No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2) (9 page)

Max followed the maxims. He had been taught by his father and his mentor, Luke Postlewaite, that if a president can rise above the incessant tug of politics, the greater good can be achieved through his efforts. Much of what he had been taught by them was character-building more than rote memorization. They had the mutual goal of teaching Max the selfless above the selfish, and they made sure that he understood the meaning of the word
patriot
.

His lessons were presented in the Socratic method. The teacher asked the question and the student analyzed all sides of an issue. A quick answer was met with a rebuke. He was expected to reason out of dilemmas, and to make the hard decisions that had to be made at the end. Sometimes, there was no right or wrong, only the
better
decision. He had to be
the problem solver
to confront

NO CORNER TO HIDE
the challenges of his presidency, and beyond that, he needed
the power to persuade
.

Classroom teaching was balanced by exercise. Max was trained in the martial arts from the time he was old enough to talk, and he had become an expert in efficiently dispatching his opposition with an economy of movement. Most times, a match was over soon after it started. Still, Max never ascended from green belt status when he was training. “That’s the student’s color, and you’re the student,” his father would say.

The lessons were private, as were the competitions. He competed only against young men and women who were just a little better than him. He became gracious in defeat, but he always looked forward to the rematch. And most times, he prevailed the second time around. Both of his mentors, Postlewaite in particular, became keenly interested in Max’s responses to defeat, and his response to victory, too.

They paid particular attention to the matches involving female opponents. The macho-misogynist male attitude of certain politicians had frequently led to their defeat, both politically and personally, and that way of thinking had the potential to cause Max to fail in his life’s mission. Women in politics did not seem to suffer defeat as a result of the misconduct that brought down their male counterparts, and he was presented with examples of defeat that involved sex or greed. If he was to serve with honor, he would need to avoid those character traps.

The lessons would start with the allegations against the politician, his defense, and the physical evidence. It was an informal prosecution, and the wisdom was in the answer to the eternal question: “Why?” Max would sometimes shrug it off and respond, “Women need a reason: love, security, or companionship. Men just need a place.” Sometimes, that was an appropriate fallback answer, and it became the standard response when the idiotic behavior of a politician ruined a lifetime of career-building. Other, times, greed, power, or testosterone-driven thrill- seeking were more appropriate answers, and he learned of potential landmines to avoid.

“You will never be able to escape the urges that go along with being male, but there are non-verbal ways of setting yourself apart from the herd,” Postlewaite counseled. “When you meet a woman, make a point of shaking her hand and looking straight into her eyes. Resist the urge to look at her breasts. When she breaks eye contact, look at her breasts and take a mental picture. Then resume eye contact, and don’t break that connection. It’s a powerful habit. Practice it and master it, but never reveal it.”

Max’s lessons on enemies were taught by his father. In Senator Masterson’s long career in Congress, he had confronted and defeated most of his political opponents, but it wasn’t his opponents that were the subject of his forceful diatribes. Enemies were his scourge, to be conquered and destroyed. All enemies were opponents, but not all opponents descended to the level of enemy. Enemies lacked the ability to negotiate or compromise. They were singularly obsessed with the attainment of their cause.

“Son, if you don’t defeat your enemy, they will defeat you,” taught his father. “Choose your enemies carefully, but when you do, you must devise and execute a plan to defeat them before they realize that you are on to them. Most attacks begin with deceit, and they will use false efforts at compromise to buy time. Before the battle begins, you must prepare for it wisely.”

u

CHAPTER 25

W

illie B. Somovich combed his thick, black hair over his forehead, obscuring his uni-brow. When he had styled it into his trademark look, he sprayed it with copious amounts of hairspray in a sticky cloud. It was predicted

to be windy in Chicago, and he wanted to make sure that the paparazzi wouldn’t get an image of his hair being out of place. He had little cause for worry. At this stage of petrification, his recognizable look was more like a helmet.

Willie had spent the previous ten years of his career as host of the conservative talk show “Willie B Right.” The format for the show was predictable and repetitive, weighing in heavily on conspiracy theories that were so ludicrous and unprovable that they gained a life of their own.

