by Brandt Legg
“They may share some of your views, but they don’t want to use the system to change. They’re like drunk, spoiled children with guns. You want a peaceful return to our roots, real American values. They want a revolution, a bloody war, and then what? This isn’t 1776. No one will ever be able to put the pieces back together again.”
“You’re right.”
“And don’t forget, NorthBridge sees the Super PAC backing you, and probably thinks you’re just another typical politician who will say and do anything to get elected, and once in office will morph into the same old leaders we’ve had for decades. But you’re not like that. You’re different. You’re the one who’s going to fix this whole mess. You’re the problem solver!”
His phone started playing “Bang On the Drum All Day.”
“I guess Fitz can reach me anywhere,” he said, looking out the window as the jet soared above a storm. He answered on speaker.
“You hanging in there, Hudson?” Fitz asked.
“I’m alive.”
“Glad to hear it. Listen, we released that statement condemning the attacks and offering condolences to Brickman’s family, blah, blah, blah, and we’ve been flooded with media requests. ‘Were specific threats made against Hudson Pound? Is Mr. Pound in hiding? Is Pound staying in the race?’ Even a few ‘Is Pound alive?’ You’ve just answered that one, but I think we’re going to need to do a presser.”
“But I’m in hiding,” Hudson said.
“Right, right, but no one needs to know that. Still, the Secret Service prefers you don’t go in front of cameras at your final destination. Better no one knows where you’ll be for a few days. So, we’re going to have you land in Vegas. Some military convention is going on there, so enough reporters can be brought in for a quick Q&A right at the airport. You up for it?”
Hudson looked questioningly at Melissa. She shrugged.
“Do I have a choice?” he asked Fitz.
“This is a good day to look courageous and hit back at NorthBridge,” Fitz said. “Even before Brickman, safety had blown past the economy as the number one issue voters care about. Safety and security even beat jobs.”
“Fine.”
“They’re almost done with your speech. I’ll zip it over as soon as it’s ready, and Hudson, this one’s important. Please stick to the prepared remarks.”
The next time his phone rang, the music “If I Had a Hammer” signaled that his sister, Trixie, was calling from one of the hardware stores. She wanted to make sure he was okay. “It’s a five-Pound day,” she said.
“Really?” Hudson said, knowing the expression had been used by their mother whenever she talked to all five of her adult children, and it meant Trixie had enjoyed the somewhat rare experience of speaking to all four siblings in a single day. Hudson had had a five-Pound day when he’d announced he was running for president. Prior to that, he’d only had two in the past seven years—one when his father died, the other when they lost their mother. The Pounds cared about each other, but just weren’t a very close family. “What about?”
“You, of course. Everyone thinks you might be NorthBridge’s next victim.”
“Did you reassure them?”
“I did my best, but I’m a bit frazzled myself. There’ve been hundreds of calls, and so many people have come in wanting news. A lot of them did end up buying stuff, so you’ll notice quite a sales increase on the weekly report.”
“At last, some good news.”
“I just emailed you a list of the calls you might want to know about, but in case you don’t get to look at it until next month, there’s one in particular you’ll probably want to return.”
Hudson knew before she said his name.
“Tommy Gouge. And did you know he’s out of prison?”
Chapter Sixteen
Hudson found a private seat at the back of the plane, put in earbuds, and punched the information into his computer. Gouge had specifically requested a video-call. Hudson couldn’t wait anymore. It had been eating at him. He wanted to know how Gouge was going to play it. As always, Hudson liked to have all the pieces before he could solve the problem—and Gouge was a problem.
“How you doing, Dawg?” Gouge said, smiling. “I wasn’t sure you’d call back.”
“Why’d you insist on Skype?” Hudson asked, perhaps a little too formally.
“I wanted to look into your eyes,” Gouge said, his expression turning serious.
