Green Dreams

by Gary W Ritter

  Chapter 35

  Summer

  Tony Renaldi drew back with a flourish from the hand-lettered sign he’d just completed. Perfect. He’d show those greedy corporate types what they could and couldn’t get away with. How dare they think that technology triumphed over the will and spirit of the people! Besides, people working together for the common good was the way the world should work. All for one and one for all.

  In two hours, Tony planned to leave his apartment with his sign, board the Metra train for downtown, and join the thousands of other like-minded citizens protesting world trade. His sign – Feed the Needy, Not the Greedy – said it all, and he’d carry it proudly. It would complement others with slogans such as Frankenfoods = Mutant People; Human Overpopulation Saddens Mother Gaia; and GM is for Cars.

  Genetically Modified foods were the scourge of the earth as far as Tony was concerned. Scientists creating food in test tubes was the most dangerous thing he could imagine. Sure, GM crops might feed starving Africans today, but in the long run who knew what horrors would result? Those scrawny Africans might breed deficient offspring with no legs and four eyes. Like that Thalidomide debacle back in the sixties. Who needed that kind of curse let loose upon the world?

  One of the global trade organizations was holding a major gathering in Chicago, and its attendees included rich capitalists and government bureaucrats from every corner of the earth. Similar events had been held in Seattle, Sacramento, and Switzerland, and in every case but one—when the power elite hid in that Arab country one year so far from civilization that no one could reach it to protest—the demonstrations had thoroughly disrupted the proceedings and made the ignorant populace aware of the dangers they faced with genetics run amok.

  Sure, Tony thought, there were seeming advances that sounded good: soy crops genetically engineered to resist a killer weed, mutant corn containing a bug-killing bacterium, technologically altered cotton that made its own insecticide. And naturally, advocates of these frankencrops told heartwarming vignettes like the one about the cotton. Some African chick purportedly used four to five different insecticides to make her cotton grow, yet the truth was that it made workers sick and theoretically killed four children who drank the runoff water contaminated by the chemicals. Well, of course, everybody knew chemicals were toxic. She shouldn’t have used them in the first place. It certainly wasn’t a good excuse to use GM garbage instead. Messing with nature always had cataclysmic consequences. Better to grow the stuff natural; no insecticides; no GM.

  And don’t tell me, Tony continued arguing to himself, that plants turn to dust in the arid African climate without a technology boost. I don’t buy it.

  Pumped up by his mental gymnastics, Tony saw that he still had a solid hour before he had to leave for the train. He had some bills to pay so he pulled out his checkbook. Tony made a good salary at his interior design job at the Merchandise Mart. He’d built up a nice cash balance over the last three years and socked away a healthy nest egg into his 401(k). It left him with plenty to contribute to worthy causes, his favorite being Gaiatic Charities.

  He wrote checks for Nordstroms, Commonwealth Edison, and Visa, then decided to make an extra donation to Gaiatic this month. They were great, backing important causes like his favorite against GM foods, but also preservation of rare species and extended research into the harm done through destruction of the ozone layer.

  Tony picked up a notice Gaiatic had sent with lots of small print that he hadn’t gotten around to reading. He waded through the first three paragraphs, and the phone rang. It was a telemarketer. Hanging up on her, Tony reread the same paragraphs. The doorbell chimed. Sighing, he went to the door where the UPS man handed him a small package that required his signature.

  He dropped the package on the kitchen table without opening it, determined to get that Gaiatic notice read so he could file it. First three paragraphs again. First word in the fourth paragraph, and a car backfired outside his window. He jumped, almost continued reading, then looked out to see his neighbor in the lot with his ’57 Chevy, smoke billowing from its tailpipe.

  The grandfather clock chimed. Whoa, he had to change before he left. So much for the notice. He’d finish it later.

  After dressing, he quickly opened the UPS package and was puzzled when a small box revealed a clear little ball with a tiny dinosaur trapped inside. The box said the item was a stress reliever—squeeze the ball and eliminate all your tensions. He squeezed. The ball broke, and a slimy liquid inside squirted onto his hands. One drop even sprayed into his eye. Some days you couldn’t win.

