Donald was dressed in white tennis shorts, white socks, white Nike tennis shoes, a grey polo shirt and he was holding a squash racket, bouncing a squash ball up and down effortlessly with the racket. Though George kept looking at the bed to his right, the bed where Abraham Lincoln s son dies, the bed at the foot of which Abraham Lincoln s autopsy was performed after he was shot at Ford s Theater. George kept looking at the bed and thinking that Paris Hilton was lying on it in the nude.
He wondered what Paris would look like in the nude. Would she be so skinny that she would look anorexic? Or would she have some meat on her, a bit of muscle evidencing a modicum of exercise other than dancing?
I won today, said Donald Rumsfeld.
Squash. I beat my nephew, said Donald.
Good. That s good, said George as he glanced back at the bed.
If you acknowledge it s a civil war that means your presidency has been a failure, said Donald.
Americans will not permit its boys and girls to be in the middle of someone else s civil war. Iraq will have been a failure, said Donald.
I agree, said a female voice.
What? George said as he glanced to his right at the bed. It was Paris Hilton.
She was naked except for pink panties. Paris was holding a small digital camera and she was snapping pictures of George and Donald and she sat on her knees on top of the white puffy blanket.
I said I agree, said Paris.
What are you doing here? asked George of Paris.
You asked me to come, said Donald.
What? No not you. Her, said George pointing to the bed.
Her. Right there. On the bed, said George.
You feeling OK? asked Donald.
Tell that old geezer you feel just fine, said Paris.
George looked over at Paris. Smile, said Paris as she snapped a picture. George smiled.
I feel just fine, said George.
Getting back to Iraq, it is important that you salvage some good that was added to the world, to the United States, and define that goodness as part of an Iraq pull back, said Donald.
Ahhh, that s such bullshit, George, said Paris.
You made a mistake. Admit you made a mistake. And pull our troops out, said Paris.
I made a mistake, said George.
We don t have to go there, said Donald.
Georgie, Georgie, go there.
Go there. Ask yourself, how did you stop drinking? asked Paris.
I faced the truth, said George.
OK. You can face it, Mr.
President, but face it privately, said Donald.
Did you go to any AA meetings, Georgie? asked Paris.
Did you tell Laura you were an alcoholic, asked Paris.
I told Laura, said George.
Telling Laura is one thing, telling the public is another, said Donald.
Look where the old geezer got you. The whole thing is a big mess, George. A big mess.
The only way out is to admit the mess, admit the mistake, and then get our soldiers out. Get everyone out. Let the whole place blow up.
And you will be able to salvage something of yourself and of America, said Paris as she was massaging her bare belly.
I can salvage something? asked George.
Of course you can, said Donald.
Of course you can, said Paris.
Stay or pull out, said George.
You pull out, the party will burn you as a coward, said Donald.
You stay, more Americans will die and the historians will look at you as weak, said Paris.
But a coward is weak, said George.
No, no, no. A weak man cannot face the truth. A coward cannot face his buddies.
Who are you? asked Paris.
George looked at Paris.
She was really quite stunning with her long blond hair. He found it surprising that she could be so smart, so articulate. Paris Hilton sounded smarter than Donald Rumsfeld.
At least at this moment. George wanted to jump onto the bed. Paris saw a sparkle in George s eye.
Don t even think about it, said Paris.
Paris winked at George. George smiled as Paris took another picture.
You re not what? asked Donald Rumsfeld as he caught the squash ball in his hand.
I m just not.
I m just not, said George.
Bush could not sleep, so he slipped out of the king bed, leaving Laura sound asleep behind. He walked out of the room in his bare feet wearing navy blue satin pajama pants with a white t-shirt. George was having difficulty making it through the night without waking at least twice.
Not to go to the bathroom. Not because of hunger or thirst. It wasn t anything George could put his finger on.
