The Frankenstein Candidate

by Kolhatkar, Vinay

  “Mother,” she said to the person in the mirror, “what should I do?”

  There was no answer. Her mother was simply no longer there for her. She was tired. She always wanted to be there for everybody: Gary, Natasha, Georgia, her constituency, Colin, her country. God, the country needed her. Violence had shot up in New York and DC again. Markets were down, banks were almost insolvent, and more and more people were on the streets, literally.

  Yes, she decided, her country needed her.

  Mother said yes. It calmed her mind. Things were falling into place. Or so she thought.

  12

  The Commandment of Forbearance

  Frank Stein was not impressed. He had agreed to a meal with Wall Street’s elite and was led into a private dining room at the Eleven Madison Park Restaurant. Sparkling, twenty-foot tall windows adorned the walls, enticing customers with a majestic view of Madison Square Park. In a room fit for eighteen, there were only three—himself and his two hosts: Roscoe Maynard and Chip Ramsey, both Wall Street high-fliers. What a waste of money, he thought at first. Obviously, they were taking no chances of their conversation being eavesdropped.

  Frank had only agreed because he believed Roscoe Maynard to be a person of integrity—at least from the experience of his past dealings with him.

  Roscoe and Chip wore their tailor-made Brioni Vanquish III business suits and hand-made Prada Italian silk ties as if they were born in that attire, to be shepherded around town in chauffeur-driven limousines. Frank wore a light brown cashmere sweater, smart casual black trousers, and carried a thick overcoat for walking around in.

  It was one of those exclusive venues where patrons custom-designed their meal from a menu that displayed only principal ingredients and never the price of a meal. Frank waited until Roscoe and Chip took their time ordering, impatiently casting his glance at the oversized window in front of him. At the entrance to Madison Square Park on the corner of Madison Avenue and East 25th, he saw vagrants who appeared more destitute than derelict. The city is no longer even trying to preserve the image of the park as beautiful, yuppie and festooned with art, he thought to himself.

  “Sir?” the impeccably dressed manager queried. He seemed accustomed to serving only the elite in the private dining rooms.

  “No, thank you, just a drink for me, I am in a hurry,” Frank said.

  The manager nodded politely and left. Roscoe glanced at Chip as if to say I told you so. Chip knew he had to cut to the chase.

  “Eighty-five million and growing,” Chip Ramsey said, “all in a super PAC that will choose soon.”

  “I thought your firms are facing hard times.”

  “They are, but times can change,” Roscoe said.

  “Not this time,” Frank said. “Anyway, I don’t want it. This is my crusade, mine alone.”

  “Don’t forget who and what made you rich,” Chip bellowed, regretting it as Roscoe shot him a glance that silently whispered grossly inappropriate.

  “Smart investing,” Frank said.

  “Of course,” Roscoe was taking over from Chip, “It is fine if you do not want our contribution. But the super PAC, ours is called Americans for Peace, God and Prosperity, has to back someone. It won’t be you if you insist on turning your back on us.”

  “I don’t care how you spend your money. Now if there is nothing else, I have a television interview to attend.” Frank got up to leave.

  “If I may ask who—” Chip was nervously tapping his plate with a fork.

  “Kayla Mizzi, Net Station,” replied Frank, wearing an assassin’s smile.

  Grabbing his overcoat, Frank left as brusquely as he had come.

  Kayla Mizzi had been born in Miami to working-class immigrants from Cyprus. She was so small as a baby that her parents had been advised she would not survive—yet the three-and-a-half-pounder not only survived her infancy but she became a survivor in every sense of the word. They named her Kayla, meaning a wise child.

  Now a determined twenty-eight-year-old, Kayla was smart, cheerful, and friendly. She had dark, straight hair that was always just short of shoulder length and large, twinkling eyes that belied her professionalism. Her disarming manner and her four-foot-eleven frame hid the courage that defined her youth and the force of intellect she was always prepared to use.

