At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (8 page)

After four days of nonstop partying, sunning, and beach paddleball, the law students were turning bright red, sometimes purple, in anticipation of peeling skin off their exposed areas on the trip home. It is mystifying to Floridians to see tourists and spring breakers spending hours on the beach until their previously healthy flesh becomes radiation damaged. To tan naturally, the ritual is supposed to start out with a short exposure to the sun that increases over a long period of time, allowing the skin to heal. A suntan is actually dead skin on top of live skin, baked golden brown over time.

On spring break, all of the lectures about skin cancer go right out the window, and the obligatory sunburn frequently occurs after the first day on the beach. By the time the redness appears, if you haven’t taken cover, your skin is on its way to a sickening purple color. This, together with the searing pain, can compel even the drunkest spring breaker to seek shelter in an air-conditioned building. These buildings are commonly known by locals as “bars.”

Bored with the luxury of a free stay in a beach house, the entourage decided to pack into the SUV for the fifty-mile drive along the coast to the spring break mecca of Panama City Beach, where over a million college students congregate each year to see how close they can stand next to half-naked members of the opposite sex. It is here that the inhibitions of normally studious college students can lead to sex with strangers in hotel rooms occupied by other couples who don’t know or care to remember the name of their newfound friend, but most of them will go home with blurry memories of other people engaging in debauchery.

Max was hovering on the rail of the balcony of the happy Buccaneer hotel when he suddenly developed the urge to fly. Three days of nonstop drinking and sleep deprivation had brought him to this state of mind, and at the time, it all seemed so reasonable: just leap the twelve feet from this balcony to that one and then jump back. he had made longer jumps before, and besides, he could fly in his condition. his friends wouldn’t encourage him to do anything dangerous, would they?

Debbie warned him. “Max, don’t. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Max shooed her away and cleared running room on the balcony to give him the proper launch velocity. She was just being a girl, he recalled as her stern voice echoed in his alcohol-infused brain. Too careful. Thinks I’ll hurt myself, he thought. I just need a ten-step head start until I get up to speed. I’m gonna do it!
Max actually made the first leap across the gap between the balconies of rooms 201 and 202. he landed hard and fell to his hands, turning to the loud applause of not only his friends but the hundreds of onlookers from adjoining balconies and those around the pool a mere two stories below. The words of praise were mixed a few “Asshole” and “That dude’s wasted” comments that he totally ignored.

he quickly realized that even though he had made the jump, he was now standing on an empty balcony of a room that had locked sliding doors, and he had no way of getting back unless he repeated the feat of athletic prowess in reverse. This time, he took five steps to launch across the gap. Did the balcony just get overcrowded? he wondered, his mind clouded with high levels of adrenaline, alcohol, and testosterone. “Max, don’t do it!” yelled Debbie. “Wait for the manager to unlock the door!”

Without hesitation, Max backed up five steps and ran for the open space.

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ChAPTER NINETEEN

he may have made the jump if he had given himself a longer head start, or if the big guy from Syracuse had stepped out of his way instead of pushing into the only open spot on the balcony, but here lay Max, his leg in a cast and in traction. Law school had resumed for more than two weeks. he was forced to withdraw for the summer term, and it looked certain that he wouldn’t be leaving Fairlane anytime soon.

It was precisely the opportunity that the senator and Luke Postlewaite had waited for. “You got a dose of humility, and it didn’t come too soon.” The paternal instinct was being revived in the elder Masterson, and he was mildly surprised that he still had it in him. he had felt it come and go over the years, but he seldom had to summon the need to protect his son from danger or direct him away from the pitfalls of life. Max was a good kid. This time, though, it was more serious than a broken leg. his son had stepped off the path to greatness, and he wasn’t going to sit idly by and watch him squander his only opportunity to finish his life’s purpose. To do so would be admitting he had failed.

“I’m sort of relieved that you only broke your leg, and the way I look at it, in every misfortune there lives the seed of an equivalent or greater benefit. I know that this will be a good learning opportunity for you. To be sure you don’t waste time feeling sorry for yourself, I have invited someone to help with your training.”

