The Frankenstein Candidate Read online

  “So you would rather let Iraq dismember itself into a civil war?”

  “Absolutely. Would you rather more American soldiers died for no cause?”

  Flannery could hardly believe his luck.

  “And we let the Taliban secure a stronghold in Pakistan, a base from which to launch strikes against the U.S.?”

  “Since 2016, we have been occupying the lawless zones of northeast Pakistan purportedly to counter the threat that the Taliban could get hold of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons. The tribal Taliban can never overcome Pakistan’s army, the sixth largest in the world.”

  “What if there is a military coup in Pakistan? It has happened before.”

  “Their military already has control of the sites.”

  “What if they use the weapons?”

  “With a maximum range of eight hundred miles, the U.S. is not in danger.”

  “Surely, you are not seriously advocating abandonment?”

  “I am. Five to ten of our soldiers are being killed or maimed every month in northeast Pakistan. The Pakistan People’s Party and the Party of Allah are calling it a U.S. imperialist invasion, turning their citizens against us.”

  Flannery could have rubbed his hands together in glee. Before he could throw another question, though, Frank Stein continued in his didactic fashion.

  “We have armed forces stationed in one hundred and fifty countries over the world. The government is already bankrupt. But the wars worsen the bankruptcy.”

  “I am sorry, did you just say bankruptcy?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you become president, will you actually announce this to the world?”

  “We are live now, aren’t we?”

  The color was draining from Flannery’s face.

  “Do not be alarmed, Mr. Flannery, the world already knows this.”

  “But I…I thought you were right wing, not antiwar, Mr. Stein,” Flannery stuttered.

  “The labels are misleading. Right wing and left wing, liberal and conservative, all have been misused relentlessly.”

  “Surely this is irresponsible.”

  “What is?”

  “Your rhetoric, Mr. Stein…it could incite people to commit—”

  “I haven’t used any.”

  “But a strong army is needed to protect us from terrorism.”

  “Now you are off the track.”

  “Mr. Stein, isolationism is a dangerous policy.”

  “Isolationism is another of those stupid buzzwords—”

  “Don’t we owe a duty to protect—”

  “No, we have no such duty. But we have a right to interfere if there is a significant and real pro-freedom movement…then we should absolutely supply arms and expertise to support—”

  “At this rate, you will be saying we should support a rebel like Imran Sharif rather than let the Iranian people decide for themselves—”

  “Now Sharif’s is a real movement that has a fighting chance of winning. We should support him. Absolutely. Militarily.”

  “You contradict yourself, Mr. Stein.”

  Ignoring Flannery, Frank Stein continued, “Whereas in Afghanistan, all we have is warring tribes, tribal chiefs, and gang leaders going at each other, each of whom simply represent a milder version of the Taliban.”

  “You are calling Third World people tribals? You will be denounced as a white supremacist, a racist—”

  “I said the Afghan chieftains are tribal in their philosophical outlook. There is no point in continuing to take sides so that a democratic election between Tweedledum and Tweedledee can take place.”

  The buzzer in Mr. Flannery’s pocket went off. He knew he had done more than enough to create scandal. Any more and Washington could come down with a heavy hand; Stein was generating too much press.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Stein, we are running over time. But thank you for coming here to share your extremist views with the American public. After all, freedom of speech is protected by the first—”

  Frank Stein was so fed up that he walked out with the cameras still rolling.

  Dismayed, he caught the subway to Forest Hills, alone. People had begun to recognize him in the streets. Some people in his subway car smiled at him. One young man asked for his autograph, saying he was a big fan—a student of political science, he had long been bewildered by the evasiveness of politicians everywhere.

  The rain splattered his jacket as he made his way out on the road, but Frank was too lost in his introspection to notice even daylight. When in the Big Apple, he always visited Daniela and Jimmy…always. Surprise visits worked better sometimes.

  Jimmy was beside himself when he saw Frank, for Daniela had not told him that Uncle Frank was visiting; she didn’t know it herself.

  “Ball?” he screamed.

  “It’s raining, Jimmy…lemme tell you a story instead.”

  “Yay, I love your stories.”

  “The story is more like…well, a lot of questions.”

  “Okay, I like your questions.”

  “Out in this valley far, far away, there lives a gentle giant. Near him is a village where people are always fighting each other. The giant can break up a fight easy. He often does. It’s easy for him, because no one can hurt him.

  “But they go back to fighting. Once there was a bully who was beating up on all the little children in the village. So the giant taught him a lesson. The bully stopped, and no one came to thank the giant. Now there are always people fighting, and the giant doesn’t even know who is right and who is wrong. What should he do?”

  “Well, he can’t just beat up on anyone…he should find out who started it.”

  “Bingo. And if he can’t?”

  “He shouldn’t take sides for the sake of it,” an innocent-faced Jimmy said.

  “Nowadays, they are fighting with knives and spears. The giant could really get hurt if he steps in.”

  “He should go find a giantess, find what makes him happy.”

  “You’re sure, Jimmy?”