Hudson looked up the aisle to see if anyone could hear him. Gouge looked the same as when he last saw him twenty-five years earlier—except for the gray hair, the etched and hardened face, and the stockier, more muscular build. But underneath all the age and batterings of a hard-drinking, tough-fighting life—a substantial part of it spent behind bars—Hudson could see the familiar guy he’d grown up with. Gouge could still light a room with his smile, still had the mischievous look in his dark eyes that gave the impression he knew things others did not, and although that old piercing stare seemed a bit more vacant, it could still inspire followers with a passionate plea for action.
“So Daaaaawg,” Gouge began, “how in the world did you get here?”
“Beats me. It’s a long way from Tampers Land,” Hudson said, referring to the old dirt drive that led into the endless woods of their childhood.
“Yeah, I’ve spent as much time in those woods in my mind as we did when we were kids. Prison is only prison if you live behind those walls,” Gouge said, his voice rising with some secret and a trace of excitement. “But I never did. My mind explored and wandered the world. Did you ever read Jack London’s Star Rover? Pretty wild book. The Wizard gave it to me the first time I got locked up.”
“No,” Hudson said, “I’m not familiar with it. And, Gouge, I’m sorry I never visited you back then. You know I had two young kids. I just couldn’t seem to . . . ”
“Back then? Dawg, you never visited me once. I’ve spent fifteen of the last twenty-five years inside, and you never came. Not. One. Single. Time.”
“I know.”
“We were more than friends, Dawg. We were brothers, and the tire shop gang. Don’t Tread on Me.”
“I know,” Hudson said again, thinking back to the tire shop, all the good times and then that awful time.
“You ever think about it?” Gouge asked.
“I try not to.”
“But you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you? And Rochelle, do you think about her?”
Hudson nodded.
“Rochelle didn’t deserve none of what she got, and all these years later we ain’t ever fixed that nightmare.”
“We were kids,” Hudson protested.
“We ain’t kids now. Neither is Rochelle. And damn, look at this. Now you’re gonna be President of the United States.”
“I have to win first.”
“Oh, you’re gonna win. The Wizard said it’s a sure thing. I hear you have Arlin Vonner backing you. Arlin Vonner. How did that happen?”
“I really don’t know myself.”
Gouge laughed. “Did you hear what you just said? Well, I know you, Dawg. I damn sure know you. Nothing can take what I know; not twenty-five years, not Arlin Vonner, not nothing.”
“Have you talked to Vonner?” Hudson asked, suddenly panicked.
“He’ll buy the thing for you.”
“Have you talked to him?” Hudson repeated.
Gouge laughed again. “Damn, relax, Dawg. I ain’t talked to your sugar daddy, but maybe I should. Maybe he’ll pay me something on his way to buying the election for you.”
“Incredible. Am I the last guy left who believes that you can’t buy the presidency?”
Gouge looked at his old friend as if he’d just said something funny. “Yeah, and Elvis is running a restaurant in Akron.”
“Anyway, there’s a lot of votes still to be cast.”
“Sure,” Gouge said, shooting him a stare, this one saying I’ll play along. “But are you gonna make things right?”
“What do you mean?”
<
br /> “Rochelle.”
“What can I do?”
“You’ll be president. You can do a lot.”
“I hadn’t thought about it. Like I said, I have to win first.”
“Haven’t thought about it? Shoot, you’re a piece of work, Dawg. What happened to you? I never stop thinking about it, and Rochelle. How can you let that go? Maybe it’s ’cause I had so much time to think. Maybe it’s that I got what she got. But I’ll tell you this, if the truth ever got out, you can bet that even all Vonner’s money couldn’t put you in the White House.”
“How would they find out?” Hudson asked slowly. “Only you, me, and the Wizard know.”
“Old secrets have a way of eroding what holds them,” Gouge said, eyeing Hudson intently. “And when they do leak out, it’s messier than if they’d just been told in the first place.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat? Gouge, are you threatening me?”
“I’m just telling you the truth,” Gouge said, clenching his right fist and slow-motion pushing it in front of the computer’s camera like a punch. Hudson saw for the first time the tattooed gothic letters, one on each finger and thumb: T R U T H.
