Randall stands in a group of cheerfully chatting fathers, all of whom seem pleased to be in his presence. He continues to marvel at the personal response he inspires in his constituents. The antipathy most people profess toward politicians does not seem to extend to him. A tall investment counselor with a trim mustache says, “My daughter didn’t want to come, but I told her God knows us by our actions.” At this two of the other fathers chime in, “Amen.” A burly systems analyst with a buzz cut and a thick face says, “We need to set the example.” Everyone present nods. Randall has politely waited for all the men in the group to say something. This allows him to maintain the illusion that he actually listens. The buzz cut man was the last to speak. That is Randall’s cue.
“Godlessness must be eradicated,” Randall says, pausing for effect. “Just not at the Indian casinos because that would hurt the economy.” Everyone hesitates a moment, then laughs. It isn’t that the joke is particularly amusing, since it is not. But someone has the temerity to introduce a spark of levity on such an august occasion, this gathering of the clan. These men, these bastions of rectitude, have been silently hoping Randall would take control of the conversation and relieve them of having to say something they haven’t already heard countless times. They would all prefer discussing sports or business, but the weightiness of the evening’s theme has made them want to elevate the discourse.
That Randall Duke! What ease and humor! What command! The earnest, tuxedo-clad fathers have been slightly intimidated by the seriousness of the event and he has lightened things with a gag. No wonder this man keeps getting elected to office. Their relief is conspicuous and Randall can feel it. “These Purity Balls are a good way to start but we each need to pledge to take God into the world.” More nodding at this advice. “Mammon is a tempter, always lurking, ready to seduce us with his smooth talk. If we give in, we can only expect the same from our daughters. We have to tell them they’re beautiful, tell them we love them because if we don’t then they’re going to look to hear it from some hip-hopping, pants-around-his-ankles kid in a backwards baseball cap.” A few of the girls giggle in recognition, Randall having artfully described several current boyfriends; the others all know a version of the predatory male invoked by the host. They are met with what’s-so-funny-about-that? stares from their escorts. Randall spots Brittany with Maxon, hovering at the edge of the group. “Isn’t that right, sweetie?” Maxon shoves the girl forward and she moves to her father’s side where Randall puts his arm over her shoulder. “Everyone, this is my daughter, Brittany.” Her anxious smile only conveys a fraction of the discomfort she feels at this moment.
When Randall had asked if he wanted to sit at his table as an honored guest Jimmy had demurred, telling his brother if it was all right with him he would just as soon deliver his introductory remarks then go home. He would have liked to talk more with Brittany but they can’t have an honest conversation with Randall around. He feels for that girl, worries about how she’s going to turn out. Now he scans the room from a doorway to the side of the podium. He doesn’t care if Randall would prefer that he wear the uniform. As far as Jimmy’s concerned, it’s enough that he’s wearing a tie.
There are a hundred and sixty-three guests, the odd number caused by a pair of thin, blonde twins in matching white chiffon, and they sit at sixteen round tables, father, daughter, father, daughter, circles of imagined, yearned for—please God, tell me she didn’t have sex with that imbecile in the Lakers jersey and the unlaced sneakers—pristine goodness. They eat salad, and chicken, and after: a desert of apple pie, another masterful Maxon Brae touch.
Jimmy takes in the daughters, lovely in the glowing light of the ballroom, the severe cross at the head of the room, and the loud voices of the fathers as they struggle to keep conversations going. He thinks of his own father, the Reverend Donnie Duke. What would he have made of Randall hosting this event?
“Jimmy Duke is an Investigator for the Riverside County District Attorney.” Too distracted by his own thoughts a moment earlier to notice that Maxon was at the podium, tentacles of discomfort now coil around Jimmy’s stomach as he prepares to be introduced. “Please give a warm round of applause to the brother of the Congressman.”
