by Mark Gimenez
Or should he say, when.
Jim Bob knew it was only a matter of time. He had no doubt-none at all-that at that very moment, somewhere out there, those sneaky liberal media bastards were readying an all-out attack on Bode Bonner, American hero. That's what they do.
And they would do it to him.
He knew the press had people poking into every nook and cranny of Bode Bonner's life. And everyone in his life. They would eventually happen upon Mandy Morgan. They would learn the truth. They always did. And when they did-when the images and stories were splashed across the televisions of America, the middle class would feel betrayed yet again. Bode Bonner, American hero, would be revealed as just another Republican hypocrite, preaching family values while screwing a girl young enough to be his daughter. And they would not vote for him. He wouldn't make it out of Iowa. So Jim Bob Burnet, chief political strategist for the leading Republican presidential candidate, had come to a tough decision.
Bode Bonner must end his affair with Mandy Morgan.
Jim Bob glanced over at the TV in the corner; it was on, but the volume muted. He wanted to catch the morning news headlines. But the screen showed a female reporter standing in a desolate scene of shanties and shacks with a river behind her. The byline read: "Colonia on the Rio Grande outside Laredo, Texas." Jim Bob pointed the remote at the TV and increased the volume. The reporter-a pretty Latina-spoke into a handheld microphone.
"They all fly into the Laredo International Airport, rent a car, and drive west on Mines Road to an unmarked dirt road that leads south to the eighteen-foot-tall border wall."
A video played on the screen.
"They drive through the gates and another mile to Colonia Angeles. It is as if they are believers journeying to a holy shrine. But they are television and print journalists coming to interview Jesse Rincon. He remains bewildered by the attention, but the colonias need the money the attention brings, so he grants the interviews. I too have come to meet Jesse Rincon this day."
The screen now switched to a live shot of the reporter and a Latino in a white lab coat.
"From the Mexican border in Texas, we're now joined by Dr. Rincon."
"Good morning. Welcome to Colonia Angeles."
"Doctor, these colonias — these slums-they line both sides of the river, from here to Brownsville. Why?"
"NAFTA."
"The trade agreement?"
The doctor pointed toward the river; the camera swung around to capture the Rio Grande and the slums on the far side.
"American companies relocated their factories across the river, for the cheap labor. Our cars, clothes, televisions, electronics, furniture… they are all made across the river. The factories are called maquiladoras. The word means 'to submit to the machine.' And submit the Mexican workers did. They are paid one dollar an hour for work Americans were paid twenty dollars an hour…"
Filthy brown kids gathered around the doctor, as if attracted by the cameras.
"Oh, look," Jim Bob said, "they put kids in the shot. He's politicking."
"Maybe they live there," Eddie said.
Back on the TV, the doctor was saying, "Of course, they cannot live like human beings on a dollar an hour, so they live like animals in these colonias on both sides of the river, while the American managers live in fine houses in Laredo. But the jobs lured millions of Mexicans from the interior to the border. At the peak, the maquiladoras employed two million Mexicans. But the boom has gone bust."
"What happened?"
"The American companies moved a million jobs to Asia. The poor Asians, they will work for twenty-five cents an hour. American companies troll the planet for the cheapest labor."
"What happened to the Mexican workers?"
"Fired. The men went to work for the cartels, the women became prostitutes. NAFTA polluted the river and turned the borderlands into one big slum and an entire generation of Mexican women into prostitutes. Our leaders pass these laws but they do not foresee the consequences. Perhaps they do not even look, since they do not have to live with the consequences."
The doctor waved a hand at the scene.
"This is the 'international trade' you hear about on the evening news. Maquiladoras and colonias, sweatshops and slums, drugs and death, prostitution and pollution, that is what our desire for cheap goods does to the rest of the world."
"The factories polluted the Rio Grande?"
"Yes. And the pollution makes the people sick."
"Why doesn't the Mexican government stop it?"
