Chapter Fifteen - Pleasures of the Flesh

"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

                                                                             - Sherlock Holmes (by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1859-1930)

Pleasures of the Flesh

The round of organizations had been depressing in a way. Dave had checked his bag through to New York at the Unity Counter in LAX and was now ensconced in the first row of the business class non-stop into La Guardia. For the first half hour he had just sipped a club soda and stared out the window, watching the left coast recede to be replaced by the vastness of farmlands, followed by desert and brown. Billows of clouds had first approached and then engulfed the plane. Closing his eyes he laid back and searched for the button to lower the seat. His body was tired, not with the physical fatigue of work but with the exhaustion of having to pretend; his mind felt raw, hammered, and stretched.

After the Russian Tea at the VorMortag pad Dave had hung around for a week so he could attend the Friday Morning Club. He spent his time either working in his room or sightseeing. This presented some conflicts for him. He found himself seeking out some of the places Lindsey had told him about from her childhood. He even drove up to the small town where she had grown up, nestled in the foothills of the Sierras. He stopped there for lunch and bought the local paper, the Tule River Times. He wondered where she was now. He had tried to call her and the phone had been disconnected.

The breakfast club met at the plushiest of the posh hangouts for the in crowd of Hollywood, the Beverly Hills Hotel. The place was as close as Hollywood could get to something like the Princeton Club in New York and reminded Dave of the Fabituso Society with the emphasis on status, ideology and networking. Recognizable movie industry people flowed through the lobby and restaurants along with the upper elite of Los Angeles society and tourists with enough money to get in the door.

Beverly Hills had grown up around the Beverly Hills Hotel, which had been started by the same family who built the Hollywood Hotel, now gone, at the corner of Highland and what then had been Exposition Blvd. Now, it was Hollywood Blvd. That had been 1911. They had been open for business in 1913 climbing up onto the hills that now bore some of the priciest homes in the world.

Dave had never before walked into the place, although he and the rest of America were familiar with the pink tones of the exterior that continued into the lobby. Dave paused at the reception desk to ask where the group met. He was directed past the bank of telephones and into the far less unusual corridor that held the meeting rooms.

Frank Kravowitz, the pink diaper baby boy whose present career path had put him into far more colorful environs than he had ever experienced during his years as a marginal writer for the left, or what as left of it, was scowling at his guests when Dave walked up to the reception desk. Glancing at the tall, statuesque blond standing next to him Dave remembered the story Lindsey had told him about their wedding.

Dave was struck by the divergence between the public perception and the private, and sometimes not so private, reality.

The table was staffed by a nondescript woman of indeterminate age. She smiled shyly as she took his money, glancing at Kravowitz.

Kravowitz was carefully ignoring him, talking fervently with a balding, bespeckled man dressed in slacks and a polo shirt. Dave recognized him as one of the group of supporters who had helped Frank get his organization off the ground. Loren Steubenbaum was also an award winning producer who was a rare phenomenon, a Republican working in Hollywood. Rumors about the movie presently being filmed for the White House in Canada on 9/11 had been trickling into the media. The rumors had it that the made for TV film would sink without a trace. The Humstead crowd still had not gotten their marks right in the medium of film.

Dave had heard through Bernard, who had made the arrangements for Dave’s reception at the various events here in LA that he would be here. Dave had initially been fascinated by the dynamics of the Kravowitz group because the same group put on the Medieval Weekend, the signal policy event for the Republican Party, scheduled ever year for some lavish resort area. For a good long while it had provided the same opportunities created by the Illumination Weekend for the Democrat Party. But Christopher had noted a fall off in the celebrity level of speakers recently and attendance seemed to be down.

Dave recognized the voice even before he felt the light hand on his arm. “Dave!” Turning, he saw the smiling face of Fredrick Barry.

Grinning Dave, grabbed the extended hand had shook. “Sir; and here I am again without the book for you to autograph!”

Barry introduced Dave to his wife, an earnest looking figure with dark hair, dwarfed by the far larger presence of her husband. Barry insisted Dave sit at their table, which, as it turned out was the head table because the one point Bernard had missed was that Fredrick Barry was the speaker.

Dave had read every book Barry had written with pleasure. The stories had inspired him with their return to fundamental values and personal responsibility. The man was so much the person who had written them; it restored his faith that decent people could perhaps change things for the better.

“How is your educational program coming along?” Dave asked more to get the conversational ball rolling than because he cared. How about if I send you information? It is a program I think might interest you. Are you still in New York?”

Dave was impressed that a man like Barry remembered where he lived.

“Yes, still going to Columbia part time, law school, and working on, my grandfather died and…”

Barry was looking at him with his vivid eyes. Dave took a deep breath.

“Gramps left me some money so I can take my time and pursue other interests. Actually, he wanted me to look into starting a foundation and I’m working on that now.”

Pausing Dave smiled a little. He was not going to share anything about the work with Barry. A small niggling echo of caution had gone off in his mind. The past eighteen months had taught him to trust his instincts. Only once had they lied to him and he was still trying to understand how Lindsey had snuck past his deep reserves.

“Are you working on another book now?” Dave lobbed the conversational ball back in Barry’s court.

From there the talk had ranged across the personalities and events of the movement they shared finally lighting on the Hamiltonian Society and their drive to restructure the federal court system. Dave had been surprised, talking to Bernard, to find out that this approach was viewed with horror by the Left. Then he had heard why and this point had become a lynch pin in their ongoing discourse.

Dave had not considered the impact that politicizing the courts could have on law, unintended by the Founders, who saw the courts as an objective means of enforcing interpreting the Constitution and statutes. The conversations between Bernard and Dave and then Christopher had helped them assemble a picture of ongoing events. Dave’s time with Vlad had done a lot to show him how easily basically decent people could be persuaded to adopt behavior that would lead them to ugly outcomes.

Dave could not remember without cringing how he had accepted the necessity of ‘enforcing American values’ through the courts.

Dave’s attention had wandered for a moment when he caught Barry rising to shake hands with a man who looked vaguely familiar. Then he remembered. It was Dreg Barnsdale, the congressional aide to Borin Fletch, the Senator from Missouri, who had made it his primary focus to get Orville Johns’ nomination for the Supreme Court through during the last Branch administration. Now he had moved on and was running for office himself from his home state of South Carolina.

The Orville Johns hearings had left a mark in American politics, both right and left. Dave had begun Moundville with a picture of Orville Johns up in his dorm room. He had made a point of reading every decision but increasingly had become disillusioned by the tenor of the opinions he read. He had believed that Johns was a real hero of the movement, an independent man who had made it on his own. When he and Bernard had started talking they had agreed that each of them had strong opinions about people in public life they really did not know at all. So they decided to have a chronology made in each instance that the person represented ‘pivotal events’ that were important.

Johns had been one such person. The massive chronology and detailed research had filled to filing cabinet until Christopher had entered it into their growing master data reservoir.

Dave had had to force himself to look. Bernard had refused to discuss it with him, saying he needed to see it for himself. The event that had turned the vote for ratification from a milk warm rubber stamp to a broiling caldron of controversy was the woman who came forward and accused the black judge of sexual harassment. Minnie Clayton, an attorney herself and also black, had worked for Johns when he was heading the Minority Outreach Commission in Washington D.C.

Grimly, Dave had read through the exhaustive report. Most of it was also news to Bernard, who had still been in Malaysia when the Capitol had erupted during the Senate Hearings.

During the event it had been possible to believe it was a put up job. But afterwards, as you might expect when something is really unplanned, the validating third party testimony had become available. Dave looked long and hard at the statement from the owner of the video store where Johns had rented his pornography. The titles told their own story when matched up with the testimony provided by Clayton and denied by Johns.

Johns had lied. The disinformation campaign orchestrated by prominent Republicans had been horrific, dehumanizing and devoid of truth.

Afterwards discussing it had not been necessary. Dave lined up the pictures of the women who had, most of them very reluctantly, told pretty much the same story. They were all black, light skinned and good looking. The line up of women who testified that Johns had never harassed them was also eloquent. They were less than esthetically pleasing and far darker. This also told its own story. Johns liked a particular type; other women were safe from harassment. The pattern also spoke its own truth.

The most disturbing element that struck all of them in the face was the similarity in method between this and other political campaigns they had seen recently. Dave grimaced when he remembered the lies that took Lawrence out in the last primary. The techniques were pure Humstead – could that have been a coincidence, or had Humstead actually learned some of this moves from studying this battle for ratification?

For the first time Dave felt ashamed to be a Republican. Minnie Clayton had moved on with her life, leaving her teaching job in Florida for one in Detroit. But it was clear that the impact had been life altering for her. She had done the right thing and not only had Dave’s own party tried to destroy her, the Democratic Party had failed to defend her.

Dave was not the only one who was ashamed.

Newburyport, Massachusetts

Sam had arranged to spend a full week on his way back from England. Gladys was delighted, of course. They had seen very little of each other since Sam had stopped working with the NGOs at the United Nations and on the many committees he had helped form.

It was a rare event when he could be pried out of New Zealand. Sam had bought a sheep farm out in the hinterlands and spent time out there on weekends caring for the sheep himself. He loved the tangible reality of the day to day worries about the health and feeding of the animals and the living green meadows filled with life of all kinds drew him on to walk for miles sometimes.