  “Yeah, if you don’t know who’s right, what would he fight for? If they have knives and stuff, why should he always be the one to break up fights? Didn’t you tell me that, Frankie…you gotta know what you are fighting for?”

  “I did say that, Jimmy, I did too.”

  24

  Oh, What a Super Tuesday It Was

  Randy Skeritt—young, tough, with punk hair and a tattoo to match—squirmed in his makeshift seat in the ten thousand–capacity stadium at the Hi Corbett Field, home to the Tucson Toros baseball team. Only a third of the stadium was occupied. Security was everywhere.

  It was five minutes to three on Sunday, March 29, two days before Super Tuesday. Casey Rogers, the pro-immigration and pro-amnesty Democratic candidate, was due to appear shortly.

  Randy was not disappointed that Casey Rogers started his speech right on time at three o’clock. Casey was in his late forties, a balding, pudgy, genial man, a kind of middle-aged Santa Claus without the white beard and costume.

  “We live in a global economy,” Casey said, “and I do believe that America will be strengthened if we welcome more immigrants who have mastered science and engineering. We cannot weaken the very essence of what America is by turning our backs on immigrants. This is the time we need to answer the question as to whether we still believe in the words we carved on the Statue of Liberty in 1886, ‘Give me your poor and your tired, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’“

  Casey suddenly began to struggle with his words. His face began to drain of color.

  Nevertheless, he tried to keep going. “Now, I know you worry about the future and…and…”

  Casey Rogers slumped and fell face-down on the podium.

  Medics arrived promptly as someone called for an ambulance. Casey recovered enough to get himself up. He went backstage as the host apologized to the audience and asked them to wait. Randy Skeritt laughed.

  Fifteen minutes later, the show’s host reappeared.

  �
�I am sorry, but Mr. Rogers has suddenly become indisposed. As a precautionary measure, he has been taken to El Dorado Urgent Care. I am sorry, but his speech is indefinitely postponed. Could everyone please make their way out?”

  Randy called someone on his cell phone. There was no hello or even a good afternoon. He said “El Dorado” and then hung up.

  Randy made his way out of the field quickly.

  Very soon thereafter, Casey Rogers was violently ill. It had happened after lunch and pretty much to his whole entourage, except the people who did not eat at the Quambrero Diner. In between acute bouts of severe nausea and vomiting, Casey made sure his security aide gave word that he was being transferred to El Dorado and then changed his route to Uni Medical Centre. Most of his entourage still went to El Dorado, but not Casey. Casey thought he was being targeted.

  Before he reached the hospital, Casey had lost consciousness.

  The news spread rapidly, although Casey’s real whereabouts were kept a secret. Initially, the media reported there had been an assassination attempt on Casey Rogers and his entire campaign entourage.

  The suspected diner was quickly quarantined. Investigations revealed E. coli in the mixed vegetables. All the affected people responded excellently to antibacterial medication. The E. coli strain was not strong, and it did not seem like the ingestion was particularly large.

  However, the assassination attempt rumor would not die.

  By Monday morning, Casey and his staff had almost totally recovered. Casey was quite happy to bask in the assassination attempt. He knew only too well that a chance to make political capital out of misfortune could not be missed.

  Radio QK and CBS gave him the chance to speak to the nation from the hospital.

  “I am relieved of course to be out of danger,” Casey said. “To all my well-wishers and those who prayed for my recovery, I thank you. Our detractors want a divided America, an America burning with distrust, an America where whites distrust blacks, the poor distrust the rich and the residents distrust the immigrants.

  “There are those among us who want to kill the vision of a unified, melting-pot America. They tried that last night. But thanks to a wonderful medical system, I have not only survived but doctors assure me I will be good to resume duties next week.”

  Olivia responded with her usual compassion, sending a bouquet of flowers to the hospital and speaking on his behalf.

  “An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us,” she said, remembering the words used when Congresswoman Gifford had been shot in 2011. “It is an attack on all those who serve in public office.”

  Larry Fox hated it. He thought that Casey had manufactured the whole incident for some last-minute points as the Super Tuesday polls closed. He wasn’t unhappy with the way Olivia had dealt with it, with the grace and dignity expected of someone vying for high office, but he had leaked out to his press friends that the incident may have been at least overblown if not designed for maximum effect.

  Some in the media, especially the pro-Republican media, bought Larry’s version. They loved spreading the idea that a liberal was nothing more than a scheming, power-hungry beast.

  Coincidentally, Randy Skeritt was apprehended on the night Casey collapsed. He was found to be impersonating a hospital orderly at the El Dorado hospital. He admitted to having a drug problem, explaining that his impersonation of an orderly was impromptu and was only done in order to get hold of prescription marijuana. They believed him. He appeared in court, and the judge believed him as well. He was let go after being sentenced to fifty hours of community work, plus a suspended sentence of three months in jail.

  Three days later, Randy came to Casey Rogers’ campaign asking whether he could work as a volunteer. The Rogers campaign manager liked him but refused Randy a position anyway. After what had happened, the Rogers campaign was taking no risks.