  Now he was going to miss the train if didn’t hustle. He wiped the gunk off his hands with a paper towel, threw the tension ball in the trash, and went to the sink to wash the stuff from his eye. Another minute, and he was out the door. What a morning.

  Tony caught the train with moments to spare and realized he hadn’t brought a book. At least he had his sign.

  The train was a milk run. It stopped at every station along the way, making Tony wonder why he hadn’t planned better to take an express. He closed his eyes.

  In his self-imposed darkness, a rainbow of colors danced on the movie screen of his eyelids. He began to feel nauseous. That wasn’t good.

  Need to think of something—keep my mind active so I don’t dwell on feeling sick, he thought.

  He remembered the notice from Gaiatic Charities. What the heck was that about? Oh, yeah, it referred to life insurance of all things. That’s right. It said Gaiatic took out life insurance on me. A wonderful program. Gaiatic’s the beneficiary. If I die, the proceeds go to Gaiatic, all at no cost to me.

  The train entered a long dark tunnel. Wind whistled on both sides as it sped through the stygian blackness. Wait, there were no tunnels like that on the Metra. How much was that policy for? Ummm, two hundred thousand. Good deal for Gaiatic when he died. He was healthy, though. They’d have to wait a long, long time for a return on their investment.

  The tunnel grew blacker. It was the darkest tunnel Tony had ever known. They must be far underground Chicago by now. Below Lower Wacker, below the Chicago River. New territory, new depths. Exploding lights. Metra to the center of the earth.

  Chapter 36

  The Executive Director of Gaiatic Charities extended his hand as he walked into the well-appointed Senatorial office with its massive oak desk, its floor to ceiling bookshelf filled with public policy and legal tomes, and the highly polished teak floor covered by a rare Chinese silk rug. In a deep baritone, Lee Mossberg said, “Franklin, good to see you again.” Mossberg barely reached five foot six and was a good three hundred pounds. His custom-tailored four-thousand-dollar vested suit left no question in one’s mind that he was a wealthy executive, in this case, the head of a successful, well-endowed charity.

  Franklin Toomey III rose from the silk-glove cradle of his leather chair to shake Mossberg’s hand while clapping his other to the man’s upper arm in camaraderie. “Lee, what a pleasure.”

  Mossberg turned to the two others who had followed him into Toomey’s office. The big man had a hearty manner about him, and with an infectious smile, introduced the woman as Sandra Bullfinch, Finance Director, and her male companion as Clarence Short, Director of Funding Allocation. “Sandra makes sure the money flows into Gaiatic Charities and Clarence spends it. Not sure how he lives that one down at home.” Mossberg used that line whenever he introduced these members of his staff and knew very well that Short was homosexual and unattached.

  Toomey, unaware of the man’s circumstances, winked and said, “Just keep the little woman happy in bed and who spends the money is immaterial, eh, Clarence?”

  Short responded with a, “Yes, sir,” and immediately became engrossed with the clouds whisking by outside the Senator’s window.

  Sandra Bullfinch set her mouth in a hard line, her eyes prodding Mossberg to say something.

  He did, sending the message that she’d have to deal with Toomey’s lack of tact among colleagues. “How’s the
campaign going?”

  Mossberg knew full well that Toomey’s poll numbers were currently well ahead of the Republican candidate, a delightful situation in many respects.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Toomey said. “In fact, we’re starting a new ad run tomorrow that’s going to blow the socks off our conservative friends.”

  “I see that your fundraising is up, Senator,” Sandra Bullfinch said.

  “Indeed it is, in no small measure to you fine folks.”

  Gaiatic couldn’t legally contribute directly to Toomey’s campaign. In the public eye, its sole political act was assuring through its network of affiliated organizations that the environmental advocacy the senator espoused was heard by every American household. That was on the surface. It was in the shady netherworld of financial manipulation and money laundering that Gaiatic actually contravened campaign finance laws.

