The Governor's wife

by Mark Gimenez

  "Democracy?"

  "Chaos. The two political parties keep order in this country. This isn't some banana republic with fourteen fucking political parties. This is America. Voters have to choose: Democrats or Republicans. A or B. Not C, D, or E, none of the above."

  "What about the tea party?"

  The senator smiled. "Oh, they're a little full of themselves and feisty, but one tour through the budget process, and they'll fall in line."

  "So you need me to make sure Palin doesn't win the Republican nomination, force herself on you."

  "Like having to take a fat cousin to the prom."

  "What if I don't play by your rules?"

  The senator chuckled.

  "You might figure you're a wild horse, Governor, don't need to run with the herd, but you'll learn just like every other politician has learned-you want to make a career out of politics, you need the protection of the herd." The senator shrugged. "And, hell, Governor, when it's all said and done, it doesn't matter all that much if we control the Congress or the White House, as long as we control one or the other. Both is better but one is enough."

  "For what?"

  "Gridlock."

  "Senator, how long have you been in office?"

  "This term will make it an even forty-two years."

  "Back at the beginning, when you first ran… did you want to do good?"

  The senator did not seem offended.

  "Course I did. I grew up in the coal mines of Oklahoma, where men worked hard and died young. Like my dad. He wanted more for me, paid my way through law school. I was gonna change things, by God, make those folks' lives better… but six months in Washington and reality set in. All I was doing was collecting campaign contributions to get reelected and passing earmarks, because the voters demanded I bring the pork home. Or they'd find someone else who would. Forty-two years later, it's only worse. People might talk limited government, but they want government money."

  He drank again.

  "But that's not the worst part."

  "What's that?"

  "Worst part is, you start hating your own voters. Like you do the homeless, their hands held out when you walk down the sidewalk, always wanting more, more, more."

  He downed his drink and walked off.

  Buying control of the U.S. government is man's work, like coaching football and destroying the economy. White men wearing custom suits and holding the purse strings of political action committees and multinational corporations. Such white men approached the governor of Texas throughout the night.

  "Fifty million," Jim Bob said to the CEO of a major defense contractor.

  "What do I get in return?"

  "What do you want?"

  "More jets, ships, tanks, missiles, weapons-more everything. And no restrictions on our overseas sales."

  "Why?" Bode said.

  "War is profitable. Iraq and Afghanistan, three-point-seven trillion so far-that's real money. And we arm the world. Our weapons systems are currently employed in every major military conflict in the world, and most of the minor ones. No one kills anyone in this world without an American-made weapon."

  "Sounds like a slogan."

  "It is."

  "Your missiles kill innocent people all over the world."

  "Missiles don't kill-only bad people with missiles kill."

  "Fifty million," Jim Bob said to the Wall Street banker.

  "What do I get?"

  "What do you want?"

  "Control of the Fed."

  "Why?"

  "Because the American people want to believe someone is smart enough to hold the reins on this economy, that a Greenspan or Bernanke can keep the economy rolling along without ever experiencing a recession. Fact is, no one's that smart. But the people don't want to hear that. They want a guaranteed life. They want their 401(k) and home values to go up, they want to live beyond their means in big houses they can't afford and watch TVs the size of a goddamned movie theater, they want their lives to be profitable and carefree. They want someone-the government, Wall Street, their fairy fucking godmother-to guarantee that they'll live happily ever after. Well, it can't be done." He pondered his words a moment. "But, it does give us some money-making opportunities."

  "Such as?"

  "By controlling the Fed, we control interest rates and money supply. Which allows us to move the markets. We can make money long or short, if only the markets move. So we raise the interest rate and tighten the money supply, which depresses stock and real-estate values, and we buy up both. Then we lower the interest rate and loosen the money supply, which sparks inflation, and we ride the bubble up."

  "Until it bursts."

