A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [119]
“What I am worried about,” Rita retorted, “is that if you walk away from the call, we’ll spend the rest of our lives in our own form of self-imposed hell. I knew this was going to happen even before you ran for governor.”
“Don’t raise the stinker that you’re retreating because of your family. They know their daddy is a great leader…” Mal said.
“Mea culpa time,” Quinn said. “I wanted clean in and clean out. Before the bust I made up my mind that I would stand for reelection if I had a chance to get this legislation through and impound about eighty-five percent of the guns in Colorado. When plans for the raid became a reality, I treated myself to massive doses of mendacity, the ancient art of lying to oneself. I lied, I made dirty deals, I was very selective of people’s rights, I put a lot of folks in harm’s way, I endangered the careers of some very gifted people. I went into Urbakkan clean and escaped by a miracle. I went into AMERIGUN tainted and again escaped clean, except for those sad Jensen brothers. Am I cursed to have to always ride in on wings of a raven? Must I blow up half of the state to prove my point? Do the people really want a cowboy?”
“Well, right now they’ve got one,” Mal snapped back.
“You are their hero, Quinn,” Rita said.
“I love you guys,” Quinn whispered, “and I know what you are thinking but dare not say. Play it cool for your next term, Quinn, then go take a shot at the presidency.” Quinn had balled up both fists. “Nothing,” he banged out, “nothing can happen, no disaster can befall so great as to go through the agony of Bill and Hillary Clinton. Nothing,” he said, “nothing, nothing, nothing.”
Part Three
Chapter 31
THE WHITE HOUSE, 2007
From the get-go Thornton invoked a formal operation of the White House. It was a more serious place with a serious dress code. No more inline-skating in the halls outfitted like a member of the chorus of Guys and Dolls.
Serious young people were nominated for internship by serious Republicans. No more liberal punk kids. No more showing of thigh or cleavage and improper hairdos.
Intimacy among staff was more risky.
Under control, the hordes of legislators, consultants, media, public relations hired guns, and lobbyists entered a correct and hallowed place.
Daringly, the press facility near the Oval Office was exiled to the nearby Executive Building. The media went into a rage. Darnell knew that this was one the President could win. After the media debacles at the end of the last century, the public was delighted that the press was learning manners.
Thornton Tomtree was the first fully computerized president. He installed a crew of the finest computer analysts. No matter what the chore, background on a political appointee, weather in Alaska, cabinet meeting, they could dissect and translate information faster than any like team in the world. Tomtree went into his meetings with up-to-the-second data, the sway of public opinion, every nuance of the financial world.
Darnell Jefferson had the run of the place. He pulled together a public relations staff of rare genius to counter any idea that the Oval Office was rigid.
With his first years scandal free, the nation’s social agenda was soon overtaken by power bestowed on the corporate world, allegedly to keep America as the only superpower.
If Thornton was smart about one thing, it was human greed. Every American owned some. His programs were designed so the public saw a payoff for them.
Pucky had grown into a stylish sixty-year-old. She and the President had been long unfamiliar with one another’s bed. This did not result in her anger, but in a strange sense, it gave her freedom. She did all the First Lady things, often adding spice and humor and throwing the most elegant banquets in memory.
Thornton understood her value and rewarded her by endowing the cultural scene.
I am sleeping and I can’t wake up! I can’t wake up! Where the hell is Pucky? Where am I! It will be daylight, and O’Connell is addressing the nation…enormous consequence.
Where the hell is Pucky?
“Mr. President,