Rundle looks at J.J. ‘Everything under control?’
J.J. nods. ‘Yeah.’ He smiles, something he’s good at. ‘You know what? I think we can nail this thing.’
‘So do I.’ Rundle smiles as well. But his smile has an in-built smirk to it, always had. He glances over in Vaughan’s direction. ‘He thinks so too, apparently.’
J.J. widens his eyes in delight. ‘I know. Let’s go over and say hello.’
As they get to the corner, Vaughan looks up. ‘Here he is, the man.’
‘Mr Vaughan.’
This is for the benefit of the junior staffers. Clark and J.J. have known Jimmy Vaughan since they were kids. He’s like an uncle to them.
‘You ready for this, Senator?’
Vaughan is sitting at one end of the couch, legs crossed, looking small and slightly frail. But his flashing blue eyes mitigate this impression somewhat, and there’s no question at all about who’s in charge here.
‘Absolutely. Bring it on, that’s what I say.’ J.J. looks around, being inclusive, already working this, the first of the day’s, and the season’s, many rooms.
Sitting next to Vaughan on the couch is a pretty redhead and standing around in a semicircle are three nerdy-looking guys, all of them in their early twenties.
‘So tell me, Senator,’ Vaughan says. ‘I’m curious. Why are you running?’
J.J. laughs. ‘You want to know the truth?’
‘Good Lord, no.’
Everyone laughs.
‘OK then, because I want to make a difference, because I feel that -’
‘Fine, fine, give us the truth.’
More laughter.
‘OK, but you know what? It’s actually the same answer, maybe framed a little differently. Because the truth is, I’m tired of the senate. Doesn’t do it for me anymore. Being in the senate these days is all about gridlock and rules and obstructionist bullshit, it’s chasing the money and playing to the base, it’s exhausting commutes, it’s endless press and media and blogging and tweeting, Jesus, it’s -’
‘Whoa, take it easy there, bubba.’
‘No, the thing is, I want to be able to do stuff. What was it someone once said? It used to be that you spent two years as a senator, two years as a politician and two years as a demagogue. Now you spend the full six as a demagogue. It’s crazy.’
Vaughan nods. ‘Richard Russell.’
‘Right.’
There is a brief silence.
‘So, what are you telling me, that’s your stump speech? Maybe I should run.’
More laughter, but this time it’s a little tentative.
Rundle senses J.J. stiffen beside him.
After a moment one of the nerds steps in. ‘Can I ask you, Mr Vaughan, what is it that keeps you going? I read about your work rate somewhere recently, projects you’re still involved in, companies you’ve acquired, it’s awesome.’
‘Fear of death,’ Vaughan says immediately, and smiles. Then he points at the senator. ‘You think his stump speech sucks? Wait till you hear mine. It’s a real downer.’ He waves a hand in the air. ‘No, but seriously, son, seriously. When you get to my age you just want to grab on to the future, you know, you just want to hold it in your two hands and look at it. Now the thing is, most folks don’t get the chance to do that, but in my line of work, developing new companies, with new ideas, I sort of can.’
Rundle sneaks a glance at his watch.
‘Let me explain,’ Vaughan goes on – the nerds and the pretty redhead hanging on his every word now. ‘History, right? It’s there, undeniably, you can survey it, and mull over it, from the Pyramids to the Renaissance, from the Nazis to 9/11, it’s all laid out for us. But the future? You can only ever have access to the tiniest, slimmest portion of it. Beyond what’s left of your own life, of whatever few years you’ve got remaining, everything is a blank, right? It’s unreachable. It’s unknowable. And yet.’ He raises a finger in the air and wags it. ‘And yet. Today, more than at any other time in history, we can guess with some confidence what the future might be like. People always used to believe they lived in a time following a golden age, but now it’s the other way around. Now we always feel we live in a time just preceding one. You get me?’
Heads nod vigorously.
Some of J.J.’s other staffers, the senior ones, wander over to listen.
‘Right, now we’re in the infancy stages of various branches of scientific development – biotechnology, nanotechnology, robotics, that sort of thing – and since the rate of change in the next hundred years is probably going to equal or even exceed the rate of change in the last hundred, we can be fairly certain that no matter when we die it will be at a time when great advances are just about to take place. Which we won’t be around for. Which we’ll miss.’ He pauses. ‘Right? That’s the downer part.’
A ripple of nervous laughter.
Vaughan shifts his weight on the couch, shunts forward a bit. ‘But what I think, and what I try to do with some of these companies – and to answer your question – what I think is that if we work harder and faster, and redouble our efforts, and push, I mean whatever it takes, if we do that, we can get the jump on next season, next year, the next decade.’ He clenches his fist and raises it slightly. ‘If we imagine our way into the future with enough vigour and determination, we can somehow actually arrive there. It’s a bit like that old slogan from the World’s Fair, I remember it as a kid.’ He pauses. ‘Tomorrow, Now!’
‘Oh my god,’ the pretty redhead beside him says, hand on chest, clearly unable to help herself, ‘that’s so inspiring.’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ Vaughan turns toward her and nods in acknowledgement. ‘Clark there knows what I’m talking about. Right, Clark?’
Rundle is taken by surprise. ‘Sure, Mr Vaughan, yeah. Absolutely.’
At that point, Herb Felder intervenes, tapping his watch.
Minutes later, they’re all downstairs and piling into various cars.
Rundle sees Don Ribcoff on the sidewalk, but there’s no time to talk.
As planned, he and J.J. ride together.
When the car pulls out and joins the flow of traffic, J.J. exhales loudly and says, ‘What the fuck was that?’
Rundle turns to him, ‘Look, he’s always been like that. Despite what he says, the old man thinks he’s going to live forever.’ He turns the other way and looks out the window, Third Avenue flitting past, the corner of Fifty-eighth just up ahead. ‘But we know different, right?’
Jimmy glances up and sees what looks like a flotilla of black limousines and SUVs turning onto to Fifty-eighth Street from Third Avenue. He leans back against the railings, almost as though he’s standing to attention, and watches.
Around the entrance to the hotel there is a flurry of activity – positions are taken, equipment is prepped. On either side of the marquee burly guys in suits line up, enough of them to create an effective blockade, with photographers moving around and behind them, dancing like boxers, already pointing, clicking, whirring.
The flotilla moves along the street at a stately pace. It then pulls in and stops, one of the limousines flush with the hotel entrance.
Along the line of vehicles – an SUV, three limos and another SUV, Jimmy can see them clearly now – multiple doors open at once and more burly guys in suits appear, some on the sidewalk, others on the street.
Jimmy steps away from the railings and moves a few paces along to try and see better. But he doesn’t get too close. He’s assuming he’s still under surveillance and doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.