"All are lunatics, but he who can analyze his delusion is called a philosopher."
- Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914)
A Signal from the Bunker
Headquarters in New York
Dave could not believe he was back on an airplane already. Watching the ground drop away beneath him as the last flash of the Atlantic gave way to the green and tawny landscape as he headed west he sighed and sunk back into his seat.
It was not as if he was really needed in New York right now. Dolly had taken over the day to day work in addition to chewing into the new approach to ‘social security’ policy; Bernard and Christopher were busy familiarizing Larry S. Waterhouse with the parameters of the research. Larry, outdoing the savant reputation that had preceded him, had added several new dimensions to the search patterns. His last employment had been in a start up in Silicon Valley where they had used some of the same tools to generate data bases for the Internet. Larry had taken his stock and left as soon as the company went public, investing his profits in the next generation of recombinant DNA research.
Larry did not have to work but he did need a challenge. That, and the fact he was conversant and more so with the edge technologies of the Permaculture flow theories that were becoming ever more prominent in their research made him a perfect fit for the job. He had been installed in the apartment next to Dolly and hit it off with Margarine and Fuzz Ball like gangbusters. He said with a straight face that they spoke the same language and the behavior of both cats gave this assertion curious resonance. The cats actually groomed Larry, licking whatever part of him they could find.
It had been Waterhouse, curiously enough, who examining the ‘strategy book’ of Humstead, had asked immediately that a line of inquiry be opened up to extrapolate the likely ‘policy’ proposals that would best serve the purposes of a neo-fascist administration pretending to be quasi-libertarian or conservative. Waterhouse said apologetically that he had started thinking in continuities pretty early.
Dave and Bernard had just stared at each other then started to laugh. Larry’s special interest might be ciphers but obviously his years of strategy based games including chess, had given him a perfect background for this kind of work.
So it had been decided that more detailed information was needed on the thus far overlooked elements of the ever more diverse and complex Libertarian Movement. The core question was whether or not there was anything else there. Indicators said not, but since their other lines of inquiry were even drearier they were going to look, meaning that was Dave’s job. Christopher and Bernard had nearly shoved him out the door. Dolly had told him to behave himself.
So Dave was on his way to attend a conference in Phoenix for a Libertarian group, the Westhaven Liberty Alliance. They were a spin off of the Libertarian Party from the last round of internecine warfare that had been waged there during the last Presidential cycle. That action was yet another institutional dynamic that still needed charting so he hoped to finish that in the same trip by interviewing some of the players and going on to a conference in Las Vegas one of his old professors from Moundville had mentioned. He had packed his copy of Tome of Truths. Frederick Barry was scheduled to speak there, too.
Briefly, Dave wondered about Lindsey. Where was she now?
The Bunker in Georgia
Lindsey was hunched over her computer going over a series of e-mails that she had downloaded from the spyware utility she had covertly installed on the computer of a highly placed Liberal from the Quince Administration.
Lindsey had found out some unappetizing truths about the trustworthiness of Democrats. Not that they were any different from Republicans or Libertarians from her experience. It had happened when she and her mother were frantically looking for an attorney to retrieve her accounts, attached by Dicks. She had thought that surely someone who had been accused of wife beating by Dicks and Sludge would be sympathetic. Wrong. It turned out that instead he had stolen evidence from her files using his covert operative – the same guy they had hired to do the website.
Marvin Burkowitz, formerly the top advisor to President Fillmore Quince, had also evidently decided it would be a bad idea for her to have counsel. Lindsey had found out someone was putting a spoke in the wheels of every attorney they interviewed who might be interested in taking on Dicks, but had not realized who was doing it until her charming webhost had inadvertently handed her his correspondence with the heavy hitting Liberal.
Illuminating to the extreme.
One thing Dicks could have told them was not to make Lindsey angry. Of course they had not asked Dicks, which was not surprising given the tenor of the relations between Dicks and the left.