  The charity had also discovered another ingenious method of generating cash, one that took a toll on its base of contributors and required constant membership renewal, but it had the appearance of legitimacy. The CHOLI scheme Mossberg had stumbled upon enabled Gaiatic to funnel massive amounts of money into Toomey’s coffers, and recent polling reflected it. The only real problem with Gaiatic’s implementation of charity-owned life insurance, the charity’s Executive Director often reflected, was finding resourceful methods for the insured to die. Variety was the spice of life, or death in this case, so as not to arouse undue suspicion. But he had extremely resourceful people working at it and “housekeepers” who tidied up afterward. Sandra Bullfinch in her fundraising role excelled at details of this sort. Loose ends were few and far between.

  Toomey had been informed long ago that certain means of fundraising would be used that couldn’t pass the white glove test of legality, and Mossberg knew the presidential candidate was uneasy with the illicit machinations that Gaiatic performed. The senator, however, had a lofty goal and wasn’t so discomfited as to pull the plug on his run for the Oval Office.

  A lovely young woman entered the office after knocking and being beckoned in by Toomey. She carried a silver tray with four cups of steaming coffee and a sterling serving set.

  Toomey closed his eyes for a moment saying, “Wonderful! Thank you, Susan. This smells almost as good as you.”

  As Mossberg had previously seen, Susan dressed enticingly. When she bent to place the tray on Toomey’s side table, she provided all in the room with a visual display. She pushed back a strand of rich blonde hair that had fallen over one eye and stood straight, flashing a glorious smile.

  “Susan is one of my most promising interns,” Toomey said. He pinched her bottom, causing the young woman’s neck and ears to bloom scarlet.

  “You’re just saying that, Senator,” Susan said, but she winked at him before closing the door on her way out.

  Mossberg noticed Clarence Short’s pinched visage and the wince from Sandra Bullfinch, thinking it may have been a mistake to bring a man of his proclivities into the office of a womanizer like Toomey. Such extremes often didn’t mix well, but Short was so good at his job of dispersing monies in creative ways that Mossberg had wanted to reward the man by introducing him to the next president of the United States. He mentally waved away his concerns. Short was hard core, his dedication to the Cause complete and unwavering. Of course, Short and Bullfinch were also extremely well compensated, which didn’t hurt their loyalty. Where else would people in their positions make the exorbitant amounts they did? They’d get over their issues with Toomey’s manner.

  When the four of them had settled into a seating area in a remote corner of the office with ornately carved Louis XV sofa and chairs around a same period marble top coffee table, Mossberg said, “Franklin, I wanted to let you know of a potential problem.”

  With his mind apparently still clouded by Susan’s charms, it took Toomey several moments to register the concern in Mossberg’s voice. It finally clicked in and Toomey’s expression became one of alarm. “What kind of problem? It’s not going to affect public opinion, is it?”

  “No, no, nothing that drastic,” Mossberg crooned. What a shallow man, he thought.

  Although the Braintrust, of which he was part, had chosen Toomey, literally anointing him as the chosen one to run for president, the members realized they were taking a chance on him. Their choices hadn’t been stellar given the endemic weakness within the pool of liberal possibilities, yet the Braintrust knew that this election year was the opportunity they’d conspired for since the Democrat party had begun its long decline into irrelevance. There were better than even odds against a new Republican candidate following a weak, eight-year run, heightened by a fresh perspective on environmental concerns that jazzed the liberal base and appealed to the majority in the middle. No more waiting. Move the country left. Use inertia to keep it rolling in that direction. Don’t stop there. More, much more, was planned. But first, they had to get Toomey elected.

  “I wanted to make you aware of this situation; that we may use it in some manner to our political advantage.”

  “Use it? How?”

  Mossberg made a placating gesture. “Calm down. Here it is. There’s been an IRS agent nosing around our affairs. He showed up with a companion at one of our facilities and made the mistake of getting caught. We had an opportunity to eliminate him, but didn’t. Our mistake. I’m not quite sure what happened. From the reports I got, he ended up hurt but alive after an incident. The guy’s been pretty well neutralized because our people are well placed in his organization.”

