“Sorry, sorry. Got it. Sure. I’ll do everything I can to get you on ESPN.” He stared at me like he was deciding exactly where to put the bullet. “I’ll get the vice president to make some calls. We’ll be all over this.”
“The vice president?” he asked. “Really?”
“Promise.”
“And she has got some suck?”
“She’s the second most powerful person in the goddamn country. What the hell do you think?”
My brother spoke up. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “J.D.” He sighed. “Walter is trying to help. He gets paid to deal with little shits every day in his job. Don’t be one.”
God, it was the same voice I’d grown up with. It was strangely reassuring, to be back in a world in which my older brother was giving me a hard time for mouthing off to one of his friends.
“I don’t want to tell him anything else,” Walter said. I think he may actually have been pouting.
“Oh, Christ,” Paul groaned. “This is ridiculous.” He got up.
“The letter beat the crap out of chinks and spics and sand niggers,” Walter blurted.
“Yes?” Oh, Jesus, this could be good. Maybe the gods had decided I deserved a gift.
Paul sat back down. “I’ll translate. It was an anti-immigration, full-bore hate piece. Lock up the borders. Throw away the key.”
“It said that?”
“Calm down, boy,” Walter said, grinning. “You biting on that bone?”
“America has to be saved for Americans, you know,” Paul added.
The pretty hipster with bright purple hair brought us over fresh coffee and gave Walter a certain look. She was definitely sleeping with him.
“Did your bomber pal mention Armstrong George in the letter?” I asked.
“Might as well have,” Walter said. He hesitated. “Other things.”
“Like what?”
“All this crap about sovereign nations and purity and honor and crap like that. Signed it ‘C.N.’ ”
“C.N.? What’s that mean?”
Walter shrugged. “His initials, I guess. What do you think?”
“Go ahead,” Paul told Walter.
“What?” I asked. “Go ahead what?”
Walter paused and sighed. “He enclosed a copy of the man’s greatest hits.”
“What are you talking about?” I was getting tired of this. It was like they were determined to take up as much of my time as possible by laying it out to me bit by bit.
“The New Bill of Rights. He sent a copy along. Drew a little Confederate flag at the bottom.”
“We’ve got to leak this,” I said right away. “Now.” Jesus, I mean, an Armstrong George supporter behind this bombing? It was perfect. Hilda could take the high road, make Armstrong George take the heat. Beautiful.
“What about my deal?” Walter demanded. “I got to get some guarantees here.”
“Whatever the hell you want, big guy. And I mean it. She wins, you write your ticket.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Christ, Walter. We’ll get you famous, don’t sweat it. I just have to figure it out. We need to leak it. That’s what we need.”
“You know how to do that?”
“God, yes.” I laughed. “That I know how to do.”
“How? When?”
“Let me think about it. Just keep the letter in a safe place.”
“Don’t you worry, sugar pie. We’re covered.”
—
The Secret Service ushered the three delegates into Hilda Smith’s suite. Eddie had confirmed that so far only three had left town, so we needed three replacements. Meeting at the VP’s suite was part of the strategy, of course, to wow the alternates with the office itself—we didn’t want them being reminded that they were about to spend time with the second most important person on earth. She was waiting with a smile and a can of Diet Coke in her hand. That was planned as well, like the personal photos of Hilda and her husband and twin sons that were placed around the room. You wanted them to think they were seeing the personal side of this powerful person, not just getting the standard tourist tour—keep behind the rope, please—but having a chance to walk right into the living room and have a can of Diet Coke with the vice president. She had a glass, but she drank straight from the can, opened it herself, and when they brought around some cookies, she grabbed a handful of the chocolate chips like they were the last food on earth. I had to bite my tongue to not laugh, but it was smart as hell.
