"Remo, I need you to understand what MAEBE is— a house of cards propped up on an image of purity. The public thinks MAEBE is squeaky clean while all around is corruption and unethical behavior. Do you see?"
"No."
"Their popularity skyrocketed in days, but if the public perception is ruined, then their popularity will fall just as fast. Think of MAEBE is a one-legged stool. We're starting to chip away at the leg, and we don't have to cut deep before it will collapse under its own weight."
Remo hung up, irritably. Plastic chips scattered at his feet.
"Another phone assassinated by Remo, Destroyer of Public Utility Property."
"Shut up, Chiun." Remo marched into the street.
"Where are you off to?" Chiun asked, irked at having to catch up. Catching up was undignified.
Remo nodded at the Circuit City store in the nearby strip mall. "Going to watch some TV."
Dunklin County, Missouri
Georgette Redstone looked at the printout. "It's a wire transfer."
"It's for ten grand," said her advertising manager.
"Is it legit?" Redstone asked.
"Yeah, I called First National. The money's in our account right now. They want us to start running it as soon as possible. You want to see the commercial?"
Georgette Redstone nodded. "This is too good to be true. Is it a white-power group or something?"
"It's a negative ad, for sure, but nothing out of bounds," said her ad manager. "Nothing we can't air."
Georgette knew her ad manager well enough to take his assessment with a grain of salt. The man would do anything to sell commercial time.
The wire transfer had come unexpectedly. In fact, nobody at the tiny rural television station had known about their good fortune until an e-mail arrived ordering the advertising time and asking the station to download the video from a remote server.
The commercial certainly wasn't well produced. The narrator sounded digitized and cold. The graphics were second-rate. What Georgette Redstone found most intriguing about the ad was its subject matter.
"It's a negative ad about MAEBE?" she asked when it ended.
"Why not?" asked her advertising manager.
"I never heard anybody say anything bad about them before, that's all."
"George, it's ten grand for five one-minute spots," her ad sales manager said. "That's four times our rate. We can't turn this down."
Georgette shrugged. "Who's turning it down? Go run it."
The ad ran at the top of the hour in the rural southern counties of Missouri. Not many people were watching the local station in the middle of the afternoon, but Henry Nimby was one of them.
He was trying to come up with a local story for the following day's paper. He always tried to devote his front page to something local—otherwise, why buy a local paper? But not a lot happened around Dunklin County, and so far his top story was about the revived controversy about the use of Peanuts as the mascot for the Washington Carver High School teams. There was nothing racial about it, as some locals insisted. Black or white, seventeen-year-old football players did not enjoy being called Peanuts.
In protest the entire student body had adopted the derogatory version of the nickname that had been used against them for years. They were calling themselves the Penises.
An interesting turn of events, Nimby thought, but the story lost a lot of its impact since he could not actually use the new, unofficial nickname in print. He couldn't even print it "p***s" or he'd have every grandmother in three counties calling to complain.
Without the story, though, he had an empty front page—until his good friend Georgette from the TV outlet called with a heads-up." Just watch and see," Georgette said. "In fifteen minutes you'll have tomorrow's front page, and you'll owe me a steak dinner."
Nimby was doubtful.
The commercial started out grainy and green, an image taken through night-vision enhancement, but the audio was good. You could hear every word, and just in case there were white captions at the bottom of the screen.
The police officer had his back to the camera, but the other one was recognizable, if you knew the guy. Everybody around these parts knew the guy. It was Joe Ronfeldt, running for one of the federal house seats.
"That's all I got," Joe said.
"Five thousand ain't enough to erase a DUI," said the voice of the faceless police officer. "I know you got a nice campaign fund going, Joe."
"Where do you think the five G came from? I can't take out any more. No way to hide it. I'm audited, you know."
There was an audible sigh. "Fine. I'll do it for five Gs. Call it my civic contribution."
