by Steve Israel
The debate was scheduled for the first week in October. Shelly Pettigrew was satisfied. She had brought decorum to chaos, order to anarchy.
She was overly confident.
36
Megan Slattery crossed her supple legs and focused on the camera, trying to ignore the frantic swirl of annoyance around her. There was Robert Thomas, hacking phlegm, grinding his jaw, and clicking his teeth; and Ashley Barnes, smoothing the hem of her very short skirt. Nearby was the haughty crew from CNBC, pancaked noses jutting in the thin air of their rarified ratings; the teen idols from the MarxistSocialist National Broadcasting System (also known as MSNBC); and an acronymic assemblage of other news networks jammed into a confined space brought to a boil by blazing klieg lights. Plus the Spanish-speaking team from Univision, which really galled Megan. Bad enough you couldn’t call customer service without opting into the native tongue. Now those people had their own television network!
What’s happened to America? she thought.
Megan Slattery, who dreamed of reporting from mountain caves and desert battlefields, was now suppressing waves of nausea brought on by the rancid odor of food residue at a high school Cafetorium. Megan Slattery, the ice-queen moderator of presidential debates, whose withering questions and dismissive laugh were like a trapdoor through which candidates’ aspirations plunged, was now covering a local debate for mayor of a place whose name had become a national punch line, rolling hilariously from the chapped lips of high school dorks across America: “Asssss-abogue!” All because some senior vice president of programming, perched high in glittering Schwartzman Tower on East 57th Street, saw this event as ratings rocket fuel. Once SOS decided on “Live Coverage of the Asabogue Mayoral Debate,” all the other networks chimed “us too!” It had become a well-coiffed gang rumble, jostling for turf on a soiled linoleum Cafetorium floor, pointing cameras at a varnished stage where Oklahoma and Fiddler on the Roof had been mauled by student drama clubs for decades.
Baronial music streamed through Megan’s earpiece, followed by: “Stand by!”
Megan swallowed hard, imagining the nausea away, and switched on that beguiling smile. “Aaaaaaand welcome back to SOSNews live coverage of the Asabogue mayoral debate. I’m Megan Slattery, joined by my colleagues Robert Thomas and Ashley Barnes. Robert, what do both candidates have to accomplish tonight?”
Robert Thomas droned. Megan drifted.
An empty stool stood nearby, soon to be filled with a guest. The original plan was to bring on one of SOS’s resident experts— Cailee Cox or Karl Rove or George Will or any of the SOS propagandists dressed up as pundits. But the senior vice president insisted that a local election needed local color.
The guy standing off camera had all the color of a ghost.
Petey Scrafel.
He rocked back and forth nervously, despite a technician’s attempt to steady him with a firm hand on his shoulder. He fidgeted with an earpiece, pushing it so far into his ear canal that the technician winced. His curly blond hair was slicked back and a thick coat of makeup covered some kind of breakout on his face. He wore a blue blazer with sleeves dangling at his knuckles, khaki pants freshly ironed by his mother, and a crinkled black tie that leaned stubbornly to one side.
“Go to break,” a voice directed in Megan’s ear. She was pleased to cut off Robert’s soliloquy. Something about how “this is truly what democracy is all about in our town halls, from sea to shining sea with amber waves of grain.” All to the ratifying purrs of Ashley Barnes.
“Thank you, Robert! After the break, we’ll be joined by an expert who has covered local politics here in Asabogue his whole life. Stay with SOS.”
Megan thought, Once I made Bob Woodward cry. Now I’m about to interview the editor of the high school yearbook.
She scanned the Cafetorium.