  Kayla was not prepared to write Stein off. The calm, business-like manner with which he laid out his principles contrasted with the intrigue he set up in his extremely novel “Ten Commandments” approach to politics. Although billionaires were not new in America, even self-made ones, here was one who was willing to use his fortune to stand for the highest office in the land.

  “Where were you born?” she asked, as they started.

  “Anaheim, California.”

  “Do you have a faith?”

  “My parents were Jewish. But I am not.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifty.”

  “Growing up, what did you want to be?”

  “As a kid, a fighter jet pilot. After high school, I wanted to be an economist. I left after I had my masters and got started in investing. One thing led to another.”

  “Rumors say you left the corporate world because your company was losing money.”

  “The reason has more to do with why the losses occurred, or more correctly, why the entire landscape was changing.”

  “Why was it changing?”

  “The Federal government has systematically wrecked our economy in the twenty-first century. To be sure, the damage began way back when the government prolonged the Great Depression of the 1930s. Now we have twenty-five trillion of debt, and none of it was ever invested in anything.”

  “Did you say…prolonged the Depression? Why would any government do that?”

  “They did not mean to. But they were advised wrongly. Sometimes politicians have been merely mistaken, mostly they have been culpable.”

  “Learned economists say that your seven decades remark is an unjustifiable slur.”

  “Ask them to prove the premises on which the entire theory rests.”

  “You mean the premise that a free economy is prone to booms and busts?”

  “And the premise that governments can make a positive difference by monopolizing paper money. It’s a con. Manipulating interest rates is a way to help Wall Street at the expense of Main Street.”

  “Who will look after the banks?”

  “Why should the people bail them out every time they get into trouble and pay them rich bonuses when they make their gains while being subsidized?”

  “Subsidized?”

  “All of them are protected from bank runs by the government.”

  “Hang on—shouldn’t we the people be protected from bank runs?”

  “No, the banks should not be vulnerable to runs in the first place.”

  “No wonder so many people hate you. Do you ever worry about that?”

  “No. It is time to throw out the politeness and throw out our tolerance for political spin. It’s time we organized a no more rhetoric rally.”

  “A political rally? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “You know what? Let’s do it. How about we start at, say, eleven a.m. next Sunday at Times Square on Seventh Avenue and march to Cleopatra’s Needle in Central Park. That is January twelfth, Sunday morning.”

  “Mr. Stein, one last thing—out on the streets, they are calling you Frankenstein.”

  “We all are Frankensteins.”

  “How so?”

  “Like Friedman once said, it is slipping from our control…our creation, our government…by the constant erosion of our freedoms by those who benefit from power by deceit, and evasion.”

  “They did say you are too outspoken for your own good. Thank you for coming to our program, Mr. Stein.”

  “My pleasure.”

  The Net Station’s ratings were up thirty-five points that night as an endless number of callers called in to say they would take part in the no more rhetoric rally. I
t wasn’t that Stein was so novel—but the new-age-media Net Station had mobilized the youth, among whom the unemployment rate was over forty percent. The army of the disenfranchised had sensed that the time for a revolution was near.

  13

  Love Knows No Boundaries

  Gary marveled at her form as she picked up the pieces. Her smooth legs and her occasional choice of loose cotton dresses under her thick winter overcoats always added just that little touch of innocence that was so alluring in its contrast to her welcoming, smiling look.

  The architecture school had very few staff, and Francesca’s farewell function ended quickly. Francesca had made very few close friends in the short time she had been enrolled at the school, and they had come to the common room to say good-bye to her. Truth be told, Gary was kicking himself. He had introduced her to his film producer friend thinking she would feel grateful, yet he knew that his friend’s business could not afford another junior right now. His friend surprised him by offering Francesca a job. The bastard, he thought, bet he couldn’t find ten dollars spare if I’d sent an ugly, old woman. He was going to miss her, and he had little excuse for dropping by a film set.