The image froze on the face of Joe Ronfeldt, while the other half of the screen scrolled down to show a photocopy of the arrest report. It was a close-up, so you could read the report clearly and the image scrolled to show it all. "Two months ago he was arrested while driving under the influence, but the arrest report vanished from the police files," said the dramatic but digitized voice-over. "He is MAEBE Candidate Joe Ronfeldt. What else is he hiding?"
Henry Nimby had his front page, and it was well worth the price of a steak dinner for his good friend Georgette Redstone.
Portland, Oregon
"You run that ad one more time, and I'll sue you into bankruptcy," Andy Harris shouted.
"It's a political ad, Mr. Harris," said the station manager at the local ABC affiliate. "We're not responsible for the content."
"You are if it's untrue," Harris insisted.
"If it is untrue, then you can take steps to stop us from airing it."
"That will take days!" Harris said. "I'll be finished!"
"Mr. Harris," she said coolly, "maybe you should have thought of that before you snorted cocaine in front of a camcorder."
Harris slammed the phone. Smartass bitch.
Funny thing was, in all the times he'd used coke, he couldn't remember ever doing lines where somebody could have taped him. He was always careful. Also, he couldn't place the location he had just seen in the TV commercial. Somebody's living room that he didn't recognize.
But that sure was him, no denying it, bent over an ugly coffee table and vacuuming up white powder through a rolled-up five-dollar bill, then falling back on the couch with a wasted grin on his face. "BLEEP-ing good blow man!" He spoke right to the guy with the camcorder.
Bad judgment, Andy, he said to himself. He couldn't remember any of this. It really must have been some kick-ass blow. Well, there had been blackouts when he got into some good blow....
The phone rang and he closed his eyes as he picked it up. Please don't be Linda. Please don't be Linda.
It was Linda.
"I hope it was a good party, Andy, because it just cost you everything you have."
"Linda—"
"Your campaign, your deaconship and me. It's all gone. I hope it was a really fun party."
"Wait, Linda!"
She was gone.
"Who'd have thought drugs could fuck up your life so fast?" Andy asked his schnauzer. Andy didn't know what else to do, so he fished the little plastic bag out from behind his washing machine and started to cut a line.
The dog watched, happily wagging its tail, because it knew that as soon as its master did this odd thing, they would go out together and share a big sack of sliders.
Cleveland, Ohio
"I'm screwed," said the judge as the commercial faded and the station anchor came on, showing the same commercial and reporting it as news.
"You sure are," said the other judge.
"I never should have gone with MAEBE."
"What you never should have done," the other judge said unkindly, "is sleep with that girl. What is she, twenty?"
The judge didn't need to answer the question because the news anchor was telling them all about the student, an unidentified seventh-grader from Lincoln Junior High.
"You make me sick," said the other judge, and left the chambers.
More of the same would be coming his way, the
judge knew. So much for reelection. He'd probably be disbarred. Maybe incarcerated. If he stayed out of jail— a big if—he had only one career option left.
He hated teaching, but it had its advantages. Just think of all the bubble-headed young coeds who'd do anything for a passing grade.
Washington, D.C.
"Donald Lamble scored a huge lift in the polls when he came out with controversial negative comments against the recently slain Governor Bryant," said the network anchor on the TV screen. "Lamble is also a key figure in the newly formed Morals and Ethics Behavior Establishment, the political party that came virtually out of nowhere to unite independent political candidates across the country. The revelation last hour has already sent Lamble's popularity plummeting. Preliminary BCN polls show him at his lowest level ever."
The anchor disappeared, and the screen showed a photocopy of student transcripts from Hemming Community College in Grievance, Minnesota.
"The revelation came this afternoon when newspapers and television stations throughout Lamble's state received couriered copies of Mr. Lamble's community college transcripts and student ID card," said the anchor's voice-over. "The transcripts show Mr. Lamble received poor-to-failing grades in all his classes except horticulture—this in the same semester in which he publicly claimed to have received a doctorate in political science from Montgomery College, a small private college near Minneapolis. Montgomery College, however, looks as if it was an invention, as no evidence has emerged to prove it ever even existed."
