Big Guns

by Steve Israel

  Sunny opened her mouth, but her usually sharp tongue felt spongy. “Know . . . whaaat, Jack?”

  Otis stepped helplessly forward. Lucille looked faint. Roy had a bemused smile.

  “You’re . . . a . . . a . . . fffffffff—”

  Sunny’s sentence was cut off by a full-throttle puke.

  *

  Sunny awoke to a Gene Krupa drum solo crashing in her head, and the inside of her mouth tasted as if something had crawled in to hibernate. She was in bed, blankets pulled to her head, face smushed against a pillow. She groaned. It sounded like a death rattle.

  Her eyes fluttered open to a sunlit room; she could hear the soft splashing of waves outside. She lifted her head from the pillow and a clump of tangled hair fell across her face. In the distance she saw horses charging toward her. Small horses, galloping from the walls.

  Oh... my... God. I’m at Double Action.

  Sunny kicked off the blankets and lifted herself from the bed. Her head throbbed and the room spun. Her belt was open and her pants unsnapped. The top buttons of her shirt were unfastened, revealing the upper ridge of her bra, and the shirt was damp with perspiration. She stumbled toward a dresser and looked in a mirror. She’d gone from “hot and sunny” to “help find a cure.” Bloodshot eyes blinked from puffy rings of smudged mascara. Her left cheek sported a meandering crevice from a wrinkled pillow. A patch of dried saliva had formed on the side of her mouth. Sunny had no idea how long she’d slept, but from her own rank odor, it could have been days. In fact, she may have come back from the dead.

  She thought, Air. Coffee. Shower.

  Sunny shuffled barefoot into the living room and pulled open a sliding door with a grunt. She stepped out, gulping for fresh air.

  “Well, good morning!”

  Roy Dirkey sat back in a patio chair, clasping a coffee mug with the Trigger Happy logo, smiling mischievously.

  Oh. My. God. Are you kidding?

  Roy wore running shorts and no shirt. His skin sported various scars. Sunny assumed the injuries weren’t sustained in the line of selling Chevys.

  She quickly considered her options. The most sensible involved rushing toward the ocean, plunging in, and swimming for the horizon, never to return.

  “Some fun last night, huh?” Roy smirked.

  She pulled the top of her shirt closed. “Exactly . . . how much fun?” Her voice was scratchy, her mouth bone-dry.

  Roy laughed. “I never saw someone go down for the count like you did. I wanted to call an ambulance, but Mrs. Cogsworth said, Absolutely no ambulances at a Cogsworth event.’ Something about how ambulances attract the wrong kind of attention. I think if the choice was letting you die quietly or letting you live with some bad press, we’d all be getting dressed for your funeral today.”

  Probably true, Sunny thought. “How’d I get here?”

  “Well, first they took you inside the main house and cleaned you up. We don’t have main houses where I’m from, by the way. Then some doc showed up and said you were . . . ‘overserved.’ A couple of the household security staff—another amenity we seem to be missing back home—brought you down here and we put you to bed. I looked in on you a few times during the night. Don’t worry, I stayed a respectable distance at all times. But I must say—girl, you can snore! Heard it a bedroom away!”

  Really, kill me now.

  *

  Sunny reemerged an hour later, freshly scrubbed and dressed in denim shorts and a white tank top. She fell into a chaise lounge while Roy poured her coffee. She sipped slowly, letting the caffeine settle on her tongue and drift into her head, letting the warm sun bathe her skin.

  “So this is your hometown, huh?” Roy asked.

  Sunny squinted across the dunes to the waves lapping on the beach. “Here? Not exactly. I lived on the other side of town. Waaaay on the other side.”

  Roy was silent. Then he asked, “You going to visit your mother? I heard Steele talking last night. Seems like they’re gonna get pretty rough with her.”

  Sunny focused on puffy clouds drifting high over the ocean and said, “Change the subject.”

  “Yeah, I know how you feel. Maybe that’s why people like you and me do what we do. Always trying to prove we’re not our parents.”

  Sunny set down her coffee and swiveled toward Roy, anger flashing across her face. “Hey! You wanna be the governor of Arkansas or an amateur shrink?”

