by Joseph Flynn
Wide smiles appeared on all three members of the president’s audience.
They were savvy enough to make the inference.
Patricia Darden Grant had come up with a more compelling way to reach the public.
One that involved them.
“What I’d like to do is this: Come up with three nights of must see Web TV each week.”
“The format of this programming being?” Cabot asked.
“Lively, intelligent, funny, free-flowing debates between two three-person panels. One side would represent the points of view of my administration, the other side would represent Mather Wyman and maybe, on occasion, Howard Hurlbert. We could set a nominal length of one hour for each show, while allowing Edward to extend the Webcast up to ninety minutes if the situation demands more time.”
“You’re talking celebrity panels, Patricia?” Dorie asked.
“I’m thinking of smart, articulate well known people who don’t need to use profanity to make a point. Yes, that would include actors from both movies and television, but it would also include writers, directors, composers, painters, scientists and others.”
“Journalists?” Cabot asked.
Patti said, “They’re problematic.You don’t want them to be overt advocates, but when they pretend each party is equally responsible for the country’s problems, it sets my teeth on edge.”
Dorie said, “Patricia’s right. Journalists would make it just like any other news show. People from the arts and sciences would make the show distinctive, and say what you want about actors, they’d be a much bigger draw.”
“That’s part of my thinking,” Patti admitted, “but you’d have to use people who are informed on the issues and able to express their ideas without a script. That being the case, I’d like to cast as big a net as possible. Let’s use some people who are well known but haven’t worked on camera lately because, oh my, they might have some gray hair.”
Gorman, whose hair was a tumbleweed of gray, raised a fist.
“That’s wonderful, Madam President. You’ll be offering opportunities to revive careers.”
“And extend mine, I hope. What I was thinking was to use two celebrities, one contemporary, one classic, if you will, and an accomplished but lesser known figure from the arts or sciences.”
Cabot said, “That would give you good trans-generational coverage and you could mix and match ethnicity and gender. What I’d like to suggest, though, is a bit more fluidity in your casting.”
“What do you mean, Ed?” the president asked.
“Well, you could sandwich your non-entertainment figure between classic or contemporary actors, as you’ve put it. Or you could skew the celebrities older or younger and have your third person be on one end or the other. On the older end you could have the country’s poet laureate and a middle-aged actor and a newcomer; on the other end you could have your classic actor, a middle-aged colleague and, say, a young creator of a new iPhone app.”
Gorman said, “That’s great. I like that a lot.”
“So do I,” Patti said. “Another thing I was thinking of was to do one week of taping here in Los Angeles and the next in New York.”
“No,” Dorie said.
The president turned to her and said, “No?”
“Patricia, what is my hometown?”
“Brattleboro, Vermont.”
“Exactly.”
Cabot asked, “You’d like us to do all the shows from Brattleboro?”
Dorie gave him a cutting look. She said, “Do a week in L.A. and another in New York, yes. But in between do a week in regional hubs: Chicago, Boston, Atlanta, Denver, Portland. You do need more than two big states to win the election, don’t you?”
“I do,” Patti said. She gave her former agent’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you, Dorie.”
The president turned to Gorman and Cabot. “I was thinking each new show should first go up on the Net at ten p.m. Eastern time. Does that make sense to everyone?”
It did.
“I guess the only question I have left to ask,” Patti said, “is whether all of you are interested in participating and will be free to do so.”
“How long do you see this enterprise running?” Gorman asked.
“From Monday, March 2, 2012 to Monday, November 5, 2012.”
“The eve of the election,” Gorman said. “That would have to be a special show.”
“I’m sure we could think of something,” Patti said.
“I’m in, Madam President,” Gorman said.
“As am I,” Cabot said.
The president turned to Dorie.
Who told her, “Oh, Patricia, don’t be foolish. I won’t even ask for my usual commission.”
“We will have a reasonable production budget?” Gorman asked.
“You’ll all have everything you need. I’m paying for this campaign out of pocket.”
“I’d like to make a suggestion,” Dorie said.
“And I have one question,” Cabot added, “but ladies first.”
“Your suggestion, Dorie?” Patti asked.
“Everyone who comes on the show from our side? I’d like to give each of them, say, a minute to look right into the camera and say: ‘I’m going to vote for Patricia Darden Grant and this is why.’ If we have them on hand, why not get an up close and personal pitch?”
“I like it,” Patti said. “Thank you, Dorie. You have a question, Ed?”
“Two, now that I think of it. Assuming you’re the unofficial executive producer, Madam President, if one of us has a question calling for your guidance, and you’re busy saving the nation, whom do we call?”
“Galia Mindel.” The president gave Dorie’s hand another squeeze. Her former agent and her present chief of staff were not the best of friends. Their personalities were too much alike. “She’ll either be able to reach me or will have the authority to speak for me. What’s the other question?”
Cabot said, “We’ll be picking the guests for our side.”
“Yes, each of you has a vote, majority decides. Unanimity would be better.”
“Great, but who’s going to pick the opposing teams?”
The president smiled. “I have just the person in mind.”