Gladys had been unable to get Sam to listen to her concerns about the gradual redirection of power in the United Nations. Could Sam’s need to talk be related to that after all of these years?

They would spend three days sailing from the Yacht Club in Newburyport and then head down to stay at Gladys’ apartment in Manhattan. Sam had not seen his former associates who were still at the UN for many years and he had told Gladys, briefly, that he really wanted to talk to them, too.

Gladys sat looking out her huge window that gave onto the bay thinking about all they had to say to each other. Sam was a full generation younger but the two of them had formed a strong partnership in the UN in those early days. There was no doubt that Sam was brilliant or that with Dr. Newcomb’s leadership they had believed anything was possible. Together they had thought they could save the world. Somehow, someway, it had crumbled in their hands like a brittle artifact exposed to the light for the first time in a millennium.

The years had brought many changes. Some good. It had been twenty years now since she had married the man who was her first, and only love. Jason Mitford had gone on to become an insightful historian specializing in maritime America, and she had enjoyed helping him with his work. He had married, had two sons, and cared for his wife as she died from misdiagnosed cancer before she turned 35. They had met again not far from where they had first seen each other. Jason had been helping his oldest son rig out his first ketch and she had seen him. The son had looked so much like Jason had that first summer they had sailed together that at that first instance she had thought she had been transported back in time. Then the older man standing next to the vision of yesterday had turned around and seen her walking along the beach, her feet bare and hair windblown. His smile had not changed although the years had made his face more interesting.

It had been a meeting curiously free of embarrassment. Maybe being over 40 had its advantages. They had married with just their children present two years later in the small church where Gladys’ father had ministered until his death.

Now Dr. Newcomb was dead. Although Gladys kept struggling to help the fisherpeople and to see that the tides of pollution were continued to rise. Their work had become mired in political intrigue that reminded her over and over again of those years after college.

Every time Gladys thought they had made progress it was reversed. Suddenly the sun seemed too bright to bear. The lovely eddies of wind and water that filled the frame of the window saddened her. For the past ten years Gladys had also been working for change in family law. Her own experience had taught her just how unfair the law could be and she and an old friend from the country club where her family had belonged had started the American Coalition for Family Justice to help people victimized by their powerful and unscrupulous spouses. Sonja Lavter was the former wife of Barney Morris, the mythic figure in classical music who at home had been abusive to both his wife and children.

The Foundation now met in the mansion that provided plenty of room for meetings as well as refuge for women and children fleeing abuse by fathers, husbands and the courts.

Gladys brushed her hands over her face. From the dining room she could hear Jason. As much as life took, it also gave and she was grateful for that.

Princeton Station, New Jersey

Ellen Selfridge had never really given up on getting the ERA ratified, but she had decided when she sat down in the dentist’s chair in 1999 that it would be a full generation before it was again worth trying. She had been disappointed in the direction the Women’s Movement had taken after those early years of activism. As the mother of two it had shocked her to see the money and power flow everlastingly to the national headquarters and so little be returned to the local organizations and so little attention be given to the concerns of most women.

Ellen had grown ever frailer over the years and now weighed less than 100 pounds. Her eyes were huge in her small face, evoking the image of a child looking out on a world that too often disappointed hopeful expectations.

Ellen did not like getting her teeth cleaned, but she liked it far better than enduring the pain of cavities. She had known the dental technician for as long as she had been coming to Dr. Morrison; over twenty years now. She leaned back and closed her eyes, listening to Denise’s idle banter. Denise never expected her to answer. But in the ongoing story of the life of her family suddenly a question was asked that demanded a response.

Denise was the Girl Scout leader for her daughter, Merilee’s Troop, and the girls had decided they wanted to do a project on the now dead ERA. Would Ellen come talk to them? Ellen smiled, feeling the tingling in her mouth along with a tingle of delight in hearing that this cause, so dear to her heart, had created interest in another generation.

Of course she would come. She would go anyplace and anywhere people would listen. Equality under the law was the foundation of everything America means. Everyone therefore must be equal under the law.

New York

Dolly had thought long and hard about leaving her home in Utah to move to New York and go to work for Dave. She had been to the City just once before and the constant noise and rumbling of traffic had left her in a daze during the three day stop over her Elks group had spent there on their tour of the Autumn Leaves of New England. She had been glad to leave.

She watched out the window as the plane glided into its landing at JFK, setting down smoothly on the broad tarmac and taxiing towards the terminal. In just a month she had closed up her house, gotten shots for her cat, Margarine, who was traveling with her in the carrier under her seat, and found a replacement for herself at the Lodge.

For now she had brought only the essentials. Dolly knew that most of her clothes were entirely unsuited for New York, leaving them hanging in her closet along side her many Elk formals.

Dolly had been able to tell even over the phone what the problem was. Talking to Dave and occasionally Bernard had revealed a lot.

Three men, especially three very intelligent men could handle many things but other things would just not get done. The computers might function perfectly and data might be compiled but they needed someone like her and to do them justice both Bernard and Dave had known that. Dave had asked her hesitantly if she would be willing to relocate after she had been helping them out remotely for a month.

Her first suggestions for organizing their day to day operations had persuaded them that Dolly would keep them from drowning or losing themselves in the details.

Dolly had kept the Lodge in Utah running for a quarter of a century and she would make sure their growing operation worked. She was also taking charge of identifying alternate policy to aid Veterans and older people. That commitment and the books Dave had given her to read had originally perked her interest in policy. Before then she had only been dimly aware that policy as such existed.

Dave’s insights into Social Security had exercised a strong impact on her thoughts. Ordinary Americans know just how badly such programs work and Dolly was an extraordinary ordinary American.

Margarine meowed unhappily. Dolly reached down and slid her hand into the flap, scratching the butter colored cat under the chin. It would not be long now. Bernard had promised that he would be there at the gate to pick her up.

Dave and Bernard had arranged for Dolly to move into another apartment on the fourth floor. It was light and lovely with a small terrace and sitting room – library. Bernard had sent pictures via the computer.

It was everything they had promised.

Setting Margarine’s carrier down Dolly walked over to the French windows and looked out on the street scene playing out below them. Bernard set down her two large suitcases. The place reminded Dolly of a hundred books she had read over the years. The wooden floors were overlaid with area carpets tinted in rose, mauve and gentle greens and blues. The furniture was inviting and intimate. Someone had put a bouquet of flowers on the dining table.

“It has a nice sized bedroom and kitchen,” Bernard commented, showing her through the place. Dolly felt as if she had stepped into a fairy tale.

On the way over she and Bernard had talked mostly about the ongoing work she had already begun while still in Utah. There had been a few moments of awkwardness.

Bernard had been surprised when he saw her. He had expected someone, well, older. Dolly was perhaps one size larger than she had been when she graduated high school but age set well on her and her slender figure moved with grace and ease.

Margarine yelled and Dolly, laughing, rushed to let her out. Margarine scampered out, looking around the alien quarters.

“Pretty cat. How old is she?” Bernard watched as Margarine disappeared under the couch.

“Seven now. I owned her mother, too.” Dolly smiled. “At least she won’t be bringing home any mice. I hope.” Dolly grimaced and smiled at Bernard. She had told Bernard about the long lines of rodent bodies that appeared like magic on her back door mat.

“When you meet Fuzz Ball, you’ll see what they do instead.”

“Uh-oh. That sounds threatening.” Stories about Fuzz Ball and Margarine had been exchanged online and over the phone since they started talking.

“Fuzz Ball is convinced that if he tries hard enough he can get through the window and nab a bird. The birds know better but it is fun to watch. But don’t laugh that injures his dignity.” Bernard smiled. Watching Fuzz Ball’s attempts had become an ongoing news event, to be reported on by anyone with a sighting.

“Dave told me to let you know he is sorry not to be here yet. He is due back tomorrow from the West Coast. I ordered you in some staples, butter, milk, bread. Hope you like Jewish Rye. I can take you around to the grocery store but we often eat together. I do most of the cooking. Dave forgets to eat otherwise. And I am improving.” He smiled at Dolly. Stories about Bernard’s cooking had enlivened her early acquaintance with the crew at Head Quarters.

“How is his trip going?” Dolly had become familiar with the essentials of Dave’s itinerary.

Dave frowned. “Actually, seriously, I am not sure. He had been distracted lately. We have been a little worried about him.”

“Let me show you the office. It used to be next to my apartment but we moved it up to the top floor when the tenant in the second penthouse moved last month. It is a short commute, just up on the 10th floor.” Margarine stuck his nose out letting out a long low groan of disgust.

Dolly and Bernard looked at each other and laughed.

“Cat box?” Dolly looked inquiringly at him.

“In the washing area. Here.” Bernard opened the door through the kitchen to reveal a shiny new self-cleaning electric cat box next to the stacked washer and dryer. He pressed the button and the mechanism began its smooth scooping process.

“High tech, indeed. She’ll get used to it.” Surprised by the noise Margarine had headed back for the comfort of the nether regions of the couch.

Dolly smiled at Bernard. “This is going to be interesting.”

“Yeah,” Bernard said, as if struck by a new thought. “Interesting.”

Florida

Percy (PG) Grolick had been putting out his veterans newspaper for Florida for three years now. The Veterans Mile had started out under the tutelage of the local Veterans Hospital and then slowly morphed into an organ that provided resources, ideas, and opinion for veterans all over the United States. Of course there were more veterans here in Florida than any place else in the country.

