“When you speak of this man, you will show respect. He is the president who first declared war on drugs in 1972. You would not be standing here if he had not. You would not be wearing that fancy suit or driving that German sports car you prize so much. You owe this man everything—him and all the presidents who continued the war after him. They were men.” Carlos turned back to his photo of Nixon and stared at that smiling face.
“Why can’t Thomas Winston be like the others and follow in their footsteps? But no. He is a cowardly hijo de puta who will ruin everything!”
“He hasn’t got a chance,” Gold said. “The only thing he’ll ruin is his political career.”
If only you knew what I know, Carlos thought.
He returned to his desk and dropped into his chair. The automatic massager was still on. He adjusted his back against it for full effect but it gave him only minimal relief. He’d have to call that Chinese girl—Tree Flower, or whatever her name was. She was the only one who could soothe his pain. When she walked up and down his spine with her little feet and massaged him with her toes, he found the closest thing to heaven… next to his wife.
The thought of Maria saddened him. He had met her on a visit home. A girl then, barely out of her teens, pure paisa like him, no native blood, able to trace her family all the way back to Spain. For the first time in his life Carlos had known love. He wooed her, married her, and brought her to the United States. For ten years he knew bliss.
And then Maria began to change. She became moody, unhappy. She moved to another bedroom. And then three weeks ago, she rented a townhouse in Georgetown and moved out. Carlos had never thought he could be so devastated by a woman…
But he hadn’t lost her. This was a temporary thing. She’d come back. He could bring her back, of course, but what good was that? He didn’t want to be her jailer. But he was her watchdog, keeping her under round-the-clock surveillance.
“What is the latest from P Street?” he asked Gold.
Gold shrugged. “She shops. Goes to museums. Shops some more. Goes to the library. Shops. She’s enrolled in a course at G.U. She—”
“What course?”
“Something in the Women’s Studies program. I have the exact name in the report. Want me to—?”
“Never mind.” He sighed. “No other man?”
Alien shook his head. “Or woman. It’s like she’s become some sort of female monk… with an Amex card.”
Carlos knotted his fists in frustration. La perra! He did not understand her.
Yes, he did. He knew what the problem was: the United States. She was being corrupted. Becoming… American. He had to get her away from the talk shows and soap operas and magazines that put crazy ideas into her head. He had to get her back home—to Colombia— whether she liked it or not. When he was finished with this business here, when he was a billionaire, he would build an estate bigger than Jorge Ochoa’s Hacienda Weracruz, where he would raise magnificent caballos de paso, just as Maria’s father had done. And there, back in her homeland, she would regain her senses. She would become his Maria again.
But all that was dependent on bringing down President Winston. Everything depended on getting rid of that cabron.
Carlos picked up the TV remote. The sixty-inch rear projection screen buzzed to life. He saw two vaguely familiar politicians, one white, one black, standing behind a podium at what looked like a press conference.
“Talk about politics making strange bedfellows,” Gold said. “Good Lord, it’s Jessup and Wagner side by side. Stay here.”
The banners at the bottom of the screen identified the black man as REP. FLOYD JESSUP (D-NY) and the white man as REP. QUINCY WAGNER (R-SC). Each was outdoing the other in flogging the President. Congressman Jessup was shouting about “genocide on a level that will make Adolph Hitler look like a piker!” while Wagner was warning about “the unraveling of the very moral fiber of America!” Gold was laughing. “First time I’ve ever seen those two agree on anything! This is awesome!”
“Alien,” Carlos said. “I wish you to find the addresses of these fellows’ re-election campaign funds and write out a check to each for two thousand dollars with a note to keep up the good work and escalate the war on drugs.”
Gold nodded, grinning. “I love it! I’ll draw them from the restaurant’s account. Not that we need to contribute a dime—I mean, they can’t fail—but I love the irony.”
“And I love insurance.” Carlos cruised the channels, not sure of what he was looking for. Something, anything, to help him get a feel for the mood of the country. La compania’s projections had predicted this initial angry reaction, but said it would be followed by a general cooling of emotions as the spin doctors in the media and the administration began to work their spell on the public and congress.
He stopped at a channel that showed a man standing on a stage before a sign with the word drugs in a red circle with a red line drawn through it. An 800 number flashed at the bottom of the screen. He recognized the Reverend Bobby Whitcomb. Everybody knew the reverend. In the past few years he had become increasingly influential in Christian Fundamentalism. At the rear of the stage, behind the no-drugs sign, sat three tiers of phone banks and busy operators.
“Looks like a telethon,” Gold said.
The Reverend Whitcomb stood teetering on the edge of his stage, his microphone pressed to his lips, his free hand clawing the air, as he—literally—foamed at the mouth.
“… and I say to you now that we will not be able to live, work, or play in the sight of the Lord if we allow this to happen! We will not be able to hold our heads up when we enter the house of the Lord. In fact, the Lord will turn a deaf ear on all our prayers if we do not cast out this evil man from the White House! If we do not disown this man as the leader of our nation!” The studio audience was on their feet, cheering, waving their arms.
“And so you must give now! Give whatever you can so that we can get these petitions moving, so that we can send our deacons into every city and town in the nation for signatures calling for the impeachment of President Thomas Winston!” During the next burst of wild cheering. Gold turned to Carlos.
“An impeach-a-thon! You’ve got to let me call in a pledge. A big one. I’ve got to do this.”
“How big?”
“Ten. You want to buy insurance, here’s a good way.”
Carlos was taken aback. “Ten grand? What for?”
“I need five figures to get his attention. You’ll see. It’ll be a killer.”
“Very well. Go ahead.”
On the screen, a long-robed choir was singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as Carlos watched Gold dial the 800 number. When he started speaking he suddenly had a thick southern accent.
“Hello? Is this the Reverend Whitcomb? Well, Ah want to speak to the Reverend Whitcomb his own self. Don’t tell me what ain’t possible, darling.‘ A’course it’s possible. Ah got ten grand says it’s possible. That’s raht. Ten grand to donate to gettin’ that Satan-speakin‘, cokesnortin’, dope-smokin‘, drug injectin’ heathen outta the White House, but you ain’t a-gonna git it unless Ah speak to the reverend real personal lahk. That’s raht. It’s Sinus… Billy Bob Sinus. All raht. All raht. Ah’ll do that.”
Grinning and giggling like a school boy, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Carlos.
“It’s working! I’m on hold while they go get him!” Carlos wondered if his young financial whiz had been sampling the product.
Gold snatched his hand away and spoke into the receiver.
“Yes? Turn down mah TV? Okay.” He covered it again and spoke to Carlos.
“They must be on delay. I’ll go into the next room. You watch the TV.” As Gold left, Carlos noticed that he hit the record button on the VCR.