  "We sell out before that happens, stick the middle-class with the losses in mutual funds and subprime mortgages. Buy low, sell high." He shrugged. "It's not finding the cure for cancer, but it's a living."

  "More drilling," the CEO of an oil company said. "More domestic drilling, more offshore drilling, more Alaska drilling… more drilling everywhere."

  "Tough sell today."

  "We're sending eight hundred billion dollars every year to the Middle East for their oil, money to Muslims who want to destroy America. Would you rather drill at home or get killed at home?"

  "Done," the Professor said. "But we need more from you."

  "More than fifty million?"

  "We need some help on gas prices."

  "We're not gonna lower gas prices!"

  "I don't want you to lower them. I want you to raise them."

  "Raise them? Why?"

  "Because the governor's got to balance the state budget during the next legislative session, and the press is going to beat us up once it gets out that we're looking at a twenty-seven-billion deficit and demand we raise taxes."

  A smile.

  "I understand."

  Bode didn't.

  "What are you talking about, Jim Bob?"

  "Higher gas prices at the pump mean higher gasoline taxes and severance taxes. Bode, we jack up the prices enough, we can balance the state budget on oil alone."

  "So what price did you have in mind?" the CEO said.

  "Five bucks a gallon would be nice."

  "We can do that."

  "Five bucks?" Bode said. "Folks won't be able to fill up their pickups."

  The CEO chuckled. "One thing we learned, Governor-people will pay any price to fill up their SUVs and pickup trucks."

  "How are you going to justify five bucks a gallon?"

  The CEO rubbed his chin and grunted.

  "Well, we can't use the 'tight world supplies' line this time-we used that back in the summer of oh-eight." He grinned. "World was awash in oil, but we raised prices to four bucks a gallon and consumption didn't drop a barrel. Press picked up on the shortage line and ran with it. Public bought it. Records profits that year."

  He paused and sighed. A wistful look came over his face.

  "Boy, that was a fun summer."

  Jim Bob cleared his throat to get the CEO's attention back to the present.

  "Okay, so let's see…" His expression showed that his mind was scheming. He suddenly snapped his fingers. "I got it. You're gonna love this. We'll jack up the prices and say, 'Demand is increasing because the economy is improving, so higher gas prices are actually good for America.' "

  "That's bullshit," Bode said. "The economy sucks."

  "So? The people are desperate for the economy to improve, Governor, so we'll tell them what they want to hear. Doesn't have to be true. You're a politician, you know that." He smiled. "Hell, time we're through, the people will actually be happy to pay five bucks a gallon."

  "You guys are good," Jim Bob said.

  "We've been at this game a long time."

  And so the night went. Before last call at the bar was announced over the public address system, Jim Bob Burnet had locked in $650 million in pledges to the Super PAC. He gestured at the vast hall.

  "Two weeks ago, these people wouldn't have given you the time of day. Now they'r
e lining up to write you a check for fifty million. Because you killed a few Mexicans."

  It was Friday night, but not movie night. Jesse and Lindsay had worked late at the clinic then stopped at Luis Escalera's cafe for dinner. On their way home, they picked up the mail at the post office. Jesse went inside and returned with a handful of letters, which he handed to her.

  "What's all this?"

  "Open them."

  She opened the first letter. There was a check inside for ten dollars made out to Jesse Rincon, M.D. She opened another; inside was a check for twenty-five dollars. The next was a check for fifteen dollars.

  "They're all checks," she said. "From San Antonio."

  "That profile must have aired. We always get checks after an interview or article runs. Perhaps there will be enough money to buy a fetal monitor."

  They stopped off at the market then drove home. The phone was ringing when they walked into the kitchen with the groceries. Jesse answered.

  "Jesse Rincon."

  "Doctor. This is Jorge Gutierrez. I am the mayor of San Antonio. I have been calling you all week."

  "There is no phone service in the colonia where I work."

  "Ah. Well, I have you now. Doctor, I would like to meet with you."

  "About what?"

