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 The Dupe A fatted political insider learns it may be too late for him to change his tune. The K Street lobbyists and White House staffers who peered with curiosity at the two men couldn't tell from appearances what they were saying. They saw the twinkle in Port's pale-blue eyes and his dimpled smile, an expression familiar to millions of Americans from talk shows, book jackets, magazines and newspapers. All seemed well. "Middle America is being compelled to act against its own interests," Port said, as he returned the chilled glass to the table. "They need tax relief, affordable health insurance, a promise fulfilled on Social Security... Doug, the ACCC can help them. We can help—" "Oh Lord." Weil sat back, resting his folded hands against his vest. "We've moved light years from what Ronald Reagan believed and what I believe." "Are you kidding?" Weil sat upright. "Jordie, do you think we give a good god-damn what you believe?" Port started to reply, but stopped when Weil lifted the bottle to refill his guest's glass. "Listen, we plucked you out of the cornfield because we knew you would do what you were told," Weil said, as the golden wine flowed. "You've still got that farm-fed puppy look, but by now, people have been trained to know what's coming out of your mouth before you open it. Hell, you go off message and they'll shut you down." For effect, Weil laughed, reached across the table and punched Port on the shoulder with the side of his fist. Not for a moment would he let Port know he was concerned. The manuscript Port had written used Reagan's words and ideals to challenge the direction the Right had taken since the opportunity of 9/11. Once Mendes massaged the prose and smoothed out his new-found fanaticism, the book would be another Jordan Port best-seller. That could be deadly dangerous, a blueprint for a moderate coalition. "So here's how it works, Jordie. We're going to issue a press release telling people you're on sabbatical. You're going up to the cabin our money bought you in the Casper Mountains to write another book. You won't answer the phone and there'll be no e-mail. You'll return when we tell you and we'll give you your next manuscript." "Wait a minute, Doug, I—" Anticipating the protest, Weil held up his hand. "Don't worry. Mendes will be involved. She'll make it sound enough like you." "I wrote those books, Doug. You can't—" "The words are yours, sure; yours and Mendes'. But not the ideas." Weil took a short sip of the wine he considered pretentious and feminine, holding the glass by its stem. "If it was up to me, we'd be done with you," he said as Port looked on in silence. "But my father likes you. You helped us get Hollywood on board and you helped us turn around the FCC. But the end is in sight if you don't wise up." Port did not so much as blink. "Think you'd be happy working your way back up to the copy desk in Davenport, Jordie?" Weil asked. "No, I would think not." Appears in "D.C. Noir" (Akashic) edited by George Pelecanos. Published in Spring 2006 All stories © Jim Fusilli 2005. Reprinted with permission. For permission to reprint, contact the author at jimfusillibooks@aol.com. |