At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1)

by Mark E Becker

  Bill Staffman looked on, stoic and craving his morning cigar, deep in thought about the agenda for the day. As long as Andrew and Max continued this mindless banter, he thought, he wouldn’t need to go outside and speak with the ever-present media camped out across from campaign headquarters. he knew he was delaying the inevitable. Like a merchant who unlocks the doors to his shop from the inside, he knew that he was expected to do it promptly each morning. he would unlock the door, shuffle across the short expanse to the podium on the soundstage, and speak to the press. Inevitably, they left the press conference with nothing more than the topic of Max’s next sound bite. No news, just the same stuff that everyone else had.

  u ChAPTER FIFTY-EIGhT

  The Monday morning staff meeting was composed of the hurried and stressed vestiges of the weekend. The suits were black, blue, or gray, hair still wet from hurried showers, taken in the private rooms beneath the White house. If the private subway hadn’t brought them in, Chief of Staff Walsh would have been trapped in traffic thirty miles away, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup and using cuss words not often heard inside the Beltway. Instead, he stood at the head of the huge mahogany conference table and cussed at the other twelve members of the inner circle.

  “Dammit! how many of you idiots have something of substance to give me? I need dirt! Is he a homo, a druggie, or a ladies’ man? I want pictures and notarized statements! You’re giving me nothing but horseshit!”

  “Sir, we have searched the public records. We interviewed eighteen old girlfriends. We can’t find his medical records, and all the rest is locked into that damned Gatekeeper privacy database. The girls all talked about him like he was a god. I’ve never heard such hero worship. They all want to marry him, he’s a gentleman, and to hear them talk about it, he’s great in the sack. Nothing kinky, and they’d do it again if he’d show any interest. The one criticism they have is that he’s too busy running for president to call. We have dozens more to talk to, but they’re all telling the same story,” said Secretary of Intelligence Jason Bland.

  “I don’t care if you have to match his DNA with an unsolved murder. I want something to take to the president before he asks!” he lingered on the words for emphasis, and it had its intended effect. The suits were squirming. “I can’t face him on Air Force One again without a full dossier on Masterson. I want pictures! Videos of him in his underwear giving candy to little girls!”

  The veins began to pop out on his forehead. his ruddy complexion turned purple. It was 8:09 in the morning, and he was rapidly approaching a stroke. he took a long sip of cappuccino and sucked on his first cigar of the day, pausing long enough to cough. They didn’t know it, but whenever he paused from his yelling, his formidable brain was recharging his mouth to spew forth another line of vitriol.

  “You, Wiessel! You’re worthless. I send you back to his college, and you come back with stories about how hard he studied and his good manners! The next time you leave your cubicle, I’ll send you back to Flat Rock!”

  Wiessel was perspiring so much that his armpits soaked through his suit jacket. “Sir, I have the utmost respect for the president. I would do anything to dig up dirt on this guy. The only thing I can find in his family history is that he’s adopted, and that his father, Senator Masterson, had an ancestor who may or may not have been hanged as a witch in seventeenth-century Connecticut!” Wiessel seemed to swell in his chair, but when he was through speaking, he deflated back to his previous cowering.

  Promptly at 8:15, the double-wide doors of the conference room swung open, and the Secret Service men parted to their corners, leaving the president silhouetted in the doorway. It was time for the staff to endure another meeting with the commander in chief, who had already been awake for two hours and wasn’t having a good day.

  u ChAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Rachel drove an electric retrofitted ’66 Mustang convertible chosen from the senator’s stable of classic vehicles; it winded silently over the tree-lined roadway of the Beltway. Max sat beside her, running his day through his mind. he’d sat for ideas for six hours and was kicking himself mentally for working in such an exhausting mode. No session of sitting for ideas should last for more than two hours. his father had been adamant that anything longer leads to unsure and inaccurate ideas. he needed clear focus.