  “I just meant—”

  “Here’s the deal, Roy. I love my privacy. And I shoot trespassers—”

  “Whoah!”

  “You’re here to collect two hundred fifty grand, go back to DC, and pass AFFFA. You worry about that. I’ll worry about my mother . . .”

  Sometimes, critical secrets slip out of the most carefully guarded minds. Take Sunny that morning. Maybe all those drinks had weakened her defenses. Or maybe when Roy saw her stumble onto the patio with her blouse open and her breath putrid, or heard her wake-the-dead snore, that area of her psyche that protected her image just surrendered, figuring there was no longer any point to guarding secrets. Whatever the cause, the words left her lips before she could tug them back.

  “I’ll worry about my mother...”

  24

  Speaker of the House Frank Piermont loved being third in line to the presidency. He hated being near President Henry G. Piper, especially while news photographers jostled to record the moment. Their monthly Oval Office meetings were staged to show the party faithful that two of the most powerful Republicans in America were working hand in hand. The truth was that it was hand-to-hand combat.

  They’d served briefly together in Congress. Piermont was known as the “Member’s Member”—tucking earmarks into bills for his colleagues, advancing their amendments, traveling to far-flung congressional districts to speak at their fund-raisers. He’d laboriously paved his path to Speaker with the concrete mixture of chits and favors over twenty years. President Henry G. Piper, on the other hand, treated the floor of the House as a springboard to a better gig. He charmed the Republican national donornetwork; he was a darling of the Sunday morning news shows; he had a golden tongue that operated deftly from both sides of his mouth.

  His good fortune soured quickly upon taking the oath of office. The Republican base thought he’d become a weak-kneed moderate. The moderates thought he’d veered, sharp-elbowed, to the base.

  Now, President Piper sat in his chair at one end of the Oval Office, rubbing his forehead with index finger and thumb. The nervous habit, triggered with every world crisis and bad headline, had, by now, produced a distinct pink blemish. Piermont sat in an adjacent chair, staring icily ahead. Staff sat on two couches separated by a coffee table, like two opposing teams glowering at each other. The Oval Office was decorated in accordance with the preferences of various focus groups commissioned by the president. The walls were a peachy yellow. The paintings looked as if they’d been swiped from a Motel 6. (The First Lady drew the line at replacing a portrait of Thomas Jefferson with one of the paintings from the Dogs Playing Poker series.)

  The president’s press secretary bellowed, “Thank you,” a signal for the press corps to beat it. Shutters clicked, feet shuffled. When the last photographer exited, Piper slumped in his chair. He’d been slumping a lot lately. Chicago was a war zone. The Dow was plummeting. China and Germany were nudging the United States toward nine in the G8. The Middle East was one big nuclear arms bazaar. Climate change was pushing Jews out of an inexorably sinking South Florida for higher ground in the Poconos.

  And the list of Republicans vying to primary Piper resembled an NCAA bracket grid.

  Plus there was the matter of his schedule that evening—another tedious black-tie affair, this by the Association of American Gun Associations. They were the last bastion of support for the president, all his former loyalists having melted away like ice cream in the sweltering Washington summer. He couldn’t afford to lose them, but there were grumblings within AAGA that Piper was, as quoted by an anonymous source in the Washi
ngton Post, getting “gummy on guns.” This, despite the president’s hundred percent NRA rating, his executive order allowing same-day pistol permits (registering to vote, on the other hand, now took approximately six to eight weeks), and his decision to light up the White House facade one night a month in gunsmoke gray. The dinner, days before a House vote on AFFFA, seemed timed to put the president in the political crosshairs.

  So to speak.

  Piper cleared his throat. “Frank, you can’t pass this bill. It’s just—”

  “It’s nutso,” the Speaker interrupted. He enjoyed interrupting the president.

  Piper scowled his disapproval, then continued. “I mean, the United States government cannot compel every American to—”

  “Own a gun!”

  “It just goes—”

  “Way too far.”

  “So we agree?” asked the president.

  “We don’t disagree.”

  “So you’ll bottle it up?”

  “Can’t. My Members are pushing. Hard.”