“I create the truth, my flock!” he would pronounce. “You must believe to achieve,” he would respond to skeptical callers. His messages had no more substance than hot air, but to the faithful listeners who provided revenue to him and his advertisers, every word that he spoke was money in the bank. They bought his books and came to his seminars, which took on the tone of an Elmer Gantry-style revival meeting. Most of all, they bought the products he hawked at every “station break”.

The conspiracies were created in the studio during planning sessions between Somovich and his producers. They judged the value of each one by the amount of listeners who believed his nonsense enough to call in and fill up airtime. Some of the regular callers and guests would go on to commercial success by writing books about Willie’s theories, and some would ghost-write books that would be published as Willie’s profound beliefs. Each one had become a best-seller, and Willie B. Somovich had become a very rich man.

The show ran each weekday afternoon from 1:30 to 3:00 PM. His commentary occupied the first segment, followed by an hour of call-in guests, who he interrupted at every opportunity. Most of the sentiments that Willie expressed were nonsense, but his listeners and viewers didn’t mind. His approach to the world was unique. He would start each show with a quote that described his character with micro-precision: “Life doesn’t make sense, so why should I?” Once reason was dismissed, all of the messages were cloaked in a conservative mantra. Anyone who questioned the basis for the theories was immediately criticized for their lack of adherence to conservative ideals. If they refused to back down, Willie would question their patriotism, and they never called back.

“Good afternoon, Conservative Americans!” The background jingle had been created exclusively for Willie, sung by a country singer who had once been at the top of the charts, but his only gig nowadays was to sing
The Willie Song
at every event at which his meal ticket appeared.

“Today,” Willie began, “we will be talking about the ideals that made this country great. My topic of the day is: We must buy up all of the Middle East oil we can, so the Chinese can’t get their hands on it, and we need to borrow their money to do it. My argument is this: They need oil to run their factories over there, and if we have all of the oil, they can’t out-produce us. They produce almost everything we use here in this country, so we need to beat them to the oil wells.” Willie seldom made sense, but lately, his thought-processes were more jumbled than usual due to a hidden addiction to painkillers. His growing habit was unknown to everyone except the doctor who made a good living writing prescriptions for Willie, whether he needed painkillers or not.

His first caller was a long-distance trucker from the Deep South, who was calling from the highway while driving a load of used tires cross-country. “Let’s take our first call from Trey from Tuscaloosa. Welcome to “Willie B Right!”

“Willie, Trey here. Long-time listener. First-time caller. Here’s a BooYah to Ya, or as we say in Tuscaloosa, Boo Y’all to Y’all.” “Good one, Trey. And BooYah back to Ya. What is it you wanted to talk about?