The crowd obeys and with a nod of his head Maxon indicates that it’s showtime. Jimmy is thinking of his father as he steps to the lectern at the front of the room, how his father would have been proud of him for introducing his older brother. He pushes aside the thought that his father never knew this iteration of Randall and focuses on the task at hand.
“Good evening, folks. My name is Jimmy Duke,” he says, then stops, caught by surprise as another smattering of applause breaks out. His career in law enforcement confers instant authority upon him, particularly with this crowd. When the applause subsides, he continues, getting comfortable, “My brother Randall is all about family. I don’t know if you people know this, but our brother Dale has had some trouble with the law. That can be kind of hard to handle if you’re in law enforcement.” Jimmy pauses for the appreciative chuckles from the fathers. He knows the daughters are all tuning him out except his niece who gives him a little wave. And it’s not an innocent wave either. There’s something cagey about it, like she has a secret she wants to share but doesn’t dare, at least not with her father around. He returns it with a smile and a nod. When the amused murmur passes, he continues, “Well, it can be real tough if you’re in public office. But my brother Randall always puts family first. From his beautiful wife Kendra, to his daughter Brittany, to our brother Dale, and to me, Randall is a guy who comes through for his family. And he looks at his constituents as family, too. It’s a pleasure to introduce your Congressman, my big brother, please give a round of applause to your member of the United States House of Representatives Randall Duke.”
Jimmy steps away from the microphone and leads the clapping, relieved to have discharged his obligation. It worries him on some level that he can sling it so comfortably, but he knows it’s not a bad skill to have at the ready.
With a grin and a wave Randall rises from his seat and walks to the lectern where he shakes hands with Jimmy. “I’d wish you’d worn the uniform,” Randall says, the smile never flagging. Jimmy shakes his head and makes for the parking lot.
“My brother Jimmy Duke, everyone,” Randall leads the cheers for Jimmy who waves at the crowd without looking at them before vanishing through a side door.
“I want to thank you all for coming tonight,” he says to the bright faces. “Right now, I’d like all the daughters to stand up and be counted.” Randall waits while, amid uneasy titters and scraping chairs, the virgins—and some for whom that ship has sailed—stand as one giant rebuke to the dominant culture. They fidget in their dresses, smiling nervously. “You girls are beautiful tonight, every last one of you. And your dads are so proud. I hope they tell you that at home. Dads, do you tell your daughters that they’re beautiful?” Muffled waves of assent are offered. The men regard each other and smile, some a little guiltily. Randall continues: “I’m going to ask you to take a pledge tonight, and when you take it, please remember that you are not just making it to yourselves, but you’re making it in the name of the Lord.” He waits a moment for this to sink in. After a pause long enough to make sure those present absorb the import of what is about to occur, he raises his right hand and tells them to do the same. When all the girls have their right hands in the air Randall smiles and says, “I pledge to live a life of abstinence . . . repeat after me, please. I pledge . . . ” The girls catch on and Randall continues, “I pledge to lead a life free of sin.” They repeat the words. “And I pledge to walk in the path of the Lord Jesus Christ who will keep me pure until the day I marry.” The young voices, some tentative and unsure, others ringing like church bells, intermingle and ascend in a chorus of renunciation (a considerable amount of it feigned), the fathers swell with pride shot through with a dash of confusion—these are not men wholly without sin both venial and mortal—and Randall Duke beams beca
use votes are swimming into his net like he is St. James and the Purity Dads are campaign-check-writing fish. His coffers will get a sweet little bump the next day and he doesn’t even have to ask for it.
Randall tells the girls to be seated and asks the fathers to stand. When the men are on their feet Randall informs them, “The world can be a scary place. There are temptations of the mind and of the flesh. Tonight I want you to redouble your efforts to be pure in your own hearts. We teach by example and there is no stronger example than our own behavior. Our daughters look to us for this. We are their rocks. The moms are important, too, but lets face it, we’re the dads, right? We’re the dads! Say it!”
