Lucky Bastard (53 page)

“I never had anything to do with the bank, Dan. It was you and Morgan.”

“Jack, tell me.”

Jack had never been able to lie to Danny. It had never been necessary, because Danny had always accepted him for what he was, a fellow who lived in a trance of untruth because he had no choice in the matter. Jack was a liar in the way that Danny had been a world-class athlete, because the great hidden river of their genetic heritage had spit them out that way on the shores of American life.

“Tell you what?” Jack said.

“The truth. For example, where did that twenty-seven million come from? And the mysterious millions before that?”

Danny was sitting down, yellow legal pad in his lap. He sat because his wounded leg could not long bear the weight of his body. He held the pad because it was his habit to write down everything Jack said to him or said to others in his presence—not as evidence, but so that Jack would have a reliable record of his words in case he needed to remember them. Even Jack's capacious memory could not contain and classify all the fibs and evasions, half-truths and exaggerations, and outright lies that he told on any given day. Danny had been scribbling as they talked. Jack reached down and took the pad out of his hand.

“Danny,” he said, “I think you should go. Now.”

“Go?” Danny said. “What do you mean, go?”

“I don't mean resign,” Jack said. “Take leave to defend yourself, to save what you can of the bank. Somebody's got to look out for the little people who are going to lose their savings because the governor fucked up the way he did. That person should be you.”

“Why me?” Danny said.

“So you can help out the poor folks,” Jack replied. “They need you more than I do. Both of us see that, Danny, and the media will see it too.”

“When do I go?” Danny asked.

“The sooner the better,” Jack said.

This was pure Jack—self-delusion, diversion, deception, escape, legal defense all combining like chemical components to produce a lightning flash of brilliance. For the first time in their long, long life together, Danny did not laugh explosively at the wonder of it all. He simply stared in disbelief. Jack was doing to Danny what Danny had helped Jack do to so many others since they were boys, and for the first time Danny understood that this moment had always been inevitable. And that it was not the first time it had occurred.

He said, “Jack, different subject.”

Jack was surprised, but he nodded amiably.
Why, sure, old buddy.

Danny said, “Did you really fuck Cindy in that strip mine the night I left for 'Nam?”

As if hit by a sucker punch, Jack said, “
Woof!
” And then he smiled—his real, original smile this time. “Cindy? Not that I remember, Dan. And, baby, I would remember.”

Danny smiled, too, and for a long moment held his friend's eyes with his own. Then he said, “That's good enough for me, Jack. I'll take care of the other thing.”

He took his pad from Jack's hand, tore off the top ten pages, and, holding the paper in his teeth and tearing with his one good hand, ripped them to shreds. He threw the pieces into the air and limped out of the room. Some of the pieces stuck to Jack like yellow snow as they fluttered downward to the floor.

Danny went straight to the pressroom and did exactly as Jack had suggested. He added one detail: Jack and Morgan Adams had lost their life's savings in the bank failure, every penny of the little bit of money they had been able to put aside from Jack's meager salary for the twins' college tuition.

In Columbus, the U.S. attorney, F. Merriwether Street, impaneled a grand jury and called the bank's surviving officers and directors and its counsel, Danny Miller, as witnesses.

Within the hour, as he left the hotel for a rally in Cadillac Square, Jack made his first and last public statement on the issue. In response to a shouted question about Danny, Jack halted in midstride and walked back to the cameras. Looking straight into the lenses, he said, “I'm terribly sorry for the folks who have lost money, like my wife and I have. Everything will come out in time, and that's the way it should be. And though I haven't talked to him about this, I know it's the way Danny Miller wants it, because in my heart I believe he has nothing to hide. Danny Miller and I have been friends since before we could walk. He's my law partner, my best friend, and the most honest and honorable man I've ever known. He's a war hero who sacrificed a brilliant career as an athlete for his country. He could have been in all the halls of fame, but he isn't and he won't be because he did his duty to America and bled for every one of us. And I say this to you: If I have to choose between the presidency and my friend, I know that God will give me the strength to choose my friend. That's all I have to say on this subject and all I'll ever have to say.”