The secretary of agriculture was there too, and the secretaries of defense and transportation as well. Agriculture was there because the three delegates were from South Dakota. Agriculture still counted big in that state, and two of the three delegates were from farm backgrounds themselves. Defense was there because he was an Iraq War hero and a regular on the talk shows, so everybody knew him. He helped protect Hilda Smith’s right flank, too, being ex–Special Forces and all that; it made her seem less squishy just to have him there looking like a soldier. And though it wasn’t like anyone particularly cared about the transportation secretary one way or the other, she was there because it was always good to have one more person around and she had been available. And, besides, she was the former mayor of Orlando and an old college friend of Hilda Smith’s, which meant that she understood a little bit about politics and would be loyal, two rare traits for any cabinet member.
The vice president was positioned in an overstuffed chair at the center of a half circle, framed by the cabinet secretaries. Lisa and I hung out on the side, half leaning, half sitting on a bookcase against the wall.
Under my arm, I had Eddie Basha’s dossier on the three people who had suddenly moved up from alternate delegates to the real thing. Lisa promised me that Hilda Smith had studied the stuff, but who knew? She didn’t like this kind of politics, the sucking up, the stroking, the implied threat. She was no Lyndon Johnson or Bill Clinton, or even George W. Bush.
“I visited Terri Clark this morning at the hospital,” she began, after greeting each and making sure they were introduced to the cabinet members in the room.
“I hear she’s one tough cookie,” Ted Jawinski said. “Hard to scare her.” He was not young, somewhere over sixty-five.
“She’s a brave woman,” the vice president said gently. “She’s made us all proud.”
“Killin’s too good for that son of a bitch who set this thing off, scaring the bejesus out of everyone. You know what I think, Mrs. President? I think we ought to have public executions. Ought to have to do firing squad duty just like jury duty. Civil obligation.”
Lisa turned toward me, a sick look crowding her eyes. I wanted to laugh. One of the problems with Hilda and Lisa and their little inner circle from Vermont was how easily they were shocked. They’d never learned to embrace the whole sick joy of the total American strangeness in politics. You needed to love the weird, the deformed, the deranged.
Hilda Smith smiled. “It would be Mrs. Vice President, but you can call me Hilda,” she said, still in the same soft voice. “I want to be president and I need your help. I need each of you to help.”
Perfect, I thought, relaxing a bit. She can do this.
“We’re formally uncommitted, of course,” spoke up Bruce Dent. “Those are the rules.”
“I believe,” the secretary of defense said, friendly but with an edge, no doubt about it, “that the vice president is well aware of the party rules.”
I knew all about this kid Bruce Dent; his “shit sheet,” as we called it, was tucked under my arm. I had never met him before but didn’t like him. He was twenty-one years old and had been named a Marshall Scholar a few months earlier, not an everyday occurrence at the University of South Dakota. Now he was sitting in a hotel suite with the vice president and cabinet members. He had scored a perfect 2400 on his SATs. The kid was so full of himself it was going to take more than a mild brush-off, even coming from the secretary of defense, to make him cower.
“You know, sir,” he add
ressed the defense secretary directly, in a firm, calm voice, as if he did this every day, “my father served with you in Iraq. Eighty-second Airborne.”
Goddamn it, why the hell didn’t we know that? I started looking through my folder on Dent frantically. I hated being surprised.
The defense secretary smiled. “Glad to hear it, son.”
“He was killed in the first week of the war.”
So what, you little prick? I wanted to shout. You think that gets you off the hook?
The defense secretary nodded solemnly. “He was…”
“Richard Dent, sir. Did you know him?”
I felt like my head was exploding. What in God’s name was happening? I tried to get Hilda’s attention, motioning her to move on, get going. But she was just staring at this little prick with his plain, almost baby face, dressed in a black suit and thin tie. He looked like he ought to be pushing Watchtowers door to door.
“You must be very proud of him,” the defense secretary said after a long pause. “And I know you must miss him greatly.”
“He always put his country first,” Dent said, “and taught me to do the same. That’s why this isn’t an easy decision for me, who to support for president. I know I was elected as an alternate delegate for the vice president, but given recent events, I find myself rethinking.”