PG had thought it was bad for veterans before but he had never imagined that it could get worse. It had. Veteran’s benefits were constantly being cut both by law and just in practice. They called it outsourcing but it meant that the places on base where veterans could get their prescriptions filled cheaply and buy food were closing down. And yet another generation of veterans, these from the Gulf War, were dealing with the aftermath of health problems for which they were not compensated by the government they had served so faithfully.

There had never been more need for real representation for veterans. As PG typed the newsletter into the computer he thought about the veterans who lived on the street, under bridges, in flop houses, ignored by the powers that be. It burned him up. Most Americans did not know that serving in the military meant you gave up your right to sue the government for the benefits denied to you.

It was so wrong. Sighing, PG continued typing in the opinion piece of a paraplegic veteran of the Vietnam ‘Conflict.’ Why wasn’t it a war if it took that much of your life for your country? How could America do this to the 22 million men and women who had served?

Something had to be done. Something would be done if his name was PG Grolick.

Charlotte, North Carolina

John and Helen Mitchell had managed to see Ezekial very occasionally, despite their exhaustive efforts in court and in the media. The two oldest boys were initially being warehoused in a group home with ten other older children with emotional or behavioral problems. Sometimes it was hard to recognize their happy, easy going second son in the frightened and withdrawn face of this young man on the edge of an uneasy adulthood. Charles, the oldest, always developmentally challenged, had been returned to them after Herculean efforts the year before.

Ezekial had been joyously buoyant and outgoing until he was into his 13th year. He had never liked reading, unlike the other kids, but he had moved beyond addition and subtraction, deducing the rules of multiplication and division when he was very small. Sensitive to sounds, he disliked loud noises and spent time thinking and watching the world around him.

His differences had not been a big problem before the DSS took the kids. But incarcerated in the system he had struggled and then retreated into his shell.

Then he was raped in foster care. The older boy who Ezekial reported had committed this atrocity both on himself and his older brother, Charles, had a history of violence and sexually inappropriate behavior. No one called them when the attacks occurred; Ezekial told them the next time he was permitted a visit.

Helen and John found that out whom the rapist was through their own sources. They had learned to do their own investigations. Two weeks after the assault the brothers were abruptly split up and placed in separate ‘homes.’ They would not see each other again for a long time.

DSS had not wanted to return Charles, but his inability to relay what had happened to him made it safe to do so and so when he aged out of the system he was ‘released.’ There was no longer a profit in holding him as no federal dollars could be claimed in his name.

Ezekial was another issue, of course. Ezekial knew what had happened and reported it in detail. Therefore Ezekial was a danger and a potential liability. The DSS always protected itself no matter what it cost in the sufferings of others. As this began to dawn on the Mitchells many other things also became clear.

At first there had been tremendous problems with Charles when he returned home. Fearful that someone would come and take him again he trembled when the doorbell rang. Sometimes he would go looking around the house to see if he could find the siblings he still missed. Sometimes he asked his mother when they were coming home, too. His world would not be complete until that happened.

Fixing his favorite apple pie Helen told him as he helped her roll out the pastry for the pie crust, that her world was waiting for the moment, too.

Back In New York

Dolly had fit in right away, Dave could see that. Fuzz Ball had met Margarine briefly and a cautions détente had been established in the feline sector. Fuzz Ball was a stay at home kind of guy but Margarine liked to accompany Dolly to work and so rode up with her in the elevator and curled up on the wide sill across from her desk. From there it had been just a jaunt down the hallway to Dave’s apartment where his dining room table served as their conference room.

Cautionary hisses had given way to slow circling and enough observation to do a pride of lions proud. Now the two were friendly as long as there was no competition for the attentions of a Favorite Human.

Dave had ‘debriefed’ to Christopher and Bernard with Dolly listening in to get a sense of how they did things. Several items had come up on the agenda while Dave was absent on the West Coast and Dolly had questions about how to handle the financial matters that Dave had gladly handed over to her. Dave had not moved Gramps investments more than necessary but Gramps himself had, if you studied the records, been steadily moving his investments into specific sectors of developing technology. The investments had fallen into three broad categories. One was capital. These were stable over time and brought in a steady and respectable return. The second category slowly transmuted, Dave had seen. At one time Gramps had held a lot of stock in petrochemical and petroleum companies but that had changed starting around 15 years ago. By the time of his death he was entirely divested. Gramps had moved into semiconductor companies and from there into the Internet.

The third category was the most interesting. Those were ventures in recombinant DNA and, surprise, alternative energy and a sprinkling of other high tech ventures. For every one of these that went bust at least one in ten ended up more than paying for the rest. Gramps had more and more frequently been on the ground floor for the cutting edge of change. Dave never ceased to be amazed.

On the list of research still to be accomplished several items had popped up and Christopher and Bernard had a need for someone to help them understand the more esoteric aspects of the present developments in the rapidly melding fields of high tech developments growing out of computer technology, communications, and finance. Gramps had obviously had some understanding. They did not. This minor impasse resulted in a call to Darrin in California. The connectiveness of ideology, intelligence, and interests again worked in their favor and a name emerged. Larry S. Waterhouse, a wonk of unusual credentials was forthwith recommended to their attention. Darrin commented that Waterhouse struck most of their group as nerdy. The Dave group discovered that this had not been understated.

Chapter Thirteen

“I will accept any rules that you feel necessary to your freedom. I am free, no matter what rules surround me. If I find them tolerable, I tolerate them; if I find them too obnoxious, I break them. I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything I do.”

                                                                                                            Professor Bernardo de la Paz in
                                                                                                            The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress by Robert A. Heinlein

The Freedom Movement

The terrace was iced with snow now, and Bernard and Dave watched the Empire State Building from behind the glass of the French windows. Fuzz Ball spent a significant amount of time leaping at birds that huddled there close to the glass, frustrated by the surface but unwilling to stop trying. Dave smiled, trying not to laugh. The Fuzz would look so offended if he did. Bernard, not normally a cat person, had accepted the huge old feline as the personality he was. Certainly Fuzz Ball had accepted him after a period of watching cautiously from under the coffee table and from the bookcases. The negotiations had lasted about a month. Now Bernard knew just where to scratch. Fuzz Ball would roll over so that Bernard could stroke his belly, too, purring deep grumbly purrs that vibrated his entire body.

Fuzz Ball was splayed out on his back on the carpet, inviting a good rub. He slowly swiveled his head and looked at Bernard, sitting on the couch, hands behind his head. Dave noticed and laughed, reaching down and giving the cat a rub that set the motor going.

The ice made fragile patterns on the surface of the window. They were always changing as the light glazed the surface, transforming as the minutes ticked past. Dave and Bernard had stopped paying attention to Fuzz Ball, much to the cat’s annoyance. They were talking about the frustrations of the present tense of their research.

They had reached a tipping point. They now could see the past with its ever growing centralization of control through government and the increasing hunger for power this had bred. The greeds of the least ethical had changed the world for the worse. Dave had read their books, filled with self-congratulation and justifications. The NeoCons were just the most recent generation of thugs, perhaps the most successful in history but no different from countless legions of takers now dead and dust. Even if it were possible to take them out, they would have warped government still further, removing it from the control of the people. America had arrived at where she was today in just such increments; a combination of good intentions misused and the naked greed of those who bent and rewrote every rule to their own purposes.

How far did it go now? Good people like Fredrick Barry were working with this administration; bad apples were there, but to what extent were they really in control? Sitting down and working together, Bernard and Dave came up with a scant list of names of public figures that might be trust worthy and a longer list about which one of the other of them had questions. There were both Republicans and Democrats on the list.

America needed a revival of understanding and faith in itself and its institutions; a return to the clarity of a previous time. How could they help this happen?

What would not work was clear.

Dave had taken Bernard to several of the Fabituso Society Meetings, but the familiars there had just amused or annoyed him, and they both agreed that Bernard was not good at pretense. The people from Fabituso were mostly NeoCons or followers; those that were neither were very much in the box and did not see the problem. Dave had started enlarging his circle of acquaintance and found that most people either could not see out of the box or did not want to. They had the inside decorated to their taste and change caused clashes in their emotional or intellectual decorating scheme.

Civil, social and specific interest groups were pretty much the same about the inside of the box syndrome as were most professors, even those who prided themselves on being professional intellectuals did not see.

The questions took Dave and Bernard back to source material and to the realization that again they still did not know enough. This was coupled with a growing sense of impending doom. They needed to know; slowly they were beginning to realize they also needed allies.

These recent months had focused them on events now unfolding; the L.O.Y.A. L.T.Y. Act had shocked both of them down past their shoes. Not even hard line liberals like Jimmy McGee, the Senator from Massachusetts and the brother of assassinated president Jerry McGee, had raised a voice in objection. Bernard had had lunch with Jimmy in the airport in Boston while he was waiting for a plane while he, Bernard, was still working for Peace for the Planet. He had been impressed with the man’s approachability. They had really talked, Bernard said. Dave was skeptical. As a Republican he had grown up viewing all of the McGees as bad guys.

No, Bernard said, he is a good guy. He went on to explain why he thought so.

