No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2)

by Mark E Becker

  Max trailed his Secret Service escort on his impromptu walk up the beach toward the point. He had to get away from the crowd and find clear water. It was an urge he had to follow, but he knew with overwhelming certainty that he wouldn’t find solitude or clear water here. As far as he could see in either direction, lines of turd-like blobs bobbed in the incoming tide.

  He bent over and picked up the child’s flip flop that lay abandoned on the beach. It was a miniature version of an adult sandal, black, with the inscription Champion on the strap. He could imagine the small child, bundled against the sun, writhing to spend one more minute playing in the sand and the clear water, before it was time to leave. It brought it all into perspective somehow, at least for him. They had ruined it for everyone. He absent-mindedly slid the sandal into his suit pocket, and walked toward the old man.

  As the boat bumped up against the chocolate shore, Max walked forward and extended his hand. The recipient of his handshake was not much for social decorum, and he had lived his life without concern that what he did or what he said would be misconstrued as politically correct. The words that came out of his mouth were inspired by his heart.

  “I’m tired of the guvmint tellin’ me what to do or keepin’ me from doin’ stuff that don’t hurt nobody.” The old man thought he was in trouble. Most of his life was spent in trouble, and he took the well-dressed mass of humanity as his lynching mob.

  “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you,” replied Max.

  “Bullshit.” He reached back into his boat, pulled out a bottle of amber liquid, and took a draw. He didn’t offer it to Max, cradling the bottle in his arms, wondering what would come next.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  He stared at Max with yellowed eyes. He focused for a few moments and said, “Are you the lottery guy? Did I win?” Max smiled and extended his hand again. “No, I’m not the lottery guy. I’m the President.”

  This time, the old man shook his hand. “If you’s the president, how you gonna fix dis mess?” He took a long swig, and extended the bottle to Max. Max took a sip, and he realized that the old guy had a hankering for good quality tequila. He looked for the worm, took another swig, and gave it back. The bottle went back into the boat as quickly as it had come out.

  “I don’t see how I can,” Max responded. “I have an idea about who did this one and the last, but I can’t fix the damage they did. All I can give you is my promise. We’re gonna find the bastards and kill ‘em, and then we’re gonna come down here and have the biggest beach party you ever saw.” It was all impromptu bullshit, and he cringed at the thought of lying about it, but he felt helpless to do anything at all. This is a feeling that the most powerful person in America should never have, he thought. I haven’t been president for more than a few days, and I have already violated one of my own Maxims. It is better to say nothing about an issue than to lie about it. This will not happen again.

  “That’s good for me,” he replied. “You hafta to earn my respect, and the first thing you need to do to earn it is don’t bullshit me.” He rubbed his shirt with both hands in a futile effort to wipe off the brown goo that covered everything, and pulled the lanyard rope from inside the boat. “You work for me. I don’t serve you.”

  Max thought about those words. They came from the heart, of that he was certain. He reached for the loop of the rope, intending to make the job of pulling the boat ashore easier. The man brushed his hand away.

  “My father was a religious man, and he prayed in private. His favorite passage in the Bible was in the Book of Matthew: Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened. He practiced it in his life, and I have been entrusted to carry it forward now that he has passed. I’ll be damned if you are going to stand in front of me and turn down my help.”

  Max gently pushed the man aside and grabbed the brown rope with both hands. He pulled, and the slimy lubricant worked. It slid between his hands with a slithery sound, and Max fell into the brown goo, covering his skin and clothes from the neck down.

  The press, which had been restrained 50 feet away, broke into unrestrained laughter at the scene of the unplanned mayhem, still recording the events that were unfolding. By the time Max managed to stand, after two unsuccessful attempts at it that put him back on his butt in the brown sludge, he was laughing hysterically. He couldn’t see what he looked like, but he could easily imagine, and the reaction of the press corps intensified with each movement. Any effort at maintaining dignity had gone by the wayside. Max’s young Chief of Staff and Press Secretary Bill Staffman stood silently snickering, but even the members of the newly formed cabinet had no immunity from the infectious laughter. Soon, they succumbed, and each movement reignited uncontrolled giddiness from everyone who watched the scene unfold.

  In his best Creature from the Black Lagoon imitation, Max lumbered toward the waiting press corps. He waved his goocovered arms wildly and walked stiff-legged toward them. In childlike response, several members began screaming for effect, which only heightened the laughter. Soon, he stood several feet away.

  “I know you expected to see me swim here today,” exclaimed Max in his most ironic presidential tone, “but instead, I think I’ll introduce you to the dirty world of international politics.” He smoothed his hands on his oil-covered arms, and began gesticulating wildly, splattering the oil on the clean shirts and blouses of everyone within twenty feet from where he stood.

  “I need to take this attention-getting opportunity to inform you of the cause of this latest oil spill. I was briefed in Washington before flying down here today. International espionage has taken place here in the Gulf of Mexico, for the second time.” Murmurs began as the press reacted to the idea that the Deepwater Horizon explosion years before was also the result of industrial espionage.