He remembered back to the months immediately following his election against John Kerry. Those were months where he slept through the night and felt strong and clear-headed every morning. That election was a shot in the arm for George, and everything, all his body parts, his sleeping, his eating habits, his sex life with Laura, his relationship with staff and his cabinet, his interest in following sports - it was as if he was back at college on one of those many drinking binges where his youth precluded hangovers and life was filled with possibilities.
But that had all passed. In just two years, George s body chemistry had changed. Little sleep, no sex, eating crappy food, the exercise stopped, the football and baseball fantasy leagues he secretly played were history, he talked with few of his staff, he felt distant from his daughters, his left hip had been stabbing him with a consistent dull pain.
He reached the end of the hallway where a man in a black suit and tie with a walkie talkie was standing. George did not recognize him. Or maybe he did.
George did not remember.
Good evening, sir, said the man with the walkie talkie.
Can I get you anything, sir?
asked the man with the walkie talkie.
How about a bottle of Coca Cola, said George.
And those little airline bottles with whiskey.
They have that in the kitchen. In one of the cabinets. You know about that?
said George.
I did not know that, sir, said the man.
Yeah, well, they have them.
Can you find two of them. Whiskey. Two little bottles of Jack Daniels.
Pour both of them into a bottle of Coke. Of course make room for it in the bottle, and bring it to me, said George.
I ll have to radio for it, sir.
I cannot leave my post, said the man.
Timothy, sir, said the man.
Timothy, look, I know you answer to the Service and not me.
But can you radio for a someone to come up here and hold your post for you while you run this errand for me, said George.
Yes. I can do that, said Timothy.
I tell you what. Why don t you grab a few bottles for yourself. We can sit down and shoot the breeze.
I need to calm down so I can get some sleep, said George.
I am not supposed to do that, sir, said Timothy.
Yes, yes, I know, I know.
But then just bring a few extra bottles with you. We ll discuss protocol when we chat. OK?
said George.
Timothy paused briefly, then raised his walkie talkie and pressed the button on the side of the handset.
This is Alpha One West.
Send up a temp replacement. Request of of Alpha One, said Timothy.
Roger, roger, said the voice on the handset.
Thanks, Timothy. I feel better already, said George. George sat on the chair in the hallway, waiting for the replacement and for Timothy to do his errand.
He could have a few drinks. The Presidential pressure was enormous, and he made it almost six years in the hardest job of the world without touching a drop of alcohol. One drink was not going to kill him.
But not sleeping was going to kill him. The Jack Daniels would help him sleep. It would help him forget about the state of things, and he could avoid the dreams.
It was those damn dreams that kept waking him. That was it. Whiskey kills dreams.
And that s what he needed to do. It was the only way to be the leader of the free world. No dreams.
Bloomberg offered his hand, which Sharpton took.
Hello, Mayor, said Sharpton. Sharton did not wait to be offered a chair.
He sat in the chair next to Kelly s. Bloomberg sat. Kelly sat.
How are you Mr. Kelly? asked Sharpton.
Fine, thank you, said Kelly.
Fine? How can you be fine under these circumstances.
Your guys plowed a bucketload of bullets into an innocent man. A black man. So you tell me, how can you be fine?
said Sharpton.
I meant I was personally physically, OK, said Kelly. The second he said it, Kelly knew it didn t sound right.
Physically OK? I would be sick to my stomach. In fact, I am sick to my stomach.
How can I be feeling sick and you feeling OK? said Sharpton.
Bloomberg killed a smile that started to form.
Sharpton knew how to grab the conversation.
I think we all feel sick about what happened, said Bloomberg.
So what are we going to do about this mess that you have gotten yourselves in?
said Sharpton.
Kelly hated that Sharpton presumed that somehow he was part of the government, as if he was charged with the high purpose of public office, almost as if this was one of his offices.
The offices are on administrative leave, Al, and they have turned in their guns, said Bloomberg.
That means they are still getting paid, and they have desk jobs. Sounds like a promotion, said Sharpton.