"Calderon cannot worry about pollution when he cannot feed his people. If he cracks down on the maquiladoras, the Americans will take all the jobs to Asia."
"Governor Bonner cut funding for the colonias during the last legislative session and is expected to veto all funding in the next budget."
"So I have heard."
"Perhaps Governor Rincon would not."
"I am just a doctor."
"Well, Doctor, prominent Latinos in Texas are promoting you as a possible Democratic candidate for governor, like Mayor Gutierrez of San Antonio. I spoke with him yesterday in San Antonio. This is what he said."
The screen switched to a video of the same reporter with Gutierrez.
"Dr. Rincon could beat Bode Bonner. My people will vote for him."
"The people of San Antonio?"
"All Latinos in Texas."
"But Governor Bonner's polls show strong support among Latinos in national polls after he rescued those Mexican children and survived an assassination attempt."
"Yes, that was a good thing the governor did. And I am thankful that he and his daughter survived the shooting. But Latinos in Texas have been waiting a long time for a Latino governor. That time has come."
Jim Bob pointed sharply at the screen. "That fucking Gutierrez and his Mexican Mafia. This is his doing. He's still mad because we took Texas from Mexico. You'd think they'd fucking give it up-hell, we stole Texas fair and square a hundred seventy-five years ago. But they still bitch and complain and sue to get their land back. Mexicans actually sued to get back Padre Island, can you believe that?"
"What would happen to all the condos?" Eddie asked.
"Nothing. They're already owned by rich Mexicans."
The screen went back live to the colonia. To the reporter and the doctor.
"Could Jesse Rincon be the first Latino governor in the history of Texas? Historically, Latinos have not come out to vote. But when they do, their numbers will decide who sits in the Governor's Mansion. That could be Jesse Rincon."
The reporter put a arm through the doctor's and a devilish grin on her face.
"And ladies, he's thirty-eight and single. This is Carmen Cavazos, reporting live from outside Laredo, Texas."
Jim Bob froze the frame on the handsome face of Jesse Rincon. He stared at his worst nightmare: a handsome, educated, articulate Latino. He felt like Apollo Creed's manager watching a young Rocky Balboa pulverizing a side of beef with his bare fists in that scene from Rocky. And he saw all his dreams dissolving into dust. Bode Bonner would not win the White House if he lost the Governor's Mansion. And James Robert Burnet, Ph. D., wouldn't be the next Karl Rove.
"I can't lose this election."
"You?" Eddie said from the couch.
"You know what I mean."
Eddie chuckled. "I think I do."
"Time to earn your pay, Eddie. Go down to the border, check him out, dig up some dirt."
"He looks clean."
"Everyone's got dirt, if you dig deep enough. And if you can't dig it up, you can always plant it."
"You worried about that Mexican doctor?"
"I get paid to worry."
"But the boss beats Obama-how can he lose in Texas?"
"Because he'd be running against a Latino in Texas."
"Maybe he's gay?"
"The doctor?"
Eddie aimed a thumb at the TV. "She said he's thirty-eight and not married."
"We're not married."
"We we
re."
Jim Bob smiled. "Latinos won't vote for a gay governor, would they? Even if he is one of them."
Lindsay Bonner sipped her wine. She and Jesse sat on the back porch. The evening breeze was gentle and warm. The windows behind them were open, and the soft music drifted out.
"How did the interview go?"
"The reporter, she brought up my running for governor. Mayor Gutierrez, he is at it again."
"On national TV. Jesse, I know Jim Bob Burnet. He won't let this pass. He'll look for dirt… your dirt. If he can't find any, he'll make some."
"But I don't want to be governor. I told the reporter."
"She was pretty, the reporter?"
Like a teenage girl.
"Yes, very."
Jesse stood and held a hand out to her. She put her wine down and took his hand. She stood, and they danced. Then he kissed her.
"Jesse, it would be a sin."
"If love were a sin."
"I'm still a married woman."