  25

  The Commandment of Respect

  On Wednesday, April 1, the day after Super Tuesday, Olivia was with Larry, Katrina, and Colin as they got ready to watch the results. They were assembled in Colin’s private office at their campaign headquarters in New York.

  Larry remained confident of a comprehensive Spain victory, or rather a Spain-Allen victory, a term his camp had already begun to use.

  Colin Spain and Larry Fox had actively campaigned for a winner-take-all delegate strategy for all states, but they had been turned down by the states that wanted to retain their proportional basis for the awarding of delegates, based on how the vote split.

  New York, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, and Connecticut began to roll in early on Wednesday. Rogers had won Rhode Island and Pennsylvania by a close margin over Spain. Colin Spain was dumbfounded. Larry Fox ascribed it to the sympathy vote. Now he was glad the proportional awarding of delegates was in effect in these states.

  Spain picked up wins in Delaware and Maryland and in the purple states of West Virginia, Colorado, and Arkansas. He won Montana but lost Idaho and Wyoming to Rogers and Texas and Louisiana to Ganon.

  By evening, Spain was leading Rogers and Ganon, but it was all down to New York. If Rogers won New York, the media would herald him as an overall winner, although the race would be far from decided. New York party officials had chosen to keep their winner-take-all system.

  A welcome relief for the campaigners on both sides was the way the media was now beating up on Frank Stein. Flannery had done the trick. All of a sudden, some of the extreme right wing conservatives had deserted Stein. He never wanted them as his followers in any event.

  Alone among her brethren, Kayla Mizzi continued to indulge Frank Stein. Senior journalists counseled her that she was virtually throwing her young and promising career away, but she was undeterred. A large number of military families began to blog, offer donations, and speak up about the commandment of temperance. They loved it. The Net Station was flooded with their calls and e-mails.

  Frank Stein was forever on the move. His campaign offices looked like some folks had just moved in and were still living out of boxes. It had taken months, but Quentin Kirby’s call was finally answered. He wasted no time in visiting Stein’s makeshift offices with Kevin Heller, his campaign manager.

  “Finally, we meet,” Quentin Kirby said, extending his hand, anticipating a handshake. Instead, Frank hugged him. Kevin Heller was startled.

  Frank offered them coffee, and wooden boxes to sit on. Quentin reminisced about their times together in high school, at the Cypress Academy. Kevin Heller had briefed him before, “best if you remind him of your good times together at first” he had said and Quentin had agreed.

  “You and I, we are close,” Quentin said.

  “We were close.”

  “I mean philosophically.”

  “So do I,” Frank said.

  “We both understand the problem. You are closer to us than you are to them.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Look, I know you want to bust Wall Street. And bring the army home, crucify regulation to free up business, ensure equal rights for gays. But Rome was not built in a day.”

  “Where is this going?”

  “If you go all the way to November, I may not win. You divert more of my votes than Spain’s. But you are unelectable, even you know that. I can adjust my game plan—gay marriage, regulate the Street, exit Syria…that sort of thing.”

  “So you want my money?”

  “No. Even if you simply withdraw, you could be earmarked for the Treasury Secretary post. Or whatever else on your want pile that—”

  “Drop it.”

  “Isn’t that why we are meeting? To see if we can come to an arrangement?”

  “No. It’s because I remembered I owed you one,” Frank said.

  Quentin looked at Frank quizzically.

  “We were sixteen or thereabouts. A thug slapped me hard—”

  “So I still had an IOU all these years?”

  “You just cashed it in, Quentin. I agreed to meet you. But no deal, the two-party hegemo
ny has to go if America is to survive.”

  Quentin Kirby looked at Frank with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

  “You haven’t changed one bit since high school,” Quentin said, as Kevin and him dusted the sawdust off their expensive business suits. Quentin opened the door himself, and Frank saw a Secret Service limousine and entourage awaiting the vice president.

  “America must now learn respect,” Stein said on his now-weekly appearance on the Net Station. “Americans must learn to respect science and the scientific method, industrial progress, and modern methods of production. Big businesses were once small businesses. Yet politicians of all creeds romanticize small business and demonize big business.

  “Bureaucrats, politicians, and civil servants never actually produce anything that is of primary value to mankind. They either directly hinder the producers or grab and transfer their produce to whoever they deem needy.

  “So we need to ask ourselves why bigness in business, but not in government, has become so abhorrent. They say that with bigness comes power. This is true.

  “Big businesses can fund political campaigns, and they do. They use lobbyists. Many of them do get favors, so they and the politicians they support love crony capitalism.

  “Cronies influence their bureaucrat friends to drive policy to benefit themselves, and then the right sound bites come from both parties that make them sound altruistic.

  “There, I said it. Now you can go and hate Wall Street for being the government’s crony and still be a real champion of free enterprise.

  In the second decade of the twenty-first century, politicians had ceased to admire any corporation openly; it had proven to be the kiss of death. Outside of the young Kayla Mizzi, not a single media organization picked up on the essential difference between the deserving powerful and those who were powerful because they were connected. The orgy of criticism that followed drowned out the Super Tuesday final results until an even more chilling incident transpired.