When he left the room he told Betsy that he never wanted to go back. That it made him sad and angry and his emotions were so complicated, he just didn’t want to deal with it. He also knew that the image of a ninety-four-year-old rich person being kept alive with taxpayers’ money would not play well. If someone was a great person, like a pope or a Mother Teresa, someone who did a lot of good for the world, maybe then a nation would want to keep them going, but family members of important people still came across to the masses as the spoiled rich who had too much in life and now, too much in trying to sustain it. And the President felt the same way. But what could he do? He couldn’t pull all the plugs. And he couldn’t let it seem as though he didn’t want his mother to survive. If only she had a DNR. Maybe she did; maybe they just hadn’t found it yet.
* * *
John Van Dyke came into the Oval Office with a huge smile on his face. “Read this,” he said. The President saw one name on the screen: Susanna P. Colbert.
“Why does that sound familiar?” Bernstein asked.
“She’s one of the most successful businesswomen in the country, former CEO of HomeInc, one of the founders of The Card, retired, but raring to go. She would make the perfect first woman secretary of the Treasury.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“No, I was waiting to make sure it sounded as good to you as it did to me.”
“How does she vote?”
“Republican, most of her life. Voted Democratic in 2008 and 2012, but that was it. It makes it even better. It will look like you’re irresistible to work for.”
The President laughed. “It will, huh? How old is she?”
“Seventy.”
“No shit?” The President looked at her picture. It must have been taken a long time ago because this woman did not look seventy years old.
“Do you want me to see if there is an interest?”
“No. I want you to see if there is anything, anything at all in her history that could bite us in the ass, and when you give me the all clear, I’ll cold-call her.”
“Then call her now.”
“She’s clear?”
“Clear as a baby’s butt.”
“What? What does that mean?”
“Clear.”
“That’s a terrible analogy. You can’t see through a butt no matter how young the person is. A baby’s butt is not clear.”
“Okay. Okay.” Van Dyke made his way to the door. “Don’t go nuts on me. I meant clear as the skin on a baby’s butt.”
“Have you ever seen diaper rash?”
“I hate you,” Van Dyke said. “Cold-call her, it will blow her mind.”
The President asked Annie, his primary assistant, to get Susanna Colbert on the line. He wanted voice only, no picture this time.
Annie always got various reactions when she called people on behalf of the President of the United States. Invariably, if the President made the call himself without his assistant, people thought it was an impersonation. But even when Annie called and said, “I have the President of the United States for you,” it played with people’s minds. Just as they were thinking it was a prank, there he was and their hearts were racing. That is what happened to Susanna. Before she could say, “Is this a joke?” she heard Bernstein’s voice.
“Susanna … may I call you Susanna?”
“Of course, who is this?”
“This is Matt Bernstein, and right now I happen to be the president. How long it will last, no one knows.” Normally that would get a laugh, but Susanna was still feeling her way through the call. Then the President said, “Here’s a number, call me back right away. I have some important matters to discuss with you, okay?”
“Okay,” she said.
And the President disconnected. This was something he loved to do, asking someone to call back through the White House system and be put through directly to the Oval Office. People slowly realized it wasn’t a trick. Annie buzzed him in less than a minute. “Ms. Colbert is on the line.”
“Thanks for getting back to me,” Bernstein joked.
“Well, hello, Mr. President.”
“I’d say call me Matt, but I like Mr. President.” He got a little laugh out of her. “Where am I reaching you?”
“I’m in Arizona.”
“You live there?”
“Most of the year, yes.”
“That sounds great. Can you take a day or two and come see me?”
“When, sir?”
“How’s tomorrow?”
“That would be fine.”
“I’ll give you back to Annie; she will make the arrangements. I really look forward to sitting down with you.”
“May I ask what this is about?”
“If we like each other and we get along, I’m going to offer you a job. A good job. A great job. That’s all I can tell you now.”
“Okay. I’ll be there. See you then.”
This was a good sign. If she was really retired and had no interest in returning to work, she would have balked or asked more questions. He liked her voice and her attitude. He purposely did not want visual communication on this first contact; he would wait until they were face-to-face. It always made a bigger impression that way.
* * *
The Chicago Center would be filled to capacity. Almost ten thousand people, all over the age of seventy, and most over eighty. This was the typical Sam Mueller audience. He was one of the preeminent speakers to the older crowd. Some thought the experience of hearing him speak was almost evangelical. Maybe because he cured cancer, they would be cured of something, just by being in his presence. It was why his lectures always sold out.
He and his son were driven to the Chicago Town House, a small, very upscale boutique hotel located just two blocks from the event. They were taken to the fifth floor, where they had one side of the hallway for themselves. The hotel had joined all of the suites together so they had a total of five bedrooms, three living rooms, and three master baths with steam rooms and whirlpools. Plus kitchens and a gym and a gorgeous player piano.