  “Push back.”

  Piermont thought, This coming from a president whose last foreign trip was called the White Flag Tour. He nodded defiantly. “Congress is taking its August recess soon. When we come back in September, I want my Members focused on passing a gun bill, not gunning for me.”

  “Well, then Binslap will just have to kill it in the Senate when you return.”

  “Not with a third of his caucus running against you, Hank.”

  The president frowned. “I prefer to be called Mr. President, Mr. Speaker.”

  Piermont shrugged. “This bill’s coming your way this fall. Better get out your veto pen . . . Mr. President.”

  Piper rubbed his forehead.

  25

  The Association of American Gun Associations annual dinner was the hottest invitation in Washington, and a “must show” for any presidential aspirant. Candidates posed for photo ops waving their favorite firearm high above their heads in a display of presidential phallus worship that would roll Freud’s eyes. It was a blend of gun rights rally, Hollywood awards ceremony, and New York fashion show. Guests traversed a red carpet, bearing arms in bare arms, strapless gowns, and rippled cummerbunds. Ivory glinted from gun grips and Victoria’s secret was a concealed bra holster.

  Hundreds of tables were spread across the massive banquet hall of the Washington Marriott, bathed in the soft glow of chandeliers. The white-draped dais was long enough to land a small jet. There sat Speaker Piermont, looking, as usual, glum. There was also a woman who might have been the correct response to “Obscure Cabinet Secretaries for $200, Alex,” and all seventeen announced Republican candidates for president, eyeing each other warily. They were the only ones who were required to check their guns at the door. At the microphone, the master of ceremonies implored his unruly audience to pay attention to the program, punctuating every few words with “shhhhhhh.” But his words were whimpers against the oblivious roar of the crowd. He had no chance of being heard in a room filled with talking heads. Pundits pontificated, congressmen bloviated, celebrities chattered, all to the clanking of silverware and the soft thuds of dinner plates plopped on tables.

  The buzz that night was the American Freedom from Fear Act. There was hyperventilating that the administration would issue a veto threat! That the Senate would filibuster! Politico had posted a grainy image of the leaders of the Senate secretly conspiring to kill the bill. SludgePost.net tweeted of similar plots at the White House.

  Veto threat! Filibuster! Statement of principles of administration! These were the words that stimulated glands, pumped blood, released pheromones inside the Beltway. Outside the Beltway, people remained mostly nauseous.

  In a far corner, there was a sudden surge of bodies, like a rolling wave. Cameras snapped and flashed. Heads turned and necks craned to glimpse the arrival of the new Elvis of American politics. He was barely able to move against the crowd as it closed in on him. Kate Kass of CNN maneuvered to his side. She was diminutive, but the woman could poke holes through any cluster of reporters.

  Kass shouted, “How do you respond to reports that you’re thinking of entering the Republican race for president?”

  A rather overwhelmed Roy Dirkey insisted, “I haven’t thought of that. I—”

  Kass interrupted, “Planning any trips to Iowa? New Hampshire?”

  “Just Arkansas. Third district—”

  “So you’re denying an interest in running for president?”

  “Yes! No. I mean, right now I’m running for reelection!”

  “Right now?”

  Earlier in the day, someone had leaked the latest poll in the Republican presidential campaign. Until then, all seventeen candidates had been tied for seventeenth place. In fact, the highest vote getter was a guy named “Never Heard Of.” Now, however, a new name had streaked brilliantly across the dense Republican field, like a meteor burning in red, white, and blue. The previously unknown Roy Dirkey was winning every head-to-head even though he hadn’t dipped a toe into the Republican race. It didn’t matter that the poll was conducted by an outfit known as Fudge & Bluster Associates (motto: “Where 2 + 2 Equals Whatever You Want”). This was news! Okay, maybe not news, exactly. More like a morsel that would temporarily feed the omnivorous appetite of the twenty-four-hour live-streaming news cycle. It would be chewed on, digested, and then regurgitated into the mouths of other pundits, like birds feeding an incessantly chirping flock.