They had seen him sit down at a table in front of the MacDonald’s in the Airport after getting himself a quarter pounder with coffee and fries. He placed the suit bag he was carrying on the seat opposite him and was preparing to dig into the French fries when Bernard and his boss, Jess Stone, approached him, asking if he had a moment to speak with them.

McGee told them to have a seat, recognized Jesse from past meetings and told them he was happy to have the chance to help if he could. Bernard was impressed by his firm handshake and lack of ceremony. Dave was impressed that the senior senator from Massachusetts carried his own bag but still skeptical. That did not explain away his many years of womanizing or the death of a young pregnant campaign worker he had caused. Dave did not need to elaborate. The whole country had watched the unfolding of those events. But, Bernard said, can’t someone be good in one part of his life and bad in another?

Dave frowned, seemingly lost in thought.

Bernard went on. He and his boss had explained the problem they were facing. It had to do with the fisherpeople; the Congress had again changed the rules on them, substituting very different criteria for determining if the cod off New England were endangered. By the previous standards, literally the standards that were in place the day before, the population of cod was 75% of the way towards completely replenished. Today because of the new standards, standards the committee openly admitted were speculative; they were back to 25%. This meant more cutting of days to local fishermen who were even now marginalized for making their traditional living from the sea. Senator McGee was extremely sympathetic, promised letters of support and aid and then later followed through and delivered.

As they said goodbye he had nodded, smiled, and told both of them to keep in touch.

The recounted conversation surprised Dave, who had a very different conception of just who McGee was. It did not include carrying his own bags and eating at MacDonald’s and being nice to activists who accosted him there and even following through with the promised assistance. It was a sharp contrast in a lot of different ways. Dave would have to think about that. But McGee had voted for the L.O.Y.A.L.T.Y. Act, Dave pointed out. Bernard had no explanation for that sad fact. Nearly the entire Republican contingent in Congress had voted for it, too. Dave glanced down at his lap top. Three Republicans had voted against the Act, as had one Independent from Vermont. The most vocal Republican exception had been the cantankerous Don Allen, a congressman from Texas who had been the Libertarian candidate for President in 1988. Dave noted his name as someone they might be able to trust. Pausing, he looked up at Bernard.

“Are we going to have age limitations?” Bernard looked at him, puzzled.

“What is rolling around in your head? Help from some of Gramp’s friends?”

“No. The other end of the scale.” Dave smiled. Christopher Mershon would be just the kind of person he could trust.

The next night Christopher joined their briefing session, taking on the L.O.Y.A.L.T.Y. Act as his special project. He told Dave he expected extra credit, grinning. This was work he could really enjoy. He had immediately begun tracking enforcement where he could find cases, and projecting activities most Americans considered legal that could now get them arrested.

That list made Bernard’s eyes bug out slightly.

For instance, a small group of Muslims in Maryland, who had been getting together for dinner and paintball games for a while, were visited by the FBI and Homeland Security. They were then charged with seditious activity under the L.O.Y.A.L.T.Y. Act. For the year past they have been getting together on the weekends to play paint balls, having a great time whacking each other out in the brush at a local paint ball retreat. After 9/11, one of them had posed the question if what they were doing would attract attention. Most of them, local businessmen and loyal Americans, thought that was funny until the knock at the door. Now they were facing hard time in the Federal prison.

After talking about it, the three agreed they should follow the case to see how it played out.

Other cases were even stranger. Elderly women getting on planes were sexually harassed. Children are searched. Traveling was becoming a very hostile and frightening experience. The fear and insecurity was moving closer to home every moment. Many thought it was worth putting up with if it only kept them safe. But did it? Reviewing the material they had on terrorism had driven Dave and Bernard to the conclusion that it did not make Americans safe; it just made them less free.

After poring over the reams of documentation, Dave remembered one of Gramps sayings, “If the clerk makes mistakes that are always in his favor, it is not a mistake.” If the anti-terrorism measures were failing, they were never meant to work; another agenda was in motion and the point was not terrorism. But if not, what was it?

Christopher had actually graduated from high school now but was taking some time for extended studies before heading off to college in California. He had been admitted for the next year, when he turned 17, to Stanford. He had won a full scholarship and Dave was sure he had earned it several times over.

As soon as he had walked into the apartment, he had found lots to do. Looking over the website and database, he had immediately had some suggestions for reorganizing. But beyond that, he also had been studying what was going on from his own point of view and had focused on what was, to both Dave and Bernard, the younger and much younger generation.

Bernard had down loaded all 653 pages of the L.O.Y.A.L.T.Y. Act and they had begun an in-depth analysis of what it actually said and how it could be applied. Christopher had read parts of it already and had noticed a parallel with the passage of the Enabling Act in Nazi Germany. Having called this to their attention, Bernard and Dave were struck with the similarity.

That insight had caused sleepless nights, made terrible for Dave with nightmares. Suddenly events like Waco and Ruby Ridge were creeping closer to the mainstream. The momentum of shift towards a totalitarian state was accelerating.

It was one morning after yet another such sleepless night when Bernard walked in from his apartment, still looking like he needed eight hours of down time, when they finally came up with, if not a plan, at least another direction. When Christopher arrived a few minutes later, the three sat down for what they later called the Square One Meeting.

Bernard had shaken his head over the invasion of Afghanistan; they had nightmares over the L.O.Y.A.L.T.Y Act; both of them had come to doubt everything they heard from official sources. Coming in the wake of 9/11, with its heightened sense of national unity, these frightening outrages were bitter to swallow.

They knew enough to know they and their country was in serious trouble.

It was time to begin identifying who might be allies. Dave and Bernard, looking at each other, realized that this could be risky with the L.O.Y.A.L.T.Y. Act in place. There was a lot to do and it had to be done carefully.

The days were full. The winter months passed in a blur, each day filled with overwhelming details, names, dates, financial relationships and the steadily growing vision of a corporate world that had become secured by interests of all kinds to government.

Between the three of them, the list of things to do, people to contact and research to do stopped growing and started holding steady at too much but not impossible. Nights were quiet. Fuzz Ball had discovered that under the covers was preferable to on top of Dave’s chest and, after a brief flurry of hostilities, Dave gave in and let him have his way. Otherwise he occupied the bed alone. He had stopped calling Lindsey; it hurt too much and his growing sense of anger was hard to hide. He had run into Tom Dicks at a conference given by the New York Institute, and the two had had a long talk. Dave was unsure afterwards how the subject had come around to Lindsey, but so it had. From Dicks, Dave heard that while the two had had a brief affair it had been over for a long time. Dicks told him he knew it had been a mistake from the beginning but was afraid to entirely end it. What he told Dave next shocked him.

Dicks confessed to having had a one-night stand with Lindsey’s mother many years before. Now, he was afraid that Lindsey would blackmail him, ruining his career.

Puzzled, Dave asked, “But the relationship is up on the web. How can anything else she could say hurt you?”

Dicks leaned towards him, his face lined and troubled. “Can I trust you to keep this confidential?” Slowly, Dave had nodded. He was not sure he wanted to hear this, but he couldn’t not hear it, either.

Dicks’ confession had been harrowing. He had been immediately attracted to Lindsey but knew that, given his past relationship with the mother, having a relationship with Lindsey was impossible. The mother, he said, had pursued him for years after their brief fling. He had decided she was strange. But Lindsey had asked him up to her hotel room and he had gone. It was a lapse in judgment. But his own guilt over the relationship with Linden, who had actually sent Lindsey to New York to seduce him, he said. Their machinations had put him in their control for the last three years. Dicks looked close to tears.

He went on to talk about how charming they both seemed to be. But if you examined their personal lives, it was a very different story. They wanted money for their silence, and only large amounts would satisfy them.

Disgusted, Dave assured Dicks he believed him.

Dicks thanked him profusely for his understanding, wiping his eyes. Dave felt yet again as if someone had dug his heart out with a spoon. How could he be so wrong about someone he thought he knew?

Shaking his hand as they said goodbye, Dicks offered to put him in touch with people who could give him a great job. Dave smiled wanly, hardly thinking about what Dicks was saying. He would need to think about this. It was time he confronted Lindsey about a lot of things.

Dave remembered just as Bernard walked in to the apartment the next day that he had promised to make dinner tonight. The two, now the three of them, usually ate together if something else was not going on. The grocery list was still sitting by the phone; Dave often had the staples delivered. Bernard laughed. Dave did not have to tell him he had forgotten. Dave was no poker player.

So instead of braving Dave’s cooking they braved the weather, which was as ugly as only days in New York can be. They decided that ugly weather demanded food that reminded them that hot was possible and headed out for a Mexican meal at the El Parador Café down on 34th Street. The tortilla chips were to die for and the salsa had some character and bite. Christopher inhaled the guacamole. They had rooted him out of the spare bedroom Dave and he had transformed into a second office for his use.

Dave, still depressed about Lindsey, decided to drown himself in carbohydrates and Margaritas. He had not mentioned the meeting with Dicks, although they generally logged every contact and observation. This was one contact with Dicks he did not want to share with Bernard and Christopher.

Over the savory chips and an appetizer of guacamole and Chicken and Goat Cheese Quesadillas, redolent with cilantro and shaved onion, they had mapped out a plan for gathering on the spot information on the list of possibilities for alliance they had found from various sources, mostly the Internet.

