Larry Flynt is a bull in the china shop of false pieties, empty pretensions and sexual sermonizing that have brought us to this low moment in American history.
The lowest moment in American history as far as Tommy Tucker was concerned. By his final campaign appearance of the 1998 campaign, the fear had reached a fever pitch. Tucker obsessed that Phil was feeding material to Rachel Goldman, and an article or even a paragraph focused on his private life could transform a sure victory into a tight race or worse. Tucker was a Democrat, which was a damn good thing, but his string of three mistresses since coming to Washington suddenly loomed as a definite election liability.
Had he been more rational the Louisiana congressman would have realized that he had far less to fear than the other politicians. Tucker had been good to his two ex-lovers. The first now worked at a community outreach office near Baton Rouge, her home town. The second was his personal secretary in Washington and Ashley, pouting, immature Ashley, had never heard the word “no” from Tommy Tucker. But Tucker was not rational these days. No one seemed rational anymore in Washington.
Yet all of Tucker’s fears were for naught.
On the Sunday before the Tuesday elections the first of the long-awaited Rachel Goldman written or co-written AP stories was carried by hundreds of newspapers including a half dozen in Louisiana. The articles focused on the big picture. No mention was made of Tommy Tucker or Rodney Wilkes. The stories were on Livingston and Gingrich and Barr and other national Republican leaders who were attacking Bill Clinton. The inside word from Tanya’s California connections was that the Los Angeles publisher had focused all his attention on the Republican leaders, ignoring politicians from the Democratic side who had remained out of the impeachment battle. And apparently so too with the AP stories.
“Leave them ideological battles to the other guy, that’s what Tommy Tucker does best,” exclaimed a relieved Tucker. “Hon, the brass ring of power is movin' closer to us.” Tucker silently thanked his mother. When he was little his mother would make a turtle soup for Christmas. Once a year the family would visit the farm further down the road. He loved that farm--they sold not only turtles but alligators and snake and deer, rabbit and game birds. Tommy would watch for hours the turtles squirm atop one another before meeting their headless end in mom's huge boiling pot, the one usually reserved for crayfish. One Christmas his Mom unexpectedly let him keep the last remaining turtle as a pet. "You learn from this," his mother had lectured. "See, the turtle that climbs to the top ends up swimmin' in the soup first. The one on the bottom sometimes comes up safe. See that son?”
Let others climb higher than anyone else to take the glory. For Tommy Tucker, his place was further down on the mountain of power.
Crumbs made of gold were still nuggets of wealth.
~ ~ ~
Chapter 25
Phil felt undressed. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was again laying on his bed, again late at night, again not alone. It had to do with Lucie Welcomme, the recently transplanted boater from the Deep South. He felt undressed when making love to Lucie. This must be, realized Phil, what it was like for the women sent by Herb. All of whom relished how easily Phil understood their deepest wants.
It was so comforting. Have a thought and this sexy, deeply tanned sailor would answer the unspoken. She moved with an alluring sensuality; from the years no doubt of living and working around sailboats. Her body was well toned still. And like him she lived for her readings with the tarot, or the palms, or astrology, or coffee grounds or numerology. In just a few weeks she had become a regular at the Tarot Tales. Herb raved on about her.
But it was in bed where Phil was smitten. The woman anticipated his wants. Their lovemaking was like a duet. Phil caught himself. Was he falling in love with Lucie? Her body stirred. "Get to sleep sweetie," she whispered, knowing that he was awake.
"Sure." Phil leaned over and kissed her lightly on the shoulder.
"Promise?"
"Sleep, baby."
"Promise?"
"Promise." And there it was, realized Phil, the first little lie of this possible relationship. He lay motionless until her breathing was again the regular cycles of a peaceful sleep. Reaching under the bed he pulled out the top page crammed with statistics and the hotel pen. First he recorded the magic number for the night. A modest “1". Then, still lying on his back, holding the paper high above his body, the pen was poised to write more. There was more. There was something else. Some fact on the periphery that needed to be recorded. Did it have to do with his growing sense of satisfaction with Lucie? How many nights had they spent together... three over the past five days, more than with any of the other women in recent weeks. Was that it? Was Lucie the one he had been searching for? How many women had there been...Phil went through the list as best he could. Nineteen. Nineteen women had been introduced by Herb. He had met eighteen and slept with seventeen.
One more woman remained to be seen. Maybe this was the end. Herb had slowed down in providing names, both because there were just not that many candidates left, and also the man was preoccupied lately, driving back and forth from Annapolis a whole bunch of times. Last week he had left their weekly Sunday breakfast in a hurry. Something must be up. Phil hoped it wasn't about his wife, who had recently taken a turn for the worst.
Phil put the pen and pad back under the bed, pensive that he was missing something. A fact about this caring sailor. A number. Some clue. Hell, let it wait until tomorrow. He was happy with this woman. Phil turned and pushed his body against Lucie, who responded by silently resting her hand on his hip. He pushed again and she pushed back. Ummm, maybe he had written down tonight's magical number too soon, mused Phil, losing himself yet again in her welcome embrace.