Lindsey’s own relationship with Dicks had been pock marked with his infidelities but Lindsey’s means for dealing with her anger was not the normal feminine outlet of tears and yelling or even flirting with other men. Lindsey had started researching Dicks, who was using her computer being a computer illiterate himself. Lindsey had discovered the power of the e-force and liked it better than chocolate.
Knowledge is power because knowing is the essential element in making informed choices. Lindsey had fallen in love with someone she thought was a hero of the Movement. Now she wanted a closer look at his soul. She no longer loved him, she knew that. But she needed to know to defend herself from what he was throwing at her. Dicks played by rules that had nothing to do with the law or justice – and his friends were helping him. They had even been able to use Dave. Lindsey tried to think about something else and stifle the pain of remembering.
She had started falling in love with Dave when they really started talking. It was not his looks, but his sensitivity, his kindness, and his good heartedness that had touched her. That day in the church school room when he had held her she had known she loved him – but how could she admit that when she was living with Dicks? And she was being battered. She knew it was not she who should be ashamed, but she was. That is why it had hurt so much when he had turned on her.
She had a lot of reasons to fight for justice and Dave, even if he never knew it, was one of them.
When people met Lindsey they usually assumed she was slightly stupid because she was all too blond and attractive but in fact she was far smarter than people gave her credit for. Every one of her past boyfriends had made exactly the same mistake, believing that the warm little hands that baked such scrumptious cookies could not possibly wreak such havoc when applied to the pegs of the Mastermind game. Vlad often lost to her and hated it.
Lindsey had gone from illiterate at the keyboard to hacker without passing Go.
It had been in this way that Lindsey had managed to have a charming IM conversation with Jake Sludge, the pin headed Internet weenie who was addicted to weather reports before adding political gossip to the online menu of his starkly ugly orange and black website and morphing from a ragged near street person living in a dump in Hollywood into a playboy millionaire. In this way she had discovered that the touted political insider was illiterate in every subject – except meteorology where he still retained a strong interest. The zenith of all Sludge’s earthy ambitions was to have a hurricane named for himself, hopefully one with real power that made it on all of the news programs.
While advising him (as Dicks) on an approach to adopt in a coming interview Lindsey had found her self telling him who had written Professions in Courage. Sludge had not known that the acknowledged author was a former president, a no brainer, or that the real author was Ambrosius Bleckinger, the eminent historian. Sludge had never heard of the book, one of the ABCs of American politics.
Lindsey’s awe of political insiders, fostered by knowing her mother’s rather more intellectual friends, had been tempered by getting to know all too many of the ones who actually made it personally. Sludge had never gotten any respect from Lindsey, her standards for respect being far higher than simple public notoriety.
In the aftermath of the abuse and break up there had been a break in attempt at Lindsey’s apartment. Lindsey did not need to be a genius to know that the guy, who had a key for the first lock, had been an emissary from Dicks sent to silence her. As soon as possible they had made arrangements for her to hide out as far from New York as possible.
Lindsey had an online Freeber buddy who had offered to put her up. She had met Dwayne on Freed Democracy, a website dedicated to allowing earnest and enthusiastic inquirers into the issues of Freedom and Individual Rights to chew the fat online with like minded individuals all over the country. Lindsey had contacted Dwayne about one of his idols, Tom Dicks. It had taken time but eventually Dwayne, a really good guy, had been forced to accept just how horrific Dicks’ behavior was. Dwayne had also heard one of the beatings inadvertently when Lindsey dropped her cell phone and fled when Dicks attacked her.
Dwayne Brenderhoffer and his wife, Naomi had opened their home and hearts to Lindsey. She had become like family to them.
Dwayne and Naomi, along with their two kids Melody and Leland, lived in a lovely two story home in Humpershots, Georgia, the community where the mother of President Teddy Roosevelt was born and married. Naomi and Dwayne had been decorating and remodeling ever since they moved in and it was now approaching perfection except for the fine patina of toys spread from one end of the house to the other.
At first Lindsey had occupied the very well appointed guest bedroom furnished with Laura Ashley accents but soon she began migrating down to the unfinished basement for privacy and space to set up her computer operation. Dwayne had the parts of ten different computers down there, too and someday he fully intended to build Monstro, the ultimate in computer processing. Until then he used the standard PC he had bought at Wal-Mart.