“Senator, I’m a law student on medical leave, and I have no idea what training you are referring to.” Max was still groggy from eleven hours of sleep and was frustrated by his inability to leave the bed. he never addressed his father as “Senator,” unless he was desperate to have his full attention.

“I’m not talking about law,” replied the senator.

“Yeah, we think you need some reinforcement of the business of politics to keep your sorry ass in tow.”
Max was startled at the familiar voice coming from behind him, out of his line of sight. There was no mistaking the booming baritone of Uncle Luke. Postlewaite had been his second mentor since infancy, and his visits with Max were always full of “life lessons” as he called them.
“I figured that it would take something like a broken bone to slow you down long enough for me to talk some sense to you, and now you’re mine.” The two elders chuckled in unison, a sinister conspiratorial laugh.
Postlewaite continued. “In the world of politics, there are two types of elected officials. There are those with ideas, and they are rare. They have goals and foresight and think for themselves. Then there are those who never had an original thought and only look out for themselves. The difference, I think, puts too many of the non-thinkers in position to lead the people that put them there. Then, when they get voted in, instead of leading, they get busy planning for reelection. Dammit! That’s not how it should be! They get their egos out and begin to think that they are experts on everything. Then, when they stand in front of the voters and make speeches, they are careful to only tiptoe around and avoid saying anything controversial.”
Max listened intently, careful not to comment until Postlewaite and the senator were certain they had made a point. When the pause became an ending, he responded.
“But I’m not a politician.”
“I don’t want you to be a politician,” commented the senator. “I do want you to run when the time is right, but I don’t want you to run as a politician.”
The last words were confusing, even to Max, who had been indoctrinated in the fine art of politics since infancy. “I don’t see the difference.”
“I want you to say what you mean and never fear the consequences of holding tight to your ideals. You should never be afraid to clearly state your position on the issues you feel strongly about or to ask questions. You should never avoid discussion with those who don’t hold your views. Nobody ever resolved a conflict by refusing to talk about it. I’m going to go into more depth, and while we have you hostage, Luke and I are going to begin your journey into becoming a person of value.”
When Max didn’t respond, Postlewaite took up the silence.
“What we are trying to tell you is that you don’t need to act like a politician to get elected. You need to develop a clear vision of what you intend to accomplish once you get into office, and you must be able to clearly state your position in a way that will convince people that your way is the right way,” he expounded.
“OK, but can we do this after breakfast?”

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ChAPTER TWENTY

how do people, most of them from humble beginnings, become president? Think about it. Most of them didn’t have the pedigree.” Luke Postlewaite began each of his lessons with a question that his students all wondered about, but the answer to that question would never be found in a textbook or a Google search. These were questions designed to get them to think outside the box and ponder the metaphysical. “You could make a better argument for left-handedness being a prerequisite for being president than any of the other qualifications that those elected to higher office possess, with the possible exception of being born a male,” Postlewaite continued. Max laughed without knowing why.

“Lincoln crawled literally out of the wilderness. Clinton grew up in Arkansas, but ended up at Yale, and later, to Cambridge, a Rhodes s cholar.”

“Obama. A child of a marriage between a Nigerian scholar and a hippie girl, who grew up in Indonesia, hawaii, and Kansas. They were all portrayed as outsiders, trying to break into politics, but were they? Outsiders?”

Postlewaite paced while Max listened. If there had been a carpet beneath his feet, it would have been threadbare by now. When Luke talked, he walked, and the only way to silence him was to ask him to sit down.

“Our nation has always mistrusted royalty. The aristocracy has never trusted the common man. Our Founding Fathers were a talented and brilliant group of landowners and businessmen who were being taxed to death by the British. When they broke away from the monarchy and Mother England, they rejected the traditions that came with it.”

Max looked more puzzled than before. “I don’t get it. First you start to tell me about how the average guy can become president, and then you launch into some history lesson about England and kings and who knows what?” his words were met with an annoying glare from his teacher.

“For a kid in traction, you certainly act like you have to be somewhere else.” Luke’s rebuke silenced his student long enough for him to continue. “Whether you like it or not, Max, you are going to focus on what I am saying. Now, as I was saying,” he smiled, and Max knew from a lifetime of experience that he was not going to succeed at convincing Luke Postlewaite to move on to another subject, even if he couldn’t understand where all of this was headed.

