At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (12 page)

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ChAPTER ThIRTY

Fox sat long enough for the mosquitoes to begin buzzing in his ears. When they started to suck blood, he finally pulled himself from the car. The sun had just set behind the hill, and the security lights lit the courtyard in response to his movement toward the house. It seemed like hours since Max had entered the house, but the door remained open. Down a long hall, he saw light in the distance.

The marble floor rang with the sound of his footsteps, echoing in a harsh tapping that was magnified by the hard surface. he entered a large anteroom, decorated with civil-war frescoes of battles between blue- and gray-clad soldiers. It was a demonstration of art that seemed strangely familiar, like something he had seen as a kid on his first trip to the Capitol. Ahead, he heard the voices of men speaking loudly, the words unclear, and he walked slowly toward the sound.

In a large room to his right, the bass sound emanated like a movie theater when the door opened. he entered a mahogany-walled study lined with thousands of books and saw Max sitting in a large brown leather chair at the center of the room, a bowl of popcorn in his lap and a frosted bottle of beer to his side. he was staring at a large flatscreen TV that was suspended from the ceiling against the far wall. The Nixon-Kennedy debate was playing in black and white, and Nixon’s booming voice seemed to fill the room.

“I’m glad to see that you could make it. I ordered dinner. I hope you don’t mind leftovers. I haven’t been home much, and most of the staff has already left for the day,” Max said, not taking his eyes from the television.

“how long was I out there?”
“Long enough to make up your mind, I hope.”
he hesitated. It was time to surrender his mind to his mouth and

just say what he was thinking without worrying about the consequences of his actions. It was a time to be bold. he could sweep up the mess later.

“I’ll take the job as long as you don’t call me Napoleon.” “Good. We start in the morning.”
“Wait! You haven’t told me what I’ll be doing.”
“That’s right.” The candidate rose and quickly exited, leaving Andrew to witness the event that prevented Richard Nixon, the frontrunner, from beating Kennedy and becoming the thirty-fifth president of the United States.

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ChAPTER ThIRTY-ONE

The path to greatness is not lined with roses. More like claymore mines, thought Fox.
he looked in the mirror, black circles under his eyes from stress

and too much time on the road. he hadn’t called to resign from his reporter’s job yet. Better to wait until I determine if he’s a lunatic, he thought. he had barely finished shaving when Max burst into the room with a legal pad full of notes.

“I need you to read this,” Max said enthusiastically.

Fox sat down on the bed and grabbed the pad from his tanned fingers. The problem was that Max’s scribbles were illegible, and Fox hadn’t seen coffee, much less had any to drink yet. It was only 6:00 a.m.

“I’ll read it to you.” Max took the pad from him. he hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt, and his hair was wet like he had been swimming already. his body was buff from years of regular exercise, although he never bothered to adhere to a routine or weigh himself like most men his age. his fitness and sexuality appeared weightless. When he was out on the trail, women lined up for miles to be in his presence for no more than a moment in time, and he was oblivious of his effect on them. he didn’t know that his image was already adorning the walls of countless high-school girls, and their mothers spent extra time cleaning their rooms just to peek at his pictures.

He has the female vote locked up, thought Fox.

“I had this revelation in the middle of the night, and I’m really stoked about it.”
Fox hadn’t heard the use of the word “stoked” since he had interviewed a candidate from Southern California who had bolted from the Schwarzenegger administration to become a winemaker, but somehow the word seemed appropriate when it came from Max’s mouth.
“The Masterson campaign announced this morning that it has hired political consultant Andrew Fox to manage public relations,” read Max. “Mr. Fox is a well-respected analyst who has gained recognition and expertise in third-party campaigns. his experience is much welcomed among staff regulars in the Masterson camp.”
“Forgive me for asking, but who are these staff regulars you are writing about? As far as I can tell, you have a couple of close friends who tell you that it’s crazy to run for president, and some old guy who was a friend of your father who treats you like a son.”
Max sat up straight, squared his considerable shoulders, and lined his gaze two feet from Fox’s face. his green eyes seemed to pierce through to his brain, and the last thing Fox would do was divert his gaze. he was hypnotized.
“The first rule I have to teach you is this. The perception of reality is always more important than reality itself.”
“But aren’t you deceiving people into believing that you have this huge staff of advisors who are guiding you through this campaign and that I’m a political expert with a lifetime of experience?” “The perception of reality, young assistant. That’s your reality created by my words. I never said any of those things.”
“But I don’t have any experience at all. You just hired me, and I don’t even know what you want me to do. Now I’m being promoted as some kind of guru who is going to make you president somehow.”
“So, what are the job requirements of gurus?”

