At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (32 page)

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ChAPTER NINETY-SIX

Back home in the real world, Bob, Phil, and Jerry remained glued to the big-screen TV at Jesse’s Tavern, which they had reserved for the occasion. Like other sporting events, they began betting on the only pending activity that could result in a winner or loser—that lone dangling drop on the end of the president’s nose.

“I’ll betcha five bucks that he’ll never notice it, and I’ll pay ya triple if it falls onto his podium,” began Phil.
“hell, I’ll throw in another pitcher of Bud if it doesn’t fall off before the first question,” contributed Bob.
Jerry reached for another chicken wing and considered his wager. While the drop continued to cling to the end of the president’s nose, he upped the offer significantly. “I gotcha all beat. I’ll buy both of you dinner at Buddy’s Steak house if he even leaves the stage on his own two feet.”
Forrestal managed to maintain his own composure, and determined to get the show on the road, he scanned the first question. With a brief smile, he directed his gaze at Blythe. “Mr. president, the first question is for you, and you alone. The voters want to know, if you were given the opportunity to ask your opponents one question that defines their fitness to be president of the United States, what would you ask them?”
Blythe looked dumbfounded. In all of the weeks of preparation for the debate, the possibility of him asking a question of Max Masterson and Scarlett Conroy, even one, had never entered his mind. In his condition, he reacted before he could regain his poise, and he attacked to respond to this perceived ambush. “I haven’t thought about it much, but what I really want to know is how these two goddamned Independents expect to beat me in this election. I have all of the experience, and they have none.”
Walsh and Portman cringed from the sidelines. “This campaign is going down in flames,” whispered Portman.
Stunned, the audience was silent. Forrestal wasted no time in turning to Max. “Mr. Masterson, you will be allowed two minutes to respond.” Max paused and directed his gaze into the cameras. “I won’t need two minutes to respond. It’s a simple question, and it deserves a simple response. Bad experience won’t win an election. My ideas are fresh, and his are rotten to the core.”
The audience erupted in loud applause as the cameras focused again on Blythe, who glared menacingly in Max’s direction. The cameras resumed the close-up of Blythe’s face. The droplet had tripled in size and fell from his nose, making an audible plop as it splattered on his podium. It was quickly replaced on his nose by another one as his face took on a sheen that no amount of makeup could conceal.
The guys at the tavern were beside themselves. This was becoming real entertainment, and they laughed with delight at Max’s direct jab at Blythe. They had long ago decided that Max was the candidate who would be getting their vote, but they clung to the precious few words he spoke, memorizing the simple messages. “I guess I’m paying for the beer tonight,” said Bob. Phil knew he owed money to his two old friends, but they all knew that nobody would attempt to collect if Phil picked up the evening’s tab. It was too early to predict whether Jerry would be buying them dinner, but the entertainment value of the event unfolding on the big screen made it all worth it.
“Senator Conroy, you will now be given two minutes.”
Scarlett had waited for this moment all of her life. “Mr. Forrestal, I would like to start by taking this opportunity to thank all of the people who are responsible for tonight’s debate, and especially the League of Women Voters, who have been so kind to sponsor this event, a duty they have assumed once more for the benefit of all Americans.” She launched into a prepared speech, touting her accomplishments as a politician and as a woman. Where her resume was thin, she added the record of renowned women in history to hers, as if she had been there and done that; experience by affiliation. She was poised and confident, a supremely accomplished public speaker, and she filled the two minutes with well-rehearsed and packaged words. There was only one problem; she never answered the question.
While Scarlett spoke, Blythe tried to look past the bright lights into the dark recesses of the backstage area. If he had been successful, he would have realized that Walsh and Portman had stealthily made their exit for the less volatile comfort of a hotel bar in the holiday Inn closest to the debate venue, safe from the wrath of the president, who was beyond the point of salvaging his last shred of dignity.
“Mr. Masterson, you have the next question. As you already realize, we are giving each of you the opportunity to ask questions of the other candidates before we go to questions composed by the voters, and this is an opportunity to inform America that each of you possess the integrity and vision to lead. Max Masterson, you’re up,” said Forrestal in his best announcer’s baritone, energized by the path the debate was taking.
Max anticipated that he would be asked a crucial question, but he had to devise his answer to attack Blythe’s record and avoided boosting Scarlett’s performance. Employing his characteristic economy of words, he turned to face the president. “I want to know how you are going to salvage America from the mess we are in and lead us to the prosperity that is our destiny.” By addressing Blythe directly, he avoided having Scarlett respond before Blythe.
“Mr. Blythe, would you please address the question first,” intoned the moderator.
The cameras zoomed in close, and Blythe’s face filled the screen. In the age of high-definition imaging, no minor flaw could be hidden. Every pore could be examined in detail, and the president had managed by this time to smear his stage makeup with the back of his hand, and run his hands through his carefully coifed hair, giving the viewer the impression that he had just emerged from a barroom brawl. he puffed from exertion, despite the fact that he had been standing still for the entire time. his eyes were glazed, and he wobbled slightly. he paused longer than was comfortable and glared once more at Max.
“You son of a bitch,” he muttered in a low growl. “You think you are so smart, so perfect, so ready to lead.” he launched himself from his podium and charged toward Max, raising his arm for a punch. Max calmly stepped left and feinted right as the president of the United States swung without the slightest contact. Blythe’s momentum propelled him off the stage, his head ending squarely in the lap of Roger Forrestal. The veteran announcer managed to recover his poise almost instantly and proclaimed, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this will conclude tonight’s debate. Thank you and may God bless America.”
The lights were lowered as Blythe was extracted by Secret Service, his feet never touching the floor. Unaware that both of his assistants had left the building long before his outburst, he screamed, “Plan B! Plan B! Get Darkhorse on it immediately! Do you hear me?” his voice disappeared he was carried through the heavy security doors.
From the hotel bar, Portman and Walsh turned to each other in astonishment. “I’ll be damned. We still have a job, and he is still the president,” proclaimed Walsh.
“Yeah, but what do we do now?” responded Portman.

