by Doug Walker
When they were gone, he retreated upstairs to his residence. In the kitchen he made himself a ham, tomato, onion and lettuce sandwich, slathered on mustard, then popped open a beer. Seated on a couch with a TV table, he began switching from one news channel to another, brushing mustard from his chin with a napkin.
He was about to get another beer when his cell phone chimed. Very few people had that number. Checking the ID, it was Peggy Rains. He smiled. The thought crossed his mind that she had found him a girlfriend. Send her right up, he thought.
“Hello, Peggy. Long time no see. Maybe one hour.”
“Bruce, I forgot. You’ve got to bring Jairo Ducote in as your vice president. You should have done it immediately. What’s the delay?”
“No delay, Peggy. If I die or am incapacitated, he succeeds me. That’s crystal clear. I’ve meant to talk to him about it, but haven’t. I’m a bit concerned about who will follow him as speaker. He’s a good man.”
“Damn right he is. Also he’d make a damn fine vice president.”
“I wondered about that too, Peggy. Would it be automatic that he would be my running mate?”
“He’s the best there is, Bruce. And the sooner you get him in office the better for the party. Some people think things are in disarray. What about it?”
“I know the drill is for me to ask him to step up. Once again, you’re right. I should have done so. Get me his number and I’ll call him.”
She apparently was holding his number in her hand and she passed it on.
After she signed off, the President took a deep breath and punched in his number. This was a major deal, something that would change his life and would change Ducote’s life forever. A woman answered the phone.
“Good evening, this is President Brooking, may I speak to Jairo?”
“He’s not in, Mr. President, some kind of committee meeting. The fact is, I seldom see him. This is his wife, Nancy. I believe we’ve met a time or two.”
“Of course, Mrs. Ducote. You know I should have made this call several days ago. Of course I want Jairo to assume the role of vice president. You’ll tell him, won’t you?”
“Certainly, Sir. He’ll be very pleased. And it’s true, he wondered why you hadn’t called.”
“Just an oversight, so much going on. But he was always going to be the VP, you both knew that?”
“We did.”
“If you would, have him call me first thing in the morning.”
“Will do.”
There was something in her voice that he did not like. Her statement that she seldom saw her husband. True, Jairo had a tough job as speaker, but spending time with one’s family was a priority. He had forgotten if there were children. So many congressmen, so many names. He rang up Tarot and asked him if he could do some discreet checking on the house speaker.
Next he called Peggy Rains and shared his concern. “Why would you think that?” she asked.
“Just something his wife said. That she seldom sees him.”
“We’re all busy as hell, Bruce. That shouldn’t set off any alarms.”
“I’m in this deeper than you are, Peggy. You can walk away with alacrity. I know Jairo must be vice president. But he doesn’t have to be my running mate. Let’s vet his private life before we make that decision.”
“Of course you’re right, Bruce. I’ll check around.”
Frankly, a bit puzzled by what Nancy Ducote had said, Brooking decided not to have another beer. Instead he poured himself three fingers of scotch in a water glass, topped it with a splash of water, stripped down to his skivvies, sat on his bed with his clock radio turned on the news and sipped his drink.
Speaker Ducote called just after eight the following morning. “Nancy called this morning and told me you had called. I’m really glad we’re doing this, Mr. President. Some folks up here wondered why you waited.”
“I knew there’d be some jockeying for your job, Jairo, unless the next in line steps in and is approved. That would take a few days, and I guessed you’d want to be in on it.”
“That’s true. There are several candidates. I think the members will make the right choice.”
“You weren’t home last night?”
“No. I slept in my office. A lot doing here. Committee hearings, people coming and going. It’s really like running a ship. I’m an old navy man, you know.”
“I’ve heard. As speaker, you must have an elaborate apartment up there.”
“Oh yes, shower, wardrobe, all the comforts of home.”
“Except a wife,” Brooking said.
“Nancy understands.”
“I’m sure she does. I’ve asked my secretary to make arrangements for your swearing in. You probably know her, Penny Aycock.”
“We’ve met. I’ll be in touch. And thank you, Mr. President.”
Brooking signed off and wondered just what sort of a ship Ducote might be running. He missed Tina more every day. It would be a bad move to pick another female running mate, but he wasn’t certain about Ducote. He was a popular man in the House, and the party liked him. The voters had also given him a strong majority, but this virtually living in the House side of the Capitol seemed less than wholesome. Time would tell.
Later in the day Derek Park called. “You pulled one off, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, Derek. Was there ever any doubt?”
“On my part, yes. I thought we had the Senate sewed up. You might let me in on your secrets.”
“Would you like to share?”
“Mine involves a steady stream of money, not necessarily cash, but favors of one sort or another. How about yours?”
“Friendly persuasion and pointing the way of the righteous. That is giving a little shove towards doing the right thing.”
“And I believe that. Well, Mr. President, you are becoming a man to be feared. After what happened to Jon Fern, also known as Flash, and after you seemed to track down that sleeper cell, seemingly single handedly when the FBI, CIA and others failed at ferreting out sleepers from federal ranks, you may be hard to beat in November.”
