Warren Murphy: Dark Horse

In Thousand Oaks, A1 Bruss, a retired schoolteacher, decided he'd had enough. He was tired of the homeless and the illegals, who urinated in the formerly pristine streets and choked the streets as they wandered in search of jobs that often didn't exist even for legal citizens.

In the middle of the debate, he called his real-estate broker and said, "I've had enough. Put this place in your listing. I'm moving to Seattle."

In Santa Ana, in the heart of conservative Orange County, real-estate office phones rang off the hook. It was the same in San Francisco, San Diego, Sacramento, and elsewhere.

Unions, business groups, and activists, who had supported Esperanza before this, suddenly saw the future of California in stark terms. A future that did not include them. And they also saw the alternatives to Enrique Espiritu Esperanza as hopeless fringe candidates. They decided to put their energies into relocation, not voting:

Those who remained for the rest of the debate heard Rona Ripper and Barry Black, Junior give evasive, timid responses to questions about the future of California.

Each time he responded, Enrique Esperanza gave a forthright reply.

"The California past is Aztec," he said. "The California future is Aztec, and Filipino and Japanese. And of course, whites will be welcome to stay. We will find a place for them."

He was applauded after every statement. The cheering was reproduced all over California. A sea change that had been building for decades had taken human form.

America was on the threshold of having a Third World state within its borders.

At the end, the three candidates came forward and stood side-by-side in multicultural solidarity, taking in the thunderous applause that each thought in his heart of hearts was meant for him or her, but which in fact was still reverberating from Enrique Esperanza's last statement.

The audience came to their feet.

And it was during this cannonade of a standing ovation that it happened.

Every camera recorded it.

Positioned between the two male candidates, Rona Ripper suddenly jumped in place. She stiffened, her eyes going hot. And without any other warning, she turned and slapped an unprepared Barry Black, Junior in the face, screaming, "How dare you pinch me there, you flake!"

A great gasp broke the applause. Stunned silence followed. Barry Black, Junior turned a flustered crimson and seemed not to know what to do with his hands.

With his mouth he said, "I support your right to do that, even though I disagree with the doing of it." Then he added, "Ouch!"

Backstage, Remo said, "Did you see that? He goosed her. In front of the camera."

Harmon Cashman snorted. "Everybody knows Black is a complete flake."

"It wasn't Black. It was Esperanza," Remo said flatly.

"Remo!" Chiun flared. "Do not speak nonsense."

"I saw it," Remo insisted. "Black never moved. But Esperanza's shoulder bunched up just before Rona jumped. He reached across from behind and goosed her on the opposite cheek, so she'd think Black did it."

"Ricky wouldn't do that," Harmon insisted. He paused, adding, "But if he did, it was a masterstroke. And probably just won him the election. Black looks like a dip, and Rona Ripper just showed that she's a temperamental bitch. Ricky's in like Flynn!"

The overnight polls the very next day showed Esperanza nearly twenty points ahead of the other campaigns.

"But we're showing softness in the usual white voter blocs," Harmon Cashman confided to his candidate over a working lunch that very afternoon.

"I am not worried about the blancos. They are the past. I am the future."

"If this keeps up, they'll be deserting in droves by election day."

"It is their right. It is a free country."

The white people, in fact, didn't run from Enrique Espiritu Esperanza. They ran from California. Houses went up for sale. White voter registration fell off. Support for the Ripper and Black campaigns already had fallen sharply among white middle-class voters. Their campaign staffs were in ruins, owing to the repeated political arsons and assassination attempts.

The only alternative candidate, the interim governor, had dropped out for lack of funding.

And all over California, the homeless and illegal aliens and other disenfranchised potential voters saw the future in the dark-horse candidate named Esperanza.

And they saw hope.

Harmon Cashman saw more than hope. He saw certainty. Three days later, holed up in a Hollywood hotel, basking in the afterglow of a star-studded fund-raiser, he shouted it to the ornate chandelier.

"We're gonna win! We're gonna win! We're gonna win!"

"I believe this too," Esperanza said calmly. "This is why I am not going to campaign any further."

Harmon stopped dancing. "What?"

Esperanza shrugged. "There is no need. My opponents are reduced to making accusations and counteraccusations against one another. I, they cannot criticize. I am the multicultural candidate and they have come out in favor of multiculturalism. What is there to criticize? Oreo cookies and hope?"

"Pretty slick. Say, Ricky. You didn't really goose Rona up there, did you?"

"In politics, as in war, a little rear-guard action at the optimum moment can alter one's destiny," Esperanza said.

"For a guy who was growing grapes until a month ago," Harmon said admiringly, "you sure know the ropes of this business."

"I am Esperanza. I know a great many things. For instance, I know that we are now a shoo-in."

"That's what I've been saying."

"Once in the governor's chair, I will control the largest economy in this hemisphere, one greater than most other nations'. And its people will be my people. People of color. They will trust me. They will do anything I ask."

"Anything?"

Esperanza nodded. "Even, if I suggest it, secede from the union."

Harmon Cashman blinked. "Secede?"

"Who is to stop me?"

"Well, the Federal government, for one thing."

Esperanza smiled beneficently. "Not if I have the President under my thumb."

Harmon's face acquired a stung look. "How would you get him under your thumb?"

"By informing him that I have knowledge of his employment of a professional assassin, the greatest assassin in human history, on his payroll."

Harmon Cashman blinked. "The little Korean?"

"No. Our little Korean."

"You really mean it? You want to make California a separate country?"

"If the people will have it. And I believe they will."

Harmon Cashman went bone-white. He felt a chill coursing up and down his spine. Woodenly, he stood up. "Excuse me, Ricky. If we're going to be in Sacramento soon, there's something I gotta do."

Enrique Esperanza looked up. "And what is this?"

"Work on my tan," said Harmon Cashman, leaving the room on leaden feet.

Chapter 29

The next morning, Harmon Cashman awoke to find that an envelope had been slipped under his hotel-room door. He opened it and read the hand-written note.

Harmon: I have returned to my home in the Napa Valley, to rest. I suggest that you do the same. For we shall need all our strength after the election.

Ricky

P.S. Help yourself to cookies.

Harmon found a package, neatly wrapped, standing out in the hallway. It looked big. Whistling his disappointment away, he carried the box back into the room.

The box was a literal smorgasbord of chocolate-and-white creme-filled treasures. There were mini-Oreos, regular packs, the Double Stuf kind with extra filling, and Harmon's current favorite, Big Stuf.

Putting a pot of coffee on the hot plate, he settled down to breakfast.

By noon, Harmon Cashman was feeling pretty good. So good, he ignored the knock on his door.

"Harmon. You in there?"

"Go 'way."

"It's Remo. Chiun and I are looking for Esperanza."