“We’re the dads!” arises the cry from the flock, low at first. The energy in the room is pent-up and Randall is offering release. He understands the power of the voice to free the soul and the man is throwing open the doors.
“Say it again!”
Louder: “WE’RE THE DADS!”
Some in the pink, yellow and blue sea of daughters try not to giggle, and their stern fathers attempt to ignore the suppressed merriment. Other girls watch with the intensity of St. Teresa of Avila, their expressions dialing into masks of devotion.
While the horde is being distracted by the exhortations of her father, Brittany has taken this opportunity to put her cell phone inside her dress where she is using it to take pictures of her vagina.
“One more time!”
Like a blast, horns in a parade, listen up You Endangered Girls: “WE’RE THE DADS!”
“That’s right. We are the dads, and our precious daughters are confronted with a dark and dangerous world. They need us to shine a light, they need us to be a beacon, they need us to be a rock for them.” If the litany of mixed metaphors bothers anyone present, they do not let it affect their enthusiasm for what Randall is saying. The audience is rapt. “The flames of hellfire are burning out there every day. They’re burning in the cities, they’re burning in the suburbs and they’re burning right here in the desert. Our beautiful young daughters are confronted with levels of depravity we can hardly imagine on television, at the movies, and on the Internet. They are calling out for our help. Our daughters need us and it is our moral obligation to protect them.” Randall pauses waiting for the results of his words to sink in. “Now if you would please turn your attention to the cross.”
One hundred and sixty-three pairs of eyes swing around and behold two young Marine Corps members—thank you, Maxon Brae!—polished in formal dress stationed in front of the bare wooden cross. They face one another, each holding a gleaming sword upward at a forty-five degree angle, tips touching, to make an arch that glistens in the light of the chandeliers. The Marines are rigid, their expressions severe. If either has predatory designs on the assembly of virgins, it is impossible to discern.
“Dads, take your girls and walk beneath those swords. Then I want you to get down on your knees in front of that cross, fathers and daughters together, and take the purity vow. Say a prayer, share a few intimate words, walk in the light.”
The string quartet begins to play “Are You Washed In The Blood” and attendees stand and form a quiet line. Two by two they proceed beneath the swords, past the stoic Marines and to the cross where they all kneel for a few moments. Some fathers whisper a few words to their daughters; some are silent, but all behave with a sense of purpose commensurate to the occasion.
Randall and Brittany are the last to go. Randall can feel the eyes of the room on him as they walk toward the Arc of Swords. Truly, he reflects, this is an excellent way to get votes. As they kneel at the cross, Randall leans toward Brittany and whispers, “I will always be there for you, my darling.” She rolls her eyes, but Randall does not see this since his own are closed as he concentrates on manufacturing devotion.
Father and daughter ride home in amiable silence. Randall is so pleased with how the evening went he fails to notice his daughter, slumped in the passenger seat and glued to her cell phone, is sending another labial trip-tych to her boyfriend.
His hope of getting to sleep without incident vanishes when he enters the bedroom and sees Kendra in a diaphanous white nightgown, propped up on a mound of pillows with a computer on her lap.
“Who is this Desert Machiavelli?” Randall tells her he doesn’t know and asks what’s wrong. “He outed me.”
“What do you mean, he outed you? You’re not gay.”
“I swore I wouldn’t read it but I broke down. He said someone working for that bitch Mary Swain told him I had an affair.”
“With a woman?”
“No, but that doesn’t matter. He said I had an affair, Randall! Read this,” she says shoving the laptop over to him. Her voice has gone up several registers and as Randall glances through the blog he is concerned this might evolve into hysteria. She squeezes his arm, digging her nails into his skin. “The whole world’s going to think I’m the sleaze!”
Sitting on the bed, Randall puts his arm around his wife’s back and draws her close to him. She inclines her head on his shoulder. “If every politician who was suspected of having an affair had their career ended by it, I swear there’d be no one in Congress. You know that, right?” He sees her lower lip tremble and hears her sigh, but the expected waterworks do not arrive. “It’s just a some dumbass blogger no one gives a flip about. Says more about the Swain campaign anyway.”