  She finished packing her things. Her skinny arms were carrying a lot, but he didn’t volunteer to take some of the packages. There were too many prying eyes in the school.

  “I can give you a lift,” he said.

  “No, it’s—”

  “No, it is perfectly all right.”

  She relented. He drove to her apartment in Fairfax County. They were quiet on the way. She never asked him about his family; she probably did not want to be reminded that he had one. She guessed he did not want to talk about his work. They almost always ended up talking about her life; today was no different. She spoke, as always, with passion about her future, her adopted country. He replied monosyllabically, struggling to say anything and always looking straight ahead even when the traffic light was red.

  As she walked in to her apartment, she put her overcoat away. Her loose cotton dress seemed awfully out of place in a Virginia winter, and he found it strangely arousing. The smell of her perfume was still swirling in him. Words came to his lips, stopped, and went down his throat again; nothing he could think of saying seemed appropriate.

  She offered to make tea, and he chose coffee instead. The room was cold. She turned her fireplace on. He thought the embers from the previous fire hadn’t been cleared, until he looked again—it was a gas-fired heater made to look like a drawing room fireplace. Good taste, he was thinking, but strange words escaped him as though he had a brain spasm.

  “I guess this is good-bye then,” he found himself saying softly, and immediately he regretted it. Fortunately, she didn’t hear. The kettle was boiling; she was in the kitchen, and the crackle of the heater had added its own drums to the Calypso music floating in via a neighbor’s apartment.

  The coffee was brewed just right. He sat on the sofa. There was a lounge chair at right angles to it. Proper décor invited her to sit there. She proceeded, however, to sit next to him like they were a couple and turned the TV on. They watched CNN for a long time, as though they were two geriatrics, existing but not living, waiting for the day to finish—the reality was that conversation had become unbearable. When two people are radiantly aware of the sexual tension in the air, words struggle to make themselves heard; a glance becomes a passionate kiss; a touch feels like an electric shock.

  She sat close. There was that alluring smell again. Not a word was said as several awkward moments passed. She rested her head on his shoulder, sending an electric current through his body.

  “I am tired,” she said.

  “That’s okay,” he said. His hand went around her back and came to rest on her other shoulder, letting her head fall on his upper chest. Her shoulder felt bare. His hand had no right to sneak inside the sleeve of her dress, but it was not taking orders from his brain. His eyes continued to rest on the television screen, taking nothing in.

  Fortunately for him, it was Francesca who broke the impasse. One moment, he was putting his coffee cup on the adjoining table, and the next moment, her lips were on his.

  “Olivia,” his head screamed silently, but he was far too weak to resist. His mouth opened to receive her tongue.

  Then he lost all track of time.

  When he got himself together again, he noticed that the orange rug in the room was sparkling in the fire that had consumed them. The fire crackled—it was the color of warning, always ignored by men in a sexual stupor.

  By the time his phone rang, he almost had to wake himself up from his surreal state. He was naked, as was she. They were on the rug. The television was still on, and the coffee had long since gone cold.

  “Leave it,” she said.

  His cell phone kept ringing. He had it on increasing volume.

  Once again, he hesitated and almost reached out toward his jacket on the sofa, where he knew his phone was. Her nubile body pushed him down, and she smothered his face with her tongue. Third ring, and he began counting.

  It was as though the phone represented his normal world, and everything for the rest of his life depended on his choice. The sixth ring was loud.

  If it bothered her, she didn’t show it. Something in her was telling her the same thing. It was the temptress versus the phone.

  The eighth, almost-deafening ring, died out into an eerie silence that was only interrupted by the crackle of the fire. The temptress had won. She knew it, and so did he.

  He flipped her around. She wrapped her legs around him.

  By the time his phone rang again a few minutes later, it didn’t matter anymore. The increasing volume was just the backdrop they needed to choreograph a perfect dual climax on the loudest ring, the eighth, an erotic musical symphony, a count of eight, a bar.