Lindsey began sleeping through the day, all the better to get on with the in-depth research into the less than nice people who had crossed her path in the last several years. Dwayne, fascinated by the stories Lindsey told, began questioning the Party Line he had always accepted on Freed Democracy. The Line included the existence of a vast left wing conspiracy and the acceptance that Dicks had been stalked by Lindsey, who was herself a tool of the same vast left wing conspiracy. Lindsey had once believed in this herself, so she understood.
Dwayne learned to his chagrin that while he personally might be open to the persuasions of fact, documentation and reason, he was not going to be given the opportunity to use those tools on his fellow Freebers. One night he posted a defense of Lindsey without telling her what he intended to do, only to find that his account had been cancelled two hours later.
So much for free speech. Now he spent more time with his family, so it was not all bad.
At night Lindsey was very likely to work into the wee hours of the morning, alternating her sessions on the Internet with forays up to the house to Elf the kitchen. Elfing was an old family custom. The Smithson family had for generations loved surprising both family and friends with unexpected treats. Naomi never had time to get everything cleaned up with the kids both so young, so Lindsey would clean up for her, doing the dishes, washing the accumulation of dirty clothes and sometimes bake and leave a platter of fresh, crispy, chocolate chip cookies at the ready for morning.
Lindsey had become family by some curious metamorphosis. Naomi and she occasionally snuck off for a Starbucks, usually the drive through, or headed out to Wal-Mart late at night for a dollar facial in a sack, coming home to gossip over tea or coffee and feast on the next delicacy out of the recipe book that seemed most inviting.
Halloween costumes for the kids became a group project when the holiday rolled around.
Sequestered back in the basement, Lindsey continued her surveillance. The Liberal was definitely on the same shit list with Dicks. But they had lots of company, both right and left, so there was little chance they would become lonely.
Sometimes the information that dropped into Lindsey’s lap was a real shock. One evening when Dwayne was down stairs tinkering with Monstro Lindsey relaxed back into the cushy old arm chair she had dragged up to her makeshift desk and got on line to look at what the spyware program had dragged home. Along with the pointed criticisms of the foreign policy of the Branch administration and the looming war with Iraq were the usual self congratulatory paeans on his new book; witty insights, pompous reflections and self-righteous assertions Marvin Burkowitz, who had done so much to destroy her ability to defend herself from Dicks, had a special letter from someone very unusual. Lindsey stared at it, considering the name. Was Burkowitz starting to buy on eBay? Lindsey considered the address of origin, one she had never seen before.
“Dwayne. Where do you think this originated?”
Dwayne, distracted from his close encounter with Monstro looked over at the screen, peering closely at it.
“Heck if I know. Maybe the guy is starting to order his drugs from off shore?”
“It doesn’t sound like it. They are talking about Iraq and……I think I should ask Uncle Iban, that is one of Mom’s old friends. He’s parents were Palestinian; He’ll know. It’s a strange name, too. Sort of like U-haul married to E-bay. Maybe it is an online service provider for post garage sale cleanup.” Lindsey wrinkled up her nose in a grimace.
Lindsey’s expression morphed into a grin as Dwayne rolled his eyes. A direct hit had been scored. The garage sale that never happened was an ongoing topic of conversation at the dinner table. The garage had been completely impassible for some time now.
Lindsey pressed COMPOSE on her screen and began to write to Uncle Iban.
North Carolina
It was a full hour short of dawn, but Coop was sitting in the stark and unforgiving light that shined all night onto the front of the court house, typing yet another revision to the next generation of pleadings in his own case. Coop had hooked the printer up and it was waiting silently, paper in the hopper, to print out. Coop had gotten into the habit of carrying the set up with him in his truck because he needed to be ready when a better approach struck him.