Cheltenham Drive — Bethesda, Maryland
Reynard Dix, the former RNC chairman, had never thought he would live in the North. He never thought his daughter would be born in China of Chinese parents. He never thought he’d be without gainful employment. He never thought he’d entertain thoughts of suicide — at least before he got so old he couldn’t stop drooling or started to think maybe the damn Democrats had a good idea or two.
It was true that Virginia — the South — wasn’t much more than a good peg from center field to home plate away. Dix had been a star outfielder and a solid C+ student at Georgia Tech. But his wife, Miranda, had him living in Maryland which had stayed in the Union, even though it was south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
Miranda also had decided she didn’t want to ruin her figure with a pregnancy.
She’d told Dix, “ Reynard, do you know what can happen to a girl’s boobies from getting pregnant and giving birth? They can get stretch marks and droop and maybe even shrink right down to little buttons. Is that what you want?”
Dix thought his wife was perfect — physically — and didn’t want to see her change at all. Ever. He sometimes wondered if she’d hang on to her looks longer if he covered her in plastic like his mama had done with the living room furniture. He could leave little spaces so she could breathe all right until he took her out of the house and showed her off.
So he agreed to go for an adoption.
He thought the ideal would be a little boy who looked at least somewhat like him, had a good throwing arm and, unlike his adoptive daddy, could hit a breaking pitch.
Miranda told him he was crazy.
“You think someone who has a kid like that is going to give him up? What we have to do is get a baby from a foreign country.”
&n
bsp; “All right,” Dix said. “How about Canada?”
If the kid couldn’t swing a baseball bat, a hockey stick would have to do.
Miranda thought that was hilarious.
“China, Reynard. That’s where we’ll get our baby girl. The fools over there don’t value them. They keep giving away these beautiful little girls who are smarter than Einstein just so they can take another shot at having a boy.”
That sounded like a plan to Dix, but he fell in love with Li-hua, Pearl Blossom, the moment he saw her. Miranda had insisted on keeping the baby’s Chinese name, but Dix just called her Lee, and dared his wife to argue with him. She didn’t. Miranda fought only battles she knew in advance that she’d win.
As predicted, Dix’s daughter was scary smart. What was really strange was having the little girl in their lives seemed to be making Miranda smarter, too. To help Lee maintain a sense of her ethnic heritage, Miranda enrolled both of them in Chinese language classes. Which was where they were at that very moment.
Dix had begged off. He thought learning Chinese would be way too hard.
Didn’t think speaking Mandarin would endear him to his political cronies either.
Not that he seemed to have any friends in politics anymore. That was why he was out of a job. First, the damn president left the GOP, but she was just a RINO, Republican in name only, anyway. Then, when the party had the chance to replace the president with a real conservative in the next election, the fix was put in for the vice president, Mather Wyman, another RINO.
So, though the irony pained him, he left the Republicans, too, signing up with True South. How could a party with that name be anything but colorfast conservative? The bitter answer was by being bought off by a crazed billionaire. Sure, every candidate — except damn Patti Grant, who had her own billions — had to have at least one fat cat bankrolling him. But why had Senator Hurlbert thrown in with Tom T. Wright?
And why was Wright so obsessed with Huey Long?
Because the man had been from Louisiana like him? So what? Long’s motto had been “Every man a king.” If that wasn’t pure bullshit, it at least had to be communism. It sure wasn’t the way Dix had been raised. You took care of the rich, they’d take care of you. By and by you’d get to be rich, too, at least in a small way.
A few generations went by, your offspring — if your wife didn’t mind getting pregnant — they’d be respectably rich, too. The bastards who didn’t play along, they could vote for Democrats and pray for socialism.
Not that most of them bothered to pray at all.
When Dix had seen Hurlbert abandon all conservative principles to become a populist, he’d had to quit True South, even though he badly needed the paycheck. The way Miranda spent money, he could have used three paychecks.
All he had left was his life insurance policy. The payout from that would see Lee through college. After that, he was sure she’d invent a cure for cancer that would be part of a sensible weight-loss plan and clear up acne, too.
Dix would have killed himself already, if he’d been able to think of a way to do it that wouldn’t invalidate his life insurance policy. He was working on that knotty problem when the phone rang. He thought it might be —
Anybody but a sweet-voiced old lady who said, “Mr. Dix? Please hold for the president of the United States.”
Then the woman herself, Patricia Darden Grant, came on the line and told him all about an Internet TV show she had planned. She asked him, “Mr. Dix, how would you like to be the person who selects the celebrities for the conservative side of the debate?”
How would he like that? He’d like it even better than the first time he’d seen Miranda take off her bikini.
The president told him, “It’s a volunteer position, Mr. Dix, but all your travel, meals and lodging will be paid for and everything will be first class.”
“Madam President,” Dix said, “I’ll be happy to serve my country.”
She thanked him for his service and said a courier would deliver all the paperwork.
He was busy figuring out how to play this windfall — he couldn’t simply sell slots on the show to people on his extreme end of the political spectrum, but he could choose persons who had other means to express their gratitude to him. Book deals. Speaking dates. Think tank fellowships.