  Toomey squeaked, “IRS?” and covered his face. “Oh, I knew there’d be trouble.” He slumped in his chair before perking up the next instant. “Wait. You said he’s neutralized? How?”

  Mossberg grinned. “We have our ways.”

  ***

  As the three of them left Franklin Toomey III in the confines of his stately Russell Senate Office Building suite, Clarence Short experienced severe cramps in his lower abdomen. The meeting his boss, Lee Mossberg, had orchestrated had gone as planned. Short’s colleague, Sandra Bullfinch, and he had witnessed a most unpleasant occurrence, the continued blackmail of a great public servant. And he had taken it lying down.

  Here was a man, Senator Toomey, who’d dedicated his life to the betterment of America, who was a tremendous advocate of that which Short held dear, namely, the preservation of the environment, and this man, this wonderful man, had been laid low by his scheming, pile-of-excrement of a boss. It wasn’t right and Clarence Short wanted to puke right then and there all over Mossberg’s lousy four-thousand-dollar suit.

  Somebody should do something about this, he thought. Somebody should spill the beans and make Mr. Lee Mossberg pay for putting Senator Toomey into such an untenable position.

  The only reason Mossberg confided in the senator was to make him complicit. It sickened Short to think back on that moment when Senator Toomey had asked, “Why are you telling me this?” And Mossberg had replied in all his pompous righteousness, “Insurance. If you know what we’re doing and why, and don’t tell the authorities, then you’re as up to your ears guilty as we are. And you won’t say a word because of what it would do to your presidential aspirations.”

  Mossberg was right, too. Toomey’s face had fallen into a sad caricature of itself. He was trapped between his long-held dream and the only means of achieving it.

  From what Short could determine, the IRS agent was only doing his job—just like Clarence himself up to this point. Did that make him bad, or someone who should unwittingly be taken down? He grimaced at the pain in his stomach, and decided it must have direct neural pathways to his conscience.

  When Mossberg had brought Sandra Bullfinch and Clarence Short into the fold, he’d done so after an extensive vetting period. He’d observed their work habits and analyzed their hobbies. He’d learned what their passions were and how willing they were to act on them. In the end he’d offered them a deal neither could refuse. The money for doing their jobs, much more than normal in s
uch positions, was beyond their wildest expectations for the nature of the work performed. All they had to do was lie, cheat, and turn away from acknowledging that certain activities at Gaiatic were occurring in the name of charity.

  “No strings,” Mossberg had said in preface to laying out the larger scheme prior to their buy-in. “If what I’m about to describe and what I’m prepared to offer in return for your loyalty doesn’t sit right with you, you’re free to walk away.”

  Neither Bullfinch nor Short walked. Mossberg had done his homework well. The problem for Clarence Short at this juncture, however, was that he didn’t believe he could walk without consequences. He knew too much, and he’d seen enough crime dramas on TV to know that if he were to show any signs that he wanted to divulge Gaiatic’s secrets, his life would be in peril. Mossberg had never said a word in that respect, but Short knew. He was up to his neck. Gaiatic was a charity in name, but a ruthless, deadly entity in practice.

  Lee Mossberg clapped Short on the shoulder as they entered a taxi. “Much work before us, Clarence. I hope you and Sandra have your running shoes on. You’re going to need them to keep up with everything on our plates.”

  Bullfinch was by the opposite window. Clarence received the short end of the straw—ooh, he hated his last name and the puns he even laid on himself—with Mossberg and his three-hundred-pound bulk nestled beside him. Short could barely breathe in the middle. Worse, the D.C. weather was hot and muggy, and Mossberg had been sweating in the meeting with Toomey. Now his body odor was immediate and overwhelming.

  Short tapped on the glass for the driver’s attention. “Can you turn the AC up higher?”

  The cabbie swiveled his head and gave him a gap-toothed grin from within his brown face. With a strong Middle Eastern accent, he said, “Is broken. Fix tomorrow.”

  Short slumped back in the precious little space he had. He couldn’t even hold his breath because that meant he needed room to expand his chest.