by Steve Israel
“Good-bye, Mother.”
“I love you, Sunshine.”
Sunny hung up on Lois Liebowitz.
6
Before we begin,” Congressman Dirkey said in his soothing Arkansas drawl, “may we pray?”
Sunny and Otis, sitting opposite Dirkey on one of his office’s enormous blue leather couches, exchanged a quick glance, then followed the congressman in bowing their heads.
“Lord Jesus, bless this meeting that we may be inspired by your divine guidance. Give us the strength to deliberate in accordance with your teachings. Bless our nation. Amen.”
“Amen,” mumbled Sunny and Otis, but as they lifted their eyes, Dirkey continued.
“One more thing, Jesus. Please, Lord, help us defeat the Mc-Cullom substitute amendment to the Coal Power Plant Tax Credit Extension Act, which, as you surely know, is scheduled for a vote later today. In your name, Jesus Christ, we pray. Amen.”
Having sought divine intervention from above, Dirkey now set his eyes on the divine inspiration immediately in front of him. Sunny watched his gaze begin to slide down her blouse, catch itself, and return to her face. She dug her stilettos into the plush blue carpet and thought, Not my idea of congressional oversight.
Otis shifted restlessly next to her. He wouldn’t stop his squirming, she knew, until his private jet went wheels up later that evening and he was a safe distance from the nation’s capital.
Roy Dirkey’s office was decorated in Dirkey. Beige walls displayed framed Dirkey action shots: Dirkey waving to a cheering crowd on election night; sitting across from the president in the Oval Office; speaking to school children in Little Rock; dominating a panel of freshmen representatives on the set of Meet the Press. On a separate wall, positioned above a mahogany credenza: Dirkey in mud-splattered Special Forces fatigues in Afghanistan; Dirkey in Oakley sunglasses, leaning against a Humvee, flashing a thumbs-up; Dirkey receiving the Purple Heart.
Sunny noticed that he’d kept his black hair trimmed neatly and still sported a ring from West Point. No wedding ring, she noted, but she already knew that from her research. Also noted was that when Dirkey smiled, he revealed a slight space between his two front teeth, conveying a sense of boyish amiability, and that when he was listening to someone, he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes as if to say, “This is the most important thing I’ve heard all day.”
Morning prayers over, Dirkey approached the subject at hand. “Mr. Cogsworth,” he said, “my daddy taught me how to shoot with your guns. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Otis cleared his throat. “Congressman, the honor is mine. It’s refreshing to see someone in Washington who truly understands this country’s Constitution.”
Dirkey smiled, revealing, again, that space between his teeth. Goofy, thought Sunny, but approaching cute.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “When I was deployed to Afghanistan I took my oath to protect and defend the Constitution. Got shot at for it. Thought if I could take on the Taliban in Helmand, I could take on a bunch of liberals in Congress.” Here his jaw seemed to twitch, and his dark eyes grew sullen. “I’m sure you heard, Mr. Cogsworth, how I took that bullet in Helmand, and how Christ and the Constitution saved my life.”
Sunny knew that Otis hadn’t heard, although she included it in the briefing memo that Otis annoyedly tossed aside with a groan when she picked him up at the airport. So she leaned back and let Dirkey mesmerize her boss.
Dirkey slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and produced a pamphlet-sized Constitution. It was soiled and tattered, and right through the center was a bullet hole.
“Everywhere I went in Afghanistan,” he explained. “I kept this pocket Constitution taped to my chest, close to my heart. One day we’re defending a village down there in Helmand, walked straight into a Taliban ambush. Next thing I know, I’m shot. Bullet passes right through my body armor and my pocket Constitution. Just a flesh wound, as they say. But I believe the Constitution and the good Lord saved my life.”
“Good Lord!” Otis echoed, clearly as moved as Sunny expected.
“That day,” Dirkey said, “Jesus told me if I got out of Afghanistan alive, I should go back to Arkansas and run for Congress in the third district.”
“Jesus said that, specifically?” asked Sunny, unable to help herself.
Dirkey nodded. “It’s what I heard, ma’am.”
I’m Jesus Christ and I approve this message, she thought.
