by Steve Israel
“Okay.”
“Never say ‘I understand’ again.”
Sunny returned to the Members’ Dining Room.
12
Speaker of the House Frank Piermont puffed on his fifth cigarette of the day, and it was only 7:45 AM.
He sat in the rear seat of a smoke-filled SUV, accompanied by a two-person security detail that was required to take regular lung X-rays. Piermont was in his usual position: clamping a cigarette to his lips with one hand and a cell phone to his ear with the other. The security detail informally called him “Two-fisted Frank,” but his official code name was “Smokestack.” That morning, Smokestack was repeating into the phone “No way, no way, no way,” through gurgling hacks.
On the other end, his chief of staff said, “But sir, it’s a political grand slam.”
“No way!” the Speaker insisted.
The “grand slam” was the introduction of the American Freedom from Fear Act by the distinguished gentleman from Arkansas (who wasn’t distinguished enough for Piermont even to recognize his name). The bill would be discussed at that morning’s breakfast meeting of the House Republican Caucus.
“Forcing people to own guns is just . . . well . . . it’s nuts,” Piermont whined. He immediately regretted the use of the word nuts. In that session of Congress, nuts had become the most overused word in his vocabulary. The entire caucus was marching off the deep end, and that end was far to the right. He often groused privately to friends, “Yeah, I’m Speaker of the House. The nuthouse!”
“Mr. Speaker—”
“Your grand slam has four strikes against it. One, arming every American is dangerous public policy. Two, even if we pass it, the Senate won’t. Three, even if they do, the president will veto it. Four, even if he signs it, the Supreme Court will strike it down. So it’s a total waste of time!”
Hack-gurgle-wheeze.
“Exactly, sir. This will never make it into law. Which is exactly why we should pass it immediately.”
“Huh?”
“Look, Frank”— the staffer only called his boss Frank when they weren’t within earshot of anyone else—“we’re getting real close to losing the Speaker’s gavel. The talk grows louder about a coup against your own leadership—I don’t want to say they’re vultures, but they’re practically building nests next to your bed. Our conservative Members think you’re a sellout.”
“Because I negotiate? Because I compromise? The moderates still support me.”
“There aren’t enough of them to fill a Members Only elevator. Our caucus is breaking apart. We can’t agree on taxes, spending, war, peace. But we do agree on one thing, Frank. Guns. Guns make us . . . us! Guns keep our caucus united. Behind you!”
Piermont expelled enough foul air to receive an EPA fine under the Clean Air Act.
“And it’s not just our caucus, Frank. We need something to excite our base. Give ’em a reason to vote in the midterm elections. We throw them a gun rights issue and they’ll stampede to the polls. We expand our majority and you keep the gavel. With no chance that the Dirkey bill actually becomes law. It’s just a message piece.” “Just a message piece,” Piermont repeated. He gazed out the dark windows at the Capitol dome a few blocks away. In a few weeks, he thought, Congress would mercifully leave Washington for the July Fourth recess, when it would manage to do slightly less work than when it was in session. He took a long, hard drag on his cigarette, and muttered, “The crap I have to do to keep my hands on a gavel.”
*
Roy Dirkey was hopelessly lost. For the past twenty minutes he’d wandered through a maze of dark tunnels, fathoms below the Capitol Building. They were crammed with thick overhead pipes and multicolored cables that snaked from low ceilings and echoed with the desperate footsteps of other lost souls searching for an exit.
After asking various Capitol Hill police officers for directions, Roy finally arrived, in a slight sweat, at the well-hidden meeting room of the House Republican Caucus. He was confronted by two preening staffers guarding a wide mahogany door. They gave Roy the usual scowl reserved for new Members, the one that said You may be a congressman, but soon we’ll be lobbyists making three times your salary, and you’ll be groveling at our feet for a PAC check. Then they nodded him in, as if dispensing a favor.
In front of Roy, two hundred and forty Members of Congress wriggled impatiently on metal folding chairs.