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ChAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

At 4:30 p.m. on the day after the final debate, a hasty press conference was called at the White house. Press Secretary Wiley Carlson read an official release and took no questions. Paper copies of the release, on official White house stationery, were distributed to all members of the press in attendance, which read, “Tomorrow’s conclusion of the final debate between President Warren H. Blythe, Scarlett Conroy, and Max Masterson is postponed until further notice. Regrettably, President Blythe has contracted influenza and will be unable to participate further. Ms. Conroy and Mr. Masterson have graciously agreed to reschedule the debate to a time and place to be announced upon President Blythe’s recuperation . . .”

The news of Blythe’s withdrawal came as a surprise to the Masterson and Conroy camps. Not only were they not informed of the postponement, they also did not agree to the cancellation. Blythe’s handlers had gambled that neither campaign would contradict the official announcement in an effort to deflect any negative public sentiment that would result.

Max went into a momentary scowl upon hearing the news, and then he smiled. Andrew Fox and Bill Staffman waited for the inevitable maxim that would come forth from Max. Instead, it was a question. “Bill, is the Kennedy Center reserved for tomorrow night? I want to make a speech.”

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ChAPTER NINETY-EIGhT

On the day of the speech, two days before the general election, Max fullfilled his pledge. he had vowed to America that he would not make any speeches during the campaign, but the campaign was over, and it was his last opportunity to get his message across before the vote. Unlike typical stump speeches, his was designed long in advance, by a man who was now long dead, and he now realized that he had been rehearsing it since he was old enough to speak. he knew the words by heart, which was the source of each syllable. he believed, and he wanted America to believe.

In response to numerous requests for speaking engagements, his staff had issued a press release that, finally, Max would be speaking on the day scheduled for the final debate before the election. This had the effect of delaying a substantial portion of early voting across the country in anticipation that this speech would be the one that would help people to decide which candidate should become the next president of the United States.
Blythe and Conroy took the day before the election off from campaigning, as is the tradition. They were smug in their assessment of the polls. Projections for both the challenger and the incumbent showed close results, but with victories for each depending on which poll one chose to believe.

The audience at the Kennedy Center paid for their seats, and the take was enough to erase the debt of the Masterson campaign. Bigtime luminaries treated the event like the Academy Awards and paid enormous sums for a pair of tickets, which were then surreptitiously sold to the highest bidder. They all wanted to be there, but billions of viewers had to settle for access over the web.

There would be no commercials and no introductory speakers, and the crowd waited restlessly, murmuring in a low growl that seemed to grow as the 8:00 p.m. start time approached. Max was going to speak, and they craved to hear him.

Security in black suits and hidden microphones lined the stage, dark sunglasses made them look like they had been manufactured on an assembly line. These were private security guards, although they looked like the Secret Service agents assigned to the candidates. Since Jason Bland’s disappearance, the Secret Service was only assigned to protect Blythe. They scanned the crowd and spoke to their central command in the sound booth.

The lights came on, and the crowd cheered, anticipating that Max would mysteriously appear on the stage and stand before the backdrop like a rock band. An opening appeared in the stage floor, and there he was, rising from beneath.

he was dressed in a black suit and red, white, and blue tie with a brilliant white shirt for contrast. Every hair was meticulously in place. If a president could look like a president, but double as a movie star at the same moment in time, it was Max. There were no props. No podiums to hide his image. Just Max in the middle of the stage with an American flag superimposed on the White house projected in high definition on the screen behind him. The audience stood in unison, and he stood silently for ten minutes until the applause subsided below a roar, making no effort to quiet the crowd. The clapping increased with every facial gesture or body movement. he finally spoke in a loud and firm voice.

