Them Hustlers

by Jeffrey Manber

  Tucker was surprisingly responsive “You cold darlin'?”

  Tanya gave a wan smile to cover her lie. “Just feelin' the power we gonna have soon, that’s all.”

  The temporary couple weaved their way through the crowd until connecting with the waiting party.

  Tanya and Tommy’s wife Toni hugged goodnight.

  “Tanya Lyn, what a rockin' party you threw,” squealed Toni. “You sure gave us somethin' to shout about when we get home.”

  “Don’t let your husband get too big for them britches of his.”

  The women laughed at the idea that the congressman’s ego had limits. Still laughing, both placed their carnival masks back on for one last romp through the ballroom. Tanya was pleased. Toni was far more comfortable since learning about Phil. The boys were right on this one.

  Tommy left Tanya with one final thought as everyone walked outside to a waiting Phil. “Let’s hope nothing you plant with Phil pops up in the newspapers. I like that boy of yours and it would sure hurt to bring him harm.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter 5

  There will forever be a puzzling disconnect that will mark the year 1998 in the history books. Through much of the decade of the ‘90s the winds of political change had blown clear across the globe, making America unchallenged by any single nation or ideology.

  The Soviet Union collapsed, Eastern Europe was liberated and American capitalism spread like wildfire across the globe. It was the second coming for the almighty buck, even more pronounced than at the end of the Second World War. This time around, protectionists in India, socialists in Sweden, communists in China, revolutionaries in Latin America, former enemies in Vietnam, intellectuals in France, union organizers in England and powerful Kremlin bosses all embraced America's way of doing business.

  At home the baseball season became one for Cooperstown when Mark McGuire shattered the major league home run record by blasting 70 homers in a single season. Not to be outdone, Cal Ripken of the Baltimore Orioles gracefully ended his astonishing feat of having played in 2,632 consecutive games. Personal milestones were not just for athletes. At age 77, John Glenn returned to space as a member of a space shuttle crew. And more than 76 million Americans tuned in to watch the final episode of the Seinfeld show, while Titanic took home 11 Academy Awards.

  The American president was seen as a cool, saxophone-playing politician dubbed the “first black president,” for his affinity with popular culture and his humble origins out of Arkansas. The stock market continued its gravity-defying upwards march and more and more Americans were buying homes. At the start of the year Bill Clinton became the first president in 30 years to submit a surplus budget.

  But it was the total triumph of American capitalism that marked the uniqueness of 1998. Baseball records are meant to be broken; the Academy Awards are given out each year.

  How astonishing that the smartest youngsters of every nation yearned to become market entrepreneurs; learning English, powering their second-hand computers with black market Microsoft Windows, hatching new deals over McDonald’s coffee and pricing their products in American dollars

  It seemed, in short, a good time for America.

  But inside Washington the mood was strikingly different. Here, a deadly political battle over the immorality of the White House occupant raged on.

  A former professor now Republican congressman from Georgia named Newt Gingrich had seen an opening and rode it all the way to the leadership in the House. It was to be, promised the sharp thinking Gingrich, the dawning of a political era of socially conservative values.

  There was a palatable hatred by Gingrich and his fellow Republicans towards Bill Clinton that extended to his wife as well. Both were seen as immoral and unfitting to serve as president and first lady.

  While hundreds of millions across the globe looked to America for leadership, the congressional Republicans and their ideological supporters unleashed an impish pink-skinned lawyer as an independent prosecutor to investigate first a real-estate deal involving the Clintons called Whitewater, then the sexual claims of a woman named Paula Jones against the sitting president, and finally special prosecutor Ken Starr marshaled the considerable investigative forces of the federal justice system onto the stained blue dress of a White House intern named Monica Lewinsky.

  By 1998, the four-year investigation reached its climax. It was clear that the Republicans were hell-bent to mount a final assault to impeach the married president over his affair. The president’s colleagues were in defensive mode - unsure of how to foil the attacks. No Democrat could credibly stand up and defend a married man who had an affair in the people's house with a young woman.