"Your husband, he has forgotten that."
"But I haven't. Jesse, I've lived my life a certain way. I can't change now, even if I-"
"Love me?"
"Yes. Even if I love you."
And that was the question: Did she love him? It had been a long time since a man had found her desirable. Perhaps even sexy. A little. She enjoyed Jesse's attention. It felt good to be wanted, as a woman, not just as a photo op. But was she leading him on to fill a void inside her, an empty space her husband had once filled? And even if she loved Jesse, would she ever leave Bode? Of course, he was in Austin; she was in Laredo. Perhaps she already had. Dancing there in Jesse's arms, she felt a desire she had long forgotten. To lay with a man she loved.
TWENTY-SEVEN
"Put it over the plate, Miguel. Muy rapido. "
Five of the last seven U.S. presidents had been left-handed. Bode Bonner would make it six out of eight.
Miguel's pitch was low.
Bode batted left-handed. Or he had when he played baseball in high school. He was a four-letter varsity man: football, basketball, baseball, and track. Football had been his ticket to UT, but baseball had been his first love. He hadn't picked up a bat in thirty years.
Miguel's pitch was wide.
The boys wanted to play beisbol, so Miguel was pitching and Alejandro was manning the outfield back by the tall wrought-iron fence and hedgerow surrounding the grounds of the Governor's Mansion. Bode was batting. Mandy and Josefina in her yellow dress sat on the bench. Bode glanced up and saw Becca watching from her second-floor window. She didn't want to come out, even though Ranger Carl, his replacement bodyguard, insured their safety within the confines of the Mansion grounds.
Miguel's pitch was high.
Bode had been a power hitting first baseman/center fielder for the Comfort High Bobcats. He had never hit for a high batting average, but he could put a fastball over the fence. And he had, often. Of course the fence around this lawn was considerably shorter than at his high school baseball field. So he was careful not to swing too hard.
Miguel's pitch was inside.
Bode had sent Ranger Carl to the sporting goods store to buy gloves, bats, balls, and bases. Bode was dressed in jeans and cowboy boots-he wasn't figuring on running the bases-and the boys were dressed in shorts and tee shirts. The scene reminded him of playing sandlot ball in Comfort, except this field wasn't right in the middle of town surrounded by houses. On more than one occasion, young Bode Bonner had put a baseball through a neighbor's window. The sound of glass shattering had sent the boys running to avoid paying for a replacement.
Miguel's pitch was right down the middle of the plate.
Without considering the consequences, Bode Bonner was that young boy in Comfort again. He stepped into the pitch and swung the bat hard at the white ball that seemed to hang in the air, begging to be belted, and felt the bat make solid contact.
Too solid.
As soon as he hit the ball, he knew it was gone. He watched the white ball sail far and high into the blue sky, still rising as it cleared the fence, and he felt that wonderful sensation wash over his body- home run! The boys whistled, Mandy and Josefina clapped, and Bode thought, I've still got it — until they heard the sound of glass shattering and a car alarm going off.
"Shit." As soon as the word was out of his mouth, he knew it was wrong; a religious man shouldn't cuss. "I mean, darn."
The boys turned back to Bode with their eyes wide and expressions frozen, waiting for Bode's lead. Bode dropped the bat and ran for the Mansion. The boys tossed their gloves and followed. Mandy and Josefina brought up the rear.
"You didn't see that, Carl!" Bode yelled to his Texas Ranger.
Jim Bob watched the scene on the lawn below. He shook his head. The governor's playing baseball with Mexican kids while Rome's burning. He sat behind his desk, again covered with newspaper and magazine articles and videos; but not of Bode Bonner. The last week, Jim Bob had read every article that mentioned Jesse Rincon and watched every video of every interview with Jesse Rincon. He now knew more about the doctor than the doctor knew about himself.
And none of it was good for Bode Bonner.
