Unidentified Pizza Man Assaults the Great Raymond Harris.
Would they even notice Troy before Firehawk security hustled him away?
Journalists Ignore Another Nutcase.
The lobbyists who'd ordered the two large pizzas were discussing the PMC takeover of the government as Troy arrived. While lie was making change, he overheard them talking excitedly about the business opportunities that would present themselves. There were so many rules and restrictions involved in the red tape of lobbying government agencies. Now that they would be lobbying private companies for essentially the same business, it would be much easier. They were excited and in a buoyant mood. Troy walked away with a twenty-dollar tip.
"THAT DUDE HARRIS, HE'S GONNA KICK SOME ASS tomorrow," Vicente observed a few days later, as he rolled pizza dough with his eyes glued to the television set that was bolted to the wall high above the counter.
"You think so?" Troy asked.
It was a slow time of day, just before the lunchtime rush, and the two men were taking care of their prep work. "Yeah, man."
Like Troy, Vicente had a past that he didn't talk about, but Mr. Mahmud didn't care. He paid them in cash, and he paid them pretty well. They made pizzas, and they made them pretty well. Who would have thought that a guy from Sinaloa who probably had felony warrants in his name on both sides of the border would take such an interest in American politics.
"I hope he does, man," Vicente continued in accented English. "This dude Fachearon ain't got no cojones, man. I like this dude Harris."
"You think he's gonna kick Fachearon's ass?"
"Don't you?" Vicente asked. "That's what they're all saying on TV, y'know."
"Where did you get your interest in American politics?" Troy asked.
"It used to be so boring, man. I been here eight years… first time I've seen all this excitement, man. Back in Sinaloa, you get somebody like Fachearon who can't do nothing… he's in deep shit. Even if he don't wanna be gone, he's gone, man. This is cool, man. This Harris is cool. What he's doin' to Fachearon, man, is cool. I like to watch it. Up here… really boring…. until now."
"So you like Harris?"
"Fachearon's a weak man. Everybody can see that. America needs a strong man. You need a strong man to show the world who's boss. Everybody says he's the man."
News and political gossip are the lifeblood of Washington, D. C. The flow of such chatter was the sustenance that underpinned the politicians, the journalists, the pundits, the news junkies, and the anonymous guys who made the pizzas that kept them going. Each day, Troy saw this lifeblood grow more and more bizarre as President Albert Bacon Fachearon fought an uphill battle against the rising tide of the PMCs. For Troy, the most bizarre thing about it all was that nobody else seemed to find it strange that Congress was on the verge of privatizing the executive branch. Some opposed it on its merits, but none on the sheer peculiarity of the concept.
Congress was doing what it does best. It held hearings while its members were taped doing sound bites and appeared on morning talk shows. What Congress had not done — at least not yet — was take a vote.
An impatient Raymond Harris complained, telling an interviewer that in the private sector, decisions were made quickly — especially important decisions like this. The pundits quickly did what they do best, criticizing Congress for dithering. Like Harris, with whom they had become captivated, the journalists waited impatiently for Congress to take a vote.
Troy opened a big plastic bag of mozzarella cheese and glanced up at the television. He was almost getting used to seeing Raymond Harris's name on the screen.
News Alert: Harris to Appear, read the screaming yellow and red headline.
The talking head was standing in front of the Capitol quoting Harris, who had just said it was time for decisive action, and explaining that Harris would be back on the Hill tomorrow, advocating a vote.
"So will I," Troy said, looking at the screen.
"Huh?" Vicente asked.
"I gotta tell Mr. Mahmud that I'm gonna be late tomorrow," Troy said. "I've got something to do in the morning."
Chapter 47
"What's going on?" Troy asked a man standing near the barricade.
He had gotten an early start Friday morning on his hike to the Hill. He knew that Raymond Harris was scheduled to testify at 9:00 A. M., but he wanted to be sure that he was on hand when the Firehawk CEO's limo arrived. What he found was an unusual flurry of activity as one black Town Car after another sped up to the Capitol steps to disgorge passengers.
"I heard they called Congress into session this morning for a vote on this PMC deal," the man said. "All the senators and congressmen are showing up."
"Nobody wants to be absent for this vote," interjected a woman who was standing nearby. "It's about time if you ask me. They've been sitting on this thing for weeks. It's like General Harris says… they've gotta get off their duffs and make a decision already."
"Is Harris coming up today?" Troy asked. "They said on the news yesterday that he was supposed to testify."
"All the committee hearings were canceled," said a Capitol policeman who was standing near the crowd barricade. "Everybody's going to be in their chambers for the House vote and then maybe a Senate vote this afternoon."
Feeling defeated, Troy turned away from the barricade and headed down the hill on Pennsylvania Avenue toward the pizza parlor. He would be there well before the lunch rush. The vote in favor of turning the executive branch over to Harris and the PMCs was widely reported as a foregone conclusion. The analysis by every news channel showed that the opposition just didn't have the votes to block the tidal wave of inevitability.
Things were busier than usual at Mr. Mahmud's that day. A lot of people were making a bit of a party out of watching the live television pictures from Capitol Hill.
"Didn't expect to see you 'til this afternoon," the proprietor said as Troy arrived.
"I got done earlier than I thought," Troy said. "So I thought I'd come in."
"Good thing you did," Mr. Mahmud said. "I need help here at the take-out counter."
Troy was glad that it was busy. It took his mind off his distress over a missed opportunity to confront Harris. After today, if there actually was a vote, Harris would be unlikely to show up in public. Unlike politicians, CEOs didn't have to show up to smile at voters.
He watched the television out of the corner of his eye as congressmen were going on the record from the floor with last-minute statements. He couldn't hear the audio, but the creepers kept him abreast of the essentials.
At last, it finally came time for the vote. The people seated at the few small tables craned their necks to watch, and Mr. Mahmud turned up the volume. Most of the people ordered a second soft drink.
The roll call began, and within moments, the Executive Branch Management Bill, the bill to put the executive branch in the hands of a consortium of PMCs headed by the Firehawk CEO, had a lopsided majority in favor.
Then, a strange thing happened.
The vote in the House of Representatives started to swing the other way. When it was over, the bill passed, but by a razor-thin margin of 221 to 214.
The hush that had fallen over the room ended as the pizza parlor pundits at the tables began discussing and rationalizing the unanticipated results of the long-awaited vote.
Troy heard Vicente say something about Harris kicking Fachearon's ass — his favorite analysis of the situation — and they heard reports that the bill was being hand-delivered to the Senate chamber.
Troy took some consolation in knowing that Raymond Harris was not resting easy at this moment. He was probably sweating bullets and making calls to every senator who owed him a favor. The CEO who had been above the fray was having to get his hands dirty in the trenches of politics.