Dead Man Running

by Davis, Barry

  Elias could see himself as the marionette of the entire Congress, controlling four hundred and thirty five members as one. He would be more than a king maker, he would be king. All of a sudden a high salary and lots of bitches didn't seem like much at all.

  His foot and the skids of Marine Two hit the roof at the same time.

  "You made the right decision, Elias," Mira said.

  The First Lady exited the helicopter, her long legs challenging her Secret Service security contingent to keep up. She smiled as she approached Congressman Wiley and his party.

  "Congressman Wiley, so good of you to meet me on the rooftop." She leaned in and gave the zombie a peck on the cheek.

  "I have to admit, Mrs. Obama, it was my chief of staff Elias Turnbull's idea."

  "Well done, sir." She extended her long, strong hand and Elias Turnbull found himself shaking hands with the First Lady of the United States.

  "Follow me, Mrs. Obama, I'll set you up in our private suite." He turned to face Wiley – beaming like a proud father. "The congressman has the minor task of making his acceptance speech. Following that, we'll bring him back up so that you can have your discussion."

  "Excellent, Elias," said the First Lady. "The president and I have a problem and we could use your boss' help."

  Wiley approached the podium in the Waldorf ballroom. The cavernous space was packed with campaign workers, money men, well wishers, boot lickers and ass kissers. The media was there in volume as well, waiting to capture the by-products of Wiley the PCP drug addict, or so they hoped. The incoherent ramblings of a drug addicted public servant made better headlines than the boring pronouncements of a long time black politician.

  Why should the liberal media elite spend any time on the pronouncements of a liberal politician when their columnists and commentators so much more forcefully and elegantly drive the left's agenda? And they do so every minute of every day.

  Wiley smiled broadly as he gripped the lectern. The usual tawdry group of NYC political bigwigs packed the stage. Jan played the role of the spouse staring at the candidate with the mind numbing gaze. The crowd did its part – of course, many were on the campaign payroll until midnight – with a chant of "two more years" or, even more creatively, "Wiii-leeeey".

  The new and improved Wiley basked in the attention, at one point allowing himself the indulgence of picking out his next meal – a chunky wedge of a woman in the middle of the crowd, her flabby arms holding a Wiley campaign sign.

  After a minute, he finally waved his arms to silence the crowd.

  Jan stood to Wiley's side as the man began his remarks by thanking his campaign workers. She noticed that he made eye contact with a heavyset woman dressed in a pink pantsuit that was about two sizes too small.

  It was only later when Wiley invited the woman to a personal meeting did Jan understand the true interest in this woman. Dinner.

  Wiley's abilities were stunning – he was truly new and improved. Whereas the old, pre-dead Wiley stumbled over names and faces, this better version seamlessly recognized all the politicians and money bags who shared the stage.

  Finally, he turned his attention to Jan. While gazing lovingly in her direction, he shocked her with his words. "We haven't publicized this but my dear wife recently died." The crowd gasped in shock. "It was a sudden illness and the Lord mercifully guided Eloise away from this shabby shell of a world to paradise everlasting in Heaven." The crowd applauded loud and long, a tribute to the political wife and church mother.

  "I want to announce today that I am ready and willing to move on." He grabbed Jan's hand and raised it for all to see. "With the help of special friends like Miss Jan Sugerfoot, I am fortified and stimulated, ready to move on as God's and your faithful soldier."

  The crowd erupted. As he continued his remarks – mostly boilerplate liberal doggerel – Jan didn't hear a word. She floated somewhere above the crowd, more in love than she's ever been, with a man who fearlessly publically acknowledged her. Finally, after what seemed like a minute but was more like a half hour, someone tapped her on the shoulder as Wiley headed for the exit.

  It was time to talk to the First Lady.

  Just offstage Wiley ignored the proffered hands and back slaps. Given the surrounding noise he had to lean into Mira's ear to be heard. He reinforced the words with hand gestures, first toward the crowd, then up. The young woman nodded once, then again. She smiled and led Mookie away.