"That dude is out of work," said a teenager browsing the flat-screen TVs.
"I guess so," said Remo Williams.
"It has been a bad, bad day for the Morals and Ethics Behavior Establishment," commented the BCN commentator, a man known to rejoice in the misery of others. "Riding to the heights of glory on their claims of purity and incorruptibility, this party of newcomers has had mud splattered on its white dress. The previously unknown Truth-Be-Told Organization has hit MAEBE hard, across the country, leveling accusations of immoral, unethical and illegal behavior on the part of fourteen MAEBE politicians and counting. In every case, TU-TO backed up its claims with evidence that is difficult to refute. The result is a whip-snap backlash against the party that placed itself on a pedestal. The question now is will negative publicity spillover and adversely affect the entire party in the long term?"
"Sure as shittin' will," the teenager said. "Those guys are screwed!"
"I guess so," said Remo Williams, and he was smiling. "Come on, Little Father."
"The program has only just started," Chiun complained, his face inches from a nearby high-definition display.
"Hey, it's the Exciting Tomatoes!" said the teenager. "I don't know what those babes are always cryin' about, but they got some fabulous racks, huh?"
The teenager didn't notice the old Korean wasn't answering him.
"I mean, you ever see a grandma whose got 'em lifted way up like that? In a halter top, no less!"
The teenager was so engrossed in the Exciting Tomatoes he didn't see the fingernails that almost decapitated him or the hand that stopped it from happening. Remo led Chiun toward the entrance, but the phones started ringing as he went by the mobile phone display. All the phones.
"Aw, crap." Remo grabbed one of them, opened it, poked it and handed it to the salesperson. He opened a second one and was about to poke a button when Chiun barked, "Just talk, imbecile!"
"Hello?" Remo said to the phone.
"Remo, it's me."
"I kinda guessed that, Smitty. I gotta hand it to you and the little prince—nice smear campaign you've got going on."
"However, the time has come to take care of Flicker in the manner you suggested earlier."
Remo's mood was improving all the time. "What about the martyrdom problem?" he asked.
"That will not be a problem at all," said Harold W. Smith.
38
Orville Flicker felt his aircraft come to a halt and the engine noise dropped and died. He was back in D.C. He arrived not in a moment of victory, but in a moment of desperation.
Every ten minutes on this long flight there had come another slap in the face. It started with a small-time MAEBE state representative in Missouri and snowballed from there.
The worst thing about it was the skill with which the campaign was executed. Whoever these people were, this Truth-Be-Told Organization, they knew just how to strike at MAEBE with effectively damning marketing.
"But there wasn't a video camera in the hotel room!" the judge from Cleveland protested when Flicker called. "That hotel didn't have shag carpeting!"
"Doesn't matter," Flicker responded.
"Of course it matters if the evidence is faked. It won't take much to prove it."
"It will take too much to prove it. Too much time and too much publicity. The fact is, you nailed a junior high school girl. That will come out."
"Not necessarily," the judge insisted.
"It will. It already has. Look at the television."
"What channel?"
Flicker hung up on the judge. Didn't matter what channel. Pretty soon it would be on every channel. The girl was seen walking into the police station to file her grievance, and she glanced for a moment at the camera with big, gentle, sweet eyes. Dammit, she was photogenic!
The judge was doomed.
So was the state's attorney in Alabama and the governor of Oregon and the senator from Alaska and dammit, so was Lamble. Son of a bitch Lamble faked his doctorate from a nonexistent college. There were lots of ways to get yourself a degree that would stand up to scrutiny, and Lamble used an amateur's trick.
Whoever was gunning for them had penetrating resources and a knack for using them. The Truth-Be-Told Organization, or TU-TO, as the networks were calling it, could be none other than a branch of the government, and likely the same assassin's branch that had been harassing the White Hand for days.