There were caucuses and organizations working for change from every possible angle. Surely some of them would have some people who could be trusted or have identified some approaches that could be applied elsewhere. Remembering his meetings with Darrin Youngblood and the Cal Techies in Northern California, Dave wondered just how useful they could be politically.

“I told you about that friend of mine, Darrin? The one who is now at Cal Tech?” Dave’s brow furrowed a little. “They seem to have rejected the classical idea of government.”

“Well, I would not go that far, but they have refined the underlying ideas on which government is based. And with reason. What we have now is not working as intended.” Bernard sipped on his Margarita, enjoying the salt on the lip of the glass. “I don’t think I got over the idea that a bunch of Libertarian types would be approaching the environmental issues at all.” He grinned. The two had clashed primarily on issues of the environment when they were first talking.

Dave smiled. “Yeah, I know, you think we want to pave Earth First and the other planets later, right?” Bernard laughed.

Christopher injected, “Tell me some more about the techies from Cal Tech.”

Dave found that he could stop thinking about Lindsey if he focused on what was right in front of him. His mind kept looking for evidence he had overlooked. How could he be so entirely attracted to someone who was a crazy user? The past eight months had been so full of trauma for the entire nation that this small injury, discovering that a beautiful face could hide an ugly person, should not hurt so much. But it did.

“Dave? What are you thinking about? Did you hear what I asked?” Bernard was looking at him, inquiry written on his face and obviously waiting for his question to be answered. Looking at him Dave wondered why it was that every other guy in the world seemed to have no trouble finding a decent woman. Bernard had been married to a pretty woman and he was short and very engineer like. Christopher had to beat women off with stick; his cool blond good looks were a real magnet. What was wrong with him?

“My mind wandered off into the weeds. Must have been the guacamole. Sorry, what was the question?”

“Census time. We need to make some in-person contact with those groups and individuals who may be useful.” This had been the first step they laid out in their Square One meeting. They had agreed that they would split up the work, making it look natural, and an extension of their other professional and personal activities.

Dave remembered. At the time he had hoped that Lindsey would be traveling with him. He grimaced.

“Hey, it won’t be that bad. Who knows, maybe you will find your Dagny Taggart along the way.” Bernard and Christopher had each actually read the book and so laughed, looking at each other. Dagny Taggart was the impossibly perfect heroine who every male hero in the book, Atlas Shrugged, lusted to possess.

Lindsey was the only part of his life Dave had never mentioned to either of them. Was she a hero? Dave had thought so at one point.

Matching Dave up with various possible ladies had become a subject of mild diversion, neither imagining that Dave was already in love.

Research in this case required a certain amount of travel. All of the organizations earmarked for inquiry had conferences, sometimes several times a year, sometimes once. For the Conservative and Libertarian Orgs, Chris and Dave divided them as was appropriate. Bernard took the liberal and actually nonpartisan conferences. This, and some discreet contacts in advance, should give them what they needed.

The fact was that the conferences put on by think tanks were a form of fundraising in thin disguise; so paying attendees were welcomed with open arms. Dave winced as a memory floated into his mind. He had learned something about the history of Cicero Institute from Lindsey’s mother and the story had shocked him. Dave had also learned that organizations, like families, develop a culture that expresses in action their values and he had to wonder what kind of values were expressed by selecting interns and students for positions on the basis of their gender, female preferred, and attractiveness. Linden’s stories about Morton B. Casterol, Jr., the president and founder of Cicero, were bizarre. At first he had assumed she was exaggerating to make the story better, but inquiries had revealed she had been unaware of many of the more lurid details.

Today Cicero had a practice of keeping attractive young women in the front office. Mort was very aware of the power attractive, sexually available women have on donors, and most of the donors to Cicero were wealthy men.

Mort himself had finally married the mother of his three children after they were mostly in grade school. She had been the wife of his best friend when he seduced her. The best friend had left town although he had waited, hoping she would return to him until the first baby was born. Mort had refused to marry her, telling her and others he would do so when she could arrange the wedding in Red China. The wedding actually took place in on the Great Wall of China when she was finally able to do just that. No one pretended that Mort was faithful to his wife. That had not been the deal and Mort’s sexual adventures were the stuff of legend. It had been said he had laid every woman in the Libertarian Party and made a large dent in the Conservative Movement. Back when he had served the Libertarian Party as its Southern Vice Chairman, he had organized volunteers so that women came in and worked for half an hour and serviced him sexually for a half hour to then be replaced by the next shift.

Dave was amazed that so few people knew the stories, given how volatile they were.

So Dave had arranged to attend both a conference and the Cicero Dinner in Washington D.C. The luncheon took place six days before the Dinner, which was scheduled for May 9th. The subject of the talk at the luncheon was wasteful spending. Before the speaker got started, the monotonic Master of Ceremonies, who was not Mort, droned on about the briefings and luncheons and other events scheduled for the near future. Dave’s mind drifted. He was seated near the front of the room; the hefty donation he had made to Cicero brought with it privileges, and sure enough a young and attractive woman had chatted him up as he was registering. Dave found he was absolutely not attracted to her. He had found no one attractive since he last saw Lindsey. Sometimes he wanted to bash his head against a wall.

Most of those attending were the cadre of ‘professionals’ meaning they worked for Congressmen, were at a local college or university, worked at some other think tank or were donors. As he had chatted before the event began, he had found the requisite sprinkling of others, many out of work and looking.

The Libertarian Party, itself spawned by the Goldwater Movement and the work of such writers as Ayn Rand, had spun off a whole series of think tanks. Although Cicero now used the term privatization as if it had invented the word, the word had actually been coined by Richard Creek, the founder of Rationality Foundation. Rationality was based in Los Angeles now, having begun its curious existence in Boston as a magazine. Creek had purchased the for profit magazine that never managed to do more than dig holes in its owners’ bank accounts in 1969, and moved it to Santa Barbara where it had continued to dig holes in the bank accounts of Creek and his two partners, Benny Kraust, an attorney practicing in Los Angeles, and Fidor Mortan, a philosopher.

The early history of Rationality lacked the excitement given to Cicero by Mort but they had their moments, according to old timers Dave had gotten to know. Linden had pointed him to some of her old friends.

In preparation for his trip to D.C., Christopher had compiled for him the analysis of the areas where Cicero produced policy, what actually was ‘placed’ with legislatures and what mostly went in puff pieces to donors to encourage them to keep giving. The money that flowed into Cicero was not very different than that flowing into the coffers of any other Conservative think tank. There were some significant large donors who had no ax to grind. And then there were the large corporations, many petroleum companies among them, who were definitely in ax sharpening mode.

As the speaker droned on and Dave consumed the elegant lunch, he wondered at the blindness of those assembled. How could they fail to see what was actually happening here? The only more horrible thought was that they did know and were actually helping.

The think tanks, viewed as the success story of the Freedom Movement, were actually helping the NeoCons in some places while they were mostly a layer of lard on the steadily growing body of the bureaucratic monolith America had whelped.

Getting on the train back to New York, Dave’s mind was taken up with what he had learned. The Cicero Dinner had been extravagant. The central focus of the event was the award of a prize for advancing the cause of freedom. The award was named for the still living Nobel Laureate, Melvin Freeport; the members serving on the selection committee had been impressive and included the former British Prime Minister who had worked so closely with President William Wallace.

Dave had been surprised at how many people he saw from the Fabituso Society Meeting. Also, the whole cadre of prominent pundits had been present and seated in a huddle near the front. The program included a seating card so you could find the seat assigned to each attendee. Dave made sure he put it away for Christopher. He would apply the analytical tools they had assembled as indicators of status and standing within the affinity group that Cicero represented. Dave knew what it was going to show. The NeoCons owned Cicero. Some bottom lines were too obvious to be ignored.

The phone was ringing when Dave walked into the apartment. Normally he glanced at the CID but the handle to his carry on bag had gotten tangled with the keys so he just grabbed.

“Hello?”

“Hi there stranger.” Dave heard Lindsey’s voice, sounding sort of tired and quieter than usual.

“Oh. Hello. Just got in from…” “Washington? Where you were attending the Cicero Dinner, right?”

Dave sat down. “Yes. I was down there for some business, too.

“Did you see Mom? She was there.” Thinking about it, Dave thought he actually might have seen Linden but they had not talked.

“No, don’t think I did. There were nearly 3,000 people there, you know.” Searching for something to say he grasped at one conversation that stuck with him.

“I saw Tom Dicks.” Having said it, he wondered why. He had talked briefly with Dicks, but mentioning the fact was at best unkind. The fact that Lindsey had charged Dicks with domestic violence was a very public scandal.

The reaction in Lindsey’s voice was palpable. “Oh did you? And was he well?” The anger in her voice came through like crystals of frost on a windshield.

“No, he actually looked pretty tired and upset.” Dave was starting to get angry. Dicks had taken the opportunity to again thank him for his understanding and ask him to reserve judgment until the courts had a chance to sort things out.

“Why don’t you call me anymore? I thought we were friends.” Dave could hear the reproach in Lindsey’s voice.

“You know, Lindsey, I really liked you, but this thing with Dicks….why couldn’t you just leave him alone?”

There was a long pause. “Leave him alone? What are you talking about? That bastard tried to kill me and you, my friend, are defending him?”