“Derek, I will be hard to beat. And if you can see the writing on the wall, I may have a place for you in my administration. You know where the bodies are buried and you know which buttons to push. You could be a valuable asset.”
“But the money, Mr. President.”
“I believe you have all you need and more. Just invest it in the right places, avoiding insider trading, of course.”
“Of course. Anyway, who would share government secrets with me, like which contractor is likely to get the next multibillion dollar contract?”
“Who indeed. Say no more. This conversation is bordering on sedition. But seriously, you’d make a fine public servant and I know you’d put your heart and soul in whatever work you happen to be doing. Even the devil’s work, which you seem to be engaged in at the moment.”
“Those pools of oil do smack of Satan himself,” Park agreed. “But I called to congratulate you and I will think your offer over.”
Brooking sat quietly at his desk musing over what a fine running mate Derek Park would make, then a horrible thought crossed his mind. What if a person like Flash Fern was elevated to house speaker, next to the next in line? God help the Republic. Life would go on. No one is irreplaceable. Stick your hand in a bucket of water, then remove it. See the hole you made? That’s how much you would be missed.
For the next few days Brooking divided his time between government and party matters. The first campaign-fund raiser was coming up and he worked with speechwriters for a generic gem speech, polished like a precious jewel. Then there were the local jokes for each of the five stops, a sop to local dignitaries and office holders. Possibly a few scattered campaign promises regarding the location. He had a good mind and a near photographic memory and was able to get a grip on many issues, faces and names at the same time.
He was a one-man campaign machine, backed up by Air Force One, an army of Secret Service agents, a b
evy of speechwriters, the press corps, local and national party operatives and an admiring public. Life was good.
A day before departing on the tour, Peggy Rains, the party chair, called to say she had looked into the lifestyle of Jairo Ducote and found he was a hard working speaker with a host of friends, a man who enjoyed life, but there was nothing out of the way in his activities, other than a neglected wife.
A half hour later Tarot called and invited him to the exercise room. Tarot did not trust telephones. When they met, he drew close to Brooking and said Jairo was a womanizer of the first water. “He has no less than three women on a string and is sexually active with each. One is a government secretary, one is a lawyer and lobbyist, the third is a fellow House member. They may or may not know about one another, and if they do they probably could care less as long as all four of them are disease free.”
The swearing-in ceremony had taken place the day before, and Ducote was already setting up housekeeping in the Naval Observatory. He had said he preferred to keep his old house in Falls Church where his wife would remain. In truth, this was not such an odd arrangement. More than one vice president had either failed to live in the great white house, or used it strictly for entertainment. But none was known to have isolated his wife in northern Virginia.
Brooking was steamed. He asked Penny to track Ducote down and get him into the Oval office. It took several hours, but the former speaker and now vice president finally appeared.
Brooking offered him a seat, asked if he would like coffee, then, keeping his temper under control, asked about the peculiar household arrangement he was setting up.
“I just want to keep my Falls Church house, Mr. President. Who knows what the future holds?”
“Do you love your wife?”
“Of course I do. What kind of question is that?”
“You don’t seem to want to live with her.”
“But I see her often.”
“She’s content to stay married to you under these odd circumstances?”
“There’s nothing so odd about it, Mr. President. House members often have their families in their home states, hundreds of miles, maybe a thousand miles from Washington.”
“Well, Jairo, I suppose we can fence like this for another half hour, but I can’t have this sort of situation in my administration. You can live on the grounds of the Naval Observatory, or you can live at home in Falls Church, but you cannot live in both places.”
“You can’t tell me how to run my life.”
“If I wanted to I could name the three sexual partners you are seeing on a regular basis. I think that would be sufficient to ask you to step down. The people might tolerate one infidelity, but three at the same time? That’s a little much, Jairo.”
“I thought Peggy Rains told you I was leading a wholesome life.”
“She did.”
“Then, why these charges?”
“Because they are true. Can you deny them? Do you want me to name names?”
“No, Sir.” Ducote seemed a bit subdued.
“If you want to be vice president, you’re going to have to do it with your wife by your side. I can tolerate same-sex marriage, but I cannot tolerate wholesale philandering. And I mean forever. I’ll be watching.”
“You sound like my mother.” Ducote had recovered and was laughing.
“Well, I guess boys will be boys, Jairo, but we’re grown men and have grown up problems. Let’s shake on it and start fresh. I hope you’ll bring your wife around to see me when my campaign trip is over. You should be settled in your new place by that time. That’s some kind of a house.”
“Good luck on your campaign trip, Sir.”
“I’ll need it. One little ground-to-air rocket and you’re the next president. Savor that one.”
Ducote thought about it and smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
When Air Force One set down in Lambert-St. Louis International Airport, Brooking had brought the presidential office with him, including Penny Aycock and other staffers. Basically, they would stay aboard the plane and see to day-to-day administrative activities.
The governor, the mayor and a small assembly of dignitaries were there to greet him at planeside, the usual handshakes, pleasantries and photo ops, then nothing would do but a tour of the sparkling facility with its soaring multi-colored windows and brightly appointed interior.