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ChAPTER ThIRTY-TWO

he had done it for as long as he could talk. Each night, when the tumult of the day died down, he composed a letter to his father. Although the senator had passed away when Max was twenty-six, Max still felt the need to communicate with him. To him, he wasn’t really gone but lived on in the memories and the legacy of the bountiful life he had left behind.

The letters were like entries in a diary, but Max wasn’t communicating with a book. he felt inside that the senator could still hear him share thoughts that were important, and subliminally, his father could speak to him. In his mind, Senator John Masterson was alive. he spoke to Max in whispers that only he could hear.

Ordering the computer to attention when he walked into the house, he began to dictate. The words appeared on the screen, continuing the diary from the day before. Dear Dad, I had a great day. I announced my candidacy on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial, and I kept it short. That seemed to please everyone who watched me on the news, but it really ticked off that reporter I don’t like. If I knew he was going to be so upset, I would have scheduled it earlier and got him out of bed in the middle of the night. he chuckled at the memory of huffington driving up with wet hair, muttering, and ordering his staff around.

I’m really nervous about this. You had people who arranged all of your public appearances, but I’ve been making the calls myself. I have your list of people I can trust, and I think Bill Staffman would be willing to help me out. I need to stop calling him Uncle Bill, though. He still looks at me as your orphan baby boy, and I doubt if he thinks I can beat anyone the way I intend to run. But he has been working on a list of people who might be interested in working on the campaign. Luke has been giving me a lot of advice lately, and yesterday, he and I spent about an hour going over the plan.

he ran into the kitchen to retrieve a large yellow bowl of popcorn and a beer, and continued without missing a beat when he returned. I watched your flash on politics yesterday. I like the idea of not doing anything the way the other candidates do. You know I’m not much for sitting around listening to those blowhards rambling on and on about things. Every time you dragged me over to the Capitol to sit in those hearings and when we watched the candidates debating, I wanted to run out of the room. In fact, I remember doing just that a few times. he smiled at the memory of the senator chasing him into Senator Dole’s office to find him under a couch petting her dog, Leader. It took two legislative aides and the bribe of ice cream to extract him from under the couch, and he sat on Elizabeth Dole’s lap while the ice cream was delivered to her office. She didn’t seem to mind the interruption by a six-year-old boy, and it was hours before he was ready to leave for home.

he returned to the dictation. . . . And I don’t see much use for preaching to the choir at conventions when the voters aren’t even turning out for events. I can get my message out my own way. he settled back in the plush leather recliner and reached for the yellow popcorn bowl. Chewing, he reviewed his words and directed the computer to display the news reports that mentioned his name.

“Max Masterson is for real. He has the looks and the pedigree, and he will make a credible run at the presidency. If he can just get the attention of the voters and convince them he is a legitimate candidate, we may just have the most lively race in recent history,” reported ABC News.

“This whole campaign is a farce. It appears that Mr. Masterson is running for president with no staff and no funding other than the considerable fortune inherited from his father, former Senator John “Minuteman” Masterson. As we have seen in the past with other third-party candidates, he is probably running on a single issue, if we could only determine what that issue is. I expect that Max Masterson will drop out of this race before the first vote is cast in the primaries when the voters fail to take him seriously. I, for one, am opposed to the idea that a candidate can run on good looks and sex appeal. What are we turning into, a nation run by image makers?” spoke Greg huffington, recovered from their first encounter and revived enough to seek the blood of his latest victim.