  Gingrich brilliantly chose the terms of the battle that would catapult him into the White House. In the absence of any national threat or mortal enemy, the political debate in Washington was on the question of morality.

  Did the president of the United States have sex with an intern?

  Did he lie about it?

  Did he have sex with other women before entering the White House?

  It is by such questions that this era will be defined. It is by such questions that Gingrich expected to remain Republican leader and the natural choice to run for the White House in 2000 against the immoral Democrats.

  Strangely enough, very strangely in fact, Phil Greene would soon find himself a critical figure in the whole damn mess.

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter 6

  Congressman Tucker’s black Lincoln Continental inched north along 16th Street in the direction away from the White House. Like a first time tourist the veteran congressman adjusted the rear view mirror to take in the top half of the White House, still visible in the waning evening light. In front of him a DC bus pulled into the stop, picking up the uniquely Washington mix of idealistic younger office workers and Hispanic hotel staffers getting off of the day shift. Usually Tucker would resent this intrusion by the bus into his perceived personal space, but not today. Not when the holy brass ring of power was perceptively moving closer to the son of flour salesman Chuck Tucker and his wife Mary.

  Tucker was half a block and fifteen minutes from instigating one of the more tantalizing political maneuvers of his life. One that could elevate him onto an even higher platform of opportunity and influence. In Tucker’s Washington, words like “opportunity” and “influence” are euphemisms for self-enrichment. The opportunity that brought two Democratic congressmen and one Republican senator together was their shared interest in toppling Republican majority leader Newt Gingrich. Should he falter, or be pushed, their friend Bob Livingston could assume the parliamentary throne. It didn’t matter the assembled men were Democrats and Republicans, congressmen or a senator. This was about doing right for supporters and for themselves. This wasn’t about American policy, it was about why they got into politics in the first place. A chance to spread the wealth for sure. But now the stakes were even higher. A path could be seen that would take Tommy Tucker and his friends all the way into the White House.

  Into the White House. Even when not spoken the phrase felt smooth like a slab of warm butter spread on a freshly baked hot cross bun. Into the White House. The phrase was an aphrodisiac for Tucker that unleashed the most dramatic of passions into his tired body.

  Almost twenty years ago as a lawyer unfamiliar to the ways of big time politics Tucker had been invited to the Commodore Restaurant on Canal Street in New Orleans to break bread with Carlton Jones, III, the president of the New Orleans Chamber of Commerce. The unexpected offer from Jones to bankroll his run for alderman changed his life. The lawyer ran and won the alderman's seat. Together he and Jones took the next few years to parlay the advantages of being a pro-business alderman into a thriving legal practice that continued even today. That was his first understanding of why so many fought for political office. The money didn’t trickle in, it flowed.

  A scandal to the entrenched congressman gave Alderman Tucker an opening to climb higher on the political ladder. He j
umped without hesitation. Over the weekend that the story broke in the New Orleans Picayune of the congressman’s affair to a banker’s wife, Tucker and Jones called every significant oil and gas executive, sugar trader, insurance underwriter, banker and real estate developer in Louisiana alerting them to Tucker’s intention to run for Congress. Promised was that the door would always be open for their business concerns. By Monday the Democratic nomination was his. That’s the way it had always been in his career, climbing upwards on the shoulders of those less careful, those who had been given the chance of a lifetime and had instead let it slip away.

  That ex-congressman caught up in the scandal was today a run-of-the-mill lobbyist for a Latin American firm with interests in the New Orleans harbor. The fallen congressman’s wife left him in a heartbeat, so too the other woman. The truth is, thought Tucker, idly running his fingers over the teak steering wheel, most of the politicians in Washington rise higher than advisable or believable. Tucker gave out a little laugh. That’s the way the American system works. You can rise higher than anyone thought possible except your mamma. But what you ultimately do with the victory given you, whether you were a Bill Clinton or Newt Gingrich or Bill Livingston, says more about you than any glowing article written at the height of power.