I can assure you it is not a promotion, said Kelly.
It s a slap on the wrist, said Sharpton without turning to look at Kelly.
You don;t know the facts, Mr. Sharpton.
We were staking that club out. Drugs. Prostitution.
Money laundering. They rented the place out as a cover. There was a bachelor party going on.
The kids who got shot were like human shields. Those bastards used their patorns as human shields, said the Police Commisioner. Kelly was irritated.
Police were not never allowed to fuck up. And when they did, their lives were often ruined.
Al Sharpton addressed the Mayor.
Your Police Commisioner says that the African American community of this great City of New York are the human shields for crime. And so what is he saying, that African Americans can be killed to fight crime? Cause if that is what he saying, I d like to tell that to the media, said Sharpton.
I am sure that is not what the Police Commissioner is saying, said Bloomberg.
I did not suggest that, said Kelly.
It sure sounds like you did.
One of those Freudian slipperoos, if you ask me, said Sharpton.
Look, we have to deal with this swiftly and aggresively, said Mayor Bloomberg.
I ll say, cause your Police Commissioner has handed me a golden opportunity.
It don t mattter how you play this music, it comes out the same. Fifty bullets at two unarmed innocent black men. That s music man that only plays one way.
And anyway you hear it, it makes the New York City finest seem like the worstest, s id Sharpton, not blinikng an eye on his misuse of the English language.
Al, our interests are the same. We need to find out what happened, discipline the officers for what they did, and try to start the healing, said Bloomberg feeling like he was on the Oprah show.
You ain t going to heal sqat without my participation, said Sharpton.
Of course. We need you, Al.
We need you to be part of the process, said the Mayor.
Hey, Mr. Mr.
Mayor, I know you re playing me. You think I don t know when you are playing me. And that is OK.
It s OK with me. You play me all you want. Just as long as you know I will be playing you.
And maybe, if you are lucky, you will come out smelling like roses. But any way this plays out, I will be OK. This is my game you have entered.
This is my game, said Sharpton.
Yes, yes, I know. And it is my desire to make us all do justice and try to prevent this from happening again, said Bloomberg.
So are we ready to meet the media? Cause I m ready. And don;t take it pewrsonally if I don;t smile with you Mayor and look like we re friends.
Cause I ain t gong to smile. This ain t time for smiling, said Sharpton as he rose from his chair.
I understand completely, said Bloomberg as he stood.
Kelly did not stand.
See you gentlemen downstairs. And Mr.
Kelly, don t look so sour. Feel as fine as you said you do, said Sharpton as he walked out fo the office.
I hate that sonofabitch, said Kelly.
We are all running the city together, Ray, said Bloomberg. We are all running the city together. Michael Bloomberg sat in theoak wood desk chair that has scratches and scuff marks from years of mayoral lounging.
The desk was also large, oak, heavy, standing in place as if it hadn t been moved in a century. Bloomberg never bothered to make New York City s Mayor s Offcie hi own. He did not consider it his own, anyway.
There were times when Bloomberg missed the private world of commerce and business, where one could spend money lavishly and be blunt in one s discourse. But here he was, presideing over one of the largest and most important citys in the world, the top manager, the spokesperson for a myriad of constituencies, a pandemonium of competing social, racial, cultural and financial interests, a city where the poor and the rich walk the same pavements, and shop at the same grocery stores, and buy coffee at the same Greek delis. It astounded Bloomberg that New York had not imploded from all the exploding quilts that patch the neighborhood landscape.
Do we really have to meet with that asshole? said Raymond W. Kelly, New York City s Police Commisioner as he sat alone with the Mayor.
Is there a reason why you think we shouldn t? said Bloomberg.
And we are not?
asked Bloomberg rhetorically.
I feel like I have to take a shower after I am with him, said Kelly.
Oh stop it, Ray.
Sharpton is a colorful guy. Entertaining. And whether we like it or not, he has grabbed the stage for a major constituency in this town.