The Washington press corps called the weekly meeting of House Republicans “the Raucous Caucus.” This was the battleground of the party’s warring parties. They fought with sharp elbows, clenched fists, and foaming mouths. Particularly lively was the power struggle among their top leaders. Each represented a different faction of the caucus, united only by the desire to thrust knives in Frank Piermont’s back, somewhere in the vicinity of his corroded lungs.
Roy glanced at the caucus leaders, slumped behind a white-draped folding table at the front of the room. There was Piermont, Majority Leader Tom Doolittle, Majority Whip Fred Stinson, and caucus chairman Bobby Blunk. They reminded Roy of one of those old photos of the Soviet leadership at the Kremlin Wall, only less jovial.
The Speaker looked particularly miserable. His eyes were in a frozen glaze, his hands cupped beneath a plunging frown. Roy assumed it was the recently enacted no-smoking rule (which, Roll Call reported, was instituted by Majority Leader Doolittle just to torture Piermont), or the no wine before noon rule (again, the Majority Leader). More likely it was the fact that at these meetings Piermont wasn’t really the Speaker, he was “the spoken at.” They formed endless lines at microphones, to preach and pontificate, beseech and bemoan, to lather the Speaker with praise while plotting how to skin him alive. Chairs were set up theater style for the rank and file. Or, as Piermont was reported to have once called them, “the crank and bile.”
A dozen Members huddled in a corner, in a sort of perimeter defense. They had the look of hunted prey. In fact, they could have qualified for the Department of Interior Endangered Species List. They were moderate Republicans. They represented the last flickering orbs of purple on a national political map that burned bright red with tiny specks of blue. Political survival required certain evolutionary adaptations. Short necks—unpracticed at sticking out—sat low against shoulders. Hands were chafed from constant wringing. Tongues darted agilely to the left and right.
Roy headed straight for the breakfast buffet, set up at the back of the room. Nothing brought Republicans together like pork. Not the spending kind, the eating kind. Bacon, ham, and sausage simmered in aluminum vats above flickering Sterno cans, next to gloppy eggs, frittatas, and home fries. A healthy options menu— organics, granola, vegan—was available. All one had to do is become a Democrat and attend their caucus meetings. He heaped food onto a plastic plate, poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup, and found a seat.
The gentlewoman from Ohio was leading the caucus in benediction. She chaired the House Republican African-American Women’s Caucus. She was also the only Member of said caucus. The meetings were lonely but lively.
She solemnly asked the assembled to bow their heads and pray for God’s favor, particularly in smiting the Democrats’ parliamentary motion on the previous question, which was expected to come up later that day.
“Amen!” they heartily responded.
Whip Fred Stinson briefed the Members on that week’s legislative agenda. There would be votes on the American Jobs for American Workers Act, the American Tax Relief for American Small Businesses Act, and the American Support for American Troops Defending America Act. Plus, there were approximately three dozen bills to rename post offices in congressional districts from coast to coast. The Whip suggested aye votes on each because of their noncontroversial nature.
After eighty minutes of controversy, including the suggestion that the names of local post offices be bid on by corporate sponsors, Chairman Blunk banged his gavel and noted it was almost time to adjourn. “Is there any other business?”
Dirkey stood. Cleared his th
roat. He proceeded to explain AFFFA.
When he finished, the caucus was in rapture.
The distinguished gentlemen and gentlewomen high-fived one another and slapped Dirkey’s back.
“Hallelujah!” cried the gentleman from Florida.
“God is our cosponsor!” proclaimed the gentleman from South Carolina.
“Proud to be G-O-P!” chanted the gentlewoman from Tennessee with a fist pump that accidentally landed on the chin of the gentleman from Alabama (her opponent in a caucus election for assistant whip).
For the first time in anyone’s recent memory, Speaker Frank Piermont showed signs of a possible smile.
The moderates filed out of the room, like prisoners on death row.
Roy Dirkey couldn’t wait to tell Sunny.
13
That evening, in Ralph Kellogg’s basement, the Organization celebrated the news that Mayor Liebowitz might be removed from office, to be replaced by—who else?— Ralph Kellogg. Mrs. Kellogg had poured cheese-flavored party mix into festive red Tupperware bowls. Ralph had upgraded the beer selection. They puffed on Tiparillo cigars, swiped earlier by Bobby Reilly from a 7-Eleven, the smoke hanging like a dead wake in the already foul air.