Dirkey stared vacantly at his polished loafers for a moment, then refocused on his guests. “So what can I do for y’all?”
Sunny took that as her cue to get down to business. “Congressman, the Constitution is under attack again. Not by the terrorists, but by the Democrats in Congress who want to take guns away from law-abiding citizens.”
“When will they learn?” Dirkey asked. “If they would only find Jesus—”
“If Jesus had a PAC, maybe,” Sunny said. “But if the choice is the possibility of eternal salvation or the guarantee of the next reelection, I’m pretty sure salvation will wait.”
Dirkey frowned.
“Do you remember the shooting in that school in Connecticut? In 2012?” Sunny asked.
“I do.”
“After it happened, politicians raced to pass new anti-gun laws. Obama, the House, the Senate, governors, mayors—just about everyone. Except the city of Nelson, Georgia.”
“Go on,” said Dirkey. He leaned his body forward and folded his hands on his lap so that his gold cuff links peeked from his jacket sleeves.
“Nelson, Georgia, went the other way,” Sunny continued. “They passed a local ordinance actually requiring their citizens to possess firearms.”
Dirkey whistled. “Gutsy move.”
Now Sunny leaned forward, too. “There’s a Constitution in your pocket with a bullet hole that says you have guts yourself.” Sunny and Dirkey locked eyes and sized each other up. She felt Otis fidget beside her. Finally Sunny said, “We want you to introduce the Nelson city ordinance in Congress. Federalize it.”
Dirkey whistled again. “You want a law requiring every American citizen to own a firearm?”
“I can promise you our allies will be with us on this, Congressman. Big time. Everyone from the NRA to the Annie Oakleys.” “Annie Oakleys?”
“Pro-gun Girl Scout troops. We funded a little outreach project. Emphasis on little.”
Another whistle.
“We’re creating a movement here, and we need a leader for that movement. Think of the visibility! Think of the opportunities!” Sunny loved that word, opportunities. Spoken in a congressional office, it meant different things to different Members. It was an allpurpose word, meant to stoke the embers of whatever hidden agenda the Member nurtured. For some, it was to public good or good press. For others, better fund-raising or running for higher office, up to and including president. It was a word designed to activate congressional salivary glands and hasten the beating of congressional hearts.
So imagine her surprise when Congressman Roy Dirkey leaned back in his chair and said, evenly, “I’m honored you’d ask, but I’m gonna pass for now.”
At this Otis stopped squirming. Actually, he seemed to freeze. Sunny fought to hide her surprise. “Really?” she asked. “We thought you’d jump at this.”
Dirkey narrowed his eyes, rubbed his chin, and smiled slyly. “Not jumping right now, ma’am, but I’ll give it some thought.”
“Of course,” Sunny said, regaining her composure. “How much time do you think would be reasonable?”
“Few days,” Dirkey said, still rubbing his chin.
“Just so you know, we were planning to discuss the idea with Congressman Pratt.”
Dirkey’s toothy grin spread wide across his face. “From Kansas?” he cried. “Oh, he’s your man! Heck, I may be on the Judiciary Committee, which has complete jurisdiction on guns, and he may be on the Small Business Committee, which has no jurisdiction whatsoever, but he’s been here a whole lot longer than me. And whil
e some of my colleagues say old Fred’s run outta steam, he’s highly respected for his—now what do they call it—institutional memory. So I believe you should give this to old Fred Pratt. If that’s what y’all want.”
Sunny sensed that something was clicking into place. Dirkey, she realized, wasn’t some freshman hillbilly who just liked to put the shiny Member of Congress pin on his lapel every morning. He had an agenda of his own after all. And now he was pulling her in. She willingly took the bait.
“Well, Congressman, I think the question is, what do you want?”
He gave her a look of mutual understanding that only skilled political operatives recognize. “I’m leaning against. But I never make a final decision without prayerful consideration.”
Thank you, Jesus, thought Sunny.
Sunny and Otis walked out of Dirkey’s office into a broad marble corridor echoing loudly with wandering tourists and scurrying aides. Otis looked defeated. “Good Lord!” he whispered loudly. “What just happened? We lost him!”
Sunny smiled. “We didn’t lose him. This guy knows what he’s doing. He’s dealing.”