Gouge, after seeing the recognition in his eyes, nodded. “Truth shall set me free.”
Chapter Seventeen
Hudson still hadn’t shaken the call with Gouge when he walked to the podium in the small airport hospitality room, already jammed with a dozen journalists and even more police and security agents. Everyone had been searched, cleared, and rechecked.
Scanning the unfamiliar faces, he spotted a woman he knew sitting in the back row. He sucked in a breath as he made eye contact with Fonda Raton. She smiled at the recognition; not the friendly kind he so desperately needed, rather the know-you-didn’t-expect-to-see-me kind of self-satisfied smirk that screamed “You’re in trouble now!” Instinctively, Hudson looked around for Fitz, but then recalled he was on his own.
How the hell did she get here? It’s an unscheduled press conference. Did she just happen to be in Vegas? Coincidence? That’s a mighty big one. Damn it, damn it!
Several members of the media noticed her at the same time, puzzled expressions on their faces. This wasn’t Fonda’s thing. She didn’t show up to events like this, she sent somebody. The reporters, like sharks, smelled blood. Hudson felt the tension in the room ratchet up as if an electrical current had moved across the floor.
“No time to panic,” Hudson told himself, taking a deep breath. He banished all thoughts of Gouge as he calmly began his prepared remarks, hitting a sympathetic tone when speaking of Brickman’s family and successfully switching to a tougher we’re-coming-for-you edge when calling for swift action to stop NorthBridge. He even pulled off criticizing the current administration for being unable to prevent the terrorist attacks, while at the same time thanking the president for ordering the Secret Service protection, which he now appreciated.
It went well. Picture-perfect, in fact. He hadn’t strayed, and he knew Fitz was watching somewhere with an approving smile on his face.
“Thank you,” he said, turning toward the exit fifteen feet away.
Someone shouted a question. A staff member responded with the standard, “Mr. Pound will not be taking any questions at this time.”
Then, with only eight feet to the door, he heard Fonda’s voice above all the others. “Isn’t it time you came clean about your relationship with billionaires Arlin Vonner and Booker Lipton? You’re running as a so-called average joe, and yet how many average Joes are close friends with billionaires?”
Hudson took two more steps.
“Mr. Pound, both men, two of your largest donors, are currently under federal investigation,” Fonda continued. “Can you explain your connection to Titan Capital & Trust Bank?”
He took another step, but it was too late. The room had erupted in follow-up questions as the others tried to compete with another Raton Report scoop.
Hudson had only seconds to make a decision that could easily destroy his chances at getting to the White House. He knew Vonner and Fitz were watching, probably screaming at their televisions, telling him to take those final few steps, telling him to run!
“Ms. Raton,” he said, stopping midstride and turning back toward the vultures, deciding this was not the time to look like a coward. “I’ll be happy to set the record straight,” he said, speaking without a mic above the din. The room quickly fell silent. “I have met Booker Lipton exactly once. Our ‘relationship’ lasted for approximately five minutes. This occurred at a large fundraiser in California. As far as I know, that evening was the only time he gave anything to my campaign since it was a per-plate event. However, Mr. Lipton stated, unequivocally, that he would not be voting for me.”
Fonda laughed. “Perfect. And can you explain Vonner away as easily?”
“I’m not interested in explaining him away. Arlin Vonner is more than a great businessman, he’s a great American, and I’m proud to say he has said he will be voting for me.”
“I’m sure he will,” Fonda said. “But did you know he’s under investigation by the Department of Justice?”
“I am not aware of that.”
“Well, I’m happy to enlighten you. It seems the government is alleging that your friend, Mr. Vonner, ‘the great American,’ has illegally packaged mortgage-backed securities and other derivatives.”
“Ah. I’m going to take a guess here that whatever ‘investigation’ you’re referring to is actually involving the bank holding company Stronet, and not Arlin Vonner personally.”
“Yes, that’s correct, but it’s no secret that Stronet is controlled by Vonner.”