Long as they didn’t want him to think too hard.
Dix laughed at his private joke.
Then the phone rang again. Sir Edbert Bickford was on the line. He was the first person to hear Reynard Dix’s good news. He’d called to offer Dix an off-camera spot on WorldWide News in Review. That offer came with a lot of money attached. But after Sir Edbert heard of the president’s offer, he doubled the amount, as long as Dix let Sir Edbert pick the conservative lineup for him.
Dix didn’t hesitate a heartbeat before agreeing.
Wilson/West Realty — Ottawa, Illinois
Deanna Wilson picked up her office phone and thought she’d received a prank call. A male voice told her, “This is Special Agent Vincent Gallo of the FBI calling. May I speak with the person in charge of your office, please?”
The FBI? Come on, Deanna thought. Nobody in Ottawa ever did anything to deserve their attention. The IRS, maybe. She knew half-a-dozen people she thought were fudging on their taxes, but —
“Ma’am, are you there?”
“Are you really with the FBI?” The guy had a nice deep voice. Maybe she wouldn’t mind meeting him, prankster or not. “Can you stop by and show me your badge?”
“I could, but that would mean driving down from Chicago and I might be cranky by the time I get there.”
“I could save you the drive and meet you up in Chicago.”
She was the one having fun now. Let’s see how he liked a joke.
“That’s very kind of you. We’re at 2111 West Roosevelt Road. I have to tell you, though, that some people feel a little uncomfortable visiting us.”
Still thinking it was a gag, albeit an elaborate one, Deanna asked, “Why is that? They have something to hide?”
“Funny you should put it that way. What I need to mention is that for security reasons we do full body scans, like they do at airports. Only our machines show more detail.”
“What?” Deanna asked, not liking that idea, even if it was a joke.
“It’s true. As a further precaution, we check our records to see if we have an open file on anyone who visits. May I have your name, please?”
Retreating to formality, thinking now maybe she was really talking with the FBI, Deanna gave her name and said she was the co-owner of the realty office with her friend Suzie West.
“Maybe we’d better talk over the phone,” Deanna said.
“That would be fine, Ms. Wilson,” Gallo said. “I need to inform you that what I have to say is part of an official investigation so I’ll ask you to keep this conversation confidential and you need to answer my questions truthfully because lying to a special agent of the FBI is a crime punishable by up to five years in prison.”
Deanna swallowed hard. If this was a joke, she was going to scratch someone’s eyes out.
“Do you understand what I’ve told you, Ms. Wilson?”
“Yes,” she said in a small voice.
Now, having become submissive, was the time she half-expected to hear a bunch of people laughing at her.
But Gallo said, “Good, thank you. What I’d like to know is whether at any time over the past year you’ve acted as the Realtor for a client who paid you in cash to rent an apartment or a house. Have you done business with anyone like that?”
Deanna had, just once. She hoped she wasn’t in trouble.
“Yes,” she said, her voice even smaller now.
“Was that one client or more than one?”
“No, just one.”
“What was that client’s name, please?”
“I’ll have to look it up. Hold on.” Deanna kept all her records on her computer so it didn’t take long. “His name is Thomas Gower.” She spe
lled the last name.
“Did Mr. Gower have anyone with him?”
“No, he was alone.”
“What occupation did he give you?”
“He said he was a college professor; he needed a place to write a book.”
“Did he tell you the name of the school where he teaches?”
Deanna winced. “No, he didn’t.”
“Did he tell you the subject of the book he’s writing?”
She felt better about answering that. “I didn’t even think to ask. I mean, writing is a personal thing, isn’t it? Nobody gets to know until the book comes out.”
Deanna thought she heard the FBI man sigh.
“Can you describe Mr. Gower’s physical appearance for me? You did see him, didn’t you?”
Now, she thought the FBI man was getting snotty. “Of course, I saw him. He came to my office to sign the lease. I’d say he was nice looking. Not a movie star, but if you met him on the street, you’d be happy if he smiled at you.”
“Did he smile at you, Ms. West?”
“Only politely,” she said, the regret in her voice clear.
“Can you tell me the color of his hair and eyes and any other distinguishing feature?”
“Dark brown hair, brushed forward. I didn’t get the impression he was losing it, though. His eyes? Kind of blue but with some gray in them, too. His nose was just a bit large, but it was nice and straight. His mouth was kind of big, too, but it worked with the nose.”
“Height and weight?” Gallo asked.
“He was just a bit taller than me when I’m wearing heels. So I’d say about five-ten. His weight, I don’t know. He wasn’t fat or skinny. So whatever’s medium for his height.”
“Age?”
“Now, that I’m terrible at guessing. He was no kid, but I didn’t see any gray hair, and he didn’t color his hair. That’s something I do know.”
“How much money did Mr. Gower pay for his rental?”
“Three thousand dollars.”
“Which paid for what kind of shelter?”
“A well-maintained old family farmhouse. Three bedrooms, two baths. Six months.”
“Is this house located in Ottawa?”