  Each time he sat for ideas, Max ran the warm-up routine through his head:

  Enter the thinking sanctuary rested and fed.

  Leave all outside influences behind.

  Prepare thinking points for focus.

  Dictate ideas.

  When detail overcomes inspiration, move on to the next thinking point.

  When you begin to think about your plans for the rest of your day, the session is over.

  Don’t be slave to the clock. Leave all timekeepers outside of the room.

  Think alone.

  Review your notes for wisdom.

  Share the wisdom with your advisors.

  The thinking sanctuary is simple in concept but essential in the lives of those who practice the concept of sitting for ideas. The room is windowless and soundproof, comfort-controlled by an hVAC system that allows the thinker to adjust the environment of the room by voice control. humidity, temperature, and aroma of the room could also be adjusted this way, and the computer retained data on the preferences of the user. Any scent, from spearmint to the smell of freshly cut grass, could be brought into the thinking environment.

  If Max conversed with the computer, it spoke to him in the voice of his father and contained a huge database of his father’s thoughts on thousands of subjects. If he chose, a holographic image of his father could be projected in front of him, making it appear as if Senator Masterson had joined him in the room.

  Dad, I think I succeeded at setting myself apart, he had mused. I like this part of politics. If only I didn’t have to do the other stuff. It’s too dangerous. I never know who is going to take a shot at me or take my picture . . . Come to think of it, I’m not too enthused about either one of them at the moment. he had shut down the equipment and walked out, exhausted.

  u ChAPTER SIXTY

  Our immediate problem is, what are we going to call ourselves? Let’s make history!”

  Bill Staffman led the Tuesday morning staff meeting like a cheerleader, the departure from his normal taciturn New England‒bred demeanor was uncharacteristic so early in the morning, and Sara hadn’t yet finished her first green tea of the day. She began to fidget in her seat, and Max detected the movement on the monitor. he was sticking to the tradition of appearing virtually from his home rather than in person. She raised her eyebrows and spoke.

  “Max, we spent a lot of time coming up with choices. About midnight, we narrowed it down to two . . .”

  Max leaned forward in his leather chair, which appeared beneath his image when he sat down. “Sara, if I was there, I’d hug you. What have you got?”

  “Well, since you have been labeled an Independent, we came up with the Independent Party, but Randy says that sucks, because Independents are candidates without a party, so we came up with the Patriot Party, because that’s what we hear people calling themselves lately, and we want to get away from liberal and conservative as labels, and—”

  “Did you say that people are calling themselves patriots?” Max stared intently at Sara’s eyes.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Don’t you see? It’s a symptom of voter apathy. It goes along with all of my maxims. People are fed up with politics as usual, but they can’t stop being Americans. They know the difference between right and wrong. Max paused for a moment and turned to Andrew. “What does Mom think?”

  “I’m on it!” Andrew stood and walked toward the door. “Max, I don’t do anything without Mom’s approval. I know who’s boss.” The door closed behind him with a hiss. he was back in five minutes. “Mom says that if you are going to be an Independent, you will have to run as an Independent, and none of that party politics she keeps hearing about. She says you h
ave a short memory, and that you need to be yourself,” Andrew said wearily, still smarting from his mother’s words.

  Max responded immediately. “Andrew, I fear the wrath of Leila Fox more than Blythe himself. If Mom says no, she means no. There will be no party for me in this campaign.”

  u ChAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  She was made for it, I tell you. A natural politician, the kind of woman who will shake your hand and make you forget whether you wuz raised Democrat or Republican!” The old man pulled the night crawler out of the Styrofoam cup and baited the hook in one loop.