“Tried to kill you? Come on Lindsey, don’t you think you are being over dramatic? All lovers have their little spats.” Dicks had told him about the screaming conflicts that took place every night. Dicks had told him their sexual relationship had ended, but Dave did not believe that. What normal man would live with Lindsey and not make love to her? The sarcasm dripped off his voice.

“A little spat? So you were there, I suppose? You…do you know how it feels to have no one believe you? You…..I can’t believe you are saying this. God, oh God. I wish I was dead.” Dave could hear her crying as the phone was slammed down.

Washington D.C.

Humstead looked at his fingernails. It was time to get back in for a manicure. He tried to have his fingernails done at least once a week. It gave him a thrill to sit there being waited on by a woman who was usually pretty attractive. Hair too, of course. It made him feel more confident if his hair was perfectly cut. His hair was so thin and sparse, along with being a washed out blond, that he looked bald in some of the pictures they took of him.

He liked it when the President called him into the Oval Office for meetings. When he was there he not only felt like he had arrived, he could remember that if not for him, really, truly him, the President would never even have been elected governor of Texas. He had made this man.

Looking down at the agenda on his desk he realized that the NCMA material was not yet in evidence. He had asked for it two days ago. Most men who were as important as he was would have been happy just to have the synopsis drawn from the work, but if you did not get down into all of the details you missed things. His preliminary reading of the document had convinced him that this twenty-year-old bureaucracy was not being used as it could be. Now, two and a half years out from Election Day ‘04 he had begun to assemble the contingency plans, seven deep that would ensure a second term for the man in the Oval Office. The voting machine plan was working its way through channels. That was good, but he had always thought it was really problematical. Too many people would question the lack of paper ballots to rely on being able to swing votes as needed.

He looked up as his executive assistant walked in. The NCMA papers had arrived in their unabridged form. NCMA would be rolled over into Our Land Safe. That would create possibilities absent in either of the originals.

Humstead decided that his fingernails really should be done twice a week. His wife would never notice, but his girl friend would appreciate the thoughtful gesture.

Chapter Eight - The Chad Party

“Associate with men of good quality if you esteem your own reputation; for it is better to be alone than in bad company.”

                                                                                                         - George Washington

The Chad Party

Dave’s plane touched down in La Guardia on November 9th from Dallas-Ft. Worth. For once he had thrown caution to the winds and flown first class, enjoying the service and pampering. The meal had come in three courses, served on linen. The first course consisted of an appetizer of salmon pate with French bread that smelled and felt so fresh he actually did take a moment to inhale as he let a pat of butter melt on it. That was followed by a salad of vegetables marinated in a savory basil dressing and a veal cutlet so thin and tender it literally melted in his mouth. The cutlet came with the thinnest, crispest asparagus he had ever tasted. A chocolate mouse topped with a piquant raspberry sauce followed along afterwards with a flow of full bodied coffee. As he ate he thought about the events of the last few days.

He had thought the election would be over and, along with the rest of the country, lived in hourly suspense. But now he was not sure if it mattered which of the two candidates won. Either way, it seemed to him that America would be the loser. He yearned fleetingly for a return to the respect and confidence he had felt when he knew that President William Wallace occupied the Oval Office. 1980 seemed like a million years in the past.

He had not been able to discover anything more about George’s death. He had spent one long night in the truck stop where George had been found dead, but the thin whisper of the trees that backed the parking area and the sounds of the highway were his only company. He called Dolly; she sounded sad and a little distant.

Dave was sure someone had killed George, but what had preceded the death evaded both his imagination and the ascertainable facts. He had now put inquiries into the hands of the most highly recommended private detective he could find. He knew the answers must be in the meeting with someone close to Humstead. He was not sorry to have spent the last six weeks rolling around America in a motor home. He had gotten to know some fine people he otherwise would never have met and learned things that provided invaluable insight.

Dave had been forwarding his phone messages to his cell phone so no one was really aware he was away--he had just been busy with the online business he had supposedly started. Most of his communications had been accomplished via the Internet, and he had at first tentatively and then routinely begun e-mailing Lindsey. She possessed a wicked sense of humor and with the first story about her friend Babbs, had begun keeping him apprised on the happenings in the circle of acquaintance they now shared through the Fabituso Society and Republican circles in New York. Lindsey had also fallen into e-mail communication with Nann, a development that struck him as a little frightening since nothing seemed to delight the two of them more than discussing him.

It was in this way that Dave was invited to what later came to be known as The Chad Party, an event that had drawn out a diverse group of people from Conservative to Liberal to politically inert. This last group included members of the New York Literati as well as the Show Business Bunch, a group held in both contempt and envy by all of the former.

Lindsey had invited all of her friends, a large number which now included himself, Nann, and Jim, to attend. Nann was busy with her new job in human resources for a very large company. She and Jim were living near Washington Park, not far from NYU’s dispersed campus. Soon after he got home, the four of them got together for dinner at a place Jim especially liked, a Tibetan restaurant on 3rd Avenue just shy of 32nd. Over drinks and a slow, smooth menu of oncoming courses, the four of them talked. Lindsey and Nann ran the conversation; he and Jim sat back and listened, injecting comments and defenses as necessary. They were men, what could they know?

Dave had started uploading new data and analysis from the road. That helped him keep up, but there was still a lot to do. Money has to be managed, he discovered. He was learning.

He and Lindsey had fallen into an odd not-dating but going out and talking relationship different than he had ever had with any woman. They were friends who ate and did movies together and occasionally spent a couple of hours on the phone, just talking. Dave kept a pad of paper at the ready when they talked by phone because, without even knowing it, Lindsey was supplying him with information he could have gotten no place else. Gossip carries with it information about any individual’s character and this gossip was never going to appear on Page 3.

Dave was not sure how she did it, but Lindsey met everyone. He had read about the theory of six degrees of separation but with Lindsey everyone seemed to be much closer than that. Lindsey also had a good memory for stories she had heard from her mother and shocked Dave down through his shoes with some of the stories she retold about prominent people her mother knew.

One that struck him as more odd, though it amused him, was about the prominent economist Drab Freeport, the son of Melvin Freeport the even more prominent economist who won the Nobel Prize a few years back and who, with his wife, wrote books the public actually read on free-market economics. Lindsey’s mother had taken her along to a Libertarian supper club she ran when Lindsey was a child. Linden thought this would be educational and sat her right next to Drab--so she could soak up some good insights on markets and such interesting issues as Laffer Curves. But that is not what Drab talked about. At first he just ate his dinner, not talking at all. Then they served dessert, vanilla ice cream. Drab proceeded to inform Lindsey that vanilla ice cream was made out of white rats. He was very graphic about the process by which fuzzy little white rodents were converted into this tasty dessert. Horrified, Lindsey let her ice cream start to melt. That was when Drab pounced and ate it, telling Lindsey it should not be permitted to go to waste. Too many little rats had died that it be made. Freeport’s talk had been on the regulatory interventions now subjecting their economy to distortive influences. That had put Lindsey to sleep, she confessed.

This amused Lindsey now; at the time it clearly had not.

Dave was left, again, to wonder about the people one met in politics and policy. It seemed an odd thing to do to a child. Evidently Linden had thought so, too.

It was all the way into December when the Chad Party took place, but Dave had been hearing about the plans for several weeks.

Babbs Bronson was hostessing the party, but some things were all Lindsey. Babbs was doing the greeting, taking coats and stowing them very conventionally in the first bedroom off the hallway. She was bubbly, carrying on an ongoing dialogue with her new boy friend (who had taken over servicing the bar), with Lindsey, and with arriving and arrived guests.

The food was laid out in the office area off of the living room. A Greek amphora, unusual because it was decorated, immediately struck Dave. It was sitting upright in a basin of sand on the shelf on the far wall. Dave walked over and looked at it closely. The painting on it was faded but amazingly it was unbroken. The study was an open, spacious place filled with other fascinating art work as well. Babbs had some discernment. No one else was paying attention to anything but the food.

In the center of the table were two cakes that no one but Lindsey would have made. One was a perfect representation of a butterfly ballot with tiny chads dangling and the other one, chocolate cake and vanilla frosting, was decorated with a chorus of dancing chads with tiny feet and shoes and cheesy grins. Dave was amazed at the detail; the shoes even had tiny laces.

Lindsey had been hard at work finishing up the tiny quiches when he walked in to Babbs apartment, located on the Upper West Side. It was a huge old apartment still under rent control located in a very upscale building with hot and cold running doormen.

Dave thought he would be early, but there were already a hoard of journalists from the Post clustered around the drinks table and grazing over the buffet. Lindsey had hardly placed the quiches when one paunchy journalist Dave recognized from the Republican Convention inhaled six or eight of them.

Nann and Jim had not arrived and Lindsey, rejecting any assistance, was involved in the kitchen with some simmering dumplings, so Dave sat down next to an older man who was sucking on an unlit pipe. The man sat up a bit. He had very grey hair, still bushy, and disordered eyebrows standing at attention over dancing brown eyes.

“Dave Elder,” Dave reached forward to grasp the man’s gnarled hand.

“Lancelot O’Hara” the man smiled. “I thought you must be Dave.”

Dave blushed down into his roots, recognizing the name of one of Lindsey’s friends he had not yet met. But he had heard about him.