2
Every network news show ran Jack's entire statement, which by coincidence timed out at the exact length of the average stand-up report by a correspondent. A media chorus began to talk and write about Jack's pluck, about his loyalty to old friends, about his poverty compared to the wealth of his opponents, both of whom were multimillionaires whose fat-cat friends were pouring millions into their campaigns. The miracle, wrote the pundits, was not that Jack, a penniless nobody from nowhere who had nothing but brains, guts, personality, and a smart and beautiful and utterly devoted wife, was losing. The miracle was that he was still in the race. And not only still in the race, but making one hell of a stretch run.

When the next polls came out, Jack had gained more points and was almost even with the president. The media started doing the same arithmetic Jack had done months before, and press and television began to say, “By God, he might win!”

Jack knew that he would win. Money was trickling into his campaign from many quarters—big sums, medium sums, small sums. He was already taping his attack ads for the final week of the campaign. For that he needed huge sums.

3
“This Mr. Gee wants to talk to you absolutely alone,” Morgan had said.

“Who is he?”

“A very important contributor.”

“How important?”

Morgan had very little patience left. She said, “Jack, do you really want me to spell it out?”

Jack gave her his full attention. “It's happened,” he said.

Morgan nodded. “Why the surprise?”

“Jeez, Morg, I dunno. Maybe it's the exquisite timing of the thing. What does Mr. Gee—that's his name?—want to talk about?”

Morgan said, “The future, I suppose. Just keep the caddies at a distance.”

“Why?”

“Do you have any idea what he wants in return for his largesse?”

“No.”

“Then don't talk in the golf cart,” Morgan said. “Or anywhere near it or the golf bags.”

“You mean they might be bugged?”

Morgan simply stared. Would he never learn to be serious?

Jack said, “What about the clubs? Are they clean?”

Morgan said, “Just be yourself, Jack, and it won't make much difference what anybody has on tape.”

At the Pebble Beach golf course, one of the most beautiful in the world, Mr. Gee waited near the first tee. Unlike most of the unctuous Orientals who had given money to the Jack Adams campaign, Mr. Gee was dour and ponderous. He was very tall and rawboned for a man of his race. He reminded Jack of a Chinese F. Merriwether Street. Mr. Gee watched impassively as this comical thought brought a furtive smile to Jack's lips.

To the Secret Service men Jack said, “I'll drive the cart. Stay well behind. Kibitzers make him nervous.”

“How many holes, sir?”

“Nine, max,” Jack said. “Then I get an urgent phone call. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jack, who had been too poor as a boy to learn bourgeois games, had taken up golf as a member of the Gruesome and, to his own great surprise, had found that he had a talent for it. If he was not quite a handicap player, he was a long way from being a duffer, especially when it came to the short game. For the first two holes Mr. Gee said nothing. He was an involved, determined player who hit tremendous drives off the tee but had less luck with short irons and putter. These were the best parts of Jack's game, and he sank a picture-perfect chip shot on the second hole.

“Hot damn,” Jack said with boyish enthusiasm. “Want to bet twenty on who's closest to the hole?”

Mr. Gee hit his own shot. It went clear over the green and plopped into a sand trap. He smiled and said, “Welcome to the country of the blind.”

The ball that Jack had just taken out of the cup dropped from his hand and rolled across the green. Hoarsely, he said, “What did you say?”

Mr. Gee said, “Peter said you were easily startled. Keep walking. We'll leave the cart to your servants. I have something to explain to you.”

In fluent but heavily accented singsong English, Mr. Gee explained that the twenty-seven-million-dollar lump sum Jack had received in the spring came from him and some associates in China. “Through Peter, of course,” he said. “We regret that the transfer was so clumsily handled. It had nothing to do with us. There were special circumstances having to do with the chaos in Russia at the time.”