  He left with a spare key to her apartment in his coat pocket, her profile still on the carpet, her face serene in a rapturous victory, her body unashamedly nude—the image in his mind was frozen in the glow of the embers.

  It wasn’t until he was in his car that he decided to check his messages.

  It was a voice he had never heard before.

  “You were warned. You paid no heed to the warnings. But it’s not too late.”

  The second message was the same voice, in a tone more chilling.

  “There are consequences, Gary Allen. All you need to do is stop for a year, otherwise the consequences will be very dire.”

  Goddamn it, the caller knew his name. Gary looked around. There were other cars parked on the street, but as far as he could tell, they were empty. He cruised around, afraid to discover his caller but unable to resist the curiosity. He checked his caller profile. The caller ID was blocked. His pulse was racing. He decided to call Francesca.

  “Hi…Francesca.” His voice shook.

  “Hello, my lover, what’s up?” She sung the words in a Sixties rock melody that matched his trembling.

  “I was just going to ask you whether…”

  “Whether what, darling?”

  Darling! Even Olivia never used that with him anymore. In fact, she had not even used “honey” for how long? He did not remember.

  “Umm. Whether you, whether…”

  “Whether I have a boyfriend?”

  “Yes, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have one before?”

  “Back in Belgium many years ago. Why do you ask?”

  “Is there any chance that he…I mean anyone you know hates you or hates to see us together?” He tried to keep his voice from trembling.

  “No. Did you just see a ghost? You sound scared.”

  “No, no…I’m fine. I’ll call you.” She must have heard his heartbeat on the phone, the beating was so loud.

  He switched the cell off. He did not want her to get upset, and he could not become calm. He restarted his car, but he could still hear his heartbeat above the din of the engine.

  On the drive back, he kept wondering about h
is choices—telling the police was one, one that almost certainly meant they would question Olivia. No, that’s no good. He could just stop seeing the girl, but he could not tick that box. No, he just wasn’t thinking straight—maybe he got drugged. Perhaps he could just avoid Francesca for a while, a week or two. Maybe some idiot was following him and playing pranks. The prankster would just go away if he laid low for a few weeks. That was it. A few weeks, that’s all he needed. And the next time his phone rang, he was going to answer it.

  14

  Threading Cleopatra’s Needle

  For a candidate who had just handsomely won the first leg of his presidential campaign, Quentin Kirby was not happy. He and his staffers had tried, without success, to get Frank Stein to meet with him. Stein had insisted on knowing what the agenda was before agreeing to a meeting. Then he had announced his candidacy a few days earlier than they had anticipated, which negated their ability to stop Stein from making a bid altogether. Finally, when Kevin Heller had suggested a meeting “to discuss what Stein could add to Kirby’s campaign to mutual benefit,” Stein had laughed off the request and asked him to tell Kirby that he should not bother. It was bad enough that Stein had the gall to refuse a meeting with the vice president of the United States, but what happened after that was much worse.

  Not in their wildest dreams had they expected the sort of interview he had given at the Net Station. Once that was out, just about no one could keep quiet. Politicians, economists, journalists, television reporters, radio hosts, and television show hosts all pounced, and most were brutally scathing of Stein. Even Wall Street’s private equity investors and hedge funds, Stein’s own brethren, were shaking their heads.

  The Washington Day Monitor called it “the most scandalous political campaign of our times” The Chicago Sun-Tribune said “It is time that independent candidates are disallowed from standing for president unless they could independently raise at least thirty million from third parties and demonstrate that to an independent electoral council. This would prevent billionaires from abusing the process in an orgy of self-serving rhetoric” using the very word that described the process Stein despised. CBS interviewed the Speaker of the House, who urged the country to ignore “the self-styled radicals and concentrate on the substantive candidates” who he dutifully and in a most bipartisan way identified as Kirby, Reed, Logan, Spain, Ganon, and Rogers.