  “We have been attacked by terrorists who want to harm our economy and our American way of life. But we won’t let them hold us down for long. We can clean this up. We now have the technology to plug the well quickly and to remove much of the oil from the water before it does widespread harm. And we will track down the cowardly bastards who did this and put them away. The United States of America will not be a target for our enemies, and they will soon know our wrath.”

  CHAPTER 14

  M

  ax accepted a fluffy white towel and began wiping the sticky brown sludge from his exposed skin as the Secret Service ushered him toward his waiting helicopter, Marine One, the president’s Helo. He was in dire need of a bath

  and fresh clothes, but the tiny sink and toilet would suffice until he returned to civilization. Clothes were hanging from a hook on the back of the door to the head. They were the right size, but they weren’t his clothes. They were golf clothes, and Max had never played the game.

  “What the hell are these golf clothes doing in here?” Max yelled to nobody in particular, but expecting an immediate response. As he emerged from the cramped bathroom, a female voice came from the co-pilot’s seat. “Because your handlers are taking you on a golf outing, and I must say you look very pretty dressed in bright yellow, Mister President.” The sound of Rachel’s voice was melodious, and brought back his smile. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease him mercilessly. “Do you need me to carry your golf bag, Sir? I’m a good caddy, and I’ll wash and polish your balls after each shot.”

  Max laughed. “I’m sure they got that covered, all except the ball polishing part…Come to think of it, the president’s girlfriend will henceforth be his designated ball polisher from this point on. Attend to it immediately, my able assistant!”

  “Yes, Mr. President, should I alert the press?” Andrew was relieved to see Max back to normal, and wondered how long it would last. Rachel had that effect on him, and he played along.

  “And may I suggest, Mr. President, that we also appoint this capable woman to act as your c
o-pilot in all future trips outside of Washington, as she is attracting a large contingent of voters who are keenly interested in your love life, sir?”

  “You may have our legal staff prepare a presidential proclamation to that extent, Mr. Fox, while I spend a little alone time with our co-pilot…We need to do an in-flight check…or something…” He pulled her back into the tiny makeshift changing room and closed the door. Immediately she was in his arms, kissing him passionately and fumbling at his belt. “I’m going to initiate you into the milehigh club on every flight,” she whispered breathily in his ear. She pulled his golf shirt over his head. Max found a front zipper and pulled, pleasantly surprised that her flight suit concealed nothing more than his favorite Victoria’s Secret bra and panties.

  The day had not gone anywhere close to plan, but Rachel’s presence had brought Max back from the serious thoughts that occupied him at the oil spill. He needed her desperately, and their passion could not wait. He couldn’t remember the last time they had been alone—if traveling with a full flight crew, security detail, and political aides could be considered alone. He groaned, not only from the intense pleasure of the moment, but also from the realization that the President of the United States can never be alone.

  “We have got to keep meeting like this,” Max said as Rachel’s flight suit slid off her shoulders and slowly crumpled to the floor.

  CHAPTER 15

  A

  ndrew Fox was to accompany Max on each of his forays away from the White House. He had assumed the essential role of keeping Max on task as he had attempted to do during the campaign. Minutes into the job, he realized that

  his duties would be unlike any job he had held in the past. Max Masterson’s life was an eclectic combination of passion, exercise, and deep focus that allowed him to work and play with equal intensity.

  As Max and Rachel were wrapped in passion in the makeshift changing room/bathroom, Andrew sat on the mall jump seat staring forward through the cockpit at the green rolling hills that stretched into infinity below. He tried to focus on the detailed notes on his iPad, and he tried to update the log of activities that had taken place, checking off each event and reviewing the details of the next one, ensuring that every detail was arranged. But he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind that the President of the United States was having sex no more than fifteen feet away. He shifted to the personal calendar, writing Find a girlfriend…quick!

  He looked across the cabin at the two Secret Service agents assigned to the President. They seemed oblivious to the President’s activities. They sat stoically in the other jump seats, gazing out the windows at the view on the ground, occasionally scanning the horizon. If I don’t get the hang of living in DC, it’s going to be a long time between dates, he thought as the drone of the helicopter mercifully took the edge off his state of arousal. Andrew tried to focus on the day’s agenda, but his imagination was getting the best of him. I’ve got to get a life, and soon.

  Somewhere over South Alabama, Max strapped himself into his seat, and Rachel took the co-pilot’s seat once again.. He focused on his surroundings, and was astounded at the amount of gear that had been packed inside, still leaving room for four comfortable passenger seats and two drop seats for his Secret Service contingent. It reminded him of how close to death he had come before he became president. Their seaplane, piloted by Rachel, had almost been knocked from the sky by an assassin’s mortar round. The dum dum bullet had missed the control cables by inches. He wondered if another attack would just bounce off the armored shell, or whether there was some kind of technical gadgetry that would save them.

  He looked at the golf clothes with disdain, and pondered what other surprises the day held in store for him.