The television lights glinted off rows of folding metal chairs that stretched all the way to the stage. Locals—a preproduction debate about whether to call them Asabogites or Asabogians was settled in favor of the less tongue-challenging “locals”—streamed in, creating a rolling thunder of metal chairs scraping against linoleum and bodies plopping onto the chairs. This was the hottest ticket in Asabogue, almost as exciting as the night Vice President Agnew visited. (The Nixon administration had a full-time staffer whose job it was to find the most remote venues for Agnew’s speeches. It was unofficially called “Project Tree Falls in the Forest.”) All of Asabogue was here! They came from Joan’s Bakery and the Wick & Whim, from the fruit and vegetable stands that lined the roads. They wore light jackets and sweaters against an early fall chill, festooned with buttons and stickers proclaiming allegiances: I LOVE LOIS!, STEELE SUPPORTER!, PRO-GUN, STOP GUNS, SAVE ASABOGUE, SAFE ASABOGUE, and red circles with back slashes slapped over crude caricatures of the candidates. Patsy Hardameyer sat in the front row, a quivering smile barely masking her crushing disappointment about being replaced as moderator. Vera Butane sat beside her; one seat over was Coach McHenry, nervously looping his whistle lanyard around his pudgy index finger, turning it a pallid pink. Sam Gergala paced near the stage, arms folded across his chest, eyes riveted to the floor. The leaders of Stop Helicopter Abuse in Asa-bogue filled a few chairs in the third row, hoping to ask a question about helicopter noise. Their representation was sparse, though. Most had returned to Manhattan for winter. In their helicopters.
There were town fathers and town mothers and sons and daughters of Asabogue. There were militia members with pistols strapped against hips and rifles slung over shoulders and assault weapons cradled against chests. Megan thought it all looked like a mobilization center for an invasion of Southampton.
She noticed some familiar faces. There was the boss himself, Sidney Schwartzman! His elfin body was perched in the front row, next to his stunning new wife, Mrs. Stormy Schwartzman née Divine, who towered over him. This was Schwartzman’s triumphant return to the little town that spurned him. His head, draped with a toupee that seemed a shade too orange in the harsh lights, turned in slow robotic movements, scanning enemies of the past, scores settled and unsettled. The entire row behind him had been commandeered by the cast of Steele Shudder III, including the diminutive Harry Haddad and Sid “Sidekick” D’Amico. Otis Cogsworth sat on an aisle seat, next to Lucille, his thighs spilling over the narrow metal chair, which seemed to sag under him.
Plus—
Oh! My! God! Sunny McCarthy!
In Washington, Sunny McCarthy and Megan Slattery traveled in the same high-velocity circles. They dined at the same Georgetown restaurants, shopped at the same boutiques, attracted lustful frothing by the same men. They shared secrets. Actually, Sunny shared the secrets and Megan broke them to a prime-time viewing audience of millions. That was their bond. Sunny leaked to Megan, Megan flooded the airwaves, reputations sank. Sure, the subjects were guilty before proven innocent in the gladiatorial arena of SOS viewers. But public service was, well, public. Americans had a right to know! It was all there in the First Amendment, which Sunny used to protect the Second.
Now, Megan’s reliable source was leaning against a wall, under a handmade poster for an upcoming meeting of the Asabogue Student Senate. She wore a tent-sized blue sweatshirt and jeans. Her arms were folded across stenciled yellow letters that read ASABOGUE PARKS DEPT.
Ewwww. She’s gone... native!
Megan had heard the rumors about Sunny’s abrupt departure from Washington to be at her mother’s side and subsequent resignation from Cogsworth International. How very principled! How mother-daughter! How mawkishly boring. Megan could hear the piercing whistle of ratings in free fall. What really intrigued her were the gathering whispers about Sunny’s relationship with Congressman Roy Dirkey. Now, that had potential. Broken hearts were always breaking news.
She made a mental note to do some digging. Yes, they were friends. But what was Truman’s line? If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.
Just make sure it doesn’t bite.
“Coming out of break in ten seco
nds!” Megan heard.
She relaxed her shoulders. Snapped on that smile.
She began: “Welcome back . . .”
Across the room, Sunny ignored Megan Slattery’s undisguised stares. Otis’s were more intriguing—amusing, actually, in the way he kept turning his head awkwardly toward her, catching her eye, then jerking it forward in sheer panic.
Time for some fun, she thought.
She walked toward him, eyeing the sweat streaming down his cheeks.
“Hey Otis!”
He smiled weakly, offering a trembling hand instead of the usual sloppy kiss. Sunny tried to ignore the wet spongy feel of his palm. She nodded to Lucille, who nodded back.
Otis’s cheeks shuddered, as if grinding over words he couldn’t get out. Then, “How’s your mother?”