“When the American Revolution was finished, our Founding Fathers got together and set up the infrastructure for running the country. They decided to have a president who was elected, but they didn’t trust the citizens to elect him. They wanted to maintain control of who would be king, because up until then, the leader was born into the position, not elected, and the only way to get him off the throne was to hasten his death. The problem with that idea was that the king’s little brother would take the job, and that’s how it was done.”

“Why?”
“That’s the way it had always been done, that’s why. So here the Founding Fathers are setting up the framework for running the country, and they don’t want a monarchy, and they don’t want just anyone to become president, so they create the electoral college to elect the president of the United States. After a few tries at getting the right man into office, they ran out of Founding Fathers, and we got a series of presidents who are only famous for being forgettable.”
Postlewaite sat down and waited for Max to ask a question. There were several minutes of silence as he tried to remember who became president after Andrew Jackson and before Abraham Lincoln. he drew a blank. “I see what you mean. I can’t recall a lot of the names, and I sure can’t remember what they accomplished in office. Is this my history lesson?” Max resumed his impatience, a trait his father imparted to him when he couldn’t see where a conversation or speech was headed.
“I’m not trying to get you to memorize long-dead presidents. I want you to wonder about how they became president.” This lesson had been lost on Max. Luke had started his day with that question, and he didn’t yet have the answer.
“OK, this is your long-winded way of getting me to ask you how we get better presidents elected, right?” asked the slightly cranky student.
With that bit of encouragement, Postlewaite stood once again, and the lesson resumed. “Now you’re getting it. The answer to your question is simple—The Society.”

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ChAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Since the early 1800s, an ultra-exclusive secret organization has met privately to promote the election of qualified candidates to become the president of the United States of America,” said Postlewaite, with more than a little tinge of pride in his voice.

“Luke, are you telling me that you’re one of these people?”

“I have been a member of The Society most of my life, along with the senator, who was one of my first students.”
“You mean, my dad was trained to be president like you’re training me?”
“Yes, along with many of the famous candidates throughout history, starting with Abraham Lincoln. Oh, sometimes we win and sometimes we lose, but we have a pretty good track record of getting our people elected. The senator turned out to be too direct and honest to be our candidate, and The Society had to put Bill Clinton in his slot. We paid for his education, got him deferred from the draft, funded his campaigns, paid the pollsters and the marketers, pretty much built him from the ground up. Clinton’s downfall was not that he was a bad president. It was his ego. he thought he could get away with anything without feeling the consequences. That’s why we had to step in and bring his ego under control.”
Max’s interest had returned in spades. he would never be impatient with his teachings again. “You mean that I’m not the only one? I thought it was all my father’s ambition that was behind this.” The teachings of Luke Postlewaite during his sixteenth summer were long over. At the time, he felt that he had learned all that his teacher had to impart to the chosen, but here was a new way of looking at politics that had never been shared with Max. This was graduate school for political hopefuls, and Max was dubious about whether he would ever want to pursue his father’s calling.
“Listen, I told you to think about how those other guys got elected. Do you think for one minute that they could get themselves educated, become consummate public speakers, appear at the right events, get the press they needed to get the public’s attention, do the marketing of their image—”
Max interrupted. “. . . and get elected?”
“Now you’re starting to get the big picture. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
Max began to understand the meaning of the lessons constantly presented by the senator and Postlewaite, each providing essential links in the chain he needed to be considered a candidate. he had been promoted by his father as a future contender, along with an unknown number of other potential choices. They were offered up at the right time after years of training by a secret group who possessed the knowledge and wherewithal to get them elected. They were on the fast track to the presidency. he had to know about his competition.
“Luke, if I’m in the running, who am I running against?”
“I know, but I can’t tell you. Not yet, at least. That day will come.” Postlewaite was crafty at planting the seed, but he made sure that his young study didn’t have too much information for his own good. Get the competitive instinct stoked up, but don’t let him compete. It was too early. Max needed years of training before he would be ready, and he didn’t know if the senator was up to the task. That was the reason he had put the lessons on disk, in case he wasn’t around to finish it.