Dean walked to the window, and stared through the bars which were misshapen by the snow. “I was just along for the ride. I didn’t care about what Reverend Jones was up to. But after Elizabeth, and Nicholas, after those experiences, I changed. If I ever get out of here, I’m going to straighten things out.”
“They’ll never let you out. You’re dangerous. Reverend Jones plans to keep you here as long as he can. People inside this place are from the secret government. The army is down at the gates. Something’s got to be done, though. The allies are getting nervous. This thing Jones has about premilleniarianism. He might push the button. He might think that we’re all better off in heaven.”
10
I should be sitting in that chair. This man is as crazy and unpredictable as a baby black panther. Wait until the press discovers what he does with his time. Talks to some ghost whom he says is the spirit of a departed S.S. officer, who stowed away on Air Force 1 when Reagan returned from laying the wreath at Bitburg. Supposed to sit in that empty chair, dressed in the Bavarian national costume. A superhero they lent him from Hollywood, Joe Beowulf. He sends his computer generated fantasy out to snuff his enemies. Oh, uh. It’s staring at me. I wonder can it read thoughts. I’ll just play along until next year. Don’t want to alienate these New Christians. The best campaigners in the history of the country. Everybody’s got their phones off the hook, they’re such pests. Used to dismiss them, until that miracle they performed in the early part of this decade, electing General Walter Scott, the hero of Dominica. I wasn’t surprised when he died. He was swaying and staggering about during the inaugural ceremony. And that invasion of Dominica. Just a stunt. Word has it that Hollywood paid for it. They only found one communist in the whole country, and he turned out to be a C.I.A. plant and the prime minister claims she never invited U.S. troops in like the administration claimed. Then Dean Clift. Feel kind of sorry about the guy. Talked about seeing Saint Nicholas. Weirder things have happened around here. My wife tells me that one of the White House maids opened the door of a room one night and saw Edith Wilson nagging her paralyzed husband. And Jesse Hatch. Reverend Jones has taken over so as White House chief of staff that nobody recognizes Jesse Hatch on the street. Just a figurehead, posing with turkeys. Word has it that Jones has the goods on Jesse Hatch. Some kind of land deal and a bribe. And then these maniacs, the D’Roaches, getting on the ballot. People who believe that salad bars are part of a communist conspiracy. That eggs ain’t poultry, grits ain’t groceries, and Mona Lisa was a man. The only thing that’s gonna rescue this country from the endless Terribles is for the Sons of New England to take control again.
“What’s your opinion, Scabb?”
“Opinion?”
“Goddamnit, Scabb, pay attention. I was telling Heinrich and Joe here why I had to get rid of that Heeb, Krantz. You know this thing that Dean Clift was babbling about? Well, part of the story is true. Without the knowledge of Matthews, the King of Beer, and me, Krantz had gotten involved in some lone cowboy scheme to use nuclear weapons against Miami and New York, and then blame it on Nigeria. He was the point man for an international network for reasons we’re still investigating. I think that he might be some kind of Zionist agent, you know like Pollard, back there in the eighties.” He examined Scabb closely to see whether the story that he and Hatch had hatched would take.
So they’re going to make Krantz the fall guy, huh? Scabb thought. “Why, I’m shocked to hear that, Mr. Prez — I mean, Reverend,” Scabb said. “He was a likable young man.”
“I don’t think that this will affect the court case with Clift. We can say that he was right about Krantz, and that we didn’t know anything about it, but this experience he was supposed to have had about Saint Nicholas ought to keep him in Buggy Bye for years to come. What’s wrong, Scabb?”
“I need a glass of water. This is such a shock. I …” Scabb had done some theater in college and so he seemed to be very convincing to Jones. Jones nodded toward Beowulf. The machine got up and went to a table. Poured water from a pitcher into a glass. Brought it over to Scabb. Shoved it into Scabb’s hand. Scabb said thanks, trembling. When I’m elected the first thing I’m going to do is to take a hammer and break that thing up. Keep the Viking helmet and battle-ax though. Might look good in the living room, Scabb thought. And that bear fur he uses for shorts. Could use that on the floor of one of the upstairs bathrooms. “I mean, Krantz. He was such a nice young man. And you mean to tell me that he was involved in some kind of off-the-shelf operation?”
“I’m afraid so. You must know how it hurts me. I brought him into the administration. It was I who rescued him from a close call with death. And so I bear the responsibility. I’ll have to take care of it. Me, Joe, and Heinrich, here,” Jones said, nodding toward the empty chair, where, for Reverend Jones, his advisor Heinrich sat.
“Of course, Reverend Jones,” Scabb said, glancing toward the empty chair.
“I’m glad you agree, Scabb. You keep remaining loyal to me and you may be rewarded. Iowa is only around the corner and that straw poll will be taking place soon. I would run myself but the media has always been against me.”
Bad enough that he said he’d had personal experiences with Satan, but if they knew about his new thing, Beowulf and Heinrich, they’d put him out where they put Clift, Scabb thought.
“You know, after Clift was dealt with, I mentioned in an interview that I would run, and the media, agents of the archfiend, began to dig into my record and distort passages from my sermons. All the fuss they made about my account of a discussion with Satan that I once had.”
And that wasn’t all, Scabb thought.
“We New Christians have millions of votes at our disposal, and our people are known to have the reputation for going from door to door, at all times of the day and night, worrying people for their votes. And if they don’t open the door, we get their telephone numbers and put our computers to work, harassing them, and wearing them down. We are relentless. Besides, I’m beginning to enjoy this job as chief of staff. I’ll be available for the job when you’re elected, Scabb.”
“Why, of course, Reverend Jones. I’d want you to stay. That is, if you would consider my candidacy. I certainly couldn’t bring it off without the support of the New Christians. But what about Hatch?”
“The guy is losing his grip. He may be retiring soon. The ticker,” Reverend Jones said, pointing to his chest. Scabb could hardly restrain his glee. Sure he’d promised Reverend Jones that he could stay on as chief of staff, but, hell, in politics promises were made to be broken.
“Heinrich, Joe, and I want to be alone, so Vice President Scabb, if you will excuse us.” The drums started up again. They were coming from somewhere deep inside of the city. They both heard, but ignored them. The Vice President started toward the exit, but somehow found himself in the Rose Garden. There was a lot of commotion and laughter. A crunching sound. President Hatch was rolling on the ground, and a Thanksgiving turkey was hopping on his chest. The turkey’s feathers were flying.
11
Jack Frost gazed admiringly at Elder Marse’s collection of oriental sculpture and furniture. Mr. Marse had hired a security guard from Carson Richard’s firm to guard the prize, worth over ten million dollars. The guard stood outside of the door. Elder Marse, billionaire toyman, had many millions left over, even after paying the government’s fifty million dollar fine for a Wall Street crime. His office was located inside of a many-storied mid-Manhattan skyscraper. The protesters who’d complained that such a building would block out the sun were overruled by the courts. Below, in the streets, the thousands of homeless were scrounging about in the shadows, pushing grocery carts containing all of their belongings.