“Not bad for a tax-cheating, gun-confiscating, left-wing lunatic who’s trying to make Asabogue the capital of the new Islamic caliphate. At least according to your commercials. And I thought she was just a bad cook.”
“C’mon, Sunny. Your side has been pretty negative as well. Good Lord, you’re making a damned guest cottage the end of our way of life.”
“Well, it was. For those piping plovers.”
Otis scowled. “We’re doing what we have to do and you’re doing what you have to do. Isn’t that how politics works? Didn’t you teach me that?”
Sunny thought, I’ve created a monster. With an excessive sweating condition.
“Look, Sunny, when this is over, I want you to come back to Cogsworth. Put this mess behind us. We need you to get AFFFA passed. We’re almost there.”
“I dunno, Otis. I’m told there’s an opening here in the Parks Department. If I pass the civil service test.”
Otis seemed insulted, and Sunny wondered whether she’d gone too far.
“C’mon,” Otis continued, “I’m trying to do the right thing here. Maybe your mother wins this election. Then what? You gonna leave Washington and move back to Love Lane? Give up all that power?”
She looked around, at the reflections of her power. Megan Slattery and the crowd of reporters were speaking breathlessly to their national audiences. Consultants from both campaigns were milling about, patting each other’s backs where they’d left puncture wounds. They’d come to Asabogue because it was the place to be seen and heard. But they were tethered to the Beltway and couldn’t go long without its supply of thick oxygen and burning ambition. They’d leave as soon as they could. And just then, Sunny McCarthy couldn’t imagine being left behind. Maybe Otis was right.
“We’ll talk after the election,” she said, turning away from Otis. Then turned back and said, “Meanwhile, may the best woman win, Otis.”
“You always do, Sunny. Call me after the election.”
*
Petey Scrafel’s most notable reportage had been his exposé on incorrect fund balances in the Asabogue-Southampton school budget. Now he was under the harsh glare of television lights, Megan Slattery, and approximately two and a half million SOS-News viewers. This, he calculated, was a particularly inopportune time to lose consciousness. He was experiencing a sense of ghostly detachment. The entire Cafetorium seemed to spin in slow motion. Everything was closing in on him.
He heard a distant voice say: “We’re joined by Peter Scrafel, editor in chief of the Asabogue Bugle. Peter, welcome.”
Petey blinked at Megan Slattery. He noticed her high gloss red lips and shimmering green eyes. And those legs! Megan Slattery’s legs pulled him from a cold swoon on national television. He was revived.
“Thank you, Megan.” He gulped.
“Now, you’ve been covering Asabogue for a few years. Any predictions on who wins this election?”
Petey leaned forward. “Well, Megan, I think every vote will count.”
Interview with Elmer P. Sepp, candidate for Asabogue-Southampton School Board.
Robert Thomas affirmed his judgment with an emphatic, “You betcha!” Ashley Barnes underscored it with a long “uuhhhh-huuuuuuh.”
Megan pushed on. “The polls have this race too close to call. Has Asabogue ever had such a close election?”
“Megan, the only poll that counts is the one on Election Day.”
Frank Weznofsky, losing candidate for Asabogue Tax Receiver.
“Which means tonight’s debate is critical. So what’s the strategic objective by both candidates? What constitutes a win tonight?” Petey didn’t quite grasp the question. He nodded slowly, put two fingers under his chin, and began: “My sources tell me, Megan, that this is a must-win for both candidates. They have to come out swinging. Get momentum. Put their opponent away in the early rounds.”
Boxing night on HBO.
“Fascinating!” Robert Thomas intoned. “But lemme ask: Is this the biggest thing ever to happen here in Asabogue?”
“Ummmm, this and the annual Fall Pumpkin Festival. Cars line up for miles.”
Robert, Ashley, and Megan erupted in a group giggle.
Petey wasn’t sure exactly why that was funny but felt relieved when Megan flashed him an alluring smile and, eyes twinkling, invited him to “stick around, after this break. Stay with SOS . . .”