  Roy’s sudden popularity was fabricated by the grease-oiled machinery of this manufacturing town. That day almost every news outlet in America featured a photo of Roy, cradling his favorite military assault weapon, flashing that boyish grin. Television network bookers were in mortal combat to land him for the following Sunday morning shows. CNN begged. Fox pleaded. MSNBC cajoled. And even though Roy Dirkey had only wanted to be governor of Arkansas, the words “President Dirkey” had a certain ring to them. The fact was that Roy’s thoughts had recently been wandering up Pennsylvania Avenue and loitering at 1600.

  Finally, Roy found his table. It was hosted by the NRA and accorded appropriate prestige, at the footsteps of the high dais. It was populated by the brightest stars in politics, entertainment, and sports. He wrestled his chair from the tangle of chairs next to him. He struggled to figure out which of the four separate wineglasses was his and which of the many forks splayed before him he should use. He was wedged between a breast-enhanced actress and steroid-enhanced NFL quarterback. At one point, both slinked off, returning later in various states of apparel malfunction, having obviously engaged in passionate debate over the Omnibus Appropriations for the Department of the Interior and Related Agencies Act. Over a wilted brown salad, Roy found himself in a one-sided conversation with the heavily accented French ambassador. Roy didn’t understand a word. He did, however, make a pre-presidential decision to terminate diplomatic relations with France.

  Sunny remained at the back of his mind. He called her that morning and asked her to attend the dinner. Her rejection left a stinger deep in his skin. It went something like “I’d rather be dead.”

  The dinner droned on. President Piper’s speech had all the conviction of a plate of shimmering Jell-O. On the issue of gun rights, the seventeen presidential candidates struggled to, well, outgun each other. The undercooked beef left red rivulets on plates, the coffee was weak, and the featured comedian bombed. Through all of it, the center of attention was the gentleman from Arkansas. Yet despite the assemblage of journalists, tweeters, bloggers, analysts, and commentators, right there in the very capital of the pundi-tocracy, no one thought to ask the most important question: Who leaked the poll showing Congressman Roy Dirkey closing in on the presidency? And why?

  Toward the merciful end of the program, the emcee again attempted to shush the crowd, announcing, “A special greeting from a beloved hero to us all.” The lights lowered to near black and the audience brought itself to a dull roar. Towering video screens flickered on. Then a voice thundered across the ex
pansive hall. “Hi ya’ll. This is Billy Bedford Forrest.”

  Everyone cheered.

  In 1978, in the middle of a typically riotous concert at the Clarksville Speedway & Fairgrounds in Tennessee, the artist formerly known as Billy Dumphee called a judge onstage and legally changed his name to honor his boyhood hero, Nathan Bedford Forrest. The original Forrest was a lion of the Confederacy and first Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. The newly minted Billy Bedford Forrest was a heavy metal rocker wanting to make a statement, with an exclamation point in the shape of a burning cross.

  Billy Bedford Forrest became a cult phenomenon. His songs were skull-cleaving anthems to political incorrectness. “Domestic Untranquilities” simultaneously rose to the top of Billboard’s Hard Rock and the Secret Service “Persons of Interest” lists. His cover of the Knack’s “My Sharona”—renamed “My Sharia”—was received in various Middle East countries with the burning of American flags and stationing of grim-faced marines around U.S. consulates. To ignite sales, Billy spewed noxious diatribes at his favorite targets: liberals, vegetarians, and, especially, gun control activists. Billy had it figured out: the more loaded his sound bites, the more his fans downloaded his songs.

  And now, here he was, in prerecorded grandeur.

  He sat in a recording studio, cradling a Gibson Byrdland electric guitar. Now in his late sixties, he looked like an assisted living resident dressed as a rocker for the Halloween party. A Confederate flag bandana was stretched across a gaping bald spot; a stringy gray ponytail fell to his shoulders; and his chin sported a narrow clump of gray-flecked stubble. He wore a black tank top that advertised, in bright spangle, his current concert tour: Stun Gun Love.

  He began. “Friends, I’m here to talk to ya’ll about Jack Steele. Jack’s running for mayor of a town called Asabogue. Maybe ya’ll never heard of it. But, hey, who the—” (bleep) “ever heard of Lexington and Concord till the shot heard round the world?”