Despite the revelry, Ralph paced anxiously, from the towering gray steel shelves propped against one cement wall to the laundry appliances in a far corner. His arms were locked against his wide chest and his eyes narrowed on each step. His cheek twitched. Ralph couldn’t help but recall similar moments when the Organization was on the cusp of victory, only to drop the ball, miss a cue, or incinerate the wrong hardware store. He knew they were running out of time, that there were only so many felonies one could commit before losing one’s seat on the Village Board for a bunk at the Suffolk County jail. Ralph sized up his men. Louie was shoving cheese puffs through orange-crusted lips. Bobby seemed hypnotized by the burning embers of his cigar.
The Organization was in a state of slovenly disorganization.
Time for a motivational speech, Ralph thought. An inspiring oration would rouse his men from their stupor.
He positioned himself under the dim lightbulb that flickered from the ceiling.
“Listen up!” he commanded.
Louie and Bobby fixed their glassy eyes on him.
“Gentlemen! This is our time. Change is coming. And we sure as shit can’t fuck it up.”
Not exactly Henry V at Agincourt, but then again, this wasn’t a Shakespeare book club.
Ralph continued his soliloquy. “Now we know what Liebowitz was planning all along. The peace poles. The recycling bins. They were distractions. Her real plot was to take away our guns and leave us defenseless against the Islamex invasion!”
The Organization growled, punctuated with angry crunches of cheese mix and slurps of beer.
“The good news is we’ll be rid of her soon. Here’s how it’s gonna go down.”
They downed more beer.
“I checked with my brother-in-law, the village attorney. First, five hundred people have to sign a petition to demand a recall election. Next, the County Board of Elections certifies the petition. Then, they set a date for two votes. One vote to recall Liebowitz. The other to choose her replacement.”
“Duh, wonder who that’s gonna be!” Louie blurted. He scanned the room to make sure everyone grasped his clever sense of irony.
Bobby Reilly removed the Tiparillo from his lips and tipped his beer can toward Ralph. “Here’s to the new mayor! Can I be fire commissioner?”
“Hold on,” Ralph said. “I appreciate your loyalty and believe me, it’ll be rewarded. But I can’t get elected mayor unless Liebowitz gets recalled.”
“Five hundred signatures? I can do it in an hour.” Louie wriggled his forging fingers, now orange tipped from cheese flavoring and saliva.
Ralph frowned. “Not so easy anymore. Ever since the incident.” The incident was an election for Suffolk County sheriff several years earlier. The Organization attempted to influence the result by submitting hundreds of absentee ballots. Mildred Hagerdorn, an octogenarian employee of the Board of Elections, gasped and fainted when she opened one ballot and learned that her beloved husband, Fred, had voted for the Organization’s candidate. Fred had never expressed an opinion about who should be sheriff, certainly not one strong enough to compel him to vote seventeen years after his massive and quite fatal heart attack. An investigation revealed that forty percent of absentee ballots had been cast from the grave, giving new meaning to the political phrase “low voter turnout.”
“Liebowitz could get into an accident,” Bobby suggested. “Sometimes bicycle brakes just . . .” He shrugged.
Ralph sighed. “We don’t need that. For now.”
Bobby looked deflated.
“Think!” Ralph insisted, then quickly realized that thinking was pretty low on the Organization’s best practices list.
All he heard was sipping and munching and the soft buzz of the overhead lightbulb. His eyes wandered to the autographed Jack Steele movie poster taped to the wall.
“Hmmmm,” he grunted. For years, Ralph had been Jack Steele’s loyal sidekick in Asabogue. He dispatched village snow plows at the first dusting of Jack’s endless driveway. He deployed General Services Department employees to Villa di Acciaio for the occasional home-improvement project. Parking tickets were forgiven, code violations overlooked. All he asked for in return was Jack’s crisp nod of approval, the glint of his teeth, and that soft snap: “Thanks, amigo.” Being a friend of Jack’s was the only reward he needed (plus the customary hundred-buck gratuity). Ralph smiled.