~ ~ ~
Part V
Going Home
~ ~ ~
Chapter 26
Lucie listened to Phil sneak out of the bedroom. She allowed herself to drift nearly back to sleep. It was wrong of her; but she did it anyway. Lucie knew full well that this was the day she had come to dread, and as true with all things we dread, it had arrived.
A full thirty minutes or maybe it was an hour later Lucie pulled back the thin cover sheet. She draped on the kimono she had found in the closet. Nice to have something of Phil's pressed against her body. No time for a shower. Not with her running late. First she called Herb, begging him for the second time to have lunch with her at a small spot she knew down Route 2 heading towards Solomon Island in southern Maryland. This time he relented. Herb agreed to meet at 1:00. That gave her just three hours.
She rolled out of bed, lowering onto her knees. With her left hand she reached into her Prada bag and pulled out a thin black candle and a long wooden match. Skillfully the match was struck against the wooden floor, causing the match head to burst into flame. With the lit candle in her right hand, Lucie lay flat on her back, loosening the kimono so that her skin was bare to the candle. Now she tilted the candle sharply to the left until the hot wax dripped just right.
The first black drop of melted wax caused her stomach muscles to recoil. It was hotter than anticipated. The second drop fell on her left nipple. The third just missed. Lucie pressed her fingers deep into the soft wax, pushing it skillfully around her breast. Yes, she was sorry. Very sorry.
* * *
*
A victory on the battlefield often takes an unexpected turn for the winner. That was never more true than for those planning the political ascent of Republican Bob Livingston to the summit of congressional leadership and then on to the presidency.
'What happened Saturday is still impossible to digest,' laboriously wrote Tommy Tucker into his new writing book.
The book was a gift from Tanya. It was to be used by the congressman to records his thoughts so historians could appreciate just how populist Tucker strove to be while he sat next to the throne of congressional power.
The leather cover was a tasteful dark, bank-like green, with thick gold stamped letters:
Congressman Tommy Tucker (D)
"A Man for the Louisiana People"
His Chronicles
December, 1998
‘A great man fell to earth two days ago, humiliated in full public view. So too his lovely, lovely wife. How ugly. How dirty. Is this the government we want for our children?’ Tucker stopped writing. He hadn't intended for these to be the first words in the book. But fate had played a cruel hand.
The downfall began on Thursday, December 17th. For several hours in the great chamber of the Congress the climatic debate on impeachment engrossed the entire country. It was a dramatic moment as the congressional branch of the government passed judgment on the executive branch. A moment for the history books.
Then it happened. Bob Livingston strove to the well of the floor and with no warning just came out and confessed. Right there. In the middle of the impeachment debate on the ethics of Bill Clinton. With a calm voice Livingston revealed, "I have on occasion strayed from my marriage and in doing so nearly cost me my marriage and my family."
Every politician, from both parties, was stunned.
What could be done? Nothing. What to think? Don’t think about the days and months of preparation. The maneuvers, the back-door posturing. The promises. The possibilities. What had made Livingston say those awful words? Just hang on and hope the speakership still belonged to Bob Livingston. Everything that followed moved like a dream. Tucker could see but was powerless to act.
On Friday Larry Flynt held a press conference in Los Angeles declaring his investigators had amassed proven details of multiple affairs by Livingston. Multiple! That means not one but many. Could that be true? How could Livingston do that to us? How could he seek the leadership of a party championing morality when he had enjoyed multiple affairs? At what point should he have realized that seeking the top of the Republican Party would imperil his family and supporters?
What to do? Still do nothing. Just hang on and hope nothing worse was coming down the pike. Maybe nobody would notice in the impeachment frenzy. Congress had turned into a zoo. Reporters from as far away as Japan and England wandered the halls looking for stories. Tucker stayed away--avoid the limelight he was telling himself. Keep low. Let it all pass. The bottom turtle sometimes survives….
Saturday arrived. Finally the day Tucker had waited for, prayed for, angled for, begged for, that day at long last arrived. But oh Lord, what a day.
On Saturday, December 19th, Bill Clinton became the second president in American history to be impeached by the U.S. House of Representatives.
But the impeachment, while hurting the president, mortally wounded the other side, who saw their political victory snatched away by the slash and burn tactics of the pornographer publisher.
Tucker had cast his impeachment vote not against the president, as he explained to a local reporter, but in favor of the people of Louisiana who had been lied to regarding Clinton's affair with the intern. A courageous non-partisan vote by Democrat Congressman Tucker--so had written the local papers, portraying him accurately as a politician voting against his own party chief no matter the consequences. "This vote was cast without a thought to any opinion poll," promised Tucker. And for once, the congressman spoke the full truth to a reporter.
But by the time of his courageous non-partisan vote, Tucker knew his world, his hope for the future, was never to be. It was over.
Flynt won. Evil triumphed. The Louisiana delegation lost the greatest political contest ever staged.
Bob Livingston announced his resignation from Congress on the very same day that the 42nd president of the United States was impeached.
