ALL IN: Race for the White House (22 page)

There were guests milling about, captivated by street performers and magicians playing to the crowd, working to keep everyone entertained. Everywhere I looked there was something going on.
 

Bud made his way over to us, “What do you think of all this, Jack?”

“It’s unbelievable, Bud.”

“Well, enjoy yourself. The take for tonight is already 28 million and I expect may be somewhere around 35 or 40 before the night is over.”
 

Lisa found us, “Jack, Integrated Media has you the winner by 9 points with Griffin second and Tim a distant third.”

Sandy gave me a hug, “Congratulations, this is your night.” I was feeling elated as our host, Gene Hobbs, greeted us, “Glad you could be here, Senator. You must be happy to hear you’re the winner in New Hampshire. Gene quickly added, “I’d like to introduce my wife of fifty years, Betty.” She was a comely woman of about seventy and seemed genuinely pleased to meet all of us.
 

“Senator, we are so glad to have you visit our home, I so enjoyed watching you debate,” she said in a mild southern drawl. “These are my daughters Timlin and Lily.” She presented her girls, both in their mid-thirties, who were making their way to us.
 

“I’m so pleased to meet all of you,” I said to the girls and Mrs. Hobbs. “I’d love a tour of the house later; in fact, we probably all would if you wouldn’t mind.”
 

“Please, call me Betty and I’d love to show you the house.”

Gene added, “Well done. You have Griffin on the ropes; I don’t think she’ll be able to recover.”

I replied, “Don’t count her out yet, Gene. She’ll pull out all the stops in South Carolina, she’s going to be like a cornered rhino now.”

Everyone chuckled. I thought it interesting people were listening with rapt attention when I spoke. The celebrity draws them like moths to a flame. Even the rich and powerful are intoxicated by it. I would use this night and the news of the win to try to convince Gene and his guests subtly to draw back on some of Griffin’s funding. Especially since it seemed like he was leaning that way already. If her money dried up, maybe she would too.
 

Gene and Betty began to walk us around introducing us to groups of people who were gathered about. I felt more like a kid at the circus than a man running for president. The statues were real people. We passed a sword swallower, mimes, and acrobats. Sandy held tight to my arm as we walked to the very back of the room towards the main attraction. Behind the pool, there was a tiger in a black circular cage with a tamer running through a series of tricks with the beast.
 

“Jack, have you ever seen anything like this night?” Sandy looked up at my face.
 

“This is definitely over the top. Are you having fun?”

Sandy answered, “It’s definitely different, but I have this weird feeling, like I could never fit in with the people here. I don’t know why, it feels sort of creepy. I can’t seem to shake it.”

Sandy felt the guarded polite plastic veneer as we met with each cache of guests. Arm in arm, we made our way around the room in what felt like a summer night just before sundown. The music playing softly in the background like something you might have heard at King Henry’s Court in the Middle Ages. As we passed, I could see it was a live version with odd-looking instruments and singers performing. This type of money and privilege provides comforts most people are not aware of - I doubted average Americans, even contemplated such things as they struggled to meet their obligations and keep a roof over their heads. We were all struck by the extravagance, and I can safely say we would never forget.
 

We took side trips through sections of the home as Betty explained the different wings, each with multiple bedroom suites and living areas overlooking the central courtyard. It struck me that the kitchen was a commercial type and the number of staff milling about. Gene and Betty lived in a fashion where they would never enter a kitchen or even think to do so. When we arrived at the library, Gene asked if he could have a moment with Bud and me, asking Betty to continue with the tour.
 

Tip stayed behind, saying, “I’ll wait here for you, Jack.” Betty blithely continued with Sandy, Lisa, and Bill. Bud mentioned that we had a crew waiting to shoot our acceptance of the New Hampshire win.
 