Sam, no matter how rich he became, was always knocked out by this stuff. He just never could believe this was where he had wound up. Mark was a different story. This was all he knew. His father was disappointed that this didn’t wow his son in the same way, but he accepted it. “What do you think of the spread?”
“Cool,” Mark said. “I’ll take the room at the end.”
“Why don’t you take the suite next to mine? Why go all the way down there?”
“I don’t know, I like it down there.”
“Fine. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m going to take a little nap. If you go out, be back by six so we can walk over together.”
“We have to walk?”
His father tried not to lose his temper. “Mark, it’s two blocks. I want to walk.”
“Okay, that’s cool.”
“Thank you.” His father closed the door to his suite. This is my fault. They have too much. It’s my fault. And as he lay down for his hour nap he started to think of ways to correct it. No inheritance? Military school? Change the shrink or the medicine? He didn’t know what to do. Maybe Mark would snap out of it, although with each passing day in the spoiled kingdom that seemed less likely.
Kathy and Max arrived at the event early. They left the urn locked in the trunk. They had a momentary thought that it could be stolen, but what was the worst that would happen? That someone would discard the ashes somewhere else? Maybe they would even put them in a prettier place, like a golf course or a garden, or the aquarium. But of course, no one was going to steal it.
They bought the cheapest seats, which were in the last two rows of the balcony. They were four hundred dollars each, which in 2030 was considered a bargain. They wanted to be the first ones in the auditorium so they could watch the crowd. See who all of these older people were who idolized this man. See exactly who it was who would pay big bucks to hear a lecture called
“Aging Without Pain.”
There were so many new medicines for pain; it was one of the largest aspects of the big pharmaceutical companies. The science of pain medicine had advanced over the years and now had become specific in nature. If your elbow was hurting, you could take something targeted to that. The high had been engineered out of most pain medications, which kept the addiction rate lower. Older medicines like Vicodin were replaced with newer ones that helped your back but didn’t make the world seem more loving. So, of course, people were still addicted to getting rid of the back pain, but they didn’t have to take more and more just to keep the high going, since it hadn’t been there to begin with.
There were still drugs like morphine for severe overall pain or to end suffering, but for the most part the new class of drugs targeted specific neuro pathways. The same way a person can move a hand without moving an arm was the way these medications worked, almost replicating the signals from the brain.
Many people were upset by the diminishing choices of drugs that made them feel like they lived on cloud nine. But in one area, the area of depression, the drugs got so good that they were now the most abused. Even if someone never experienced panic or bipolar disorder, taking drugs for these conditions would produce euphoria in most people. That is, until their brain chemistry got so screwed up that they actually created the depression they hadn’t had. And then the drugs could not help them. It was a complicated dilemma: Feel great for five years and then wake up bipolar, with no means to cure it. Not a good scenario, but people still did it; the high was just too powerful. No matter how much humans advanced, it seemed the need and desire to alter one’s state of mind remained constant.
* * *
Dr. Mueller woke up from his nap at six-twenty. He didn’t like to arrive too early for these events; standing around made him nervous. He thought if he got there at seven-thirty, a half hour before the lecture, that would be perfect. He showered and dressed leisurely, and at seven he opened the door of his suite and called for his son. There was no answer.
“Mark,” he called again, “let’s go, we gotta leave.”
No answer.
Instead of being worried, he was angry. Why is everything a problem with him? He continued dressing and looked at the clock. It was seven-fifteen. At that moment Mark’s face appeared on his father’s watch.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Where are you? Do you know what time it is?”
“I’m here. I’m at the lecture.”
“You’re there now?”
“Yeah. It’s a nice place.”
His father was relieved. “Okay. Do you want to wait for me backstage?”
“I’m just talking to some people. I’ll come backstage when you get here.”
“Fine. See you soon.” Sam Mueller had to smile. In one moment he went from having a son who couldn’t care less to a son who cared enough to go early and check out the auditorium. Like a little road manager. How nice is that?
Mark disconnected from his dad and walked back to Max and Kathy. As they were the only other younger people in the whole place, they caught his attention immediately and he went up to the balcony to see who they were. The three of them bullshitted about nothing in particular, but he did not tell them who his father was. Sometimes Mark liked to tell and other times he didn’t.
“So what are you doing here?” Max asked him.
“I’m just hanging out. Thought I would see what this was all about.”
“You’re a little young for this, aren’t you?”
“Not really.”
“Are you in pain?” Kathy asked.
“Am I in pain? Why would you ask that?”
“Isn’t that what the lecture is about?”
“Oh yeah.” Mark felt he was digging himself into a hole. “My dad’s in pain, so I came with him.”
“I’m sorry,” Kathy said. “Where is your dad?”
“I don’t know. He went to the bathroom.”
“Do you know the guy who is lecturing?” Max asked.