It had been eight years now since that long night on his knees and he had helped hundreds of other people learn how to write, speak, and argue. It had cost him in every imaginable way. When this process had started he had money in the bank, a home he owned free and clear, and time for customizing old cars. Now he had no time for anything but the law. He had not had a relationship with a woman in so long he had nearly forgotten how it felt to hold one in his arms. Sometimes in the middle of the night he would wake up imagining a warm, firm body pressed close to him but it was always a dream that faded as the reality of a new day confronted him.
This morning had begun for Coop not long after midnight as he packed up what would be needed into his truck, poured a cup of coffee into his cup and the rest into the thermos he would take with him.
A lot had been accomplished. Slowly he had begun to build the network of relationships that would eventually enable him to take the battle for the justice system of America into every courthouse in the land.
To date he had rebuilt and customized three hundred computers, training their recipients to use the material as a resource equivalent to a law library, complete with model pleadings and other innovations that were, as far as Coop knew, original with him. The needs of citizens defending themselves were very different from the needs of attorneys in the business to burnish their bank accounts.
The last six months had taken Coop to a crisis point. Bead had finally told him about the hitting that was going on when she visited her mommy. Trudi and her new boy friend had had a knock down fight, finally using the legs wrenched from the dining room table as weapons. The boyfriend had ended up in the hospital with four staples in his head; Trudi was no delicate flower of southern womanhood. Coop had liked that about her, actually. Bead’s favorite stuffed animal had come home soaked with blood. Coop had not liked that. When Bead was with her mother school just did not happen. It occurred too early in the morning for Trudi to have sobered up and take her.
As Coop continued to type the eighteenth version of the pleading he hoped would give him custody of his daughter, he thought about what it must be life for a sensitive child like Bead to see violence done and be told by the actions of her own mother that this was just the way the world was. The idea of what Bead might tolerate herself when she grew up and started dating made him type faster. He would always let Trudi see her, but every child needs and deserves an environment free of violence, physical and emotional. Coop wanted that for all children, including Bead. He wanted justice for everyone.
As the sun rose and the automatic lighting from the street lamp winked out Coop was just finishing the version of the pleading that would put Bead into his custody at long last.
Las Vegas, Nevada
Dave wondered briefly why so many Republican organizations had their meetings in Las Vegas. A life long non-gambler, Dave did not enjoy the lines of slot machines and tables where the drama of winning and losing was played out for so many. He had promised Dolly to spend five dollars on a slot machine for her and dreaded spending even that much time hunched in front of a one armed bandit.
The Conference on Economic Prosperity was being held at the Bellagio Hotel and Conference Center. Dave had packed his copy of Barry’s book, The Tome of Truth, so finally he would be able to have it autographed.
The Bellagio was modeled on an Italian Villa that had served the upper crust of Italian society for a good long time. The Grand Hotel Villa Serbelloni, the facility on which this Bellagio was reproduced, was located on Lake Como and had been welcoming the discerning and wealthy for over a hundred years. The Las Vegas Bellagio was to that gem as King Arthur’s Legend was to a Disney ride. But the food was good.
Dave checked into his room first. The conference would not start until the next morning. Dave had reserved a King sized room. Rooms at the Bellagio came with computer and fax facilities and with the discount for attendees he would be paying just $79.00 a night for all of this lavishness.
The room was nice. Dave had packed his roll on garment carrier and unpacked the lower half before unhooking the separate garment section to hang in the closet. After lifting it he realized he should have opened the closet door first so he hung the hook over the door that connected to the room next to this one. After opening the closet door he leaned over to grab the garment bag. Through the door he could hear the activities going on in the room next door. One of the occupants must be up against the door. He was moaning in what Dave sincerely hoped was pleasure. Fascinated, Dave slowly moved over and pressed his ear against the surface of the door.
Something banged against the door right under his ear and the moaning increased in volume. Someone named Mistress Helen was ‘having her way’ with The Moaner who was begging her for more while also asking her to stop. As strange as this struck Dave Moaner was obviously enjoying himself.
Suddenly realizing how inappropriate it was to eavesdrop Dave hastily and quietly closed the connecting door and hung up his clothes.
The transition from air conditioned plane to taxi and hotel had brought with it some sweaty moments so Dave decided to take a bath before heading down to find something to eat and see if anyone he knew was around yet.