The guy was straight out of a Hollywood story: born in Texas of a Mexican mother who died in childbirth; raised by an uncle in Nuevo Laredo, attended Jesuit in Houston, and college at Harvard; graduated top of his class, which earned him a seat in the medical school; prestigious internship and residency; specialty in cardiac surgery; lucrative offers from hospitals across the nation; but he returned home to care for residents of the colonias.
It made Jim Bob sick.
His was exactly the kind of life story the liberal media loved, the kind of life story they would praise and promote-a Latino who made good and now did good. God, it was disgusting. And dangerous to Bode Bonner's presidential dreams. He could not lose the Governor's Mansion and win the White House. He had to win reelection in Texas. But liberals from New York to California would send wads of money to Texas to defeat him. The national Democratic Party would get behind Jesse Rincon and flood the state with campaign funds. Bode Bonner's reelection campaign had $75 million in the bank; the Democrats would soon have $100 million. Or $200 million. Or $300 million. Whatever it took to defeat Bode Bonner in Texas. To keep another Republican from Texas out of the White House.
But Jim Bob Burnet wasn't about to go down without a fight.
He would not let his chance slip away. He would do whatever was necessary to win. He had to prove to his ex-wife-and to himself-that he was not a loser.
So he had to win.
But he would not discuss any of this with the governor. Instead, he would wait for Eddie Jones to return from the border with dirt. Something he could use to eliminate this unpleasant threat named Jesse Rincon.
The Border Patrol agent named Rusty came over to the truck and handed Jesse a note through his open window. Lindsay ducked her head.
"Fella came out this morning, asking for you, like I'm a secretary or something. Course, I guess it's the least I can do, you being the next governor and all. Anywho, I told him how to find your clinic in the colonia, but he got kind of pale in the face, asked if the cartels killed people in there." Rusty chuckled. "Said to give you that note, said he'd be in Laredo."
"Thanks, Rusty."
"Sure thing, Doc."
Jesse read the note then drove through the gates. He handed the note to Lindsay.
"This man wants to meet me at the La Posada. Who is he?"
Lindsay read the note. "Clint Marshall. He's the chairman of the state Democratic Party. He hates Bode. It's mutual."
Jesse drove into town at noon. Lindsay remained at the clinic. He parked on the plaza outside the La Posada Hotel and walked through the lobby and out to the courtyard pool where he found an Anglo sitting at a table under an umbrella with a cell phone to his ear and a big plate of enchiladas in front of him. He noticed Jesse and quickly ended his call. He stuck a hand out to Jesse.
"Dr. Rinco
n, I'm Clint Marshall."
He was an overweight, middle-aged Anglo on his way to heart disease if he did not lay off the enchiladas.
"Mr. Marshall."
"Clint. Please, have a seat."
Jesse sat and declined Clint's offer of lunch.
"Doctor, I know you're a busy man, so I'll get right to the point. We want you to run for governor. We want you to be the face of the Democratic Party in Texas. The future of the party. With the growth of the Latino population here, the opportunity for a Latino to win the Governor's Mansion has never been better. You can make history."
"Governor Bonner is unbeatable."
"Have you seen the latest polls?"
"What polls?"
"Texas polls. You're gaining fast on the governor."
"But I am not a candidate."
"Doesn't matter. Your name is out there. Mayor Gutierrez, he's a one-man campaign machine-and a formidable one. His Mexican Mafia, all the press you've gotten lately, you're a hot ticket. How many followers do you have?"
Jesse glanced around.
"No one is following me."
"No. On Twitter."
"Twitter?"
"You don't have a Twitter account?"
"Uh, no, I do not have that."
"Well, you need one if you're going to be governor."
"I do?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"People want to know what you're doing."
"I am working. Treating patients."
"No, no. That's too boring. You've got to make it sound exciting, like a pickup truck commercial."
"A pickup truck commercial?"
"You want be governor, social media's the ticket."
"But I do not want that."
"A Twitter account?"
"To be governor."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because I am a doctor."