  ELEVEN

  Michelle Obama sat in a straight back chair facing Wiley, Jan and Elias. She smiled at the trio before turning toward one of the omnipresent Secret Service agents. "Hey Cracker Barrel, I'm thirsty. Get me some water." The man nodded and stepped away quickly.

  "They have nicknames for all of us: my husband, me, even my babies. Why shouldn't I give them nicknames?"

  The man handed her a cold bottle of water. It was wrapped in a moist napkin. Obama looked at the man, took the bottle and unceremoniously dropped the napkin to the floor. The agent retrieved the napkin as the nation's leading lady took a hearty swig. She once again graced the trio with that brilliant smile.

  "Congressman, again I want to congratulate you on your win tonight and appreciate the opportunity to speak with you."

  "It is an honor and a pleasure, Mrs. Obama, to be in your presence."

  The woman took a moment to luxuriate in the praise. "I'll get right to the reason I'm here. We're nearly two years into our term and those damned liberals are nipping at our heels. We passed the most sweeping health reform legislation in history, adding thirty-five million insured Americans, but that was not enough. We passed a stimulus bill, pumping almost a trillion dollars into the economy, much of it going to poor and working class communities, the places 'those people' care about." She took a sip of water.

  "Do you want to know what they really care about?" She looked at each of the three in turn. They knew better than to slow a sister's roll. "They say we're not black enough. They say Barack ain't really black, that the administration doesn't have enough black faces." She reached into her Louis Vuitton handbag and produced a small tape recorder. "Yesterday this came in the White House mail addressed to my husband."

  She pressed the button and the room was filled with the sound of old school soul. Wiley's head bounced to the sound of Billy Paul singing "Am I Black Enough For Ya". She let the song go for a couple of bars before killing the sound.

  "I believe I advised the president a while back that perception is everything. He needed to show the young people and black people – the keys to his victory – that he heard them and acknowledged them," reminded Wiley. His former self had been fairly outspoken about the pale complexion of the administration.

  The First Lady nodded. "That's why I'm here congressman. Frankly the president and I didn't appreciate your criticism, which you rendered both privately and publicly. However, we are now prepared to act on the problem."

  "What makes you see it as a problem now?" asked Elias.

  "We're midway in what we hope is Barack's first term. We have a tough election coming in two years. The economy is in the dumps and there is no clear indication that it'll be any better by November 2012. We're going to need all hands on deck for the election – young people, gays, blacks and Hispanics. As your boss has advised many times, we can't take anyone for granted, not even our own people." She stopped, turned her attention to the two white Secret Service agents stationed about the room. She leaned into the three, as if sharing a secret.

  "And Barack does consider black people his people. He does consider himself to be black."

  "Could have fooled me," blurted out Jan. She regretted the words before they left her mouth.

  The First Lady smiled. "That's the attitude we're facing. The fear is that turned off blacks will stay home on Election Day. Without their overwhelming numbers Barack will lose in the swing states."

  "Michelle, how can I help?" asked Wiley.

  "We need to get blacker. How better to do that than to pull one of our biggest,
most authentically black critics into the administration?"

  "What would be my role?" Wiley asked.

  "The president is prepared to ask for Shaun Donovan's resignation as HUD Secretary. It would be perfect for you – as a black politician the Senate won't spend five seconds on your confirmation hearing. You'll be visible across America in the black community. And there's some stimulus money left so you won't be empty handed. You can remind our people that one of their own is in the White House – the head nigger in charge – and that he is helping them."

  Wiley considered the offer. He looked at Jan and Elias, in turn. "I would need to take the oath for the term I just won. If not, we couldn't name a successor to the remainder of my term."

  "We would time the announcement for next February. The governor has already been contacted. He's agreed to name whomever you choose."

  Wiley turned to his chief of staff. "I choose my man here, Elias Turnbull."

  Michelle Obama offered her hand to Elias. They shook. "Congratulations Congressman Turnbull."