Now it was time for Jack to return those many favors. He briefly imagined the press conference announcing Jack’s endorsement, the gobs of campaign donations from Jack’s celebrity friends, the bunting and bagpipes at his inauguration. He visualized the official Asabogue village stationery, the official park signs, the highway department vehicle mud flaps, bearing the imprint:
HON. RALPH KELLOGG
Mayor
So close, he thought.
All he needed was Jack’s support.
Loyalty worked both ways, right?
14
The next morning, the sky was a leaden gray and the air heavy. Lois Liebowitz mounted her bike, commenced a wobbly roll down her dirt-packed driveway, and steered left on Love Lane. She rattled past old homes with drooping roofs and dandelion yards. In her knees and hips Lois could feel soft twinges indicating a coming rain.
When she turned onto Main Street, she saw more immediate signs of trouble.
Ordinarily, downtown would be emerging languidly into the morning. Neighbors would sip coffee and peruse newspapers at Joan’s Main Street Bakery. Merchants would tidy the redbrick sidewalks outside their stores. But this morning, Lois noticed strangers—uniformed in khaki shorts and bright red polos— scurrying down both sides of the street. They carried clipboards crammed with oversized green papers. They huddled insistently around residents, who shot uncomfortable glances as Lois rode by.
Lois thought, Well, this is most certainly a violation of Village Resolution 771-1949: Restrictions on Outdoor Peddling and Solicitation. Then she pedaled faster, drawing in short breaths and returning soft groans. She arrived at Village Hall and hurriedly angled her bike into a rack, just as the first drops of rain fell.
The door squeaked as she entered.
A gloomy Sam Gergala stood behind the counter. This time he made sure the television was turned off. Next to him was Asabogue’s chief of police, Ron Ryan. He had red-gray hair, a thick rust mustache, and grim eyes that scanned constantly for incoming threats. He was sturdily built, wide and low to the ground. He fixed his hands on his hips, spread his feet, and pitched slightly forward—a vestige of his glory days as a defensive lineman at Asabogue High School. Chief Ryan had spent twenty years with the NYPD; now he commanded a Department of Public Safety with four full-time officers, three parttime summer employees, and three patrol cars (one of which was usually dispatched to Asabogue Service & G
as for repairs).
“Good morning,” Lois offered. But by the look of things, the morning seemed pretty bad.
The chief frowned. “You notice our visitors?” He always spoke in a low, conspiratorial manner.
“Who are they?”
“Checked ’em out. They came in from Washington, DC. Outfit called Canvass Sneakers.”
“Canvass Sneakers?”
“They sneak into communities. To canvass voters.”
“Clever. What are they doing here?”
Ryan looked at Sam and Sam looked at Lois.
“Show her,” Sam mumbled.
Chief Ryan pulled a folded green paper from the breast pocket below his badge and passed it to the mayor with a soft grunt.
Lois felt her cheeks grow warm as she read: “Recall Petition: In accordance with Asabogue Village Code Title 3, Section 1300.1, et seq, the undersigned request that an election be called and held for the purpose of recalling and replacing Lois Liebowitz, Mayor, Village of Asabogue, County of Suffolk, State of New York.” Followed by a bunch of blank lines where voters could sign the death sentence to the mayor’s career.
“Has the village attorney seen this?” Lois asked, eyes frozen on the petition.
“He probably drafted the damned thing,” Sam muttered.
In addition to serving as chief legal officer of Asabogue, the part-time village attorney also happened to be the full-time brother-in-law of Councilman Ralph Kellogg. After Ralph’s election as the candidate who promised to downsize Village Hall, he presented his supersized patronage demands to the mayor. It looked like the invite list to a Kellogg family reunion. Lois rejected most of the names, but extended an olive branch by appointing Ralph’s choice as village attorney. Now the olive branch was being thrust through Lois’s back.
“Well, no one will sign this silly thing,” she said, passing the petition back to Chief Ryan.
She laughed, but she knew it sounded forced.
Sam said, “All they need is five hundred signatures.”