Max Collins - Fate of the Union

“Not so long ago,” Reeder reminded him, “I was a pariah on the right.”

“Yes, because you had the balls to criticize the president you saved.”

“If by ‘balls’ you mean poor judgment, yes.”

Benjamin snorted a laugh. “That’s forgotten and forgiven by the American people. Your approval rating is 92 percent — do you know what any presidential candidate, hell, any president , would do for that level of public approval?”

“Who’s taking my approval rating, anyway?”

“Well, frankly... I am. Or my polling people, anyway. Look, your presence at the rally would be comforting to voters. Not necessarily seen as a seal of approval, but would lend me credibility.”

“You already have plenty of that, Mr. Benjamin.”

“None of that ‘Mr. Benjamin’ crap. Adam. Okay, Joe?”

“Okay.”

“Then I can count on you?”

“You switched up questions on me, Adam. You are a politician now.”

The chuckle lost none of its warmth over the phone. “Perhaps I am. But it’s a necessary evil. I know we think alike in the need to wrest this country out of the hands of special interests, and back to the hands of real people.”

“Are you reading that?” Reeder asked lightly. “If not, write it down. It’s pretty good.”

Another warm chuckle. “Joe. I’m counting on you.”

“Adam, I don’t view myself as someone who can... deliver votes.”

“It’s not how you view yourself, Joe — it’s how the people view you.”

“I’m just a guy who got hot for a couple of news cycles. Which I’m glad cooled down.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Joe. No cooling off, according to my pollsters. The vast majority of Americans respect you, and consider you the kind of old-fashioned hero we haven’t seen in a very long time.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Which is what every great hero says... but usually that job is something most people can’t, won’t, or wouldn’t do. I’m not asking for your endorsement, just your presence. Come listen to the speech, be seen there, and if the media sticks a mic in your face, and you want to say I’m a huckster or a fool or a fraud, well... that’s your privilege. At least they haven’t taken our freedom of speech away yet.”

Maybe he was reading some of this stuff...

“Joe, I’ve reserved good seats for you and a guest. Join us, please. This might... just might ... put you on the ground floor of something historic.”

Of course Reeder didn’t need to attend this rally, or hear the speech, to know what Benjamin had to say. He’d read the man’s book, heard him give interviews. But Reeder remained curious to see how this Midwestern populist would play in front of a crowd in a frankly political setting. It was just possible this was history in the making.

Or maybe it was just another fart in the wind, like Ross Perot.

Either way, should make for good theater.

“Joe...?”

“Yes, Adam. You can count on me being there.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful. Call this number when you arrive at Constitution Hall. My man, Frank Elmore, will have this phone. He’ll make sure you get in and get to your seats. Thank you, Joe.”

Reeder paused, not sure whether to thank the man back, or say “You’re welcome”; but then Benjamin clicked off.

Rogers came over to Reeder’s desk, toward the back of the bullpen, and leaned in. “That seemed fairly intense. Breakthrough on the case?”

“No. Pull up a chair, though.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It isn’t.”

She pulled a chair over.

He said, “Whose turn is it to buy?”

“Mine. Unless you don’t count the barbecue the whole team went out for last night where you picked up the check.”

“No, that’s its own thing. Your turn to buy. But how would you like to get off cheap and yet have a unique evening of entertainment?”

“What, are we checking out Les Girls?”

He smiled. “No,” he said, and invited her to be his plus-one at the “Citizen’s State of the Union” rally.

She immediately said yes.

“Really?” he said. “I thought I’d have to twist your arm.”

“No, I’m a Benjamin fan. You may not realize it, but you and I don’t usually vote for the same side of the ticket.”

“Oh, I know you’re a Republican.”

That surprised her. “Really? More ‘people reading’?”

“Betting that an FBI agent is a Republican is not exactly long odds.”

“Hey, I’m not one of these crazy right-wingers or anything, like that Spirit bunch. But some of the changes that President Bennett made — you remember him, right, guy you saved? — are just fine by me.”

“I know. You’re the kind of traditional Republican that my father was. Which makes you a Commie pinko in the eyes of that Spirit crowd.”

She smiled a little. “You’re overstating it, but kind of, yes.”

“They’d feel the same about Ronald Reagan, if they actually studied his presidency. So — you like what Adam Benjamin has to say?”

“Based on what I’ve picked up, yeah. It’s like he says, common sense. Joe, I’d love to be your date. Finally a real date, huh?”

“We’re going to have good seats, I’m told, probably down front, so that leaves out necking. And you can take me to a Wendy’s drive-thru after.”

“No way! I do have some class, Joe Reeder.”

“Do you?”

“Sure. Wendy’s, yes. But we’ll eat inside.”

Chill January wind from the west greeted Reeder and Rogers as they walked from a parking lot to DAR Constitution Hall on D Street NW. Built by the Daughters of the American Revolution one hundred years ago, the auditorium was still a much-used concert venue, and served Benjamin’s political purposes well, practically set as it was on the south White House grounds.

“Nothing like thumbing your nose at the President of the United States,” Rogers said, “from his own front lawn.”

She was in a gray sweater coat over a black ensemble — turtleneck with jacket, slim skirt, tights with boots.

“Benjamin wasn’t the first,” Reeder said, “and certainly won’t be the last.”

Reeder was in his Burberry trench coat over a Brooks Brothers navy suit and (what the hell) red-white-and-blue striped tie.

They paused at the foot of the short series of steps to the front doors. Reeder got out his cell, turning east onto a view of the Capitol and the web of scaffolding that surrounded it. Even during renovation, the building had a classic beauty that stirred the patriotic kid in him. He punched in Benjamin’s number.

“Frank Elmore,” a rough-hewed voice replied.

“Frank, Joe Reeder. We’re here.” He told Elmore where exactly.

“Our security chief will pick you up,” Elmore said curtly.

“Thanks,” Reeder said, but Elmore clicked off halfway.

Rogers picked up on that. “Benjamin’s majordomo?”

“Real sweetheart. Somebody you might consider dating.”

She crinkle-smiled and elbowed him.

Perhaps a minute later, a tall man in a navy suit approached, earbud in, mic attached to his cuff. Short dark hair, brown eyes, angular no-nonsense features, the security man was someone Reeder knew well: former Secret Service agent Jay Akers. Akers, usually affable, wore a vaguely troubled look that few but Reeder would have picked up on.

Still, Akers managed a smile. “Peep, how the hell have you been? Been too long.”

They shook hands. Reeder wondered if perhaps Akers sensed he was on his way out as security chief, the Benjamin spot that Reeder had turned down. Too bad for Akers — he was a smart, decent guy and an able agent.