“Not personally.”
“Do you know what he’s famous for?” Now Mark was getting uncomfortable. Why had he lied?
“Yeah, he cured cancer.”
“What do you think of that?”
“I think it’s great, don’t you?”
“It’s great in a baby. I don’t know how great it is in a grandpa.”
“Why?”
Kathy interrupted. “Honey, I think he’s too young to have this discussion.”
At that moment someone who worked at the theater came up to the balcony. “Are you Mark Mueller?” Mark was trapped. He mumbled that he was. “Your dad wants me to take you backstage.” Mark smiled and walked away without saying another word.
“What the fuck!” Max said. “That was his goddamn kid!”
“No. Are you sure?”
“Of course. Same name. Backstage. I bet the creep was sending his own kid out to spy on us.”
“Do you really think so?”
“They’re not stupid. They have to wonder why anyone under a hundred would even attend this thing. That was pretty sneaky to have the kid try and dig up information.”
“Jesus,” Kathy said. “I never thought of that.”
As the auditorium filled, Kathy and Max were stunned by the age of the crowd. Even older than they had anticipated. “Do you see this?”
“I see it.”
“These people are dinosaurs. The last generation that had it all. Now we take care of them. What’s wrong with this picture?”
Kathy looked around. It was hard to hate older people she didn’t even know, but these people had had so much plastic surgery and had so many new advanced drugs coursing through their veins that they didn’t look as decrepit as she expected. They looked like they would live forever and keep taking and taking. Why did my father have to die young and these people don’t even look sick? That made her angry.
When Sam Mueller was introduced, he received a standing ovation. His lecture lasted about ninety minutes. He showed many visuals and tried to keep everything from sounding too technical. He told of the exciting advancements in longevity that Immunicate was working on, and when he said, “We are on the verge of keeping the human being alive for one hundred and fifty years,” the crowd went wild. This made both Max and Kathy the angriest they had been the entire night.
“That’s all we fucking need,” Max said. And yet as he sat there, he knew that being angry wasn’t going to change anything. But what could he do?
When the lecture was over they stayed in their seats, watching the old people file out. After everyone was gone they walked outside and saw Sam Mueller and his son exit the stage door. Sam did not see them, but Mark did. His eye caught Max’s and they stared at each other for a few seconds. Mark smiled. Max did not. And that was the end of their first encounter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The private jet landed quietly at Washington Dulles International. A car was waiting for Susanna Colbert, and it took her to the Hay-Adams Hotel, a hotel she was very familiar with. She even had a favorite suite. When she was CEO of HomeInc she would come to Washington often, acting as her own lobbyist.
HomeInc was a builder of gated communities, a soup-to-nuts organization that procured the land and constructed everything. It started out building retirement centers, but noticed there was a need for high-end security housing. Many areas where rich people lived were accessible to anyone who had a car, and as time went on, people wanted guards. It was always thought that if someone had enough money, they would shy away from developments. But HomeInc read the market right, and luxury communities with prebuilt ten-to-fifteen-thousand-square-foot homes became its bread and butter.
They would provide their own financing, and their genius was that each community would look unique. People would not know there was a plan behind it from visiting just one development. All the homes looked absolutely original. But in different cities the development was exactly the same. Instead o
f duplicating homes in the same area, like most developments, they duplicated the entire gated community, so unless someone went from his street in Long Island to the same street in Palo Alto, he would never feel as if he were living in a luxury tract. This way the company kept the design and building costs to a minimum and its profits were enormous.
Susanna stayed with HomeInc for fifteen years and then started The Card. The Card was a superexclusive credit card that required a high income level and came with a large annual fee. For that, owners received special treatment in the world’s finest hotels, restaurants, and resorts. The Card’s slogan was “Knowing someone on the inside.” And it really worked.
When a person’s name by itself could not automatically get a great table in a five-star restaurant, having The Card would do the trick. The Card became more famous than the people carrying it, and it opened doors that no other credit card had ever been able to open.
Another interesting aspect of the The Card was that owing money did not cost the cardholder the outrageous interest rates that the other credit card companies charged. Whereas MasterCard might charge eighteen percent on unpaid items, The Card would charge ten. It encouraged its super-high-spending clients to get lazy about paying it off, so with a ten percent interest rate and a ten-thousand-dollar yearly fee, business was great.
The spending limit on The Card was also very high, three million dollars. And if someone took The Card to Macau and ran up a two-million-dollar gambling debt, they didn’t need permission from the hotel. The Card would cover them automatically, providing, of course, they had liquid assets to back it up. Susanna’s last major coup before she left the company was to make arrangements with the world’s finest hotels to set aside entire floors for The Card members. That had never been done before, and the day Susanna retired there was a waiting list of twelve thousand rich folks hoping to receive notice that they’d been accepted to the world’s most exclusive credit card organization.
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