  Tucker knew some thought of him as a country buffoon. He heard the whispers about his using slush money to keep a mistress or performing voodoo on political opponents. “Tom Tucker has all the class of a day laborer,” a sugar exporter had sneered to a Washington lobbyist just a year ago. Well, it was like that bumper sticker that he absolutely hated to come across when driving on the rural roads back home: “I may be slow,” it reads, “but I’m in front of you.”

  That Washington lobbyist reported the conversation to Tucker within 24 hours. A month or two later the ungrateful exporter had his largest revolving loan unexpectedly called in by his New Orleans bank. “Changing circumstances,” was all the bank officer had revealed. Tucker honked his horn for no reason whatsoever. A woman running for the bus looked his way. “I may be slow,” sneered the congressman, still focused on that sugar exporter, “but I damn well am in front of you, now ain’t I?”

  The light finally turned to green and the bus moved on in a billow of black diesel fumes. Tucker gently eased down on the gas pedal, inching along. A Hispanic woman dashed out into the intersection laden with two big shopping bags, hurrying even in this heat to catch the next bus. But what was that compared to his own mission? No hotel worker would make him late. Tucker kept the car steady, no more than 10 miles an hour and pretended not to see the woman. The Lincoln brushed her back and she banged with her fist on the roof. Tucker stole a look in the mirror to see her standing in the street yelling at him. The congressman laughed it off.

  Halfway up the next block Tucker steered his car into the gracefully curved driveway.

  Washington is crammed full of unspoken historical landmarks, the sort that never get into the history books yet are part of American history. The membership-only University Club is such a place. An ornate granite building just a few blocks north of the White House, the club has for the last hundred years provided quiet cover for never known meetings among clashing politicians or memorable poker sessions. If the walls could gossip on the clandestine liaisons that had taken place at the club, it would be fodder enough for a half dozen books on that intangible intersection between the Washington lust for power and that of the flesh.

  The club was different now, what with women being admitted in the 1980s. More and more there was an openness that the old timers found dispiriting. The carpeted halls were a perfect venue for playing children, but it was still a place where Supreme Court Chief Justice William Rehnquist could be found swimming three times a week in the late afternoon. And cigar-smoking veterans of previous administrations gathered in the second floor bar’s corner table to drink and share political tall tales.

  Inside the crisply cool ornate lobby, filled as usual with the centerpiece bouquet of fresh flowers Tucker stopped - as always--to wave to Miss Lawrence, the white-haired matron who since the time of John Kennedy had discreetly presided over the first floor dining room. He received the usual response.

  “Goot efening Mr. Congressman,” she said in that slightly clipped foreign accent of hers. He had never sought to ask where she was born.

  “Good evening Miss Lawrence, you’re looking fine as usual.”

  The traditional exchange of pleasantries made him feel stronger. Like popping a mint before meeting campaign donors. Just made him feel ready. Turning to his right he took the elevator to the fourth floor. As he always did before any meeting, Tucker took a few seconds to assume his meeting face. Today, Tucker would be in a very serious mood. Anything involving Gigi and her power was nothing to laugh about. The meeting would begin, he decided while running his trusted black comb through his gray hair, devoid of any of the usual small talk of wives and medical aliments and anecdotes of fishing and hunting. I can be next to the seat of power. I deserve to be next to the seat of power.

  The elevator door opened.

  I will, promised Tommy Tucker, son of a flour salesman, close this deal for my friend Bob Livingston.

  All eyes turned on him when he entered the fourth floor room. Tucker noted with satisfaction that he was last through the doors, as if it was his meeting. Good. He would take control from the get-go.

  “Ladies,” he nodded warmly to Gigi and Tanya, "thank you for coming.”

  In addition to the women, Senator Tom Corwin and Congressman Rodney Wilkes were present. Different parties, but all sharing the same hunger to grab the brass ring of power. Also in the room was Timothy Browning, III, the senior lobbyist for the off-shore oil industry. Everyone in town called him Tim-Tim. The lobbyist, in his early 40s, was a local boy, born and raised in the Lafourche parish, south of New Orleans.