“What did Russia have to do with it?”

Mr. Gee ignored the question. “The clumsiness will not happen again. At this moment, the sum of thirty million dollars is being made available to you. It is in the process of being broken down into more manageable increments and emanating from many different American banks. This process should be complete within one week.” He smiled again. “But I think you already know that.”

“Very generous,” Jack said, as if acknowledging a detail—as, in a way, he was. “Please make sure it comes from many different donors.”

For the first time, Mr. Gee smiled. “There are many, many Chinese in the world. A restaurant in every American town. Do not worry.”

“Fortune cookies, eh?” Jack said.

Mr. Gee smiled; dark wayward teeth. “That's a good one.”

“The restaurateurs”—Jack put an incorrect
n
in the word—“all have my sincere thanks. What do you want in return?”

Such crudeness. Mr. Gee sighed. They were approaching the fourth tee, with the Secret Service men trailing along in the golf carts. “Ah, Jack, what
do
we want?” he said. “That we should be friends—friends in Peter's sense of the word.”

“No problem, but be specific. What do you expect from me?”

“Not military secrets. We know you are not a spy. What we want is the advantages of your friendship. In return for our wholehearted support until, as they say, the end of time. Of course.”

Jack said, “You're being too subtle for me, Mr. Gee. What's your first name?”

“I'm just Mr. Gee, Jack. We don't really have first names. It's too early for a shopping list.” Mr. Gee searched Jack's incredulous face. “But, Jack, I must know—is all this agreeable to you?”

“You say Peter set this up. But how do I know you're telling the truth?”

As if he had been waiting for this question, Mr. Gee handed Jack a cellular phone. “This is a scrambler phone, brand-new type, absolutely secure, Jack, very latest software from the mysterious East.” He smiled, tight-lipped. “So you may say whatever you like. The correct number has already been punched in. Please press
SEND
.”

Jack did as he was told, and Peter came on the line in the middle of the first ring. “Hi, Jack,” he said. “What can I do for you?” Jack was hearing this voice for the first time in fifteen years, but its sound was unmistakable.

Jack said, “I hardly know where to begin.”

“Let me start things off then,” said Peter. He confirmed the financial terms of the deal in exactly the same terms as Mr. Gee had. “This will make it possible for you to achieve your goal, don't you agree?”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “But the question is, what happens then?”

“They will want what any investor wants. A fair return. Certain advantages. Certain opportunities. An assurance that your military technology will never be better than theirs.”

“How can I guarantee that, for Christ's sake?”

“Use your imagination. Let's just say they look forward to a mutually satisfactory working relationship.”

“Peter, you're making me very nervous.”

“I'm sure I am. But I am also saving your sweet American ass, probably from prison and the disgrace of the family name. And if I may remind you, the two of us, plus that other person you know, are also saving, in the only way possible, the thing we set out to do together all those years ago: making the United States into a just society and the hope of the world.”

“Right.” Jack's tone was flat.

Peter said, “You can, of course, refuse.”

“And if I do?”

“Well, you might not be elected president, though knowing you I wouldn't bet on it. You're the real thing, Jack. Remember where you heard it first.”

“That's your threat?”

“Who am I to threaten anybody?” Peter asked. “But Mr. Gee and his associates are realists—it's a national characteristic—so they demanded insurance. They feel that you owe them. I'm afraid I had to give them the photos we looked at together in Moscow all those years ago. You do remember?”

“Yes.”

“And some other material. So being elected might not be much of a guarantee that you would ever serve.”

“Assuming you can find somebody to believe a mad Russian.”

“You'd be surprised, Jack. In certain American circles I am regarded as a very reliable witness. Think it over. Remember who your friends are and who your friends have always been. Then do what's best for Jack. Follow your star. That's all I ask.”

Jack said, “Same deal as always, right?”