“This won’t take too long,” Gene said. Opening the door into the library, I saw two men seated, having a discussion. One I recognized from earlier in the evening; his behavior had taken me aback. This mid-fifties aged man with dyed hair the color of coal tar sealer threw his drink at the big cat during a performance. He startled the obviously tame animal and proceeded to run his mug back and forth across the steel mesh cage. He was laughing like a hyena and none of the people around him were giving him any grief about it. From my vantage point across the pool, I could see the tamer quickly opened the smaller cage door and ushered the tiger into the comfort of its transport box.
 

Gene said, “Senator, I would like to introduce Thomas Santoro.”

The Italian rose to shake my hand, “Pleased to meet you, senator.” His accent sounded heavier than New Jersey, closer, but not quite as thick as Rhode Island.
 

The other man was on his feet and Gene introduced, “and this is Emilio Juarez, my friend from the Dominican Republic.”

Tip had warned me about Juarez, nicknamed the Cuban.
 

“Good evening, Senator. I too am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said in a very soft-spoken Cuban voice. The man, obviously in his very late seventies, maybe early eighties, was almost sheepish and his handshake was soft. His health looked frail and I was surprised at his age along with his obvious wealth, he’d be hanging with this group. I thought he should be spending what time he had left trying to find joy and peace.
 

The only thing that gave me a worse vibe than these two was Gene’s taste in decorating. The ceilings were about 30 feet high and three walls held books up to about the first 15 feet, after which was a very large landing around three-quarters of the room. The wall opposite the door was made up of five floor-to-ceiling arched windows. The bottom six feet of each had colonial muttons and were partially opened, allowing the outside winter cold to fight with the heat in the room. On the landings above the bookshelves were housed various artifacts of torture.

Gene saw me noticing, “These are from the collection of King Henry,” he boasted.

There were guillotines and stretching racks and other devices all made of aged wood and black iron. Some had big weathered chain links hanging from them and leather straps. There were black iron turning wheels,
the sight was gruesome
.
 

Gene motioned to a large ax with a semicircular blade and an unusually long, thick handle.
 

“This is my prized piece of the entire collection - the ax used to behead Katherine, Henry’s youngest bride.” Mounted next to the ax, on a polished cherry post, was a scrap of parchment. Adjacent to it, carved in gold lettering over black onyx, was inscribed an onlooker. The parchment had faded to an almost illegible degree and was preserved behind glass.
 

Gene said, “The onlooker’s account is sealed in helium, like the Declaration of Independence. I’ve had it authenticated by historians, expert in the period.” The words were transferred onto the stone.
 

The eerie account told of the misty morning when the helpless fair-haired teenager, a mere girl, forced to lay under the weight of the wealth of England, was led to her death.
 

I read the inscribed: Queen
Katherine
emerged just before nine in the morning. A rain the night before had turned the courtyard muddy to our ankles. The streets containing the foul smell of chicken scratch and horse urine slurried into the mix. Gawkers pushed for position and strained to see the delicate fawn-like Katherine as she walked barefoot, clothed only in a plain linen dress. The exposed skin of her upper chest was so pale I could see the ghostly blue vein patchwork beneath. The last time I had seen the young queen, she was amazing, the most beautiful woman in all England. Fancily dressed and bright, riding in an open coach smiling sweetly waving to her subjects, I fancied the thought our eyes might have met for a second.
 

“Spill her blood!” A witness called out. I thought, what cowards this mob, content to stand by and watch. Greedily clinging to their own lives–any one of which could be wrenched from him in a second.
 

This bitter gray morning, the little Queen made her way slowly up to the old worn wooden steps, pausing briefly, turning sad doe eyes back to the crowd. A pitiful thin waif of a child so helpless and demure, Katherine continued up the stairs carefully gripping the railing as if it was her mother’s hand that somehow she might be swept away from all this.
 

Once upon the platform, facing the crowd full on, her tiny limbs were exposed and pale, a simple dress hanging over her nearly shapeless frame. She wore no jewelry. Her one remaining vanity, long hair, was perfectly combed. The henchman placed her firmly against the block and with a blank and helpless stare Katherine moved her beautiful locks to one side exposing her slender neck.
 