Brooking spotted only one protester, a stout, middle-aged woman holding a hand lettered sign reading: “WWJD – Send Brooking back to Iowa.”
As an opening line for his first speech, he said, “It’s great to be here on Route 66,” which drew a few guffaws and a riffle of applause. His bucket list had been well publicized. Everyone seemed to understand Cathedrals, but he was often asked, “Why Trieste?”
He always attempted a brief explanation. “Primitive man had been there, so had the Greeks when they were really something, then the Romans. It had been the seaport for the Austro-Hungarian Empire, had been an open city for a time, was part of Italy, but not thoroughly Italian. James Joyce had been there.” He tried to cut it off at that and generally could.
He mentioned the woman with the sign. “Send Brooking back to Iowa. Not a bad idea, really. The Midwest is my home. Iowa, Missouri, the real America. Harry Truman, Give ‘em Hell Harry, played the Missouri Waltz on the piano.”
Brooking knew how to please a crowd. He talked for twenty minutes without notes.
In Oklahoma he used a line from the Route 66 song, “Oklahoma City is mighty pretty.”
Then Santa Fe, four hundred years of art, culture and beauty wrapped in adobe. One could spend a lifetime marinating in the city and the surrounding natural wonders. That is, if one had the price.
Flagstaff, Arizona, a small city of less than 60,000 souls also has a small airport, too small it was thought for Air Force One. So the large plane touched down at Phoenix Sky Harbor International airport on the desert. The motorcade from the warm desert to the chill of near 7,000 feet took almost two hours, but kept to the Route 66 tour theme.
A college town, many of the students turned out to either cheer or heckle the President, while many of the contributors were drawn from the wealthy Phoenix suburbs. Because of the proximity of the Grand Canyon, an abundance of lodging options was available. Brooking and a couple of aides dined at an authentic Mexican restaurant, El Charro, known for its enchilada sauce among other things.
During the cocktail reception preceding the dinner, a tall, slim, big-bosomed woman with raven black hair and stunning green eyes managed to slip a card into Brooking’s hand containing her telephone number. “Call me anytime, I’m discreet,” she managed to whisper during the brief encounter.
The President grinned and shook his head as he greeted the next person. How discreet, he wondered. Later he gave the card and the story to the head of his Secret Service detail. Still later, he learned she was a $500K donor. She would definitely be invited to a White House reception.
Meeting informally with the press, a Phoenix Sun reporter reminded him of the glories of Rome and questioned why he was attempting to hold down the military budget.
“Rome had a good run,” he replied. “But any history of that great empire will tell you that the military came to the fore not during its height, but only during its decline. I’ve heard the same can be said of excessive bathing.” The same line he had used before.
Another said, “If it was an al Qaeda sleeper cell that was responsible for the vice president’s death, why didn’t al Qaeda trumpet its victory?”
“Because it was a failure. The plot was to kill me. The Secret Service mole somehow got the wrong information and gave the wrong signal. The cell hoped to remain in business and take me out at a later date.”
“Then how was the cell uncovered?” the reporter asked. “I understand these people were deep sleepers and had infiltrated sensitive posts.”
“They had. Al Qaeda has its secrets. We have ours.”
On the trip back to th
e Phoenix airport, Brooking found himself sharing his limo with that tall, slim, big-bosomed woman with the raven hair and glowing green eyes. She introduced herself as Heidi Nilsen.
The President was puzzled. He had brought a stack of work to look over during the two-hour trip. “How did you get here?” he questioned.
“I have friends in high places,” she replied.
“But my security is generally overly cautious.”
She smiled mischievously and said, “They patted me down.”
Brooking enjoyed her humor. “I’ll bet that was fun, for them.”
“It wasn’t so bad for me. Want to snuggle?”
Brooking laughed out loud. “You promised to be discreet.”
“Up to a point.”
“Did you make a bet with someone?”
Heidi sighed. “I‘m on my own.”
“Do you have a husband? A better half.”
“I was the better half. He was rich, but he passed on.”
Brooking stifled a laugh. “Too much excitement?”
“He had a small plane and he drove it into a mountain. He became part of the landscape and here I am, looking around.”
“For anything in particular?”
“Like anything in the animal kingdom, a mate.”
“Perhaps I can help you with that.” She purred and moved toward him. “I know a few eligible bachelors.”
“I’ve set my sights high.”
“That rules me out I’m just an ordinary person who happened to be elected president. Many starfish inhabit the beach. Not all of them two dimensional like myself.”
“Really, Mr. President, I think you have great depth and no wife. No one to come home to.”
“You’ve got me there. A person like you, you’d be so nice to come home to.”
“So nice by the fire. Shall we get to know one another?”
“I’d like that, but not in a stretch limo, if I get your meaning. Let’s talk and enjoy the countryside.”
“Too dark to see much.”
“Are you certain you don’t have some sort of bet?”
“You are a naughty boy. So I’ll play by your rules. Can we see one another again?”
“Why not.”