man who could be trusted. He felt it in his heart. “Jairo, do you know the meaning of ‘in flagrante delicto?’”

  “I can’t say that I do. It sounds like Latin.”

  “Right on target. For some reason I enjoy the phrase, although it’s old fashioned. It means getting caught in the act of illicit sexual activity, just as you were with that intern. You know, I thought those days were over.”

  “Now, I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. President. I think you’ve fallen victim to some rumor mill.”

  “Not at all. She was giving you a blowjob. With a young intern, it’s a no no.”

  “Young is a matter of how you look at it. I’ll admit I’m her senior, but things happen. I assure you it won’t happen again. I’ll be Simon Pure from here on out.”

  “Once is too much, Jairo. This would be certain to come out if you were my running mate. It might cripple our campaign. It might make you popular with some good old boy sexual predators, but that minority is quite small. I think if you resign right away you might have a chance to get your old house seat back. How about it?”

  “God, this is a blow. And I’m not trying to be funny. But you’re right. I’d have to double cross an old friend who I’ve endorsed for the seat. But that’s life, isn’t it? If you want a friend in this town, buy a dog. I better get on this right away.”

  Brooking stood and extended his hand. “Good luck, Jairo. You helped me in the House. And you’ve done your best to be a good vice president. I won’t forget you. I wish I had an intern or two like that.”

  “I’ll give you her name, Mr. President.”

  Brooking guffawed. “Thanks, but no thanks. The best of luck.”

  Ducote seemed the happiest of men as he left the Oval office.

  Brooking guessed he would remain a jolly person even if he were back in his home district peddling used cars and hitting on clients. His next step was to ask Penny to set up an early evening cocktail meeting with Chief of Staff German and Party Chair Peggy Rains.

  In the late afternoon he huddled with political schedulers to work out a fundraiser in Martha’s Vineyard. Two large contributors were hosting gatherings, and both had substantial dwellings. To his disappointment he learned that Renee Camus had opted out. He had seen very little of her of late, but these were busy times, and she was consumed with activities in the East Wing.

  Curtis German and Perry Rains arrived in his residential quarters sharply at six. Snacks and the makings of drinks had been set out by his underemployed chef, an Asian who hailed from Taiwan and had been schooled in Lyon.

  Brooking and German had scotch and water while Rains sipped a birdbath martini, gin not vodka, and no Vermouth.

  The President engaged the two in small talk until the initial drinks were nearly drained. Then he sprung his surprise.

  “Ducote has been caught in a possibly scandalous situation and he will be resigning in hopes of getting back his House seat.” Both guests seemed properly surprised, but not overly startled. “I’m thinking of asking Derek Park to be my running mate.”

  German’s mouth gaped open and Rains sputtered a spray of martini before she could find voice to shout a string of obscenities. Her point being that he had been a great aide to the opposition for many years.

  Brooking let them blow off steam for a few minutes and then said that Park had voted for him in the primary and general election, shared his views, had developed into a good friend and he would be the running mate if they could find nothing wrong with him in four days and if he would accept.

  On contemplation, German allowed, “Park might bring a few conservatives from the other party plus independents into the fold. It’s not really such a nasty idea as it seemed at first blush.”

  “That right-wing son of a bitch,” Rains said. “Okay, I’ll get on it. Four days. Not a lifetime, but should do.” She gave the President a long evil stare and said, “You may live to regret this, Bruce.”

  “No I won’t,” he replied. An exact plan had formed in his head. “Try a few of the snacks and have some more alcohol. It’s okay to get pleasantly drunk up here. I do it all the time.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” Rains acknowledged.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Despite his invitation the two remained only briefly and then said their goodbyes, both in something of a shocked state by the twin announcements. Both would have coffee, discuss the issue and then go off to brood and seek the counsel of confidantes, plus beginning the vetting process.

  Once again Brooking was left alone in his spacious, even luxurious, quarters. If he had the choice of where to be alone he would have preferred the Iowa farm. He called Tarot and said, “What’s up?”

  “Reading my magazines.”

  “Come up and have a drink and a snack with me. I too am alone and bored with magazines and the nightly news. Maybe we can drum up a conversation.”

  They were both hungry and finished off most of the snack plate, mainly crackers, Brie, other cheeses, a few boiled shrimp and some sort of pepperoni. Both drank beer.