  "Being the first Latino governor in the history of Texas."

  "You want to run for governor?"

  "No. I want you to run."

  Jesse laughed. "I am sorry, Mayor. I am a doctor, not a politician."

  "Oh, you are much more than a doctor, Jesse… May I call you Jesse?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Please call me Jorge. Jesse, I have read all the articles about you, in the border newspapers and in the Houston paper. And I saw the profile this past Sunday on the San Antonio television station."

  "Checks came in the mail today."

  "I can make many more checks come in the mail, Jesse."

  "How can you do that?"

  "By spreading the word among my Mexican Mafia."

  "Your what?"

  "My network of Hispanics in business, law, the media… Hispanics who want to help. Jesse, you could do much good for Latinos in Texas."

  "I am doing good for Latinos right here."

  "You could do more good in Austin. In the Governor's Mansion. Jesse, you could be the one."

  "The one what?"

  "The one who leads Latinos to power in Texas. El salvador."

  "I am sorry to disappoint you, Mayor, but I am neither a politician nor a savior. I am just a doctor."

  "We've been waiting a long time for our savior."

  "I am afraid you must wait a while longer."

  "Jesse, you are the only man who can save America from Bode Bonner."

  The governor of Texas flew back to Austin late that night. They dropped Jim Bob off at his downtown condo then drove to the Mansion. Bode climbed the stairs to the family quarters and entered the master bedroom. Mandy Morgan lay asleep on the bed. In a camo cami with matching thong. She was young, and she was beautiful, and she was sexy. He felt young.

  Alive.

  Vital.

  Relevant.

  But not because of Mandy. Because the great adventure was upon him. Because he was the man who would be president. Because he had the polls, the Twitter followers, the Super PAC, and the testosterone to win the White House. Because he had everything.

  Except a first lady.

  "Mayor Gutierrez wants you to run for governor?"

  Lindsay had overhead Jesse's conversation.

  "That is what he said."

  They were sitting on the back porch overlooking the river. The stars were out, and the night was quiet.

  "But that would be a conflict of interest," he said.

  "What?"

  "Running for governor while loving the governor's wife."

  "Are you?"

  "No. I will not run."

  "No. In love with me?"

  "Yes. I am."

  He reached over and took her hand. Maybe it was the wine she had had with dinner, but she did not pull away. She held the doctor's hand and thought of her husband. He wanted to be president; a president needed a first lady. She wanted to be a nurse; a nurse needed a doctor. She felt herself drawn to Jesse Rincon-but as a doctor or a man? Or both?

  Lindsay Bonner was not a complicated woman. She had never had issues. She had always known who she was and what she wanted.

  Now, she wasn't so sure.

  FOUR MONTHS BEFORE

  TWENTY-ONE

  "General Zaragoza defeated Napoleon's forces at Puebla on May the fifth, eighteen-sixty-two," Jesse said, "and brought democracy back to Mexico. That is what the Mexican people celebrate on this day, Cinco de Mayo."

  They stood before the general's statue in the San Agustin Plaza in downtown Laredo. Palm trees surrounded the plaza, as if they were the general's sentries. Street vendors sold Mexican food and margaritas, beer and bottled water. Mariachis strolled the plaza singing Mexican ballads, and Mexican flags flew from every light pole and storefront. Girls clad in old-style costumes performed traditional dances. The plaza looked and sounded and smelled like old Mexico. Lindsay and Jesse had gone into town for lunch at the Cinco de Mayo festival. The local newspaper and television station had cameras capturing the crowd. Lindsay wore her scarf, hat, and sunglasses to avoid being recognized. But everyone recognized Jesse Rincon. Young girls flirted with him and asked for photos with him, and old men came to him and shook his hand. He had been interviewed on camera twice when a young man stuck a hand out to him.

  "Doctor. Angel Salinas from Austin. With Texas Journal. Mayor Gutierrez said I should come to Laredo and interview you."