“That may or may not be so, but I believe that, worldwide, Stronet employs more than 180,000 people.”
“Are you denying any wrongdoing by Vonner?”
“That is not for me to say. I suggest you ask Vonner. But I stand by the man that I know. Now, I have a plane waiting.”
“You didn’t speak to Titan Bank.”
“I’ve banked with them for years. They’re my local bank back in Ohio. Titan Bank has been instrumental in the growth of my hardware stores. I’m grateful for my relationship with a great community bank.”
“And who owns Titan, Mr. Pound?”
“Shareholders.”
“Would it surprise you to know Arlin Vonner is the bank’s largest shareholder?”
“Not if you say so.” But it did surprise him.
“Of course, it’s done through a series of shell corporations, and may or may not be legal.”
“I’m curious, Ms. Raton. You seem to be making a lot of legal claims here today. Are you a lawyer, because—”
“Yes, Mr. Pound, I am an attorney.”
Her answer caught him off-guard, but he recovered quickly. “Excellent. Then I’ll look forward to your opinion being issued. I’m sure you’ll let us know when you complete your investigation.” He took the final steps. “Thank you everyone.”
Hudson slipped out the door, his communicator already buzzing.
Chapter Eighteen
Vonner praised Hudson for not backing down with Fonda. The billionaire also assured the candidate that although Stronet might have crossed a few technical lines—still to be determined—it was nothing that all the other big banks had not also done.
“A billion-dollar fine is the worst-case scenario, nothing to worry about,” Vonner said, as if talking about a ten-dollar parking ticket. “As for me, personally, I’ve done nothing wrong, and my attorneys are already drafting a letter to Fonda Raton warning her to tread lightly if she doesn’t want to get bombarded with libel, slander, and defamation suits.”
Even before he got off with Vonner, “Bang On the Drum All Day” began playing on Hudson’s cell phone. He ignored the first two calls from Fitz, but once he was back in the air, he took the third.
“You should have left the room,” Fitz whined. “Never mind how it looked, we had a stellar excuse! You were under threat, and you went down
to assure the press how brave you were, and instead you get ambushed by that low-life Raton witch. You should have left the damned room,” he repeated.
“Vonner thinks I handled it well.”
“I don’t care what Vonner thinks. I’m the one who has to get you elected. We were on the high ground, and engaging with Raton like that took us right back into the mud. Thorne is already questioning your all-American image, saying you’re nothing more than another politician owned by Wall Street.”
“Thorne is a nutcase.”
“A nutcase with twenty-seven million listeners and a growing base of supporters who love his candor. He’s the second coming of Trump.”
“I think Fonda appreciates straight answers instead of ‘duck and run,’ and that she’ll treat me more fairly because I faced her.”
“Oh, do you?” Fitz snorted. “Well, why don’t you take a visit to her website right now?”
Melissa, sitting next to Hudson, already online reading more details about the Brickman killing, clicked on a hot button and was instantly at the Raton Report.
“Damn that woman,” Melissa said. “Listen to this: ‘Hudson Pound today denied any wrongdoing by Stronet Banking Chairman, Arlin Vonner, and claimed he’d only met Booker Lipton once, although the reclusive billionaire, and the world’s wealthiest man, paid $50,000 to attend a fundraiser with Candidate Pound.’” Melissa pointed to a photo showing Hudson and Booker standing next to each other and smiling. “It goes on to question your readiness to be president.” Melissa scanned the article. “Although she gives you high marks for your time in the military and innovations in public education, she concludes that those are not enough qualifications, and even though the idea of an average American as president is quaint, it isn’t very realistic.”
“It’s a hatchet job,” Fitz, still on speakerphone, said.
“How did she get this up so fast?” Hudson asked. “I talked to her forty-five minutes ago.”
“Raton obviously had it all ready to go after your first ill-advised meeting with her, and she just inserted your quotes from the airport,” Fitz said. “Clearly this woman doesn’t like you, and that’s going to make my job tougher. She’s not just an ordinary reporter.”