37
For what would be the final mission of the Delmarco Division of Defiance, Ralph Kellogg dressed in black tactical pants, matching urban tactical shirt, urban body armor, urban helmet, and urban tactical gloves. It didn’t matter that Asabogue wasn’t urban. When the SWAT shoe fits, wear it.
Ralph stood alone in his basement. It had been stripped to its bare concrete walls of almost everything: the steel gun racks and metal cabinets, the folding snack food trays and mismatched couches, the air mattresses and coffee table, the old RCA TV, the maps of Asabogue, and the remembrances of Louie Delmarco. Only the laundry appliances remained, standing like silent relics in the dim light. Ralph Kellogg wasn’t sentimental, but bidding farewell to the Bunker brought tears to his eyes. Or maybe it was the lingering odor of explosives.
He planted his hands on his wide hips and blew a long, anxious breath. Then glanced at his watch. Six minutes to launch. He was approaching the culmination of his planning, procuring, and paranoia; of long nights sitting at that wobbly desk upstairs. He’d run and rerun every intricate detail in his head to the recordings of his favorite war movie theme songs and Mrs. Kellogg’s thunderous snoring down the hall. He’d reviewed all those entries in what was now a two-volume spiral-bound list of enemies. Some nights the details overwhelmed him. He’d sink his throbbing head into his ample palms, massage the pressure in his eyes and temples, start drifting to sleep. Then he’d remember Jack Steele and Lois Liebowitz. They’d come to him like a nightmare, joined by the countless others who angered, annoyed, or aggrieved him. Jolting him back to the plan, until sunrise.
Ralph perused the room one last time. Grunted softly. Then marched up the wooden steps, which groaned under the weight of his armor.
He entered the kitchen. Mrs. Kellogg sat at the table, wrapped in a fuzzy pink robe, oblivious to her warrior husband. She was reading People while methodically ladling great gobs of strawberry ice cream from the carton into her mouth. A wall clock ticked loudly. Seven forty. If everything went as Ralph planned, he’d return by midnight. If not . . . He bent toward her and planted a good-bye kiss on her plump, abrasive cheek.
“Going out?” she mumbled, eyes fixed on the magazine, spoon on fast approach to the ice cream.
“I shall return!” Ralph proclaimed, like MacArthur.
“Pick up more ice cream on the way home,” Mrs. Kellogg replied, like Mrs. Kellogg.
He closed the door behind him with a thud. Heavy clouds were rolling across Long Island. No moon or stars. A chilly breeze blew in from the ocean, but he felt clammy under layers of body armor.
A large white Department of Public Works cargo van sat in the driveway, guarded by a handful of militia dressed in their own urban tactical attire. For two days, they’d loaded the vehicle with items from the basement: cabinets, shelving, tools, multiple
cartons filled with Jack’s little memo pads. Also, several cans of M-80 fireworks and propane tanks; a dozen containers of gasoline; heavy-duty leaf bags filled with fertilizer purloined from the Asabogue Parks Department; a pressure cooker from Mrs. Kellogg’s kitchen cabinet; two cheap plastic alarm clocks; and various wires, fuses, and tubes.
Bobby Reilly leaned against the van, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He was about to strike a match.
Ralph rushed toward him. “Put that away! You’ll blow us to kingdom come!”
“Calms me down,” Bobby whined.
“Later!”
Bobby annoyedly shoved the cigarette in a shirt pocket.
“You pack the flags?” Ralph asked.
Bobby giggled. In the truck was a box filled with an arts and crafts project: dozens of small Mexican flags stitched by Mrs. Kellogg with an Islamic crescent. It was Ralph Kellogg’s homage to the Islamex invasion.
“Get in the truck,” Ralph ordered Bobby.
Ralph wedged himself behind the steering wheel. The odor of fertilizer, gas, and gunpowder was dizzying. His eyes watered and he felt a burning at the back of his throat. He inhaled nervously. Held his breath. Turned the key in the ignition. The van rattled and wheezed to a start without blowing up Ralph, his house, or his block. So far, the plan was a resounding success. He yanked on the gearshift. The van beeped loudly as he backed down the driveway— a rather frivolous safety feature under the circumstances. The rest of the militia scurried to their cars. Engines roared. Headlights flickered. The Delmarco Division of Defiance rolled toward its target.