  “I dunno. She’s too purty to be a politician. I voted for her daddy, though. he come to my house one time. I offert him a beer, but he jest smiled and tole me that if he had a beer every time some constichient offert, he’d be looking for unemployment. I liked that man. I wuz sorry to hear he passed.” The other fisherman was old, too, and had spent most of his life outdoors. You couldn’t tell whether his face was tanned or dyed brown. It looked like the kind of leather they make baseball mitts from, and when he talked, his wrinkles moved. he wore a weathered Caterpillar tractor hat, faded by too many afternoons in the sun. People who live longer than their time have a wisdom that fits like a favorite pair of jeans, and his tolerance for fancy was nonexistent.

  “I still think ya need ta hear what she has to say,” said the first fisherman. Just then, his pole twitched, and he pulled back quickly, setting the hook. Without cranking the reel, he hauled a bass over the dock and into the open cooler. “I’m one up on ya! If you don’t keep up, you get to clean ‘em all, and ah’ll just put ma feet up and watch you work!”

  Outdoorsmen don’t talk much when they’re fishing. Come to think of it, most of them don’t talk much when they’re doing anything, but when they do, they don’t waste words. “Ah hear what y’all er sayin’. Ah don’t have much use for politicians, but ah’ll go with y’all and the missus to that rally, provided y’all don’t make me dress up.”

  The first fisherman turned slowly and stared directly into his old friend’s grizzled face. “If I ever saw you dressed up, I’d either fall over dead or make sure you wuz lyin’ in a casket yourself, cuz I can’t think far enough back to remember you wearin’ a suit and tie. Besides, I’m going just like I am. The wife might make me wear cologne or take a shower or both, but they can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do. I’m too old for that.”

  The next night was the rally, and for a week before, the county park was filled with the noise of pounding nails as the stage was erected by the party faithful. Some supporters offered money, others offered time, and by that night, the time and money coalesced into a welloiled machine. As they had done for centuries before, the party had mobilized and energized, and this night was bound to be an event to be remembered . . . at least until the next election.

  u

  The band got the crowd moving, and then the local politicians got five minutes each at the microphone. After an hour of standing on the lawn, the old fishermen, wife in front, began to shift back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Where is she? You told me we wuz goin’ ta hear her speak, and all I heard so far is a bunch of people I never heard of.” The wrinkled face seemed to sag even more if that was possible.

  “Ah tole ya not to bring him!” The wife looked at her husband, his hair slicked back and still looking wet from his shower taken hours before. he’d known he’d eventually be blamed for everything out of his control.

  “She’ll be here. They didn’t go to all this trouble for nothin’,” he said to nobody in particular.

  The normal rumble of the crowd changed to one of exclamation. “There she is!” a woman exclaimed, as every head in the crowd turned toward the entrance road. A white stretch limousine slowly appeared behind the stage and stopped. The crowd cheered and fell silent. It seemed a long time before anyone emerged from the limo, and the crowd whispered as dark-suited men appeared on the rooftops surrounding the outdoor amphitheater. They spoke into hidden microphones in their lapels. Security was in place.

  The front door opened, and a driver emerged, dressed immaculately in a tight red chauffeur’s uniform. he walked around the limo, opened the back passenger door, and stood at attention. The candidate emerged, her tanned legs sliding out first, followed by the rest. She stood smiling in a red dress, the kind that nobody wears in real life. It was the uniform of the politician.

  She began waving to everyone, and the crowd smiled with her. The clapping escalated as she walked slowly toward the stage. They were hers for the taking.

  Scarlett Conroy had made her political reputation the hard, traditional way. her family was sixth generation; a Charleston clan, with more cousins in high places than a tree full of monkeys. She exuded the image of stability, and she had just been elected to her second term in the United States Senate, representing South Carolina. her pedigree as a politician was impeccable.

  She had the pedigree to be president, but not the support in the polls. her lack of numbers kept her in the running for vice president, but she had never been able to get that hellfire excitement her male counterparts had generated. She was inspiring, though, and exciting to be around. her demeanor engendered trust, and her running mate knew it. Scarlett was a vestige of the Old South, and Cunningham needed her to balance the ticket.

