Distraction - Bruce Sterling [9]
Oscar was calm. “That’s why I have to work in Washington.”
“What’s your party?”
“Senator Bambakias was elected with a thirty-eight percent plurality,” Oscar said. “He isn’t tied to any single party doctrine. He has multipartisan appeal.”
The PR man snorted. “What’s your party, I said.”
“Federal Democrat.”
“Aw Jesus.” The man ducked his head and waved one hand. “Go home, Yankee. Go get a life.”
“We were just leaving,” Fontenot said, putting aside his untouched bourbon. “You happen to know a good local restaurant? A Cajun place, I mean? It has to seat a dozen of us.”
The young guard at the door saluted politely as they left the hospitality building. Oscar carefully slipped his federal ID back into his eelskin wallet. He waited until they were well out of earshot before he spoke. “He may be dead drunk, but that guy sure knows the local restaurants.”
“Journalists always remember these things,” Fontenot said wisely. “Y’know something? I know that guy. I met him once, at Battledore’s in Georgetown. He was doing lunch with the Vice President at the time. I can’t remember his name now for the life of me, but that’s his face all right. He was a big-name foreign correspondent once, a big wheel on the old TV cable nets. That was before they outed him as a U.S. infowar spook.”
Oscar considered this. As a political consultant, he had naturally come to know many journalists. He had also met a certain number of spooks. Journalists certainly had their uses in the power game, but spooks had always struck him as a malformed and not very bright subspecies of political consultant. “Did you happen to tape that little discussion we just had?”
“Yeah,” Fontenot admitted. “I generally do that. Especially when I’m dead sure that the other guy is also taping it.”
“Good man,” Oscar said. “I’ll be skimming the highlights of that conversation and passing them on to the Senator.”
Oscar and Fontenot’s relations during the campaign had always been formal and respectful. Fontenot was twice Oscar’s age, canny, and paranoid, always entirely and utterly serious about assuring the physical safety of the candidate. With the campaign safely behind them, though, Fontenot had clearly been loosening. Now he seemed inspired by a sudden attack of sincerity. “Would you like a little advice? You don’t have to listen, if you don’t want to.”
“You know I always listen to your advice, Jules.”
Fontenot looked at him. “You want to be Bambakias’s chief of staff in Washington.”
Oscar shrugged. “Well, I never denied that. Did I ever deny it?”
“Stick with your Senate committee job, instead. You’re a clever guy, and I think maybe you could accomplish something in Washington. I’ve seen you run those hopeless goofballs in your krewe like they were a crack army, so I just know you could handle a Senate committee. And something’s just gotta get done.” Fontenot looked at Oscar with genuine pain. “America has lost it. We can’t get a grip. Goddammit, just look at all this! Our country’s up on blocks.”
“I want to help Bambakias. He has ideas.”
“Bambakias can give a good speech, but he’s never lived a day inside the Beltway. He doesn’t even know what that means. The guy’s an architect.”
“He’s a very clever architect.”
Fontenot grunted. “He wouldn’t be the first guy who mistook intelligence for political smarts.”
“Well, I suppose the Senator’s ultimate success depends on his handlers. The Senate krewe, the entourage. His staff.” Oscar smiled. “Look, I didn’t hire you, you know. Bambakias hired you. The man can make good staff decisions. All he needs is a chance.”
Fontenot flipped up his yellow coat collar. It had begun to drizzle.
Oscar spread his manicured hands. “I’m only twenty-eight years old. I don’t have the necessary track record to become a Senator’s chief of staff. And besides, I’m about to have my hands full with this Texas science assignment.”
“And besides,” Fontenot mimicked, “there’s your little personal background problem.”
Oscar blinked. It always gave him an