Norman Spinrad - Bug Jack Barron

Barron took a deep drag on the Acapulco Gold. “You mean to tell me you’re not really a band of patriots gathered together in Holy Council to pick a Moses to lead the Children of Israel out of the Wilderness? Come on, fellas, don’t destroy my innocent, childlike illusions.”

“Before you get so high you start to gibber,” Morris said, speaking like the wise old toad for the first time, “maybe you should just shut your big mouth for a change and listen. I couldn’t care less about the crap that goes on inside the SJC—it’s got all the charm and grace of a Chinese Communist Party Central Committee meeting—and it really doesn’t matter that you’re a neo-Bolshevik punk, because I think we really understand each other, Barron. We don’t like each other, but what counts is that we’ve got common enemies, like Benedict Howards, or, who knows, maybe even Teddy the Pretender. We’re wasting our time trying to con each other. You interested in making a deal, or not?”

Something to be said for a cat who’s a swine and doesn’t care who knows it, Barron thought. Better an unselfconscious GOP Fat Cat than these three fucking cop-out Heroes of the Underdog. And to think that the SJC was my baby! How’s that for a case for legalized abortion?

“Sure, I’m interested in making a deal,” he said. “Question is, what kind of deal? What’s in it for you, and what’s in it for me?”

“You sure going through changes, aren’t you, Jack?” Luke said, trying to regain control. “So, as long as you seem to be playing Boss Tweed tonight, let’s just riff it out in words of one syllable. We can all walk out of here with an agreement that you’ll be the coalition candidate for President on a common anti-Howards platform if you can convince Deke and Woody to throw in. Morris and I and all the southern votes on the National Council are already committed and the Republican vips are ready to go along the moment they’re guaranteed an SJC nomination. Woody and Deke will throw in, if they’re assured that Jack Barron, as head of the SJC national ticket, will put the screws on Russ Deacon. That’s the nitty-gritty, Claude—you willing to let us use your fan club in the Village against Deacon, you can be President of the United States.”

“With you as Vice-President,” Barron said on sudden impulse, clocking Morris blanching at the thought of a Baby Bolshevik nigger on his precious Republican ticket. (Better see just how far you’ll go, Morris.) “What’s about it, Morris, are you that hot for my bod? I don’t even think about running without Luke on both tickets. Will you ram that down your party’s throat?”

“Hey, wait a minute—” Luke began.

“Cool it,” Barron snapped. “You got me into this, Luke, and I’m dragging you in after me whether you like it or not. What about it, Morris, you still in the game?”

“If I accept Greene,” Morris said, fingering his cigar, “that means we get to pick the Secretaries of State, Defense, Transportation, Labor and Commerce, a majority on the FTC, the NLRB and the FCC when appointments come up, the first two vacancies on the Supreme Court, the head of the Bureau of the Budget, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Attorney-General, and no questions asked. Ask your SJC friends if they’re still in the game.”

Barron cocked his head at Luke, was not surprised but wished he could’ve been as Greene said, “You’re faded,” and Masterson and Kaplan nodded in instantly-calculated agreement. Politics! Politicians! Where’s the difference between my boys and Morris? Junkies’d sell their own mothers to a Saudi Arabian slaver, you wave the shit under their noses hard enough…

“What about Deacon?” Masterson asked coldly.

“What the fuck do I care about Deacon,” Barron answered with measured cavalierness. “You want a candidate, right, not another politician. You’re up to the ears in politicians, and they’re all losers. You just want me to front for you, right? So I let you cats handle the politics, you want to use my name against Deacon, that’s cool, but don’t expect me to do your dirty work for you.”

“Gentlemen,” Luke said with a big shit-eating smile, “I think we’re in business. Now the question would seem to be how and when we announce our—”

“Not so fast,” Barron said. “Now that we’ve all gotten together on what I can do for you, the question before us is what are you gonna do for me?”

“You flipped?” Luke said. “We’re gonna make you President of the United States!”

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t go into ecstasy,” Barron said dryly. “But for openers, you’re just gonna make me a Presidential candidate, is all, and just between us chickens, I don’t think I have a Chinaman’s chance of winning. I don’t think anyone except Bennie Howards’ handpicked Democrat has a prayer, not unless Teddy pulls off a bona fide miracle at the Convention. And if Teddy gets the nomination, we’ve had it. There’s no way to tie him to Howards, because the only way he can get the nomination is over Bennie’s dead body. But even that’s not the main point. I don’t have eyes for running, and I have even less eyes for being President. I find the whole thing a king-sized drag, fellas. Believe it or not, I’m in a bigger game elsewhere, and the only reason I’d consider running is because I need your backing in that game, Morris. I need you to keep Bennie Howards off my back. That’s my price.”

“Just what’s this ‘bigger game’ you’re talking about?” Morris said, and his eyes betrayed him, betrayed smug assurance that he could certainly control a Jack Barron who didn’t even want to be President in the first place, and isn’t that cool? And Luke and the boys were getting the same happy look.

“That’s none of your business at the moment,” Barron said. “It’s all still up in the air right now. If I end up not needing your muscle, wild horses wouldn’t get me to run, and if I do need you, don’t worry, the whole country will know why. It’s all riding on the next show. Let’s just say that if I get into a war with Howards, I want your fat cats to see to it that I don’t hurt for sponsors, that Bennie can’t lean hard enough on the network to make ’em drop me, and that the FCC situation will likewise be cooled.

“You see, the only reason I’d run is if I need you to save my ass, because I don’t think I’d win, and that means I gotta make sure I don’t blow Bug Jack Barron. I want insurance because, ladies and gentlemen, whether you dig it or not, that show is where I’m at, where I want to be at, and I don’t intend to blow it for no one or nothing. That’s show biz, boys.”

“Show biz!” Luke snapped. “We’re talking about the Presidency of the United States, and you come on with show biz?”

Barron smiled wolfishly. “I was in your shoes, I’d be mighty happy to hear me talk that way,” he said. (Might as well lay it right on the line, spell it out in black and white for these pricks.) “I mean, why are you so hot for my bod in the first place? Because I’m show biz, is all. Dig: being President and running for President are two entirely different bags. Cats who would be best at being President lay turkey eggs as candidates. Or am I wrong, and did Stevenson beat Eisenhower? You know I’m right, or Morris anyway wouldn’t touch me with a fork. I don’t have eyes for being President, and I don’t have any qualifications either, that’s politics, which is just not my bag. How groovy for you guys if you should happen to elect me—it’d all be your show after Election Day, and you can fight it out among your own sweet selves who runs it, far as I’m concerned it’s horseshit either way. But, if I need that GOP muscle to keep me in show biz, I’d hold my nose and be the best fucking candidate you could get from central casting, and you better believe it. Running for office in the good old USA is show biz all the way. Remember Ike? Remember Reagan? Remember JFK? Don’t knock show biz, boys, whether you know it or not, it’s your stock in trade. Well, what about it, Morris, you back my play if I back yours?”