  “If I had gone to war and had the stories to tell, I could be one of the good old boys who sit around impressing you more every time I tell about it,” she often told the women at the many speeches she made on the campaign trail. She knew she had their vote. Women could be counted on whenever a prominent woman sought higher office. Cunningham’s pollsters had calculated her vote potential and knew she was a jewel who could bring them a win.

  She approached the stage, and the fanfare grew. At a prearranged rest stop on the stairs, she stepped to the left and pulled a gold hairbrush out of her purse, pausing for effect. The bright lights caught each stroke as she ostentatiously brushed her hair while thousands watched. When she was certain that she had their attention and each hair was in place, she deftly inserted the brush in a side pocket and completed her rise to the podium. This routine had become her trademark. It was a way of setting her apart, of defining her place as a woman in the midst of maleness. She did it well.

  Scarlett had been running for office most of her adult life and felt at home in the midst of the adoration and attention. It was like comfort food to her; her life had been spent in the best private girl’s schools, learning the social graces. She knew exactly what to say and when to say it, and she had a radar-like ability to be where she could obtain the maximum attention. In her speeches, she used few notes. Palming three-by-five cards trimmed to fit her delicate hands, she reduced her talking points to a few key words. With just the talking points to guide her, she could talk for hours, and talk she did.

  “I stand before you today as your nominee for vice president of the United States, and you, dear voters, are the first to know!” For the ensuing five minutes, the cheering was too loud to hear her words. It was time to stand and smile. Eventually she raised her hand for silence and continued.

  “I will be joining the party’s nominee for president, Bob Cunningham, in Washington this afternoon, and we’re going to the White house in November!” An aide leaned over and spoke into a hidden microphone.

  “Well, I won’t be living there, and I guess the old occupants get until January to move out, but we’re going to be in Washington anyway!” The crowd laughed and cheered again, as if she intended her remarks. Although she was known for her ability to speak for hours on any subject, she wasn’t known for her accuracy. It didn’t matter, though; this audience was hers. If she had stood up and told these folks that she was carrying Elvis’s love child, they would have supported her decision.

  Scarlett’s speech was a well-constructed combination of old, worn slogans; win-win statements that polls had demonstrated were safe talking points; and a rah-rah patois of “hooray for our side” stories that she was comfortab
le in repeating at every stop. From repetition, Scarlett had perfected the stump speech, and when she was tired at the end of the day, she had the ability to put her brain on repeat and give her mind a rest.

  “My female Americans . . .” She paused for effect.

  “I’m sorry. I meant to say, ‘My fellow Americans’ like my opponents are fond of saying, but we aren’t all fellows, are we ladies?” She shamelessly pandered to the female vote, and as the only female running for national office, she was a member of a sorority that banned males from birth. “We have a long way to go before this men’s club invites me to be a member.” She paused again, and a woman in the front row hollered before she could continue. “That’s OK, Scarlett, you have bigger balls than old Blythe, any day!” These words got one of the bigger cheers of the day.

  In an era where the popularity of a president wanes from the first day of taking office to the last day in the White house, a popular challenger can enter the campaign dozens of points higher in the polls than the incumbent. After four years, Blythe’s popularity was at an alltime low, and Scarlett wasn’t the only one taking potshots at Blythe. her running mate, Bob Cunningham took the lead in attacking him about anything from his lack of moral character to his impotent efforts at stimulating the economy. Scarlett’s job was to use the silkgloved approach of softening the message so it wouldn’t appear that the poor president was getting picked on, while Cunningham led the charge in another state. Their speeches were strategically timed to run simultaneously, so that the networks would be forced to shift all of their exclusive coverage from other candidates.

  When it came to pointing out their differences, though, Scarlett was a sophisticated and devious opponent. She could pick apart her competition while smiling in that way only Southern women can muster, and her years in the Junior League’s hierarchy had made her realize that when it comes to verbal attack, only women can swoop in without mercy, smiling, and leave their opponents dazed and confused.