Lancelot O’Hara was something of a legend in New York and in Sag Harbor. The genial septuagenarian had done everything there was to do and enjoyed himself largely, according to those who knew him. His exploits, as reported by Lindsey, nearly defied belief. No less than seven best sellers had been written at what he lovingly, if ironically, referred to as his compound in Sag Harbor. Of course, he had not written any of the books himself. In his apartment in Manhattan an owl that had figured prominently in the still ongoing TV filming of Saturday Night Alive perched in threatening if dusty splendor atop a book shelf. Lindsey had described it, along with the other bits of memorabilia that cluttered the comfortable abode at the corner that abutted the Washington Arch.

Lancelot had also worked in Army intelligence during the period after the Korean War and before Vietnam when the CIA was assembling itself as an institution within American government. As they settled down into conversation, Dave asked about Lance’s life in Hong Kong. Lance, always delighted to have an attentive audience, told him.

The CIA was still wet behind the ears when Lance experienced the depth and breadth of their little games in Hong Kong and other places where he served around the world. Lance’s words always came with a thread of dry sarcasm. Dave had been doing research on all of the intelligence arms of the U.S. and foreign governments as an adjunct of his larger inquiries, but was immediately fascinated by the stories and insight provided by the former professor and intelligence officer.

It was really all a game to them, Lance said, smiling a little as if seeing it all again.

“You could really imagine them leaping out of the covers of a James Bond novel,” Lance said, patting just the tips of his fingers together as they rested lightly on his lap, the pipe put aside for the moment. “That was how they saw themselves, cold warriors clutching cold steel, doing battle against great difficulties and danger; always victorious, naturally.” The old man sat up a little, leaning forward towards Dave, who was listening, his attention riveted.

“Of course, it was not true. They wanted there to be danger and drama but for the most part they created it themselves. More like Cowboys and Indians than anything else. Oh, excuse me. Now a days we should say the Bad Group of Misguided but ultimately repairable misanthropes against the Group who are resonate with the Force. Does that work better?” Lance smiled. It was a charming smile and Dave responded immediately, laughing.

“I am not addicted to political correctness,” Dave smiled. “What happened?”

Still smiling, Lance went on to explain that America had not had an intelligence arm before World War II and so when the CIA made its debut under Wild Bill Donovan, they were very much affected by the individuals who were on the scene. Most of these had been second or third stringers from three colleges, Harvard, Princeton and Yale.

Dave frowned. “What do you mean by second and third stringers?”

“My dear boy, it worked like this,” said Lance. “First the Corporations would swing through and do the cherry picking, taking the best and the brightest off to corporate-style careers. Then some went on to law school, of course, and we knew those would be showing up in politics. Then the residue would be sucked into the great machine of intelligence and into the inner workings of the CIA.” Lance looked at Dave.

“That really is how it was done, you know.”

Dave’s look of enlightenment made no further words necessary. Lance continued.

“To them it really was James Bond. I remember one time in Hong Kong. The word came down from on high that we had a need to do interviews with refugees then passing through Hong Kong from China. You might not know that the Chinese government; it did this kind of thing; decided that everyone who was not Chinese, meaning that they had lived there for only three generations, had to leave. Immediately. So in Hong Kong there was this steadily growing flood of people, families hauling everything they could carry, on their way to somewhere. Obviously, they were not going ‘home’ they hadn’t any home! But the United Nations Refugee Program helped them with resettlement. Many went to Australia but they ended up everywhere. So, Intelligence from on high mandated that we do exit interviews so that we could get a kind of eye into China, which was closed then. My idea was that we settle them down for a hot meal and just ask questions but you did have to find them. They went through the exit process pretty quickly. The CIA went into a huddle, comparing notes and difficulties. They issued estimates of time requirements, started several conspiracies and sent agents into Red China. I went down to the Counsel’s office and asked for the list and their addresses. The Counsel just gave it to me. No problem.

Lance went on to itemize similar approaches by the CIA to a variety of Intelligence inquiries. These included the amount of airplane fuel available at any given time, a fact the State Department decided it needed and asked the CIA to provide. The request was passed along to him while the CIA went through their usual drill. State really wanted the information quickly for some reason. Lance had gotten the figures by simply requesting it from each of the five airlines that then flew in to Hong Kong. Four airlines had given it to him over the phone. The fifth he had gotten by calling the airport authority and asking for the total amount held by all airlines and deducting the other four amounts. Simple.

Dave shook his head. It was hard to comprehend the kind of mind that would see complexities and conspiracies everywhere. Then he thought about the image of James Bond. He had seen some of the movies on late night TV. Now he realized why they seemed so fantastical and unreal. They were; but they were also founded on the author’s perception of the CIA.

From where Dave was sitting he could see the front door. Just as he was about to ask some more questions Nann and Jim appeared, shedding coats. Lindsey caromed out of the kitchen and hugged Nann. Their hair merged for just a moment in a long shining glaze of gold. Then they came over in a clump to fetch him. Shaking hands with Lance, he promised to come by some time for a visit. Lance looked from Lindsey to Dave and sighed deeply.

The cake was wonderful, rich, creamy and moist. Lindsey had made the frosting with real butter. Dave had three pieces, passing up the quiche.

Lindsey made a point of introducing Nann and Jim to most of her friends, but Dave was introduced as a friend of theirs. Lindsey was nervous when Nann and Jim arrived, he could feel that. Why, he wondered. Except for Babbs, she knew more people in the room than anyone else.

A solid fraction of those present were familiars from the Fabituso Society. Also present were liberals and a respectable selection of literati from the political opposition in New York. The two groups in some cases eyed each other as if staring over a vast divide; but some of them actually talked.

Dave took Nann and Jim over to meet Lance, who was delighted to flirt lightly with Nann; the old man had told Dave he had a strong preference for blonds, too. While the three of them were sitting there next to the long, low windows that let in the noise and sights from the City, Lance shared yet another astonishing story.

This was the story of Dixon’s Clock.

Vice President Dixon had made a trip to Taiwan to visit the U.S. recognized Republic of China presided over by Chiang Kai-shek. As was his usual practice, the Vice President sent along an appropriate memento of the event afterwards. In this case what he deemed appropriate was a rather ponderous table clock with a brass plate inscribed with the date of the visit and his name.

Lance might have lived on in complete ignorance of the clock’s existence but it was conveyed to the President of China from the Office of the Vice President by being entrusted to the care of an airline pilot who handed it off in turn to another pilot who presumably was to have delivered it to the embassy in Taiwan. But it never arrived.

Lance, as the Officer in charge of Intelligence, therefore received a call from the frantic Office of the Vice President. This launched him into action. He had his driver take him forthwith to the airport with his translator. There, the small contingent interrogated the staff and were pointed to the very elderly Chinese man who cleaned out the planes after they had emptied.

The Chinese man listened carefully to the inquiries of the translator and at some point in the dialogue a look of comprehension lighted his face. He then led the group to a packing crate correctly addressed to the Embassy. It was sitting on a shelf just inside the baggage claim area.

Lance took it straight to the Embassy for appropriate handling. Pausing at this point, Lance told the listeners that a CIA mission had been launched to find the package and had determined that it had been stolen as part of a covert mission to disrupt American Chinese relations. So officially the clock had never arrived. Lance hoped it actually worked.

Everyone laughed except Dave. His inquiries into the CIA had made him wonder if this last joke were actually true.

The television had been droning on in the background when Tough Talk, billed as The Cutting Edge of Political Commentary, came on. Someone turned up the volume amid a mixed reaction from the crowd. The subject was the Florida variety of chads.

Commentators proceeded to argue vociferously over the still unfolding drama. The pundits were in full cry, giving their opinions about everything under the sun as they continued to weave in opinion with a smattering of fact. Franklin Leadpart went on about the latest efforts by Vice President Armstrong Fore to have votes counted with or without chads. The Branch camp reacted vociferously to the speech by Vice President Fore, opining on with exactly the same well-honed phrases they had used the last time they were asked. All of the nuances of these various revelations were then discussed again by commentators Ralph Gibbons, a Democrat from Massachusetts, and Dale Sorenson, a Republican from South Carolina.

Dave watched. Some of those in the room glanced at the set and talked over the cacophony. Some of these began moving towards the back of the room, away from the set or disappearing into the hall ways and adjacent rooms. Others began glancing at the screen, their attention wandering from those around them. Soon there were two groups of people. Interesting.

Lindsey had told Dave over coffee the week before that Babbs had a new boy friend. She had rolled her eyes a little when she mentioned it. The long and involved adventures of Babbs had become a continuing saga that Dave followed with trepidation and interest.

Babbs new boyfriend, Gregory Linderheim, was up from his home in Florida to spend time on business in New York. Gregs, as Babbs called him, was a financial planner. From what Lindsey had said that brisk afternoon as she sat snugly smiling at him in the Starbucks at 45th & Park Avenue as curls of paper whipped by outside carried in the wind that was also penetrating good Republican cloth coats on the sidewalk, Gregs would most likely prove to be a serial murderer. Babbs track record was one long and continuous disaster, not just for her but for everyone to whom she became attached. In odd moments like this Lindsey filled him in on the History of Babbs. This proved to be an astonishing collation of stories, all of which contained elements of both the tragic and the absurd.