“I’m Max Masterson, and I’m running for president of the United States of America.”
The cheering began, and the crowd rose to their feet again. If it was possible, the noise was louder this time, but quickly diminished as the audience resumed their seats, eager to listen.
“I promised you that I would make no speeches during my campaign, but now the campaign is over. I am here today to ask you for your vote.”
he shifted slightly, and the backdrop changed into a large ballot with a large red checkmark next to his name, which was larger and bolder than the other candidates’ names. he looked serious, more stern than he had been portrayed in the many political cartoons of recent weeks. They liked to make him look like a carefree playboy or a baby in diapers to showcase his youth and inexperience, but now he looked older and more distinguished. his eyebrows peaked, forming a crease above his nose, and then he broke into his trademark smile, his dimples highlighting his handsome features.
“Many of you, particularly the press, and, oh yeah, that guy I’m running against, have been pestering me to make speeches on everything from whether I wear whitey tighties to how I’m going to keep terrorists from sneaking in and blowing up the Statue of Liberty.”
The audience laughed, almost in relief.
“I decided that if I’m going to run for president, I’m going to do it my way. Personally, I think that America is sick and tired of politicians.”
The clapping began and cheers of support filled the room.
“I see what happens when politicians stand up and start talking by the hour. It happens to me, too. My eyes glaze over, my mind wanders, and by the time they are done droning on and on, I can’t remember anything except the parts that pissed me off or made me think. Lately, there hasn’t been much that has come out of a politician’s mouth that has made me think.”
A large man in the front row stood and yelled “Ain’t that right!” blocking the view of the members of the audience for ten rows behind him, so they stood, too. he began clapping loudly, so they clapped along with him. In waves, the audience stood. he soon had a standing ovation for nothing more than the consensus that politicians create boredom.
he continued without a pause. “That’s one reason why I’m not a politician. I’m just a man running for president.”
The cheering began afresh, and he hadn’t even begun to get into the important part of the speech. he raised his hands and achieved silence. “I have been telling you what I stand for. I have been doing it in sound bites, and I did it that way so the press wouldn’t misrepresent what I said. I wanted you to remember me for what I believe, not for what they want you to believe.” he paused, and the crowd settled down.
In the sound booth, the producer began to instruct the technicians to break to commercial, but then remembered that there were none. Max stood in silence, and the whole room became silent once more.
“I’m going to do a little experiment. When I tell you a subject, if you remember where I stand, tell me in one sentence. Ready?”
In homes all over the world, entire families waited for the impromptu civics test about to be broadcast. “Ready!” they yelled in unison, not realizing or caring that Max couldn’t hear them. he heard the voices in the auditorium, and that was enough for him.
“The environment!”
“If you dirty it up, you make it cleaner than it was, or pay someone else to do it,” they yelled.
“Jobs.”
“Everyone should be able to make enough to support their family.”
“health care.”
“All Americans are entitled to see a doctor when they are hurt or sick, and afford what it takes to keep them healthy.”
“The elderly.”
“Treat your elders as you want to be treated, to live a full life with dignity.”
“Our children.”
“We owe it to our children to protect them from harm, and to make their world better than ours.”
“Education.”
“The more you learn, the more you earn.”
“Politicians.”
“If you lie to the voter, we take note and you lose our vote.”
This time, they broke into pandemonium, and it was several minutes before they composed themselves enough for him to go on. he stood patiently. When they settled down, he continued.
“Now, I want you to recite, word for word, what my opponent has told you about all of those things but leave out the lies.”
In the midst of the laughing, the viewers at home looked at each other and realized that the incumbent president had lied to the American people on all of the subjects they had heard in Max’s “speech,” or that if he had told the truth, they couldn’t remember what it was. For most, it was the first time that they clearly saw who they had elected to office and the serious choice they were about to make.
“I believe that Americans should have a clear choice when they decide who will lead them. I also believe that Americans should trust that they have made the right decision. The job of president should not be to deceive. It should not be a popularity contest. The true measure of a president is whether he can make clear choices, as unpopular as they may be at that moment, based on strong guiding principles. And when the decision is made, you should feel secure that it is right for America.”
Max was settling into the speech he had rehearsed since childhood. he stood ramrod straight and solid, his hands emphasizing each point as the cameras zoomed to catch each facial expression. It was an intimate, personal conversation in tone, not preaching or loud, and he commanded their intense attention as he seemed to speak to each of them individually.
“I am one man. I am, above all else, a patriot. A patriot is an American who believes in and promotes American ideals. The next American president should be a patriot. I am not a Democrat. I am not a Republican. I am also not a liberal, a conservative, a communist, a socialist, a fascist, or a king. I am an American patriot.”
“During the many months that I have been running for president, I have limited my words to clear messages so that you understand and remember where I stand on the issues. After I become your next president, my next important duty is to surround myself with other American patriots who are the best of the best, who will follow the maxims that define the way we will conduct the business of government.”
Behind Max, the screen morphed into an image of the gold-inscribed card that he carried in his pocket. he pulled the card from his suit and read. “These are my maxims for America. They are the derived from the basic principles by which I conducted my campaign, and they are the principles by which I will conduct the office of president. I have modified them to deal with the task before us.” The list transformed behind him.
The informed will of the people dictates what is right. Maintain what is right, and right what is wrong.