Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

“You don’t expect any dirty dealers to actually try to claim an unregistered gun, do you?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Quinn said. “I wish to apologize,” he went on, “to the AMERIGUN delegates and directors and exhibitors of legitimate items. The vast majority of folks are honorable, law-abiding citizens. Unfortunately, an ugly element pervades any gun show, and there are hundreds of them every year. There is always an aura of fear and danger emanating. This was a rare opportunity to inspect all the contents of the exhibition tables.”

“You rat!” a voice screamed from the rear of the room. King Porter was held at bay by his confederates. “You entrapped us!”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Quinn said, “that is King Porter, CEO of AMERIGUN. King, you are free to come up here and join the news conference.”

“What! To your Goddamned fucking liberal press! This is war!”

“You bet it is,” Quinn answered.

In the days that followed, Governor O’Connell was deluged with messages of approval. The raid rang a note that a peaceful people had at last given the neighborhood bully a punch in the nose.

Quinn pressed forward with a gun-ownership bill, the sane bill for sane citizens that encompassed provisions that would have been defeated a few weeks earlier. It was to be a model for other states.

The polls in and out of Colorado showed high approval ratings on the governor’s action.

Polls showed 78.6 percent for, 21.4 percent against.

J. Malcolm Dunlay, a former attorney general, appeared on two dozen panels of experts in the following fortnight as part of the 156 TV panels to discuss the pros and cons of the sting.

The Civil Liberties fanned the fire by declaring that the gun dealers had been denied their civil rights.

Others accused O’Connell of usurping the federal charters of the FBI

and the BATE

More panel shows.

Quinn and his people withdrew as a ravenous media started searching through the capital’s trash cans and toilet stalls.

A count total was lost as to the number of Internet communications, but it appeared that they ran 78.9 percent in favor of the operation.

The public was smitten. Replays of High Noon abounded. Governor Quinn Patrick O’Connell was thrust into national prominence.

At the end of the month, the AMERIGUN bust and cowboy O’Connell dissolved and were replaced when a star of one of sitcom’s royal series chopped up his wife with a carving knife.

Homicide panels replaced weapons and legal panels, although J. Malcolm Dunlay slid from one to the other effortlessly.

Even though Governor O’Connell was out of the immediate spotlight, a buzz had started around him. Instead of taking the glory road, he seemed to withdraw, dazed and wondering.

Rita was finally able to tear him loose from Denver and lure him to Troublesome. They would stay at Mal’s, where they could enjoy more isolation than at the ranch.

The rain plopped hard on the skylight, perhaps the last rain before the snows. Rita’s knowing hands rubbed out his sore spots. At first he was not even up to making love.

Wind misted with rain and bombarded threateningly, then softened to a mellow tattoo of little raindrops. A moment for resurrection was at hand.

Rita and her father rocked on porch swings, watched the storm drift south, and smelled the freshness of after rain.

They stopped talking as Quinn, in floppy bathrobe, yawned his way out to them. He had crashed, for this particular nap, for four hours.

“Well, my wife and father-in-law seem to be in a conspiracy . what? And assassinate the cruel governor with daggers and gain the state house?”

“You are, my dear son-in-law, a victim of your own success. Anything not clear to you, Quinn?”

“Like what?”

“Like I saw you on your knees at the family chapel for the first time in the four decades I’ve known you,” Mal said.

“It was between me and God,” Quinn said. “Please tell me, Lord, who I am and what do you have in mind for me. Do I have veto powers? Be still my heart.”

“You know what’s going on,” Mal said. “Rita and I have fielded calls from every big hitter in the Democratic Party. They’ve a golden boy. Get used to it.”

“I love the people’s politics—“ Quinn started.

“And are the most beloved governor in Colorado history,” Rita said.

“I was thinking maybe an embassy. Maybe Australia or New Zealand. No cabinet posts, just a non-trouble-making embassy.”

“Well,” said Mal, “why not try to open a consul general in St. Earth’s and lie on the beach and look at tits all day?”

“And I’d get to look at peckers,” Rita said.

“Out with it, Quinn,” Mal pressed.

“First the Urbakkan raid,” Quinn mumbled, “now this AMERIGUN bust. All the sudden adoration is bound to fade, and they will say, Quinn’s a man of violence. Who needs him? The good life depends on peace and prosperity. Moral imperatives like the defeat of slavery come at too high a price. So long as we remain fat and free, we will avoid the lingering festering issues. At any rate, I am not going to be the one to gather up the people on a moral issue. It makes for a dull person.”

“You’re anything but dull,” Rita said.

“And what about you and Duncan and Rae? Are you ready for a million maggots at your door every morning?”

“What I am worried about,” Rita retorted, “is that if you walk away from the call, we’ll spend the rest of our lives in our own form of self-imposed hell. I knew this was going to happen even before you ran for governor.”

“Don’t raise the stinker that you’re retreating because of your family.

They know their daddy is a great leader ...” Mal said.

“Mea culpa time,” Quinn said. “I wanted clean in and clean out. Before the bust I made up my mind that I would stand for reelection if I had a chance to get this legislation through and impound about eighty-five percent of the guns in Colorado. When plans for the raid became a reality, I treated myself to massive doses of mendacity, the ancient art of lying to oneself. I lied, I made dirty deals, I was very selective of people’s rights, I put a lot of folks in harm’s way, I endangered the careers of some very gifted people. I went into Urbakken clean and escaped by a miracle. I went into AMERIGUN tainted and again escaped clean, except for those sad Jensen brothers. Am I cursed to have to always ride in on wings of a raven? Must I blow up half of the state to prove my point? Do the people really want a cowboy?”

“Well, right now they’ve got one,” Mal snapped back.

“You are their hero, Quinn,” Rita said.

“I love you guys,” Quinn whispered, “and I know what you are thinking but dare not say. Play it cool for your next term, Quinn, then go take a shot at the presidency.” Quinn had balled up both fists. “Nothing,” he banged out, “nothing can happen, no disaster can befall so great as to go through the agony of Bill and Hillary Clinton. Nothing,” he said, “nothing, nothing, nothing.”

*

THE WHITE HOUSE, 2007

From the get-go Thornton invoked a formal operation of the White House. It was a more serious place with a serious dress code. No more roller-blading in the halls outfitted like a member of the chorus of Guys and Dolls.

Serious young people were nominated for internship by serious Republicans. No more liberal punk kids. No more showing of thigh or cleavage and improper hairdos.