Two years ago Babbs had been engaged to a man, Darrel Larson, who seemed like just the right guy. He had given her a gorgeous diamond ring that had belonged to his mother. Then he had borrowed money from her after moving in and grazing through her other assets. Babbs, perhaps blown into indiscretion by the size of the diamond, had written him a check without accompanying the transaction with paperwork. Later that month he had demanded the ring back and gone his way, moving out with accomplished efficiency and taking some of Babb’s choice collector items with him.

To top it off, not a week after Babbs came home to find he had left the FBI called on her. They wanted to look over anything Darrel might have left behind. Then they demanded to see her phone bills. Darrel, warm and wonderful guy that he was, had been fingered by a friend of his caught up in the Chapman murder case. The friend had offered to finger some of his ‘associates’ in an extortion ring in return for leniency. Darrel was, of course, one of those friends.

Before Dave could even completely experience sympathy for Babbs, Lindsey went on to the next chapter in the story. That was Babbs and the nice guy who escaped. Babbs was still stalking him when he could be located. He moved frequently. This insight was followed by a series of other stories. After a while he lost count and Lindsey changed subjects.

He was very glad he had not become better acquainted with the woman, although he had been struck by the real excellence of her work in film when he viewed her short subject on the Rumanian victims of the Holocaust. This had also provided him with an amazing insight into the use of political pressure, disinformation and the overwhelming power of silence.

Dave had begun to look at the edges of the story on the Holocaust as a part of his background research. It was not his story and his grandfather had left Germany in large part because he disapproved of the German government and Adolph Hitler. He had been taught that the Rumanians had cooperated with Hitler. Now he is hearing that Rumanians were actually the first inhabitants of Auschwitz. Babbs, always out of the box and gutsy along with being slightly or very crazy, had snuck a photographer into the Holocaust Museum in Rumania to photograph the evidence, which was convincing.

Killing people was just wrong; lying about the facts was sick. Dave could not imagine why such evidence would have been suppressed by the same people who had so many reasons to understand the pain of persecution, especially when their own persecutions had been allowed to go unacknowledged for so long. He made a note to himself to look into it. He would find other avenues of inquiry that did not include Babbs. Looking across the table at Lindsey, chatting and sipping on her Latte Grande, Dave realized that she had a way of cutting to the point of a story, making it memorable and funny even when it was tragic if viewed in another light.

Walking home through the dimness of early evening, hedged around with the noise of the City he wondered about Babbs. He had been impressed by the tape she had showed at the Chad Party of Alexander Fore, now vice president. On the tape Babbs had sounded so sane and the vice president came off as a space nut. Dave had briefly wondered if it was faked but he had made some calls and the vice president had done the interview back in 1986.

The interview wandered a bit but that was not the fault of the interviewer. Alexander Fore had things to say and he worked hard at saying them. Babbs had designed the interview to get Fore’s reaction to a politically correct project launched by a group of Russian and Midwestern women who were knitting Caps for Peace. The group had been moved to do this because they felt that since all women knit, at least in Russia and the Midwest, it would bring them together and help them produce more caps.

Fore had grazed through the caps without showing much interest. Then he had taken the bit in his teeth and turned the monologue towards the existence of extraterrestrials (he believed), Area 51(there needed to be a Congressional inquiry), the secrecy of the government and American’s right to know. Babbs was well informed on issues of caps and knitting but woefully behind the times of Fore’s chosen interest of the moment.

The reaction of the watchers had been mixed. The Republicans had laughed and the staunch Democrats had groaned.

Babbs had finally turned the TV off when all possibilities for anything political had been exhausted. By then Lindsey was again in the kitchen cleaning up. Dave wandered in to see if he could help. He could tell she was upset but did not know what to say. Nann and Jim had left soon after the Fore tape. Nann had said she could only take so much excitement. Nann had hugged Lindsey tight and said something to her, too low for Dave to hear. Lindsey had looked as if she might cry.

Dave took a pile of platters out of Lindsey’s hands and put them into the suds. Taking off his coat he threw it over the kitchen chair and dug in. Lindsey went out to fetch more dirty dishes. The two of them worked together, not talking more than necessary to do the job. The party was finally winding down. Gregs was putting stoppers in the bottles. Babbs had thrown herself down on the couch, flinging her shoes in different directions and proclaiming her complete exhaustion. Lindsey had taken over the sink as he wiped dishes. When she turned around he could see she had been crying.

“Oh, my eyes. It must be the soap.” Lindsey wiped her hand across her face, leaving a trail of subs in its wake. “Thanks, Dave. I really, really appreciate you helping out. I think I should head home now. I’m really tired.” Her face tried really hard to smile but it did not work. She hugged him tight for just an instant.

Then Dave was looking at the closed door, himself inside with Babbs and Gregs; Lindsey gone. This was not how he had wanted the evening to end.

Saving the world and romance had not seemed like mutually exclusive activities when Dave started. After the Republican Convention, the idea of him and Lindsey as a couple had taken hold; he had fallen in love. Now he realized that although they talked frequently, there were many subjects that were never broached. Did he know this woman? He had thought he did. He knew what moved her to tears of admiration. He knew about her ideals. Was that enough? Who was Lindsey Smithson, really?

Dave felt slightly guilty. He had promised to visit Lance, but now he felt as if he were visiting under false pretenses. Yes, he was charmed by the old man; he wanted to explore Lance’s fascinating past and hear stories. But he also wanted to find out about Lindsey. Going to her friends seemed sneaky somehow.

He and Lance met at the Waverly, a rather well known old diner near Washington Square. The place had been around forever, going through several generations of regulars, among them James Dean, who had eaten in the very reasonable eatery while he was living in New York and attending the Actor’s Studio.

Dave saw Lance, already seated at a back booth, when he walked in. Sliding over the worn, mustard colored seat he greeted the old man. Dave was nervous. He hoped it did not show.

After they ordered (hamburgers all around; Dave had a milk shake, Lance coffee), talk turned to the Chad Party and the continuing drama in Florida. Lance had heard from Babbs about her adventures in the Orange State and, forgetting for a moment the real reason he had sought Lance out, Dave listened with growing amazement to yet another Babbs story.

It seems that Babbs had decided to avoid more annoying drama about the Chads by heading down to Florida in the wake of her new honey. Arriving in West Palm Beach airport, she headed to baggage claim to get her sturdy but unexceptionally large black roller bag. Bag in hand, she headed out and immediately saw Gregs waiting for her in his Black convertible Mercedes. Just before they got on the freeway Babbs told Gregs to pull over. She needed her make-up bag and it was in the suitcase. Gregs had tossed the bag into the back seat of the car. Babbs unzipped the case to find a voting machine. This was definitely not her bag.

Both Lance and Lindsey received calls from Babbs right then and there. What was she supposed to do with the voting machine? Was it legal to import the machines to Florida now? Babbs had gone through the bag and knew it was owned by a Democrat. Lindsey called Tom Dicks. He referred them to a Republican functionary in Florida and other authorities were drawn in.

Then Babbs started to think about getting her own bag back.

For the next two days Babbs yelled at the increasingly hostile people at Unity Airline. They told her she should have checked the tag; she told them she wanted her bag. Finally an exchange was arranged and Babbs had her stuff, including the make-up bag. Every person in Florida was being asked about their opinion on the chads and the election. They asked Babbs, too, in a restaurant where she and Gregs were taking a break from the Drama of the Black Bag. But no one asked her if she knew about a lost voting machine, so naturally she made no comment.

Every news show had featured coverage of the crowds of Young Republicans protesting and interviews of Jentry Collingsworth, suddenly vocal on the issue of the First Amendment and the right to protest. It was a circus. Constant barrages of charges from Republicans that the media was owned and controlled by the Left had become routine for Dave. He trusted no one completely; a fact checked three ways was a fact he could trust.

Dave and Lance lingered over dessert; Dave ordered coffee. Lance’s stories were all told with the same dry wit, but sometimes it was obvious that the story was a put on, served up for the sake of humor.

Certainly this was true with his story about his service in the European Theatre during the last days of the Third Reich. Sitting there sipping his coffee, Lance described the growing concern of the OSS that German civilians be informed about the hazards that they faced. Dave waited. Lance had slowed the narrative, drawing out each word. His assignment, he said, was to lead a detachment to parachute behind enemy lines and carefully place flyers on the proper procedures and protocols under the doormats of the citizens of Berlin. They had accomplished this feat in complete secrecy as ordered. And so the heroic mission remained secret to this day. They had made their way back through enemy lines to meet their own troops after an arduous couple of weeks of leafleting carried out in the dead of night. The special agent who had carried the printing press received a doubly special award from the President, but he had only received the singularly special award. He was very glad not to have had to carry the printing press.

Lance told this story without even a nuance of a smile. Dave did not have to check that story out. That one could not possibly be true.

Dave enjoyed his session on the continuing stories of Babbs. Hearing these from Lance provided a stereo viewpoint that was entirely consistent with what Lindsey told. He had now heard the stories from two separate parties and it did not appear that any exaggerations were being retailed. But he had not for a moment forgotten the real reason he had called Lance. Later, he realized he should have asked Lindsey directly but he had not been able to bring himself to do that.

The story also provided the opening he had been looking for. Lance confirmed that Lindsey had been in a relationship with Tom Dicks. It had been going on for some time but, as far as he knew, was now over. When Dave said goodbye to Lance on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, he felt as if someone had dug out his heart with a spoon. It was Lindsey who had loaned him the Robin Hood movies that provided the image. That seemed fitting somehow.