  “You’d think the president could eat a little better than this,” Brooking said, finishing off the final shrimp.

  “You could if you wanted too,” Tarot replied. “I’m in with the chef and I get a lot of good stuff.”

  “Partly raised in Japan, Tarot, I suppose you’re a great fan of sushi, raw fish.”

  “Overrated,” the ninja replied. “Sashimi is also raw fish. Sushi has a lot of rice. But the two go together. Many supermarkets in the U.S. have sushi chefs preparing it for take-away. A few are Japanese, some Chinese, maybe Burmese, or Asians of one sort or another. Some are even Mexicans or Latinos. It was once said it took years to become a journeyman sushi chef, almost as hard as becoming a ninja, but not true. Weeks would be more like it.”

  “I suppose there are many odd Japanese dishes, I once tried that sticky breakfast food that even most Japanese avoid.”

  “That fermenting soy bean stuff. I suppose it’s edible, but old fashioned. Old Kaz never touched it. And that Kobe beef, some of it’s so fat it looks yellow, that’s also something of an urban legend.” Tarot killed his beer and opened another, then fetched one for Brooking.

  “Old Kaz had a bit of money. I was afraid to ask where he got it. He took me to Kenya once. We went with a friend of his to the highlands, a few miles out of Nairobi and had fresh goat meat grilled. Delicious. Now that’s something you can get nowhere else because of the soil, which is sandy with lots of minerals. Also thorny bushes. The goats eat the leaves of the bushes, never grass. The meat is salty and tender. I look back on that with great pleasure. I was underage, but we drank cold Tusker beer for most of the afternoon. Sure beats supermarket sushi.”

  Before Tarot departed for his own digs, Brooking told him he wanted Derek Park for his running mate. The convention was late this year and would run headlong into the final days of the campaign. So there wasn’t much time. He asked Tarot to do what he could to check Park out. He couldn’t afford another Ducote.

  After working out the following morning, Brooking sat in his office trying to untwist the puzzle of demographics versus economics, if that’s what the election was all about. The economy was in a slight slump, and the opposition was promising to create jobs by the bucketful. They hummed away on the same old tune – tax cuts for the job creators, a sleight-of-hand theme. The election might hang in the balance of swing states – Ohio, North Carolina, Virginia and Iowa. The President thought Iowa was in the bag, but he also felt he could sew up Florida with a hand-shaking and fund ra
ising trip only days away.

  Then his ad campaign would hammer on the possibility that the opposition would deny women contraceptive services and perhaps criminalize abortion. Of course the far right wing was hell bent against gay marriage. So, if you’re young, Hispanic, a woman, Brooking is your man. The opposition would take the nation back to a place it’s been, a place it found distasteful. So hop on the bandwagon. A cheerful Brooking was eager to revive and claim the title of the Happy Warrior.

  The President buzzed Penny and asked her to get Renee on the phone. He told her he didn’t understand why she seemed to be avoiding him.

  Penny wondered if she would always be the courier of bad news. Perhaps Brooking would decide to kill the messenger. “Mr. President,” she began, well knowing the romantic link between the two, “Renee’s name has been linked with that of the Marine captain in charge of the White House guard. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.”

  Silence. And then, “I’m generally the last to know these things. I live a rather insular life. You’d think with all my advisors, all the assets at my fingertips, there would be very little I didn’t know. But, au contraire. I suppose they are what you might refer to as an item.”

  “That’s one way of expressing it, Sir.”

  “Superb. Do not repeat that you have told me what you have told me, but ask Curtis German to join me in my office.”

  “Certainly, Sir.”

  “Oh, by the way, are any of the other Marines involved with anyone on the White House staff?”

  “Why, yes, there is. A lance corporal hanging out with a secretary in Wilbert Lyn’s office. That’s all that I know of. These hook ups come and go.”

  “Yes, don’t they ever. Nothing seems to endure anymore. I suppose it’s the same in Iowa. When I was a kid, I thought things were different. Youthful dreams.”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  When German joined him, he got right to the point. “I understand Renee is going around with a Marine captain on the staff here, and a lance corporal is seeing a secretary in Lyn’s office. I feel this mixture of work and social activity is unwholesome. I’d like you to call the Marine commandant and have the two of them transferred and establish a policy against that sort of thing.”