Bruce Bauman - Broken Sleep

“That woman”—I pointed at the screen—“do you recognize her?”

“Sure, it’s Jay. She lives with Mose. He’s probably backstage.”

“So you know her?”

“Yeah. She’s cool. It’s not like we’re BFFs or anything. I see Mose more than I see her.”

Ah, yes. I remembered at a Nightingale-sponsored play, just before the curtain came up I caught a glimpse of him, mealy skinned and slinking down the aisle. My first reaction — another setup. Thankfully, no one attempted to force a confrontation. During intermission I followed the woman, who was clearly with him, and tapped her shoulder just outside the restroom. Startled, she spun around. “Are you his wife?” I asked.

“That is none of your business.”

Her eyes shredded me with hatred, and for that I admired her. “You love him. That is good.”

“You are missing out by not loving him.”

I stared now at the TV. Laluna had muted the sound and was already texting someone. As the credits rolled, I saw Alchemy, Vulter, him, and his wife talking and laughing together.

I waved good night to Laluna, who barely waved back. I walked to my studio, Margarita’s words circling above me: “You are their mother, you must be the one.”

After years of debate, exploratory research, and financial planning, Alchemy had dived into assembling a “professional” political team that would aid in his run for the presidency in 2020. Alchemy was seriously considering hiring Dewey Winslow to be his chief political consultant, but before making a final choice he wanted Moses’s opinion.

Moses drove alone to Winslow’s Dana Point home. He and Alchemy welcomed Moses to the wing of the house that served as Winslow’s office. In his pink Lacoste shirt, Gucci glasses, and a caterpillar mustache, he impressed Moses as someone who’d spent his childhood summers partaking in the Newport, Rhode Island, regatta. A modest five foot six and muscular, he assumed a larger presence by thrusting his chest forward. Alchemy introduced him as the “best political consultant in the business.”

“Patronizing me already? And why not? With everything I’m going to do for you.” Winslow guffawed. They took seats around a table carved from an oak tree trunk, which he quickly explained was not taken down for logging but had been damaged during a lightning storm. It was laid out with snacks and two pitchers of iced tea, two pitchers of lemonade, and two open bottles of white and red wine. Moses noted the photographs on the walls of Winslow with Nancy Pelosi, Barbara Boxer, and other California Democratic luminaries.

Winslow began with his prepared remarks. “Moses, your synopsis of third-party movements is impressive, as is your analysis of how, in the last elections, more people, both white and nonwhite, stayed home than voted for either candidate. Your hypothesis that they did this not because they were uninterested but because neither candidate enthralled them opens the door for us.”

He took a few gulps of lemonade and continued, consciously directing himself toward Moses.

“Alchemy already made it clear that he does not want a ‘spin doctor.’ I prefer to call myself a ‘contextualizer.’ ” Moses took out a pad and pen from his frayed brown leather briefcase. Winslow stopped him. “Sorry, no note taking, no tapes today. Questions?”

“We want to undo the status quo. You are the establishment. The last time any national third-party candidate got anywhere, and Nader doesn’t apply here, was Ross Perot in 1992 and he soon fizzled out. Why are you doing this?”

Winslow, unperturbed, shifted from his effervescent prattle-patter to a measured imperiousness. “My father was an air traffic controller fired by Reagan in ’81. He couldn’t get another decent job, tumbled into a sinkhole, and never dug himself out.” Winslow’s face didn’t betray a scintilla of emotion. “I’ve worked within the establishment for over twenty years. The ‘great hopes’ of my party have let me down. As Alchemy says, we need a twenty-first-century Social Contract. Is this venture risky? Sure. What defines failure? Not getting Alchemy elected president, not establishing a third party — or not pursuing the dream?” He sipped his lemonade again. “I’m not looking to make friends. I got one.” He nodded toward a white cat sleeping on a large pillow in the far corner of the room. “I honestly don’t know what ‘winning’ means here. I just want to help.”

“Whatever it is, what is your ‘winning’ strategy for us?”

Winslow picked up a sealed plastic bag and tossed it to Moses. “Open it. Take a close look.” The bag contained four cloth wipes, which Moses examined skeptically.

“It says here, ‘Four Fabulous Colors, Red, Green, Blue, and Yellow.’ ”

“And?” Winslow challenged him.

“Um, they’re all blue.”

“Correct!” Winslow laughed loudly. “Back in the late ’80s I was the kid gofer at AMACON Worldwide ad agency on a campaign for these wipes. We used all four colors in the ads. In the stores, only one out of every ten bags had four colors. The rest, all blue — it was so much cheaper to produce. They sold hundreds of millions, ninety percent of them blue.” Winslow caught a subtly skeptical glance between Moses and Alchemy. He dropped the wipes angle, and his tone became more serious. “Lincoln said, ‘You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.’ That’s where Abe got it wrong. You only have to fool fifty point one percent. With a third party, you need even less.” He turned toward Alchemy. “My aim is not to fool people but to persuade them that you are the all-American great leader that the country needs now.”

Moses understood it wasn’t essential for him to like Winslow. They needed someone like him. And Winslow was about to make it even more clear why they needed him.

“Alchemy, despite you being what I call ‘a public domain celebrity’ for over twenty years, my guess is you got a few skeletons I’ll need to deal with. Music is a dirty and corrupt business, but it’s the minor leagues compared to politics.” A woman knocked on the door and entered. “My partner, Elizabeth Borden, the pretty face and charming personality of the organization. She is also the finder and keeper of the skeletons.”

Borden wore light red lipstick on her thin lips and a navy blue pantsuit that epitomized seriousness. She passed folders to the three of them and sat in the fourth chair. Winslow resumed. “Drugs? No problem. The Nightingale Foundation programs negate prior indulgences. Years of therapy? I can turn that into an asset if you don’t mind me referencing your mother’s past.”

“Fine, within limits.”

“We’ll need you to verify what’s in here and fill in what we’ve missed.” Borden spoke in a clipped tone.

“Candy Rappa?” Winslow looked up from the pages and whistled.

“She’ll help with the porn vote — it’s um, huge.” They all looked at him quizzically. “Bad joke.” Alchemy grinned.

“Tonguing and gunning?” Winslow asked, befuddled.

“Just a little harmless sex thing.”

“Hmm.” Winslow angled his head to the left and then to the right, as if he were working out the cricks in his neck or maybe his thoughts. “Sex is not harmless, but Clinton proved it need not be fatal. It’s the Tiger Woods — Derek Jeter duality. Tiger Woods presented himself as the faithful family man while diddling everything that moved. The public turned on him, and he never recovered. Derek Jeter never claimed to be anything but a playboy. He’s a hero to men, and women still love him.” Winslow purposefully paused. “Most Americans will accept you if you present yourself as who you are. They hate lying, hypocrisy, and bad judgment. An affair with a porn star raises questions of judgment. Still, I can handle that.” Winslow leaned forward in his chair, his voice almost mellow. “The affair with Absurda when she was with Mindswallow, and, I’m sorry to bring this up, but one other affair, with uh, how should I put this—”