Deciding to get his promise to Dolly over with Dave traded a five dollar bill for a small bucket of quarters and fed them into a slot machine. On the last quarter lights and alarms started going off and he found that Dolly had won a hundred dollars. He could hardly wait to tell her.
Wandering around the lobby area Dave failed to see anyone he knew, but then while he was having dinner Darrin Youngblood walked up and sat down. He had learned Dave would be here from Larry and decided to come over, too. It was like old home week.
The first speaker at the conference the next morning was a black economist who worked out of a think tank on the West Coast. Dave clapped politely, making notes that really mattered not at all since Christopher had arranged to buy the tapes and have them transcribed; many think tanks did this routinely now and streamed them on the Web, but this group was a little behind the curve. Barry was to be the luncheon speaker today so Dave went back to his room to retrieve the book.
As he was sliding the card through the ‘key hole’ the Moaner’s door opened. Frederick Barry and a woman who was not his wife stepped out into the hallway. Stunned, Dave stared at Barry, speechless.
With practiced aplomb Barry introduced the woman, who was tall with long, dark hair and sleekly muscled, as his wife’s cousin, Helen. Dave shook hands, nodding stiffly.
“Why don’t you run along and see the sights, Helen.” Helen, smiling vacantly headed for the elevators.
“I promised my wife I would see Helen while I was out here….it is important to keep in touch. Oh! You remembered the book this time.” Smiling, Barry took it out of Dave’s hands and opening it signed with a flourish, adding a touching personal note.
“Let’s get downstairs. I could tell from the first time we met you were discerning.” Barry handed back the book, winking. “Now I know it.”
“Yes sir, just let me put this book away and I’ll see you down there.” Dave had a hard time getting the words out of his mouth, but he managed.
Walking back into the hotel room Dave dropped the book into the trash basket by the desk. Some revelations take time for adjustment. Dave drew a long hot bath and soaked up the heat. It was some comfort.
The conference had been scheduled to go on for three days. Dave decided after he looked mostly like a prune that one day had been enough. Fredrick Barry had been one of the few leaders of the Movement who had seemed decent. Could someone be essentially decent and cheat on his wife? Dave could not understand how anyone could enjoy what Mistress Helen was doing.
Dave had a lot to think about. Where did the personal and public personas meet? Wasn’t essential decency something that was consistent? How could Democrats tolerate the sexual proclivities of leaders like the McGees and Quince? In despair Dave wondered why it was less ugly to engage in the behavior if it was covert rather than out in plain sight. It wasn’t. It just wasn’t. He fell into a disjointed sleep around 4 a. m. By 9 a. m. he was at the airport and on his way to Los Angeles. He did not know why or even where he was going but anything and anywhere was better than where he was.
The White House
Humstead was elated. The country was firmly behind the War now, flags were flying from every car and tiny little flag pins were every where. All of these were indicators. The administration had credit to burn. None the less, planning into future contingencies was important and they had all known in the beginning that an initial pump of enthusiasm was to be expected. The pacification scenarios for after the invasion had to include the possibility that things would go south. That is why Humstead always planned a full arsenal of weapons of the political kind. Nice juicy pieces of policy that a specific group found attractive could always raise funds and sometimes more importantly it could bring in votes that might otherwise waiver.
The list of policy baits ready for the next election period was long and dense. Ending the IRS, something most Americans thought they would never see, was right up there. The fact of the matter was that only around 30% of Americans were even paying income tax now because of the problems in the system. Converting to a Value Added Tax would bring in far more revenue and be harder to evade or avoid. Humstead smiled to think about the impact that proposal would have at the Presidential Convention in 2004 or later if they decided to hold it for a bump closer to the election. Timing was everything. They would canonize the guy, no matter how the war was going by that point. Not that he thought it would be a problem. They would be in and out with oil revenue ensured by May 2004 at the latest.
Looking out the window of his office Humstead thought about the less appetizing contingencies that they had confronted. The Dixon Presidency had educated this administration in the realities of pardons. The layers of deniability that made that contingency livable had been laid down far in advance. But some one would still have to take the fall. As long as it was not him Humstead did not much care who that was. And most likely, because he was so smart, it would never be necessary.