  Lindsay quickly averted her face. She knew Angel, and he knew her. She walked to the far side of the plaza where the girls were dancing. Where her picture would not be taken and she would not be recognized.

  " Mrs. Bonner? "

  She turned to the familiar voice-to Congressman Ernesto Delgado. He held a long churro like a kid holding a popsicle. His face evidenced his astonishment.

  "Is that really you?"

  "Yes. It's me."

  "What… what are you doing here? Dressed like that?"

  "I'm Jesse's nurse."

  " No."

  "Yes. For a month now."

  "I heard he had an Anglo nurse, but they said she was Irish."

  "I am."

  She demonstrated her accent.

  "I would not have known it was you."

  "No one can know. You mustn't tell a soul. Please."

  "Your secret is safe with me. But why?"

  "I need to be useful."

  He gave her a knowing nod. "Ah, yes. At my age, I understand that need. But how will this work, when the governor is the president?"

  "My daddy the president!"

  Bode hugged his daughter and inhaled her fresh scent; she had showered (if not shaved) that day.

  "You're like, a celebrity now."

  "Hell, if I'd known shooting a few Mexicans was all it took, I'd've done it a long time ago. Jim Bob, how many followers I got on Twitter?"

  Jim Bob fiddled with his phone.

  "Eight million."

  "Wow," Darcy said, "that's more than Selena Gomez!"

  "I thought she died?"

  "That was the singer. This is the actress."

  "Oh."

  Becca hugged him again.

  "I'm so proud of you, Daddy."

  She seemed as excited as on her sixteenth birthday when Bode had surprised her with a new Ford pickup truck. Darcy hugged him, then they sat at their regular table on the raised seating section at the front window at Kerbey's on the Drag. UT students walked past on the sidewalk just on the other side of the plate glass and waved at the governor of Texas-with all five fingers. Jim Bob sat at the adjacent table and played with his phone. Ranger Hank stood at attention behind them.

  "How are the kids?" Becca said.

  Becca and Darcy had come over to the Mansion
and played with the Mexican children several times in the last month.

  "Good. It's been fun to have kids around the Mansion again, like when you were growing up."

  "How many are still with you?"

  "Six. We found the others' relatives, but we've still got five of the boys and Josefina. The cartel killed her folks."

  "What are you going to do with her?"

  "I don't know."

  "Why don't we keep her?"

  "She's not a stray puppy, Becca. And without your mom here…"

  Their waitress, a cute gal with tattooed arms and a nose ring, arrived to take their order. Bode went for the cinnamon peach pancakes. The girls went for salads.

  "She still down on the border?"

  Bode nodded. "I figured on waiting her out, that she'd get bored and come back. She hasn't."

  "You know how she is when she's on a mission."

  The waitress returned with their drinks. Becca emptied two sweeteners into her tea and stirred.

  "She'll have to come back, Daddy, if you're elected president. Only problem is, if you guys are living in the White House, we won't be able to have lunch together."

  "Sure we will. I'll just fly down every week."

  "No, I mean, the Secret Service won't let you eat here, with this big window right on the street. Someone might shoot you."

  "Well, no need to worry about that now."

  Becca laughed. "Yeah, who would want to shoot the governor of Texas?"

  She dropped her teaspoon.

  Ranger Hank heard the spoon hit the floor and watched the governor and his daughter duck under the table at the same time to retrieve it, but his attention was diverted by a cute coed with long legs in a short skirt off to his left; he glanced her way just in time to catch a shot of her neon pink underwear as she sat down. Damn, that's a sweet female. He turned back just as a black SUV skidded to a stop on Guadalupe Street directly in front of their window and two men jumped out and pointed high-powered automatic weapons at them. His right hand went for his gun, but he was too late. The first bullet hit him in his right eye, shattering his sunglasses and the back of his skull after boring a hole through his brain. He was dead before the next six bullets hit his body and his body hit the floor.