No one said anything for what seemed like an eternity. I wanted to throttle the self-important little shit. “Jesus Christ,” I mumbled, and got an elbow from Lisa.
“I believe, Bruce,” the vice president finally spoke up, “that I very much have the best intentions of this country at heart. I’m a first-generation American. A deep patriot. I love this country with all my heart and soul, and that’s why I want to be president.”
Bruce Dent nodded politely. “Mrs. Vice President, the country is coming apart. It’s just getting worse, even since I ran as a delegate. Now this bombing. You said you didn’t want to be president. Are you really ready to lead?”
This kid should die immediately.
Hilda laughed. “Well, Bruce, you were a Boys State president yourself, president of the student body at South Dakota, I’m sure you understand that sometimes in politics you say what you think is politic.” She smiled, but the softness was gone from her voice.
Well, at least she has read the briefing files, I thought. That was something.
The “I don’t care to be president” quote came when she had suddenly emerged as a vice presidential possibility and was asked about her ambitions. She had said, without thinking about it for more than a moment, that she had no desire or interest in becoming president.
She turned and faced Sue Johnson, who had yet to say a word. She taught ninth-grade American history. “Sue,” Hilda Smith asked, “is there anything in particular you’d like to ask me?” She smiled at the schoolteacher. I had to give her one thing, she did have a great smile.
“Well, Mrs. Vice President, there is one issue that we have been working on for quite some time.”
Lisa and I fumbled through Sue Johnson’s file as if it held the secrets to eternal life. Issue? She had written letters to the editor against school vouchers and had once run for the state legislature opposed to homeschooling. That was all safe enough. Hilda could fudge the school voucher stuff, she’d done that already a million times in front of a thousand different teacher groups, and homeschooling, who cared?
“Yes, Sue?”
“There’s a railway crossing three blocks from our school, and we have been trying and trying to get one of those mechanical arms that come down when there are trains, but for some reason, it just hasn’t happened. The governor got so mad about it, he’s been keeping a highway patrol car there to warn people, but they can’t do that forever and that’s not right and—”
“I’ll look into it personally,” the secretary of transportation said.
“It’s near the school, is it, Sue?” Hilda asked sympathetically. “I remember when two kids were hit in Burlington by a train. It was terrible.”
Sue Johnson was nodding frantically. “Terrible. That’s what happened to us. We lost a senior girl that way.” Her eyes reddened.
“I know that crossing,” Ted Jawinski said. “Hell of a thing, Mrs. President.”
It seemed that Ted was determined to be in the presence of the president.
“Do you know about Crazy Horse?” Ted Jawinski suddenly demanded.
“The Indian leader?” Hilda asked, then corrected herself. “Native American leader.”
“The statue,” Jawinski corrected. “The carving.”
There was a pause. “Crazy Horse the statue?” she finally asked. The other cabinet members looked at each other. No one knew what the hell this guy was talking about.
“Crazy Horse was a great warrior.” The secretary of defense finally spoke up to cover the silence.
“Hell yeah,” Jawinski exploded. “Out near Rapid City. South of Rapid, really. Damnedest thing you ever saw. Like Rushmore, only this Indian up there on a horse with his lance. Hell of a thing. Ought to be a national monument. No doubt about it.”
“I see,” the vice president said. “It sounds…impressive.”
“I’m part Sioux, you know,” Jawinski announced.
Everyone in the room stared at the man.
“Really, Mr. Jawinski?” the vice president finally asked.
“That’s what they tell me. My great-great-great-aunt or something. Just didn’t tell me which part!” He laughed heartily. “All kinds of crazy stuff happening out there then, you know? Anyway, this Crazy Horse is really something. We gave some money for it in the Lions Club. No federal money, though, not a cent. Ought to be a national monument for sure. It’ll knock your eyes out.”
“We’ll certainly take a close look at it, Mr. Jawinski. It’ll get our attention right away.”