The Bunker in Georgia
It had been a long time since Lindsey talked to Dave. Briefly she wondered what he was doing and how his Internet company was coming. He had not yet formalized the company name the last time they had talked about it. Staring at her computer screen for a moment Lindsey began a search. No, not there. No. Some hits with his name from donations but nothing else.
Lindsey had still not heard back from Uncle Iban about the strange e-mail address. Would Dave know? Lindsey frowned, considering the question. Looking back at the screen she figured what the heck. At the worst he wouldn’t know.
The e-mail containing the address winged its way to Dave across the unseen net of electrons that links most of the world in strange and unsuspected ways. Lindsey wondered if he would even respond. She hated losing track of people she cared about and she cared about Dave no matter how much he had hurt her by not believing her.
Phoenix, Arizona
Dave could tell that the group in Phoenix was not lavishly funded. On the other hand they seemed to have a pretty active membership. His questions about the history that had broken them off from the Libertarian Party had been enlightening. It also meant more research because the story was convoluted and Machiavellian to the extreme. How could a party less than 30 years old have so much conflict? There wasn’t even much to steal.
Stopping in Los Angeles Dave had first driven down to San Diego to meet with a professional man there who had been one of Frank Kravowitz’s original supporters. He had been sued into near bankruptcy, an all to frequent occurrence with those who helped Kravowitz; Strange way to treat your donors.
The guy had not really wanted to talk about it but he had suggested some other names of people who might have more information. Dave had thanked him and moved on. The conversation had included a brief discussion of the attorney who handled the law suits for Kravowitz. The guy was a Lindsey’s godfather. Dave had not realized that until the name had been mentioned. It was the same attorney who had handled the infamous Sludge case, too. Lindsey had not mentioned that he was the guy who was working so closely with Kravowitz when they talked about him and his wife. In fact, now that he thought about it, Lindsey had avoided the subject. Dave wondered why.
He had gotten his first e-mail from Lindsey in months the night before while sitting in his hotel room in Los Angeles. That had also been strange. And how could Lindsey have gotten an e-mail address for the dictator of Iraq? Where was she and where had she come across the e-mail address? He had spent a half an hour trying to write a response that was an apology without being an apology but ended up deleting the attempt. He would think about that later. He stared again at the e-mail address. Then he put it in his SAVE folder and forgot about it.
Rubbing his hand across his face tonight he decided to turn in. His call to headquarters had revealed that all was going well there at least. When he arrived back in New York Christopher would want more information on the Libertarian Party and that Dave had. Not everything but certainly some real indicators.
The last fifteen years had been a cycle of degenerating effectiveness for the LP politically. The story had hinged on a group of insiders the crowd in Arizona referred to at Mossternistas for the former Presidential candidate who had gone on to lead the dominant faction for several presidential cycles.
The Arizonans had been pretty frank. Nationally, the Libertarian Party had become a Ponzi scheme. Then two years ago some of the members had become disgusted and staged a coup with some small success. It was a long story. Dave could tell that. Such stories were always long and involved. He sighed inwardly.
Dave had heard this from several different former activists now working in the Alliance. It was like a tiny puddle of a morality play gone bad in the first act. The leader of the group in Arizona, Cyrus Washington, had given him some other names, telling him to check it out with Libertarians in other parts of the country. Here, they had managed to take the LP back. They had been Fogged, Cyrus said, but survived. Dave had looked quizzically at him. Eventually he realized that this referred to the used car salesman who had started making his living from the LP. The guy’s name was Jasper Figstein-Fog. Dave had seen his ads in the LP News, offering to turn the terminally timid into power houses of persuasion if they bought his tapes and attended his training sessions.
Dave made copious notes as Cyrus talked. There would be no tape of this interview. From here he needed to go on to Massachusetts and Wisconsin. And back to California, it seemed. Maybe some of it could be done on the phone. He hoped.
No comments:
Post a Comment