Resignation. Gone. Just like that.
How powerful are the hidden forces in Washington, thought Tucker as his dreams evaporated with Livingston’s resignation. Maybe he had pushed Gigi too hard in the past few months. Was that the unseen battle, the ancient forces summoned by Gigi Bienvenue against the dirty money of a convicted pornographer?
That's what Tucker had to record today in his new writing book.
The book had the aroma of rich expensive leather. Tucker loved the smell. In his congressional office the grieving congressman brought the book up to his nostrils and deeply inhaled. The leather scent brought back memories of those parties where he and Congressman Richard Gordan, and Senator Tom Corwin had frolicked with girls packaged tightly in their red and black leather outfits. Some dressed as deliciously red devils. Some as witches. Or strippers or nurses. Tucker sighed. If not for the responsibilities of public life he sure could have fun in this town.
Tucker stopped writing not because he was unsure of what to say. Oh, he was sure. But it had been years since he had written in longhand. The muscles in his right hand felt strained. He stared out the office window. Usually he liked to watch the birds flying in their sharp geometric patterns above the Capitol Dome. First a cut to the right. Then, with military precision, a cut to the left. Hundreds in perfect formation. Today it was all a blur. He felt a rage but it was still undirected. Who was at fault? Who must be punished?
On the congressman's desk was a pile of newspapers. Tucker picked up yesterday’s Washington Post Sunday edition. Page one--there it was--for everyone to read. Tucker took from the top center drawer a pair of scissors and cut out a section of the lead article. Then he carefully used Scotch tape to past the article into his bank-green notebook. This was easier than writing. Normally he would have an intern do something like this--or Tanya. But this was a momentous day. It would do him good to fill the notebook himself.
Livingston Quits as Speaker-Designate
By Eric Pianin
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, December 20, 1998; Page A1
Fearing that a controversy over his sexual past would undercut his power and tear apart his family, Rep. Bob Livingston (R-La.) yesterday told an astounded House he will not assume the speakership he claimed last month but would instead resign from Congress next year.
Anger. Anger. Anger grew inside of him. Who helped you claim that speakership? He wrote on the side, next to the "claimed last month." As if Livingston did it all himself Tucker huffed before catching himself. The enemy was not Bob Livingston. The enemy was that damn reporter and Tanya's stupid ex-lover. They were the unseen forces acting with Larry Flynt. He knew something was wrong with that guy. Knew it. Knew it.
The congressman next used the scissors to cut out another part of the front page article. This was for the Louisiana politicians of tomorrow--for them to understand the what-might-have-been of Tommy Tucker's career. While working the scrapbook the congressman could hear the phones ringing non-stop in the outer office. Reporters calling to put salt into the wound no doubt. Bottom feeders.
Tucker reached into the desk’s bottom drawer and took out the bottle of Pappy van Winkle bourbon, a gift from a Kentucky health provider lobbyist. On the back credenza were two waiting glasses. He picked up the one with the state seal of Louisiana and poured himself a good sized drink and took a healthy swallow. This was not the time for holding back. The bourbon warmed his insides pretty quick.
With satisfaction Tucker noted he had already finished the first page of his writing book. This was easier than he had imagined. History in the making. On the second page he taped a section of another Post article:
Livingston made his unexpected announcement during the impeachment debate on the House floor after pointedly calling on President Clinton to resign, which at first stirred angry shouts from Democrats. "No," they shouted. "You resign. You resign."
Political cowards Tucker wrote of his Democratic colleagues.
'But the chamber suddenly fell silent as the congressman revealed that he would end his own political career. "I believe I had it in me to do a fine job," Livingston said. "But I cannot do that job or be the kind of leader that I would like to be under current circumstances."
As he strode from the podium, members from both sides of the aisle rose in ovation."
Tucker felt compell
ed to write down his thoughts before the bourbon was doing the writing. He had been an eyewitness to a scene that begged for preservation.
‘After the statement of courage Livingston marched away like General MacArthur.’ How did he ever write when younger? His hand ached.) ‘My friend Bob Livingston had been unwillingly elevated thinking only of his party. Robert Livingston, like Douglas MacArthur, accepted with dignity that the system to which we swear allegiance had failed.’
Tucker threw down the pen hard enough that it bounced twice on the desk. He was proud, damn proud of those words. They were worthy to be read aloud. So that's what he did. Softly the first time. Then he poured himself a second Pappy and read it again...louder than before. Words from the heart. He didn't care if a staffer came in. He was going to remember this moment forever.
He put the book aside and called Tanya. There was no answer for the second time that day. That girl was all tuckered out by the news. Hit her hard no doubt.
Tucker picked up another Post like it was a dirty rag. This one was from Saturday. He scanned the articles. Impeachment. Impeachment. Impeachment. Blah. Blah. Blah. On the front page of the Style section the filth was almost too odorous to read. But Tucker forced himself.
Larry Flynt, Investigative Pornographer
By Howard Kurtz
Washington Post Staff Writer
Saturday, December 19, 1998; Page C01
Them Hustlers Page 20