  The next stop for Max was nine holes of golf with the Governor of Alabama, and then back to the White House for briefings that would go into the night. The other members of the transition team were busy vetting candidates for key governmental positions, and the incoming president was required to make final approval of his cabinet and agency heads. None would be retained from the Blythe administration. Least of all, the Director of Homeland Security.

  uuu

  The press contingent in Alabama was not the same as the one at the oil spill. They were more of a skeleton crew assigned to get video clips of Max and the Governor, a photo opportunity that politicians crave to show their constituents that they are important. With this president came the unprecedented chance for members of any political party to boost their popularity and poll ratings. He had run as an Independent, and they could gain votes by being seen with the winner.

  Andrew was convinced that the golf idea was a bad one. It had not occurred to him that the president of the United States was not an avid golfer. He had just assumed that every president played golf. He heard Max’s dismay when he changed into the golf clothes that had been arranged for the scheduled appearance, and he took careful mental note that Max would not be doing this again. He’s not your typical politician, he reminded himself.

  u

  CHAPTER 16

  F

  rom the start, the golf appearance took on the characteristics of the typical train wreck. Max exited Marine One in his brand new golf clothes: bright yellow, his least-favorite color. He looked clearly uncomfortable, and upon shaking the governor’s

  outstretched hand, he was turned toward the cameras to stand next to the large, red-faced man. The governor beamed, his white teeth making quite a contrast to his shiny face. It appeared to Max that the man had been waiting in the bright sun all day to get that sunburn, and he took an immediate dislike to this loud stranger who was ostentatiously feeding off of his popularity.

  “I don’t do golf,” Max announced, the first words spoken after the cameramen had paused in their efforts to preserve the moment for posterity. The governor, taking his comment as a joke, laughed heartily.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. President, I brought along a good friend of mine, golf legend Henry “Shank” Mulligan, to be here today, and he can teach you a few tips before we tee off. Come on up here Shank, Ol’ Buddy, and meet our new president.” Mulligan, fresh off a full security scan from the advance team of Secret Service agents that preceded the arrival of Marine One, was allowed to approach. He was trim and tanned and looked like the prototypical pro golfer: dressed in clothes that bore his label, with his logo emblazoned on his hat and both sleeves. Max briefly imagined that he was probably wearing underwear that bore his logo, too.

  “Mr. President, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I would have voted for you, but I was in Australia for the Open.”

  “I don’t do golf,” Max repeated.

  Andrew cringed, and stepped into the awkward moment. “Shank, I’m Andrew Fox, the president’s Chief of Staff. I didn’t realize this,” he said in a low voice, “but Max doesn’t play the game, and I was wondering if you could take him around behind the clubhouse somewhere and maybe show him a few things before we tee off. I know you probably get paid thousands of dollars to do this, but believe me, if you make Max look good in front of the cameras, you will receive a letter of gratitude signed by the President of the United States worthy of hanging on your wall and an accompanying digital image that you can use in all of your marketing efforts. Come on, Shank, do it for America.”

  “I’d be proud to,” said Shank. He sized up his high profile student, standing awkwardly in his fresh-out-of-the-box golf clothes. It was evident that he had no interest in the game. Max saw the media event as an opportunity to appear like an ass for the second time of his first day in front of the cameras.

  Looking at Andrew with scorn, he leaned in his direction and whispered, “From now on, you will let me know when you plan to have me do something that makes me want to waterboard you. Do you have any more surprises for me today?”

  “No sir, just a speech in front of—”

  “No speeches. Make a plausible excuse, like the President had to take his Chief of Staff to the emergency room with internal i
njuries sustained in a golfing accident,” Max said in a hiss.

  Andrew took a few steps backward, and held his computer bag

  NO CORNER TO HIDE

  in front of his face. “If you spent a few seconds with me each day, this wouldn’t happen.”

  Max sprung forward and grabbed the iPad with both hands. He lowered it slowly, bringing his face within inches of his young advisor.

  “You didn’t know I hate golf? You picked out this polyester clown outfit? When have you EVER seen me in the presence of balls of any kind? I can forgive you for thinking that I might want to, say, kick a soccer ball, or even shoot a hockey puck or spike a volleyball, but GOLF? I don’t do golf…” He let go of the computer bag and walked over to his golf instructor, who was busily texting to two unsuspecting women at the same time.

  “Come on, let’s get this over with. But before we do, I think it would be better if I picked out some of your signature clothes from the pro shop…You know, for marketing and branding, that sort of thing,” Max schmoozed.

  They began walking toward the clubhouse. “You know, Mr. President, I was thinking the same thing,” replied Mulligan. “By the way, who picked out that outfit?”

  While Max was changing into more tasteful golf attire, Andrew scrambled to rearrange the day’s itinerary. The logistics of moving from one public appearance to another had become monumental, and the security team had already been deployed at the next stop, Montgomery, Alabama, where Andrew had arranged for Max to speak to the NAACP at a monument for Dr. Martin Luther King. I even wrote the speech myself,” he thought with regret.