“But he said he’s leaning against.”
“Otis, in this town, leaning ‘no’ is just another way of saying yes.”
“I’ll never understand Washington,” Otis grumbled.
*
It didn’t take long. Just as Sunny had expected, the call came in a few hours.
“Ms. McCarthy? This is Natalie from Congressman Dirkey’s office. The congressman was hoping to meet with you later to follow up on today’s discussion. How’s Acqua Al 2 at seven?”
*
Sunny arrived early and sat at a table in accordance with long established protocol that Members of Congress don’t wait for anyone. They showed up late and were whisked into rooms, a stiff breeze of self-importance trailing behind them. The restaurant was dark and packed with the usual crowd of insiders, press, and pundits. They were all engaged in intimate conversations that bubbled to a dull roar, laced with sweet nothings like “motion to recommit,” “markup,” and “conferee.” Large white dinner plates were mounted on the walls, autographed in neon Sharpie by celebrities making their public relations pilgrimages to Capitol Hill to prove that beneath the Botox was a heart that bled for orphans in Africa or sperm whales in the Atlantic.
Finally Dirkey arrived, flashed that waggish grin, and clasped Sunny’s hand. She sensed his eyes commencing another cleavage dive, but, again, he caught himself. Like some kind of recovering addict, Sunny thought. He ordered a beer, prefacing it with “I’m just a country boy who doesn’t know much about fancy drinks but, please, order whatever you want.”
Sunny ordered a bourbon, which seemed to surprise the Arkansas country boy. Pleasantly.
They engaged in the customary niceties that preceded most conversations at Washington restaurants: the humidity outside, whether Republican Speaker of the House Frank Piermont would be overthrown by his caucus, and, of course, whether the Transportation Authorization bill would reach the floor before the Highway Trust Fund was fully depleted. Scintillating stuff.
When the drinks arrived, Sunny wondered whether an opening prayer was required. She was answered by the sound of guzzling from Roy’s glass. Sunny eased into business and casually asked whether the congressman had considered her proposal.
“I did,” he said, nodding. “And I have concerns.”
“Would you like me to try to address them, Congressman?”
“You can call me Roy.”
She nodded, smiled.
He pulled his chair forward, planted both elbows on the table, and leaned toward Sunny, hands partially obstructing his mouth in case, Sunny assumed, any journalists were sitting within earshot. “You want me to introduce a bill that will make me public enemy number one with the liberals and gun haters. The Hollywood and New York City crowd will spend whatever it takes to beat me next election.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, Sunny thought.
“And I will have the profound satisfaction of taking yet another bullet for the Constitution. Ms. McCarthy, I may be a war hero, but I am not the recipient of unlimited luck. When you survive one bullet, the rule of thumb is don’t stick around for another.”
He threw back a healthy gulp of beer.
“Congressman—”
“Roy,” Dirkey reminded her.
“Roy,” she said. “We’ll defend you.”
“What kind of defense are we talking about here, Ms. McCarthy?”
“Mr. Cogsworth would like to host a fund-raiser for you at his summer estate on Long Island. Our PAC, the Fund for Straight Shooters, will throw a DC fund-raiser for you this quarter. Also, as you know, Mr. Cogsworth sits on the board of the National Rifle Association. He’s already made some calls. They’re very fond of you.” “How fond?” asked Dirkey, tenting his fingers in front of his chest.
“National e-mail solicitation to their donor list fund,” Sunny said. “Keynote speaker at their Golden Circle of Freedom Gala fond. And while I don’t know for certain, there are rumors they’re Super PAC fond. Rumors of a three-million-dollar television ad buy on your behalf in your district.”
Roy nodded, stone-faced. “That’s enough to chase out any opposition.”
“It’s enough to lock down your district for life.”
To Sunny’s annoyance, Roy seemed disinterested in the prospect. His eyes wandered to a nearby table, where CNN’s Dana Bash listened to the whispering of a source she likely would soon describe on air as a “senior Democrat.”
Sunny barreled on. “We’ll build out national grassroots support. American Gun Owners Defense. Gun Owners of America. The Gun Owners Parent-Teacher Association. Gays for Guns.” Dirkey winced. “Not sure I like the last one.”