  Tucker’s voice dropped a good octave to express the seriousness of the occasion despite the minimalist setting of the clubroom. “This is the final meeting to influence an event of grave concern...."

  “Nice of ya to come on in and help us along here,” sarcastically interrupted Tom Corwin, the lanky veteran Republican senator. With his sharp facial features and elongated arms he reminded reporters of the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.

  Damn. Tucker was just about to hit his public speaking rhythm, which would have blocked any interruption whatsoever. Tucker looked at his watch. “Ten minutes ain’t so bad, Senator, but the point is taken. I have brought up the rear. I see even the ladies arrived slightly ahead.” This was not a time to lock horns.

  Corwin wasn’t finished. “Wilkes and me were talking during those ten minutes you was late, Congressman, seems it might make sense to have,” Corwin looked over at Wilkes, and made a snap decision, “Rodney, why don’t you bring us all up to date on the fast-changing events?”

  Wilkes was not thrilled to upstage his more senior congressional colleague and it showed on his face. “Tommy, if you…”

  Tucker had lost the first round. “Go ahead Rodney,” he shouted. His voice too loud for the small room, which held a few chairs and a card table, and the obligatory television set showing C-Span’s coverage of an empty Senate.

  “OK, look, I’m hearing,” confided Wilkes, “that the poll numbers are not budging. Republicans,” and then with a nod to the Senator, “forgive me Tom, we’re just speaking openly among friends here, no political posturing. But the numbers are not looking good for the G.O.P for the mid-term elections. Not at all."

  The Senator raised both hands up in resignation, stretching outwards his thin fingers “I got the same numbers Wilkes, you go ahead and lay out the plan. As promised, all guns been left at the front door.”

  “Looks like a loss of seats in the House. We all know that would be the first time in a century that a party out of the White House loses seats in a mid-term during the second term of the sitting president. That’s how bad.”

  Tucker wanted back in to the conversation. “How ma
ny you think?”

  “Three most likely. Good go as high as six.” Estimated Wilkes.

  “We’re more optimistic,” revealed the Republican. “Not that the exact numbers really matters, ‘cause any result that is not the traditional mid-term pickup of at least a few House seats means Gingrich is gone. He needs a miracle to survive. A political miracle.”

  Tanya watched her boys salivating at the opportunity. There would be no miracle for Gingrich. The only miracle would be if these three politicians and the rest in the outer circle lining up behind Livingston didn’t tear each other apart. The lobbyist quietly smiled. Tucker had already tried to pull the 'I’m the top dog here,' only to be effortlessly caught out by Corwin. That was not a good sign. The guys would have to work together through November’s elections and into the New Year to pull this off, she reasoned.

  Tanya still couldn’t believe her front row seat. More than a front row seat, she was part of the team. This was the stuff you read about in political books, a gripping inside story of the biggest poker game of a generation.

  But this story would never see the light of day, Tanya Lyn was sure of that. Her boys embraced secrecy. Even this meeting was known only to these four men. Anything involving Gigi was kept tightly controlled. Congressman Bob Livingston knew nothing. Neither did Senator Breaux. Or any of the other politicians sympathetic to the concerns of the Bayou. Nor the fellow poker players or bourbon drinkers or skirt-chasers. Tim-Tim was accepted. Not only was he local, but he was also gay, a fact known only to a chosen few. Tim owed Tucker big-time for keeping a Bourbon Street indiscretion out of the Times-Picayune that would have cost him his career. The two men therefore enjoyed a solid relationship, each needing the other to gain power, and each trusting the other because they shared potentially fatal secrets. It was the best sort of Washington friendship, a social variation of the 'mutually-assured-destruction' theory that had kept the Soviet Union and America from launching a nuclear take down against one another. So it fell to those in the room to hold the deepest secrets on each other. And no secret was more closely guarded than Gigi.