John Cramer - Einstein's Bridge

“If he does,” said Bertha, “I’ll kill the little jerk. He was doing so well. He’d already pulled to within a few percentage points of Bush and Clinton in the polls, and our projections said he would have been ahead in two more weeks. It was crazy to pull out now.” She patted him on the shoulder. “But c’est la vie, as they say in Louisiana. Take care, Steve, and thanks for everything.” She walked out the front door and pulled it closed behind her just a bit too hard.

Steve looked around the deserted Tallahassee Perot for President office. Only a few days before the place had been a beehive of activity. But after Perot announced his withdrawal two days ago, the volunteers had disappeared, taking much of the loaned office furniture and equipment with them. The rent on the office, however, was paid up until the end of the month, a few desks and chairs were still here, and the WATS telephone lines were still connected.

He felt angry and betrayed. He had planned so carefully, and now it had all come apart. First there was the Alice thing. Alice was pretty, fairly intelligent, and very hardworking. He’d picked her specifically for those qualities, and she was supposed to be grateful. As he’d had it planned, they would marry when they graduated, she would get a good job, and she would support him while he finished law school.

But then that goddamned Texas bastard Preston had appeared, and somehow he’d stolen her. Alice was very secretive about what Preston had told her, but whatever it was, it had completely changed their relationship. Now she had gone off God knows where with the bastard doing God knows what. She’s probably screwing him right now, he thought, the image striking him like a blow. They’d had a bitter argument the night before she left for Washington. He shouldn’t have hit her, he thought, no matter what she’d said. Now she’d probably never come back to him, even if she broke it off with the damn Texan and came back to FSU.

The day after Alice left, Steve had totaled his car. He’d been angry about her betrayal, and perhaps he’d been driving too fast. He was very lucky that the driver of the car he’d hit was drunk, so he’d been able to shift the blame. The jerk’s insurance company was going to pay him to replace his car, but for the moment he was a mere bike rider in a town designed around the automobile. Damn, it was frustrating.

And now there was Perot’s betrayal. Before choosing a presidential campaign, Steve had carefully studied the options. Alice had pushed hard for him to join the Clinton bandwagon, but both Clinton and Bush already had large organizations full of experienced people, and both candidates were burdened with considerable negative baggage. He wasn’t sure if Iran-gate or Bimbo-gate was the greater burden, but he didn’t want a candidate carrying either.

It was also clear to Steve that the media underestimated Perot’s chances of winning. And he soon discovered that the people running the Perot campaign in Florida were simply not that sharp and impressive. He’d seen that it would be easy to rise rapidly in the local Perot organization, possible to move upward to the national organization before the election. After he’d joined, his strategy had proved correct. He’d risen very rapidly in the Tallahassee organization until he was deputy state chairman. Perot had also risen dramatically in the polls.

But then two days ago, in the wake of the previous week’s Democratic National Convention, Ross Perot had announced without warning that he was withdrawing from the presidential race. As Bertha had said, without a candidate there was no campaign. And more important, there was no organization to take over.

It was as if there was a conspiracy to keep him from succeeding, he thought. His plans were in shambles, all his careful planning destroyed. Well, he would not accept this. He’d find a way to fight back. He picked up the telephone, punched the WATS line button, consulted the media list before him, and dialed.

“Houston Chronicle,” said a female voice.

“Hello,” said Steve. “I’m calling long-distance from Florida. Please connect me with a reporter who covers the oil industry scene in Houston.”

“That would be Tom Weatherford. The computer shows he’s available. Please hold while I connect you.”

There was a ring signal, and a voice answered, “Weatherford.”

“Hello, Tom. This is Steve Brown, calling from Tallahassee. I’m working on a story for the Tallahassee Democrat,” Steve lied. “I wonder if you could provide some information on a Houston oilman named George Preston. I’ve found several magazine articles about him, and I pulled up a credit report, but I’m looking for deeper information. I thought you might have already checked up on Preston for the Chronicle.”

“Ah yes, the mysterious Mr. Preston,” said Weatherford. “Just a minute, Steve. Let me fetch my file.” There was a pause, followed by the sound of rustling papers. “Here it is. George Raymond Preston, born in Houston, July 25, 1959, both parents now deceased, no siblings, no record of education in the Houston public school system or at any public or private university in Texas. President and principal stockholder of PetroGen, Inc., estimated net worth around one billion dollars. Corporate biography is minimal, claims Preston worked and studied molecular biology in Europe, but doesn’t say where or when.”

“I noticed that his credit history only goes back to 1987,” said Steve.

“Right,” said Weatherford. “That’s when he moved to Texas from wherever he was before that. He took a driving test to get a Texas driver’s license in February 1987. He started Petroleum Genetics Laboratories in a storefront on Fannin Street in Houston in March and soon after the company began to market a whole line of petroleum-related biological products for drilling lubricants, drill tool release agents, oil spill cleanup agents, and other things.

“The whole PGL start-up was peculiar. High-technology startup companies usually need big initial investment capital and have to invest heavily in high-tech hardware, but PGL had no financial backers I could find and no large initial hardware purchases except for office computers. Their products were so much better than anything else available that they immediately began to make lots of money. Then Preston began to buy up old garbage dumps and nonproducing oil wells.”

“Garbage dumps? I hadn’t heard about that.”

“Yes, he put up factory buildings on some of the land. I guess it was cheap, but it must have been hell to stabilize it enough to construct a building on. I never understood what he was up to there.”

“Interesting,” said Steve, making notes. “What about Preston’s private life?”

“He lives in a penthouse apartment that occupies the complete top floor of an apartment building he owns on the west side of downtown Houston. He owns two cars, a Porsche and a BMW, no chauffeur. No boats registered to him, but his company recently bought a corporate jet. He’s never been mentioned on the Chronicle’s society page, but he’s attended a number of political functions and is occasionally mentioned in connection with politics. When he’s seen in public, it’s usually with business associates. No indication of women friends. He was a big contributor to the Bush campaign in 1988, but recently he’s switched his contributions to Clinton and Perot.” “Is Preston backing Perot, too?” Steve asked. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Guess he must have had a falling-out with the Bush people,” said Weatherford. “Let’s see what else there is. He has no season tickets for sports or cultural activities. The doorman of his apartment told me that he works long hours, doesn’t go out much, and never brings anyone home with him late in the evening, either male or female.”