Give him time, Flicker thought, and he could find out who they really were. He could expose them. He could propagandize those bastards out of existence.
He smiled ironically. It would be too late, just like the pedophile judge in Ohio proving the incriminating video was a fake.
"Mr. Orville Flicker," said his assistant darkly.
"What?" Flicker asked. He had never seen Kohd looking so stern. "What's wrong now?"
"What's wrong is you, sir," Kohd declared through gritted teeth. Kohd never gritted his teeth. "You are destroying yourself."
Flicker laughed, a bitter bark. "In case you weren't paying attention, Kohd, MAEBE is crumbling."
"Wrong, sir. MAEBE is you. MAEBE lives and dies with you. All those others are just the rungs in the ladder."
"The ladder is splitting up the middle, Kohd."
"But a strong man at the top can hold it together, sir, and stay upright. That is you, but all I see is a man who is giving up. I see you letting go and allowing yourself to slide down into the pool of cold mud. You are failing us all."
"You're an asshole!"
"Because I'm insulted by your weakness? Mr. Flicker, you are the greatest public-relations man ever. Nobody could have pulled this off except you. You're on the verge of being President."
"Kohd—"
"Orville, you still have the means to be President. We know how to make Senator Whiteslaw go away. We know how to exert control over the current President. The man at the top of the ladder, whether the ladder has rungs or not, stands just as tall as long as he keeps his balance. So I ask you sir, will you strive to remain erect, or will you allow yourself to topple?"
Flicker thought about it, then slowly sat up and spoke resolutely. "I choose to stay erect."
Kohd nodded and pulled out two mobile phones. "Good. Then I have calls to make."
Flicker got to his feet. "And I have a senator to assassinate."
39
"Hello, Robert, how are you these days?" Flicker shook the man's hands in both his own.
The redheaded guard was grinning. "Nice to see
you, Mr. F. I'm sorry about all the trouble, losing Mr. Kriidelfisk and all."
Flicker nodded, appropriately somber. "It was a horrible turn of events."
"He was a good man," the guard said, saying the lines as perfectly as Flicker's press secretary had said them in interviews after the incident. Now a lot of people believed those words, even though none of them knew anything about the blackmailing, baskstabbing liar Kriidelfisk. "He was a living saint," the guard added. Another good line from the media spin.
Killing his running mate had been a cunningly successful political move, Flicker thought, his spirits improving all the time. "You bet he was, Robert."
Robert scanned Flicker with the metal-detection wand in a cursory manner. "So are you just visiting, Mr. F?"
"Seeing some old friends, Robert." Flicker said, lowering his hands and retrieving his keys and wallet from the basket.
"Gonna do some campaigning while you're at it, Mr. F?" Robert winked, waving one of his immensely bushy orange eyebrows.
"Maybe just little," Flicker said in a mock whisper. "Keep it under your hat."
The guard chuckled and Flicker received his VIP pass. His weapon undiscovered, Orville Flicker strolled into the private halls of the United States Senate as if he owned the place.
There were a number of senators who owed him favors on both sides of the aisle, and they'd assumed their debts were written off when Flicker left the White House. He had called them in today, and the indebted senators didn't dare refuse on the off chance, God forbid, the guy actually got the power he was seeking. Besides, what Flicker was asking for was benign enough. Flicker want to show he was still a Washington insider. All he needed was a pass into the Senate for some hand shaking and acquaintance renewing. It wasn't as if the man was a security risk.
The senators who got Flicker his pass, one from each party, came into the hall to greet him warmly, shaking his hand as they wove through the next security guards and escorted Flicker onto the floor of the U.S. Senate.
The Senate was not in session at the moment, but no member of that august body would have dared miss a special session intended to honor one of its own. They were talking in groups, networking, schmoozing, bartering votes like chits.
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