Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

“Franklin D. Roosevelt, the greatest traitor this planet has ever known, sent American boys to war fighting on the side of Jews and communists. When the Jews vomited out of Europe at the end of the war, to set up an advance base for world conquest, it gave the world the biggest of all lies, the so-called Holocaust! By now the kikes had infiltrated every branch of the government. The only thing sad about the Holocaust is that it didn’t happen.”

He waited for a retort of rippling laughter.

“You are here,” he said, “because you’ve seen the plot unfold. With all the Jews and government traitors in place, farms of decent Americans like me and you, farms that had been in the family for a hundred years, were foreclosed in Nebraska and Kansas and the Dakotas. Them little shit-ass local banks done it on direct orders from the big Jew financiers. And they moved in with giant food-growing corporations. You got the picture! Jews control the press. Jews control the money. And soon they will control the food!”

Now the sweat of a hundred men gave their rage a smell. Pastor Ed was speaking of Yaweh again and his prison visit from Jesus Christ.

“It all comes down very plain. I’ve seen with my own eyes, NATO trucks and artillery in a warehouse in Houston. I seen with my own eyes the interplanetary space people who landed in Roswell, who were snatched and hidden by the federal government. I’ve seen reports from our Canadian brothers that their border is filled with NATO and Russian troops .. . ready to move in the name of the New World Order. Brothers! There is only you and me to rise up and stop them and save this nation.”

PROVIDENCE—THE WEEK BEFORE LABOR DAY--2007

What was it that annoyed President Tomtree about Labor Day? After all, he had once built a model workforce environment. Or was it Darnell Jefferson? No matter, it was the proper move to make at the time. T3 had felt far more at home in the boardrooms.

He’d travel to Detroit, make a “read between the lines” speech extolling the partnership of labor and management, and slip out of town without offending anyone.

Today, though, was a day to laze on the water, which was unusually calm near Noah’s Rock. The mini-yacht Yankee Pride was rigged for serious fishing. There were not too many days the President could drop a line in the water.

In a moment he heard the sharp report of the yacht club’s cannon, indicating that the sun was under the yardarm and, most important, the bar was open. The President ordered the outriggers to be reeled in and once again reviewed the report of his brother-in-law, Dwight Grassley.

In the years since Dwight Grassley had first bet on young Thorn ton Tomtree, he had risen from family donkey to family patriarch. Inside the Republican Party, Dwight took on a role of what might be called a hatchet man.

Grassley was a superb fund-raiser who bent and twisted the soft-money rules to their limits. Not that T3 needed funds. He could draw from his own accounts, and legally. Tomtree insisted that the widest net was cast to have each and every individual CEO make their contribution.

Soft money had become a basic canon of American politics, protested by all but stopped by none.

Napkins with the presidential seal were laid on a cocktail table with assorted yum-yums. Eric, the steward, offered hot lemoned towels to deodorize the fish smell from their hands.

“Black Label on the rocks with a side of Black Label on ice,” Dwight said. His fringe of hair was white, yacht club white, a waxy silver white that growled at his plaid pants and startling crested jacket. Tomtree pontificated on the beauty of soft money ... to let every big donor feel he had an insider’s look .. . soft money was just a way of covering bets .. . soft money was soft graft with a three-thousand-year history. Throw it out the front door, it will return by the back door. If Tomtree turned back soft contributions, the CEOs would hold his feet to the fire for the next five years. T3 knew them all. All of them had Bulldog networks operating from his great computer center in Pawtucket.

“Goddamned Labor Day,” Thornton growled and sipped. “My daddy was drowned on one of those Labor Day weekends. Seems to always bring bad news.”

“Well, the news can’t be better,” Dwight interrupted. “We have our coffers filled. We can channel funds on joint advertising to our candidates, and the economy is great. You’re going to be reelected in a landslide.”

Eric brought the news that the commodore’s skiff was on the way out with Mr. Jefferson aboard. Well, get on with it, T3 told himself.

“Dwight,” he began, “we are planning to formally announce after Labor

Day. It is the best tactical time, before Christmas and the January

doldrums. Announcing early will have any other candidates scrambling for money and key people. We’ll have it all. However, I want to enter the campaign with no lingering shadows hanging over my head.”

Dwight froze. In all their years, he had never felt fully comfortable with Thornton. In his years of serving the man, Dwight wanted only a small reward: second or third man at Justice or Treasury.

The President was fully aware of Grassley’s value. He commiserated. “There are things you cannot do,” he said, “even as president. I can’t keep the pope from overrunning the planet with scrawny diseased little brown people with perpetual hatred in their eyes. I cannot stop the annual flooding of Bangladesh. I can’t stop the corruption of Mexico and Indonesia.”

Thornton stalled out and scanned the ocean and his trappings of power:

helicopter overhead, a picket of Coast Guard craft, the finest sailors and Secret Service the nation had to offer, electronic equipment that could reach Moscow in three seconds. And out there, a launch filled with media. He had positioned Yankee Pride so that the press boat would catch a nasty riptide and have them all green and queasy.

“You seem in a hurry to leave,” the President said. “Got a date?”

“That doesn’t sell papers anymore,” Dwight said. “Who cares?”

“I care,” Thornton answered. “Get rid of him.”

Dwight squelched his desire to scream out as he had always squelched it.

“Look, not that I’m gay bashing or have homophobia, God knows. We have a lot of guys who’ve done Trojan work for the Republican Party. So, God knows I’m not into gay bashing. You’ll thank me, Dwight. I personally have never allowed passion with either sex to rule me. You know, Dwight, I can tell the minute a man walks into the Oval Office if he’s into adultery.”

Dwight wept.

“I take it,” Thornton pressed, “that you do not want to resign as my financial chair.”

Right now, goddammit, Dwight thought, stand up and tell him to shove it! The sonofabitch has never felt anything in bed. Ask my sister!

“So, tell Bruce to move out of your New York condo.”

“His name is Randy,” Dwight whimpered. “I’ll tell him.”

The commodore’s launch pulled alongside. Darnell Jefferson, now a white-haired and distinguished gentleman, hit the boat’s ladder like a point guard slashing to the basket, quick and graceful. Darnell was greeted by a pale number in Dwight, who winced out a smile and greeting, then was helped into the launch.

Darnell downed a catch-up drink as T3 studied the political atlas.

“What the hell’s the matter with Dwight? He looks as though he was shot out of a cannon and missed the net.”

Thornton punched that sweet-sounding little bell and pointed at his drink. Darnell knew when Thornton had one drop more than allowable, sometimes drifting into forbidden territory. Darnell reckoned it was the President’s fourth.