  She stood. "So, Benjamin, we have a deal?"

  Wiley stood. "Deal. I look forward to serving this president."

  "Wonderful. I'll head back and tell Barack. He'll be delighted."

  The First Lady and her Secret Service contingent left the room. Only after the door had closed did the group – which now included Mookie and Mira Hidar – celebrate. Jan shrieked and hugged Wiley. "I can't believe you're going to be a member of the Cabinet."

  Mira shook Elias' hand. "Congratulations congressman."

  "Thanks," said Elias, admiring once again the woman's fine self.

  Wiley turned from the group, looked out over the breathtaking view of New York before his feet. "I want to leave this place. I need to recharge this body. You need your rest as well. Tomorrow we will talk about what this means, how we can use it." He turned to face the group. His face was hard set into a fearsome mask. Elias unconsciously took a step back.

  "I want to make this plain. I intend to become the most powerful man in America, the President of the United States."

  "Whip whop wham," Mookie added.

  Wiley smiled. "Whip whop wham indeed, my friend. Whip whop wham indeed." He laughed heartily.

  Mira and Elias sat together in the hotel's bar. Wiley, Jan and Wiley's undead shadow Mookie were headed back to Wiley's brownstone. Elias wanted to talk to this woman, this beautiful creature who had just materialized in his life tonight.

  Yes, he was attracted to her – rare for him because he usually was a 'race man' and didn't date white woman. But, more than that, he wanted to see if Wiley's plan to become all powerful bothered this woman. He knew that deep inside – once he set aside his elation at finally becoming a member of Congress – it really bothered him. Despite whatever magic that had cleaned up the man – Elias was still amazed at how fluidly he spoke and how good his skin looked – he knew Wiley was still a monster, one that ate his friend Chi.

  Chi. As he sat in the darkened bar, surrounded by several Wiley supporters who seemingly did not get enough of the free drinks that were served by the campaign, the guilt hit him. Chi had been bothered by Wiley, wanted to get rid of him but Elias had brushed him off.

  It would have been easy to stop Wiley then – distract Jan, chop his head off while the other man held him down. But now, he was aware, agile and he had a wingman, the undead Mookie. Elias felt remorse about that as well. He remembered the living Mookie, yes, a degenerate, but mostly harmless if you weren't a whore.

  Elias nursed a Miller Lite while Mira enjoyed a Cosmo. She looked at him with an amused curiosity. She was well aware of his reputation as a player, both politically and with the women. She sensed, however, more purpose to his invitation to have drinks than just a pursuit of her body. She sipped her drink and waited for his approach to the topic that hovered above them.

  "How did you do it? How did you change Wiley?" he asked halfway through his drink. He was unconcerned with the surrounding crowd of revelers or any stray press. The space was so raucous, only they would hear what was said at their small table.

  She leaned into his face. Her breath combined scents of mint and Vodka. Her dark hair cascaded toward her face and a quick flick of his eyes gave Elias a peek at her not so unsubstantial breasts straining against her grey silk blouse. He felt a bolt of attraction from his brain pan to his toes.

  He wanted this woman.

  She reminded him of the ho' that did the sex tape with Ray J and now was all over the TV. He sensed this white girl similarly had a taste for dark meat.

  Only, unlike the vacuous TV babe, this beauty sat behind very intelligent eyes.

  "My family has a long history with men like the congressman. Centuries." She chose her words carefully, which pleased Elias.

  True, he wasn't concerned about the surrounding human ears, but electronic ones were a different story. Major meeting place like this, it was fifty-fifty that it was bugged. The CIA or NYPD could be listening to every word.

  "There is a potion discovered long ago that reanimates the undead individual, reigniting his mental acumen and physical dexterity."

  Elias nodded. They could be talking about the latest health drink.

  "He seems better than before."

  Mira raised an eyebrow, nodded. "I am somewhat surprised at his abilities." That was an understatement: she was stunned. She had never seen a revitalized zombie so capable, perfect even.

  "Hamid's your grandfather?"

