Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [68]
“That’s about the size of it,” the man said, stifling a yawn with an oddly contorted hand. Taft started as he recognized the twisted configuration of fingers. It was the secret greeting of the Taft family’s old college legacy, the Skull and Bones Society. Taft was bemused to see his first face-to-face confirmation that the esoteric fraternity indeed still thrived, though of course they’d taken note of his reappearance and sent him that typically bizarre Christmas card. But what the devil could the man possibly be pestering him for, a mere three hours before he was scheduled to address the whole of the Taft Party National Convention from its main stage?
“My good fellow,” Taft said, “I do appreciate your solicitousness, but I am—I am rather thoroughly occupied today! Why don’t you leave me your calling card, and we shall schedule a meeting when I might devote the proper attention.”
“Of course,” said the man in the suit, smiling faintly, and withdrew a card from his breast pocket. Taft took it and had already opened his mouth to bid the man farewell when the name on the card registered in his vision: AUGUSTUS FULSOM. Taft’s mouth hung open as he stared from the card back to the man, who nodded silently.
“Kowalczyk,” Taft said, “this gentleman and I will speak privately for a moment. Do let any other callers know that I’m unavailable until after the speech, yes?” Ignoring the bodyguard’s quizzical look, he gestured for Fulsom to enter the room and closed the door behind them.
“Good to see a brother Bonesman back on his feet, Taft,” Fulsom said, seating himself upon the desk by the window overlooking the river view. “Ah, Cincinnati. Beautiful city. Did you know that Cincinnati has one of the highest per-capita rates of Fulsom Foods products in the Midwest? And for the Midwest, that’s saying something.”
“One of the highest obesity rates, too,” Taft answered. He drifted to the coffee table in front of the sofa and nonchalantly flipped over his open notebook. “Not to mention diabetes, heart disease, and colon cancer, and the industrial runoff from the three Fulsom plants in the vicinity.”
“Plants that employ approximately two thousand Cincinnatians, if I remember correctly,” Fulsom said. “In a recession, no less.”
“I think it might be best, sir, if you explained your visit,” Taft said stiffly. “Surely you are aware from my public comments that I am not a supporter of your company’s work.”
“What, that?” Fulsom waved a hand casually, as if to brush the remark aside. “That’s nothing to worry about, Taft. We all have the game to play. I don’t take it personally.”
“Game? You think I play mere politics, sir? You foist unwholesome foods upon the American people, and I shall continue to say so.”
Fulsom arched an eyebrow. “Everything is politics, and there’s nothing ‘mere’ about it. Take this campaign of yours. It’s a lark. It’s a carnival show. You’re playing the role of the jolly jester who’s allowed to say silly things because you’ve got a silly mustache and a silly belly. And yet you’re winning the hearts of Americans left and right. Crazy as it sounds, Taft, you just might take this election.”
It was a thought Taft had been refusing to think. “And?”
“And whether you do or not, I’m on your side. I’m behind you, William Howard Taft. Because we Bonesmen have got to stick together. Eight years ago—before your time, I know—we had two Bonesmen going at each other for the White House, the Republican and the Democrat both, and it was ugly. Not the race—that’s always ugly—but the rift it caused in Skull and Bones, half the membership taking sides against the other half. Ruined Christ knows how many perfectly good business partnerships just because people took their politics personally. I’m not about that. I want to see the wheels of commerce keep on spinning smooth as ever. And that means never mind what you say about me in public. What matters is, behind closed doors, we all know that we’re lending each other a