Max switched to Fox News and then to CNN, searching for interviews of people on the street. Fox was reporting that polls gave him an initial ranking of 23% among voters in each party, and over 70% among Independents. Based upon what he had seen in previous elections, he had no use for polls. They weren’t accurate and were mostly misleading. he didn’t trust them and was wary of their usefulness in gauging the effect his unorthodox strategies had on the voters. Polls could sway an electorate that believed the result had already been determined. It could discourage them from voting, and it might create a herd effect by changing the minds of voters who assumed they were voting for the eventual winner.
he moved to CNBC, where his morning announcement ran

without commentary, and then to Worldview, where he could compile the information he wanted while discarding the rest.

Instructing Worldview to present only those news clips of people on the street that contained comments using “Max Masterson,” he filtered out what he didn’t want to hear, and obtained about forty-five minutes of relevant material.

“I thought he looked good. I mean, he always looks good, but this morning, he looked really good,” said a young woman in her early twenties, her voice shaking. “I liked what he had to say about hope and the future, too.” She proceeded to repeat his entire sound bite almost verbatim.

The next comment was from an older woman with white hair. he could imagine that she had been strikingly beautiful in her younger days, and her gray eyes were hawk-like in their intensity. As the camera zoomed in, her eyes grew larger, and as it panned back, she commented. “He spoke to me. I believe him when he says he will make things better. I’m tired of those old men telling us anything to get elected, and then they just run off to Washington and the next thing you know, they’re cheating on their wife.” She showed the pain of her own experience in her facial expression, as she went on. “I’d rather have a cutie like him in the White House than that old fart I voted for last time.”

The camera quickly backed away to the next pedestrian, a man in his late forties. “You can’t tell me that we should keep doing things the way we have always done in this country and expect a different result every time. I’m ready to try something new. That Masterson fella said he has fresh ideas. I’ll take a guy with fresh ideas over one who’s fresh out of ideas any time,” he offered. Max made a mental note to use that one as a campaign slogan.

On the BBC World Network, the interviews were with Brits and the French, who have been known to dislike American politicians and speak their minds. Max was mildly surprised to hear that his little announcement had received worldwide attention, but he was more interested in the apparent intensity of their scrutiny. Outside of a pub in London, it was late evening when the interviewer caught up with a member of the house of Lords and his entourage, who had obviously been celebrating after a day running the empire. “I thought he looked a lot like that bloke from Manchester United who head-butted the official in the World Cup,” expounded Lord Rodney Witherington. As he spoke, his shapely young assistant approached from the rear and demurely placed her lips next to his right ear, whispering something that caused Witherington to blink hard and swallow. he continued, as if he meant to say that a candidate for president of the United States looked like a rogue soccer player. “I saw his announcement this morning, and I must say that your young man has the full support of the Commonwealth in the furtherance of his presidential aspirations. We look forward to years of cooperation between his administration and the monarchy.”

The assistant whispered again, this time in his left ear. he sagged . “When he is actually elected, of course.” his two male assistants grabbed an elbow and stuffed him in the backseat of a waiting cab. As the door closed, a chorus of “God Save the Queen” trailed out of the closing window.

Max resumed his daily narrative. Dad, you know how this is supposed to go. I agree with your thoughts that people distrust politicians. In fact, the whole time I was growing up, whenever you took me to those political events, they’d pick me up and pinch my cheek and look for the nearest camera for a photo opportunity. I can’t stand the idea of having to deal with those yahoos every day of my life.

he walked to the large French doors that opened onto the walled garden behind the mansion. Stripping off his suit, he slid into the pool’s grotto and activated the jets that created a vortex of bubbles in the blue water. Overhead, the stars shone brightly in the clear night sky. he reflected on his day, starting at 4:00 a.m. and continuing nonstop until he just ground to a halt. he wondered whether he could maintain the pace of a political race and pondered why he was doing it in the first place.