  "Yes, he is my grandfather and the head of our family."

  "Why did you give our friend this potion of yours?"

  "Miss Sugerfoot asked for my grandfather's help."

  Elias smiled. "And he just gave it up? What's in it for him, for you?"

  The woman leaned back. "My grandfather determined it to be in our family's interest."

  "How so?"

  "It is always best to stay close to the powerful."

  Elias nodded, understood her meaning. He took a long pull on his beer. "So, you're here to stay?" The thought did not displease him.

  "Of course, Elias. I will be Ben's chief of staff once he assumes his new role." She drained her glass and got to her feet. "Want another?" she asked as she looked Elias in the eyes. Elias nodded and she walked over to the bar. She disappeared quickly into the surrounding mob.

  While she was gone he considered what she had said. She and Hamid must come from a long line of magicians. Is the correct term 'witches and warlocks'? What was their interest? Did their potion give them control of Wiley? Was Wiley really a puppet, speaking Hamid's, perhaps Mira's, words? He needed to know, especially if one day he had to stop Wiley, stop a zombie from waltzing into the White House.

  Mira returned with their drinks. His was another light beer, hers a concoction with green and red tiers. She noticed him staring and said "It's a Jager Bomb" as she sat.

  She took a sip, crossed her legs and once again her eyes drilled into his.

  "You don't like real drinks," he said as he accepted the beer.

  "I like variety, never the same thing twice," she said.

  "You never had a Cosmo before?"

  "Never."

  "And you'll never have another one?"

  "Not if I can help it. There are too many drinks to try and not enough time." She smiled, reached under the table to rub his thigh. He felt himself stiffen in his boxers.

  "I have a question," she said.

  Elias took a pull on the new, ice cold beer. It felt good going down. "Go ahead," he said.

  "Things could have gone badly tonight."

  He nodded. Gone badly? I could have been eaten alive! The woman had a gift for understatement.

  "Yet you decided to remain part of the team, so to speak. Why?"

  He felt comfortable enough to be at least partially honest. A veteran of the political game, honesty usually came several years and several campaigns down the road.

  "Greed. An utterly naked and unbound desire for political power."


  "Did you have any misgivings about our man's stated goal?"

  Elias hesitated, his eyes flicked from Mira's face to the table top and back. "Not at the moment," he said. It was another honest answer. That was two in a row – a new record for the man.

  What was this bitch doing to me?

  He felt something building inside him – a tiny flame of misgivings and doubt. But this evening, when he learned that he was destined to be a MOC, his unbridled joy caused that flame to quickly extinguish.

  "And you? Does it give you pause?"

  She drained her strange drink. Her eyes never wavered from his. "No," she said. "Our man's interest currently coincides with my family's interests. I have no concern."

  She stood, took her coat off the back of her chair. "Elias, you'll find me very direct. I go for what I want." She placed her palms on the small table, leaned into his face. She kissed him on the lips, leaned back slightly. "Now, if you're done with your boring drink, I want to go back to your place. You've been eyeing my breasts all night." This was overheard and a nearby older black woman's eyes went from Mira to Elias and back again. A smile crossed her wide lips and she hovered close, waiting to hear more.

  Mira met the woman's eyes and matched her smile. "I want to give you a much better look," she added. Elias was stunned but not too stunned to move. He abandoned his beer, grabbed his suit jacket then Mira's hand as he led her out of the crowded bar.

  Jan spied the heifer as their limo rounded the corner onto Wiley's block. She saw the pink clad legs peeking underneath the black coat, the fabric of the coat stretched tight over the double plus sized frame. The car came to a stop in front of the brownstone and the woman waved at the car. She smiled, likely one of the last of her pathetic life, Jan thought.

  Jan grabbed the door handle, prepared to exit but Wiley laid a hand on her arm. She met his eyes and, for a brief moment she was afraid. There was something in those dead orbs that frightened her, deep inside, at a level she was only faintly aware of – fear triggered by instincts dormant since the dawn of man.