I waited for her to rise to her feet and scream out in defiance, “What have I done that your precious King isn’t guilty of?”
 

Laying her head sideways on the block, she awaited her fate in silence.
 

The dark-hooded killer appeared to us like a giant standing over her. A moment before, even the handle of the ax and the blade had been taller than the living little queen. He drew back.
 

I heard the neck cracking then a thud as the girl’s head crashed to the platform floor. Steam rose from the blood pouring into a warm pool from the lifeless body slumped behind the block.
 

Gene Hobbs had acquired the only known account of the gruesome event; one can imagine that onlookers must have rushed to write on whatever they could find to recount the scene. The metaphor of the rich over the pitiful and the machinery of torture in the room made me shiver. Reading the narrative, I felt sickened by the horror of the day, for lost innocence and the tyranny of the time. What a waste of a precious young life; what a disgrace for England.
 

Never a fan of the monarchy, I never understood the concept that some human beings considered themselves born to privilege. Life itself is so unfair and as far as I was concerned, the Royal Family was the most visible representation of that. They could shove it up their collective arses; I had no patience for them. My favorite part of history is when we kicked the English out of America and took it over.
 

“Betty let you decorate this room yourself,” I tried to joke to lighten my mood; these so-called artifacts give me the creeps.

Gene said, “My family thinks the decorating eccentric, I’ll admit, but I’ll have you know the artifacts in this room cost me 14 million dollars to assemble, more than the young king’s entire inheritance of 1.5 million pounds from his father back in 1509.”

“Inflation,” I joked.
 

Gene continued, “I paid two million for the ax and another five million for the eyewitness account at auction; there were several bidders. Everything on the upper shelves is from the 16
th
century and authenticated by experts as owned by the Tudors.”

I thought to myself—
this guy is a real head case
. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but there was something very sinister about Gene that went much deeper than his taste in decorating. A voice came over the intercom; it was one of Hobbs’ many staff of underlings and clingers on. “They are setting up for the senator in the entry hall, Mr. Hobbs.”

“Alright,” Gene said toward the intercom and then turning to us, “This won’t take long, Gentlemen. Please be seated.” Gene explained the reason for the meeting. The three men were business partners and wanted to enter into agreements with the United States to grow large quantities of feedstock material in the Dominican Republic and import to America.

“Simple enough,” I said. “Anything else on your minds.”
 

Gene excused everyone and asked me to stay a moment. As everyone except Hobbs and I filed out of the room, Bud said, “I’ll gather our group and meet you up front, Jack.”
 

Gene began, “Jack, I have extensive holdings in farmland here in the US, some half million acres that I would like the government to lease from me. You could grow fuel on them if you like. In exchange for a long-term lease of these areas, I would make a donation of $50 million to the campaign.”
 

“You don’t mince words, do you, Gene?”
 

“It depends on the terms,” I said, “because any large scale contract is going to be scrutinized.”
 

Gene continued, “The terms can be on the high end of the market for smaller tracts. Each is broken into 5000 acre lots in the names of separate corporations.”
 

“You have really thought this through, Gene.”
 

“We’ve had teams of attorneys working on this ever since you started campaigning on the idea. We’ve had our eye on you for a while, Jack.”
 

“I’m sure we can work out something, Gene. I can’t get into any details with you, but we can agree in principle.”

I was thinking of all the debts to various donors I had to accumulate to get to be president.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you involved with these other two guys? I mean, with all the money you have, what could you possibly need with two guys like that? We had these people checked out, Gene, they are undesirables.”

“I inherited Juarez from my late father; they were business partners, and Santoro goes with him. Jack, let me tell you something that I have learned over the years. You didn’t make the world the way it is, and you’re not going to be able to change it. Either you work with these people, or they’re going to stonewall everything you do. Don’t let that little old man fool you. Between the two of them, they could kill anyone they wanted. New York City is a drug-ridden cesspool because of the two of them. Make no mistake, if I could have, I would’ve ended my relationship with the Cuban. If I did, it would be a death sentence for me and my family.”