He nodded.
Now! I begged silently. Close the sale now! Ask for the damn order!
“What I’d like to do,” the vice president said, “is walk out of here today and be able to announce that I can count on each of you for your support. It would mean a great deal to me and, I believe, to the country.”
There was a long pause. Ted Jawinski looked down at his cowboy boots. Sue Johnson clutched her hands tightly together in her lap. Bruce Dent looked the vice president right in the eye.
“Bruce?” she asked with that great smile.
“Well, Mrs. Vice President, as I think you can understand, I do need to talk with Armstrong George first.”
The cabinet secretaries stiffened.
“I would think you know where he stands on the major issues. Tell me, Bruce, do you support closing our borders to all non-Europeans? Do you support English not only first, but English only in all our schools? Do you support withdrawing from the UN? Do you support ending NATO?”
It was a sudden, angry burst. The secretary of defense was so shocked his mouth was hanging open. I liked it. If she showed this side more often, we’d be a hell of a lot better off.
The young man reddened. “I just think it would be best if I spoke with him, Mrs. Vice President.”
“Of course, Bruce.” She smiled. “Even Armstrong George hasn’t done away with the First Amendment. At least not yet.”
Yes! Ram it right up the little twerp’s ass!
A long silence hung in the room. It was not pleasant. Finally, Ted Jawinski spoke. “Could I kind of get back to you on this thing?” he asked.
“Of course. But let me remind you that the next twenty-four hours could determine the future direction of our country, and you can play a critical, positive role. This is no time to play politics with our national interests.”
They all looked down. Playing the shame card at the end was a good move. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she was better at this than I thought. It was funny how people changed when they had to. I can’t tell you how many candidates I’ve had who started out promising to stay positive, no attacks, but by the end were begging you to just nuke the other basta
rd and get it over with. Nuke him, nuke his wife, nuke his damn kids if that’s what it takes. Just don’t let me lose.
As soon as the three delegates left the room, Lisa Henderson started applauding. Everyone joined in.
“If I may say so,” the secretary of defense said, “I only wish every delegate at this convention could have been in this room.”
“Well, no one committed.” Hilda Smith sighed, but it was clear she was pleased. “J.D. has been telling me we have to up the stakes for this nomination, and I think it’s time I took his advice.”
“I thought I suggested kicking them all in the ass,” I said. “I’ll be back in a second,” I added, and slipped out the suite door while everyone was laughing. It was a dark laugh, nervous and edgy.
I caught up with Bruce Dent at the elevator. “Bruce,” I said, waving him over. The young man still looked flushed from his encounter with the vice president. I put my arm around his shoulder and walked him down the hall.
“Listen,” I told him in a warm, friendly voice, “you’re a Marshall Scholar, right? Smart as hell.”
The intense young man did not attempt to dissuade me from this opinion.
“A quick study,” I continued. “So here’s a little lesson in Crime and Punishment.” I smiled and Bruce Dent nodded, focusing on me with his myopic eyes. I felt like grabbing his ears and ripping them off.
“It’s really quite simple, you arrogant little shit,” I said in the same warm voice. “Come out for us in the next hour and I make you assistant deputy campaign manager, and when we win, you get a nice, juicy position in the White House.” I smiled.
Bruce Dent turned red and then swallowed, a process that looked painful. “You’re offering me a job for my vote. That’s illegal.”
I punched him playfully in the shoulder. “That’s why we call it Crime. Now here’s the Punishment part. If you don’t, or if you jerk us around, then I and my entire opposition research operation will spend the rest of our lives digging up the nastiest shit we can find on you and making sure it gets in the right places.”
Bruce Dent’s face reddened even more. “That’s outrageous.”
“Of course it is. So is the fact that sometimes we just make up this shit and leave it to some poor fuck like you to deny it. Got a little secret or two there, pal? Maybe smoked a little dope over there in England? But hey, the choice is yours.”
The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear Page 12