“Maybe one day you’ll run for president, Roy. Don’t write off the gay vote.”
Dirkey shrugged. “I have no interest in running for president.” Sunny laughed and arched an eyebrow to show she wasn’t fooled. There wasn’t one Member of Congress who didn’t look in the mirror and see a future president staring back.
“I mean it,” Dirkey said. “President? No, ma’am. This country can’t be managed. Debt’s exploding, Social Security’s running dry, pensions can’t be paid, terrorists running around everywhere.” He took another swig of beer and leaned closer to Sunny, crossing the official border, Sunny acknowledged, between business and flirting. “Governor,” he whispered, then looked around to ensure he hadn’t been overheard. “That’s the job for me.”
Sunny suppressed a satisfied grin. She’d stoked the embers and found one that glowed a deep, hot red. “You’d be a great governor, Congressman. Time frame?”
“Three years. Just gotta get past my first reelect to the House.” She nodded. “Running for governor of Arkansas as the national leader on gun rights. Seems like a smart strategy, Roy.”
He stared at her for a moment, then smiled. “You know I’m just a country boy from Arkansas. Never pretended to be smart.”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” Sunny said, smiling. “I’ve figured you out.” She meant it. She’d spent her career sitting across the table from politicians like this. Members of the House and members of the Senate. Members of the Democratic Party and members of the Republican Party. It didn’t matter. As far as Sunny was concerned, they were all members of the “Me” Party, with love of country but greater love of self. Conniving and calculating; plotting and planning. Most arrived as Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and left as Machiavelli. Sure, she admitted, there were those who slaved to feed the poor, to put solar panels on every roof, to beat swords into plowshares. Those honorable few may have been revered, but they were irrelevant. They sat on the back benches, not across the table from Sunny McCarthy. The price of a seat with her was the ability to wheel, deal, and deliver, to understand that the world was shaped by brute power, not the power of ideals. It was a tragically unfair world where children were shot in Chicago and where the Otis Cogsworths liv
ed safely behind gates on high bluffs while the Mother Teresas lived in squalid poverty. And where some mothers were too busy to care for their daughters. Sunny finished her bourbon.
“So did you to speak to old Fred Pratt?” Dirkey asked. “About sponsoring the bill?”
“Oh, Roy, you know the answer to that.”
“Mind if I order a bourbon?”
“You know the answer to that as well.”
When his drink came, they toasted to the Constitution, the next governor of Arkansas, and to the American Freedom from Fear Act or, as they christened it, “AFFFA.”
7
Mayor Michael Rodriguez’s motorcade rolled through impoverished, boarded-up neighborhoods in West Garfield Park, resembling a military escort winding its way through Baghdad. Police barricades blocked intersections. The thwap of helicopters cut through a grim gray sky. Surplus military Humvees and armored vehicles idled at curbs. There were occasional bursts of gunfire. The Windy City was a war zone, its air acrid with gun smoke. The hottest items at the upscale boutiques on Michigan Avenue, about ten miles away, were Nei-man Marcus flak jackets.
None of this seemed to faze the mayor. He sat in the backseat, staring out a darkly tinted window. No leg thumping or cursing. In fact, His Honor was in a rare good mood.
“What media’s showing up?” he asked.
Next to him sat a pretty twentysomething press assistant. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and clutched two cell phones in one hand. “Oh, everybody, sir. CNN, MSNBC, Fox, SOSNews, all the broadcast networks. Your plan is sheer genius!”
“Yes, it is.” His Honor smiled, another rarity.
John Ashcroft Elementary School was barely visible in the smoky haze ahead. Ashcroft, born in Chicago, had served as the attorney general of the United States, the highest law enforcement officer in the land. This was fitting because the school bearing his name now resembled a prison, with gloomy red brick, barred windows, and high fences coiled with razor wire. Security guards in neon yellow vests were posted on the perimeter, ready to offer students “safe passage” through potential crossfire. The motorcade rumbled into the parking lot, a snaking line of black armor and swirling lights, then came to a brake-squealing stop at the main entrance. Rodriguez sat motionless, waiting for the signal: three knocks on the door indicating it was safe to emerge.