Ten more minutes of reassurance and a large glass of wine do the trick and Kendra is finally calm enough to try and go to sleep. As for Randall, he makes a mental note to ask Maxon why he hasn’t found out who this Desert Machiavelli character is and gotten him to knock it off. At least Nadine hasn’t contacted the blogger because if she had they would certainly know about it. Another day gone by and still she has not surfaced. That can only be good.
http://WWW.DESERT-MACHIAVELLI.COM
11.1 – 11:52 P.M.
So Randall Duke hosted a Purity Ball tonight. Irony of ironies, this serial cocksman, this epic horndog, this priapic pol had the gall to stand in front of a roomful of teenage girls and tell them they should abstain from sex until they were married? The Machiavelli would like to know where he gets the gonads? At the Gonad Store for Forked Tongue Politicians? The Machiavelli had a spy there—a supporter of the Stewardess? You Blogheads be the judges—and he reported lots of upstanding family guys who took time off from cheating on their wives to escort their precious teenage vestals to this sham of an event. Does Randall think these people are going to forget his wife’s love of the gays and vote for him anyway? Apparently, this is exactly what is going on. Randall knows a basic fact about political life right now—wave Jesus in front of a certain group and their brains get all mushy. The Machiavelli heard there was a whole lot of Randall love in that room. These dads (and they’re the ones who matter since the virgins can’t vote) are the kind of guys Mary Swain would love to have in her camp, but Randall jumped on the purity idea first. If I’m her I’m kicking my campaign manager’s ass right about now.
On the other hand, all may not be smooth sailing in Dukeville. Sometimes the best news comes in at the end of the week and by best I mean most salacious, embarrassing or damaging. Now this is just a tip and I don’t know how reliable it is. Safe to say, if I was the New York Times, I would not print it. But since I am a blogger without that professional baggage, I can report it as a rumor and let you make of it what you will. Someone whispered in my ear that there might, and the key word here is might, be some financial irregularities in the Duke campaign. Irregularities as in shenanigans, shenanigans as in illegal. Again, let me be clear—this is a rumor. All I’m saying is people are saying. Cynics out there—you know who you are—might be thinking these malevolent leaks are coming from the campaign of the Stewardess. But you would be wrong. Let’s just say that my source is reliable and there could be an audit. The Stewardess, on the other hand, would never have this problem because her husband can pay any bill and she does not have to sully herself with the demeaning activity of fundraising. She
shakes that ass for free.
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 2
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sporting designer knock-off shades, smoking a Camel and doing his best Johnny Depp, Odin is at the wheel of a dust-covered blue ’98 Impala moving toward Cathedral City in the early afternoon. Man in the passenger seat: House Cat, ten years older, exudes the maleness familiar to rough trade aficionados everywhere. Relaxed fit jeans and a white tee shirt across a barbell chest. House Cat runs his hand over his salt and pepper crew cut, every finger a ring, coral on his pointer, amethyst on his middle, turquoise on his ring finger, and onyx on his pinky. A turquoise bracelet adorns his right wrist as he leafs through a design magazine called California Interiors. This is not reading material he would have been looking at in Calipatria where he had been doing three to five for burglary when Odin met him. He’d done over thirty successful jobs in the desert and as far west as the suburbs east of Los Angeles before being pinched, earning his nickname by dint of hard work. But now House Cat has his eye on a piece of property, an old California Victorian south of Barstow, built at the turn of the previous century. Knows it would make a great bed and breakfast. Figures he can re-wire it, update the plumbing, be open for business in a year. House Cat in the hospitality business. Who says you can’t start over in life?
“You wouldn’t believe what it costs to get a decent sofa.”
“Just buy some shit down in Mexico and ship it up here.”
Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) Page 16
