Ishmael Reed - The Terrible Threes

“Oh, you know the rest, ladies and gentlemen, how the nations had to endure another Terrible. Another President crippled in office. And you know how fond we were of Dean and his lovely wife, Elizabeth. But, now that I look back at it, maybe the Lord was sending us a sign when Elizabeth was struck down by that Xmas tree. That dreadful night led to Clift’s downfall, and I’m convinced that his strange recital on television about alleged wrongdoings by the Admiral, Reverend Jones, the King of Beer, and me was a result of the young man’s distraught condition. That’s what I thought then, but recently, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve learned that some of the wild rumors that had been going around about his administration were true. The P.C.P. and angel dust parties in the White House, where unrobed young men and women were entertained by the heavy metal music of Boy Gonorrhea and Frequent Urination. They were playing the music of Hell. This couple had turned the mansion into a fornicating den of Satan, ladies and gentlemen. And when we went to serve the notice to Dean Clift that he was to be removed from office, he was engaged in some bizarre Xmas tree planting that Reverend Jones, not only the greatest chief of staff in history, but a great biblical scholar as well, authority on Milton, and a member of the English Department of Queens College for ten years — before he relocated to Texas — identified as the pagan rites of Saturnalia. It wasn’t the grief, ladies and gentlemen, it was some kind of wild hallucinogenic that caused him to make that speech. After we got rid of him, Jesse Hatch, a true patriot, took over and, with his aides, was able to get the country moving again.

“We tried to turn back the waves of infidels coming in over the border arriving in freedom boats into Florida; we tried to ban Spanish, and now everybody it seems is speaking it; we thought that the Asian Americans would set an example for the others, but they turned out to be as deceitful and as cunning as their ancestors described in the writings of the California prophet Jack London, who warned of the invasion of yellows. They were making millions of dollars from drug sales, and with the profits buying up the United States. And so who needs them, ladies and gentlemen? Who needs the yellows, the browns, the reds, and the blacks, unless they, like Carson Richards, serve our Western ways, preserve our values? Unless they do that, they are surps. The wastes of history, the floating dump of the eons.” The audience was still as Krantz began to wind up his speech. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, Clift’s trying to regain the power that the Lord wanted taken from him. He is challenging the decision that removed him from office, even though everything was legal.

“We got the majority of principal officers of the executive departments and Vice President Hatch to send a letter to Congress stating that President Clift was incapable of discharging the duties of his office. And as you know, the appeals court upheld the lower court’s decision last week. And I promise you that the Supreme Court with Chief Justice Nola Payne in charge will do likewise, ladies and gentlemen, and then let us hope that Dean Clift will come to his senses and unite behind Jesse Hatch and the greatest White House chief of staff in history, Reverend Clement Jones.” The audience rose and began to clap until their hands became sore. Krantz was mobbed and had to have an aisle cleared so that he could make his way from the podium to the waiting limousine in the rear of the hotel, shaking hands with dignitaries along the way. Reporters were after him with questions. Mr. Krantz, is it true that Reverend Jones spends hours in the Oval Office talking to pretend friends? Over here, Mr. Krantz. Bob, aren’t you concerned about the circumstances surrounding Admiral Matthews’s death; don’t you have suspicions? Mr. Krantz, is it true that you’re leaving the White House for an ambassadorial post? Krantz didn’t answer any questions. He instructed the driver to get him to the White House.

Nance decided to make one more run from La Guardia before going to Virginia’s for dinner. This time he didn’t have to hustle. A man opened the door of the black limousine that Joe Baby had given him and got in. “I hope you’re not in a hurry,” Nance said. “I have to get at least four more passengers. It’s not worth my while just to take one passenger downtown.” Nance could only realize a profit when he squeezed five passengers into the car. Three on small seats that could be lifted from the floor. “I can’t make any money that way.” The man slipped some bills into his hand. Nance looked. Two hundred dollars. He looked over his shoulder. It was Joe Baby’s partner, Big Meat.

“Big Meat,” Nance said.

“I don’t call myself that anymore. I’m using my real name, Carson Richards. I’ve put that other life behind me,” he said in a tremulous baritone voice. He was wearing a fur coat, and the type of hat that bluesman Albert King wears. Dark with a shining dark band. He hadn’t gotten rid of his rings. He seemed more polished. He told Nance that he wanted to be let out at the Pierre Hotel. In the last conversation he had with Big Meat, about four years before, he had told Nance that he wanted to go into a white-collar business, running a security business for tycoons like Elder Marse. Jack Frost worked for him. Nance asked him what he did for a living.

“I’m working on Wall Street.”

“That’s a change.”

“Yeah.”

“Where you coming from?” They were driving through Queens near the curious ruins that Robert Moses had left behind.

“A dinner. This neoconservative foundation just honored me. They say that I show what a surp can do if they really put their minds to it. They’re making me an example. I was sitting at the head table with the people who run the country. This man who is next to President Hatch spoke. Bob Krantz. Man he had the people on their feet they were applauding so.”

“How can you join that bunch? Hell, the only reason that conservatism was invented was so that some Irish guys could get into the Morocco Club. They didn’t even have a philosophy until the 1950s.”

“You’re still angry, huh, Nance. Bitter. Political. That’s why you’re political. You never used to be political. It’s because you’re down on your luck. That’s why you’re driving this beat-up wagon. You never could settle into anything that made some money. What would you be doing if Joe Baby hadn’t left you this pimp car?” Big Meat and Joe Baby were pimps together. They had an apartment and were running a call girl service that catered to the convention crowd. They were doing alright until Boy Bishop, leader of a sect that revered Saint Nicholas, recruited the whores. “You ought to get into the speculation business. If you get caught all you have to do is to pay a fine. My heroes used to be people like Nicky Barnes. Now I have a picture of Ivan Boesky on the wall. Somebody who uses his head. You remember that white boy we hired Snow Man to hit?”

“Do I remember.”

“He taught me a lesson. I mean, I figured that if he could do that to me and Joe Baby, it was time for me to quit and to find something better to do than hustling some whores. Shit, I read that seven out of ten women aren’t satisfied anyway. Have never achieved an orgasm. The odds are better in the junk bond business, and if you have somebody giving you tips, you win all the time. You have a head on your shoulders, Nance, yet you’re into some nickel-and-dime gypsy cab operation. You let those guys take your confidence. You let them get you down. You’re not living up to your full potential. You are all beaten down because you weren’t able to find Snow Man. I think the guy probably took the fifty K that Joe Baby and I gave him and left town. You shouldn’t blame yourself. By the way, how is Virginia doing?”