Ishmael Reed - The Terrible Threes

“Did you hear what I said?”

He looked up at Nescafe.

“I said I’d keep my ears open.”

“You won’t have to. I’m going to New York,” Pete said. Disguised as a snowstorm, Pete landed in New York.

Dean Clift was in his robe, his hands behind his back, pacing back and forth, biting on a cigar. Robert Marshal, his aide, had brought him the news of the events transpiring in Washington. The rumors that Reverend Jones was not acting rationally. The strange and sudden death of Admiral Matthews. Bob Krantz’s disappearance. The letter that had been sold to Pedigree by Admiral Matthews’s maid, revealing that there had been such a thing as Operation Two Birds. The lights in the White House were burning all night as they tried to decide what to do. The progress of his suit against Jesse Hatch’s administration would soon be argued before the Supreme Court.

“This is the best news we’ve gotten in three years, and you don’t seem too happy, Bob?”

“Look, even if it turns out that you were telling the truth, they can still get you on that Nicholas business. How do we deal with that?”

“But it’s true. What about the others? There were others who said that Nicholas came to them.”

“Oh, they were seen as imitators. You know, once you get the reputation in Washington that you’re weird, it’s hard to straighten it out. After Goldwater said he believed in flying saucers, his credibility plummeted. Besides, with Nola Payne casting the swing vote on the court, siding with the New Christian judges, you don’t have a chance.”

“I don’t think that we should give up. I still have a loyal following. They tell me that there are always crowds outside the gates of this place. My people will stand by me.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“How’s the race for next year shaping up?”

“They’re talking about putting Hatch up, but there’s a rumor going around town that Jones is fed up with Hatch. Kingsley Scabb is organizing his blue-blood buddies for a shot at the White House, but he doesn’t have a chance unless he can get the backing of Jones’s operation. Those people are the most organized political movement in American history. My god, they get your telephone number and you might as well forget it. I’ve had mine changed four times. You see what happened to those televangelists who stood in Jones’s way? He Matthewed every one of them. Most of them are on relief, or living in trailers. Some were fortunate enough to get modest congregations. Others went to jail for stealing donations. As chief of staff, he was able to put them under surveillance. I mean, they were bound to come up with something. Everybody has something to hide. When the F.B.I. sent Jones the Hoover files, he stayed in the Oval Office for four weeks with a Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob.

“A real crazy man.”

“Why did you let him put you on the ticket under General Scott?”

“Who could have known that the guy believed all of that stuff? The thing about Jews and blacks being children of the devil. The premillenarianism. Look, I didn’t want to end up — it’s sad what happens to old models, you’re lucky if you can get a commercial spot pushing over-fifty life insurance. I just felt that a political career would be a way to gain a little prestige and travel, go to parties. I mean, I was a pretty superficial guy, and the money that backed me insisted that I push the — well, you know there were these black guys in Air Jordans and hoods who were terrorizing New York, and the welfare hotels, and the teenage pregnancies — I was drinking a lot, because I never had anything against blacks. But I had to get elected, and then when they offered me the spot on the Scott ticket, I thought, what a soft job. Breaking ties in the Senate, going to funerals — but then Scott died, and I really went off the deep end.”

“Yeah, meeting with the head of the Nazi party in the White House, and awarding Bernhard Goetz the Medal of Freedom; I’ll say you did, and then proposing that the capital be moved to Cicero, Illinois, a town that you said exemplified the values and traditions of Western civilization. And then that proposal of yours to declare Adolph Hitler’s birth date a national holiday—”

“I never went that far, that was leaked from someone within the administration, but — I guess I was pretty far gone, but then Elizabeth’s death. Her electrocution while lighting the Christmas tree. And then the experience. Nicholas. Those kinds of things change a man.”

“You sure did change. I never will forget that speech. I was sitting there watching the football game with some friends at Cape Cod, and the game was interrupted by your speech. You revealed that covert operation, the Terrible Twos. We couldn’t believe it. After your speech nobody in the room spoke. We thought that the country deserved a rest after all of the Terribles. And here was another Terrible. With more indictments. Hearings. Witnesses. Special prosecutors. And when they sent you here we believed them. The story they gave out that you were seeing things that weren’t there. That you were acting bizarrely. We wanted to believe it.”

“So why did you come down here? You’ve been working here for three years without pay.”

“Because, I don’t know, it’s maybe you remind me of my youth, when there was such a thing as Santa Claus. When we believed that America could be a place for everybody, regardless of race, creed or color — you know, all of the things we learned in high school during the fifties, those civics classes. Some of us believed in all of that, but then J.F.K. killed, Nixon, Reagan, we seemed to become more and more cynical, more and more jaded, the music, the art, the buck became the bottom line in everything. And so when you made that speech, those of us who hated your guts began to cheer you.”

Dean walked to the window, and stared through the bars which were misshapen by the snow. “I was just along for the ride. I didn’t care about what Reverend Jones was up to. But after Elizabeth, and Nicholas, after those experiences, I changed. If I ever get out of here, I’m going to straighten things out.”

“They’ll never let you out. You’re dangerous. Reverend Jones plans to keep you here as long as he can. People inside this place are from the secret government. The army is down at the gates. Something’s got to be done, though. The allies are getting nervous. This thing Jones has about premilleniarianism. He might push the button. He might think that we’re all better off in heaven.”

I should be sitting in that chair. This man is as crazy and unpredictable as a baby black panther. Wait until the press discovers what he does with his time. Talks to some ghost whom he says is the spirit of a departed S.S. officer, who stowed away on Air Force 1 when Reagan returned from laying the wreath at Bitburg. Supposed to sit in that empty chair, dressed in the Bavarian national costume. A superhero they lent him from Hollywood, Joe Beowulf. He sends his computer generated fantasy out to snuff his enemies. Oh, uh. It’s staring at me. I wonder can it read thoughts. I’ll just play along until next year. Don’t want to alienate these New Christians. The best campaigners in the history of the country. Everybody’s got their phones off the hook, they’re such pests. Used to dismiss them, until that miracle they performed in the early part of this decade, electing General Walter Scott, the hero of Dominica. I wasn’t surprised when he died. He was swaying and staggering about during the inaugural ceremony. And that invasion of Dominica. Just a stunt. Word has it that Hollywood paid for it. They only found one communist in the whole country, and he turned out to be a C.I.A. plant and the prime minister claims she never invited U.S. troops in like the administration claimed. Then Dean Clift. Feel kind of sorry about the guy. Talked about seeing Saint Nicholas. Weirder things have happened around here. My wife tells me that one of the White House maids opened the door of a room one night and saw Edith Wilson nagging her paralyzed husband. And Jesse Hatch. Reverend Jones has taken over so as White House chief of staff that nobody recognizes Jesse Hatch on the street. Just a figurehead, posing with turkeys. Word has it that Jones has the goods on Jesse Hatch. Some kind of land deal and a bribe. And then these maniacs, the D’Roaches, getting on the ballot. People who believe that salad bars are part of a communist conspiracy. That eggs ain’t poultry, grits ain’t groceries, and Mona Lisa was a man. The only thing that’s gonna rescue this country from the endless Terribles is for the Sons of New England to take control again .