If they listen to him, I have to listen to him, said Bloomberg.
Bloomberg actually liked Al Sharpton. Sharpton was a straight shooter and was very clear about what he was all about.
The public face of Sharpton was not the same man that Bloomberg had come to know in private meetings with him. This was not so different from the hundreds of business people he had dealt with. Indeed, he had known Wall Street to be particularly populated by charlatans and pretenders.
But sometimes you had to deal with them, and sometimes they held the strings. Quite frankly, from Bloomberg s perspective, the Wall Streeter s were boring. Sharpton was anything but.
And that mattered.
You feel like you can trust him? You feel comfortable with Al Sharpton?
asked Kelly.
Tell me again about the fifty gunshots fired by our police officers. Give it to me in a few words.
The Reverend will be here any moment, said Bloomberg. This was a management tool Bloomberg had used often. The essence of things could be described in a few words.
And it was the essence of things that seemed to matter even more in politics than in business.
At that moment, the door flew open and in walked the Reverend Al Sharpton.
There was no fire going in the hearth as it was sixty-two degrees outside, and Baker thought it would be a waste of good lumber to burn the wood just for effect, even though it was Thanksgiving. Timothy, Baker s grandchild of two years old, was playing with a Thomas The Tank Engine metal train that was hand-me-down from Timothy s older brother. Baker could smell the aroma of the turkey cooking in the kitchen, and there was chattering of activity throughout the house, Baker s kids, grand-kids, daughters and sons in laws, his own siblings and their spouses and kids.
The house was an orchestra of family, the sounds as delicious as the meal being prepared. Baker was feeling content at having arrived in his mid seventies with a solid record of public and private achievements. Though he never thought of himself in these terms, the media and many had described him as a statesman.
Baker thought this amusing given that his primary operating principal was honesty and humility, two attributes he considered lessons to be learned early on. And yet, the world seemed to have drifted into a morass of dishonesty and arrogance. And this, Baker knew, to be the case of the White House as well.
Baker uttered these thoughts to his wife, and privately communicated the concern to his old friend George Herbert Walker Bush, the father of the sitting president. But he was circumspect about revealing too much. Though honesty was a governing principal, that did not justify communicating with a blunt instrument.
Tact was part of the humility of life, that special place where one reserves the possibility that there was another point of view, a different legitimate perspective. Tact permitted others to open up, and such was the start of true communication.
So herein lied Baker s problem.
The truth, the honest truth was that Iraq was an enterprise that was now lost. Baker had no opinion whether the enterprise could have been a success if conducted differently. But he did know this: America could not stay in Iraq, and the sooner America withdrew, the better it would be for his country.
But how to communicate this to President Bush in a manner that it would be heard. How much tact should Baker employ? And this was an important question because a mistake at this stage in Baker s life might just define his whole life.
Look what happened to Donald Rumsfeld, thought Baker. It no longer mattered that Donald Rumsfeld had a long history of service to his country, a long and distinguished career. That was now all forgotten, and not likely to be the part of his legacy that had any volume.
James Baker watched Timothy push the toy train on the plush rug. What kind of life would Timothy have? What kind of world had he left Timothy?
Baker suddenly found himself getting angry. It felt like all the work of diplomacy he had done, all the work to erect an ethos of international discussion had been destroyed in just six years of Bush s presidency. This was not just a matter of personal pride.
This was a matter that affected Timothy, his two-year old grandson. James Baker adjusted his back in the chair and rubbed his neck. Tact.
Was this a time for tact? Or was this a time for blunt language? Maybe Baker could get away with bluntness since it was bluntness that no one expected of him.
Baker smelled the stench of incivility to the world s discourse as he also enjoyed the aromas coming from the kitchen. Timothy and Thanksgiving. As he watched Timothy push the toy train o the plush rug without tracks, he wondered if the train had a set of toy tracks.
Trains need tracks. And he would have to get this train on the right track.
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