“I wanted ta talk to ya ‘bout that there idea ya’ll had ‘bout buyin’ up all the oal.”
Trey’s image on split screen, broadcast from a Skype phone built into the steering wheel of his semi, was quite a contrast from the carefully coifed Somovich in the broadcast studio.
“That’s one heckuvah accent you have going there, Trey,” Willie replied.
“I ain’t got no accent, ya mangy dawg…Y’all got the accent, if ya ask me. I—”
“Now, now, Trey.” Willie interrupted Trey in mid-sentence. It was a standard part of the program. If he allowed the caller to get out a complete sentence, they would be having a conversation, and Willie delighted in cutting Trey off before he could get there. “I like accents. They remind me of the fact that we are not all alike, and some of us are less alike than others. Now, what was the matter in which we are about to engage?”
“Engage! I ain’t gonna engage to no fella. I gotta a girl back home—”
“Next caller,” said Willie.
The next caller was a university professor from Berkley, California, named William. No last names were permitted. William had the temerity to attempt to challenge the premise upon which the day’s topic was based, and in doing so, he challenged the extent of Willie’s knowledge on the subject. He was not a frequent viewer, or he would have realized that having an intellectual conversation requires
two
intellectuals in the conversation, and Willie was going to have none of that on his show.
“Hi, Willie,” said Willie.
“My name is William, and I’m calling about—”
“No. You’re a Willie, I’m a Willie, we’re both Willies. Equals, if I may.” Willie always said “if I may” at the end of a sentence when he was on the air with someone he presumed had greater knowledge than he did on a topic, which happened a lot. He was at his best when he could make an intelligent caller sound stupid. The goateed man in split-screen shifted in his chair. He appeared uncomfortable.
“I prefer to be called William, if you don’t mind.”
“Well I do mind, Willie,” said Willie. “I prefer to be called Willie, and I think that’s a perfectly nice name, don’t you think?
Smelling the bait, William ignored the question. “I would like to challenge the presumptions used in forming your hypothesis about buying foreign oil to stimulate the U.S. economy, and thereby defeating China’s—”
“Well, well, Willie. You misunderstood. I’m surprised that a man with your credentials wouldn’t understand that I was talking about jobs for Americans and taking back the rights of every American to keep those jobs at home!”
A gong sounded, and a pre-recorded cheer resounded through the studio.
“But I thought—”
“Next caller!” said Willie. The sound of the connection being severed was amplified for effect. “Schmuck.”
And so it went. Another typical day on the Willie B Right show.

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CHAPTER 26

G

len Aspect was the polar opposite of Willie. He fervently believed that all who disagreed with him were Neanderthals, and he told them so. He contended that government should take care of all of our needs, but he bristled at the label of Socialist.

“Why can’t we all get along?” Glen was starting his morning talk show in the usual way. It followed a set format, and for his most faithful listeners, it struck a chord. They couldn’t get enough. Aspect would start with his message of the day, addressing recent national and world events that were violent enough or so potentially catastrophic as to evoke worry. Then he would shift to a discussion of how the government should help, followed by clips of somewhere in the world where innocents were being slaughtered. In the end, he would do a sixty-second editorial about altruism, and how if we all just did the right thing, the world would be a better place. He didn’t take calls from listeners. He didn’t care what they had to say. His concern was with ratings, and they told him all he needed to know.

“The last thing I need to hear is some yahoo from Topeka calling in and questioning my flawless judgment,” he told his producers during the daily staff meeting. They had been reviewing the format for the show, and Glen was adamant that he remain isolated from public opinion. “It just doesn’t fit my program. I will not be flailed by call-ins who I can’t control. I don’t work like Somovich, and if his viewers start in on me, I’m going to have a bad day. I don’t like bad days,” he explained.

The next day, the show would start the same. Nothing changed, and Glen had another segment that essentially presented the same material with different players, all bent on changing the world with peace, love, and getting along. The fallacy of his argument, that lasting change must address the core of the problems, was never mentioned. Glen Aspect’s view of life was simple: As long as the world continued on the same path toward perceived annihilation, his talk show would never be cancelled, and his personal prosperity was guaranteed.

“The ultimate obscenity is nuclear energy. It doesn’t choose its victims. Everyone becomes its victim,” he started in his daily editorial. The opening statement had to be what he called a “headline grabber,” and each one was carefully crafted for maximum controversy by his staff of seven writers.

The mornings were devoted to his show so that he could book the afternoons for guest appearances on other talk shows to discuss his views. The irony of the situation was that Glen didn’t have many views of his own, and his appearances were written and rehearsed for maximum play on all of the major networks. He was a regular contributor by virtue of his ability to talk in the time allocated for his segment, and his staff wrote the questions for the interviews. All the networks had to do was park Aspect in a chair and let him read from the script.

“Remember Three Mile Island? Chernobyl? How about Fukushima? Hiroshima? Nagasaki? Well, I’m here to tell you that we have our own nuclear disaster waiting to happen again right here in the good ol’ United States, and all it will take is one big earthquake in California. That’s right, folks. The Diablo Canyon nuclear plant is built on one of the biggest earthquake faults in the U.S., and it’s a disaster waiting to happen. And mark my words, it will happen.”