At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (9 page)

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ChAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The next years of the maturation process passed quickly. Max grew from a handsome, athletic, and smart boy into a man possessing the same qualities, but his coming of age was more complete and public. he had appeared with the senator on the Washington social circuit, and his face increasingly became famous. When the paparazzi became aware that his image would sell, Max became a social phenomenon. Everywhere he went, the cameras followed. Max continued to be a public figure, and the constant scrutiny became an annoyance.

To amuse himself, Max occupied much of his time planning escapes from the press, and he became an expert at evasion. Any opportunity to keep his photo from being taken was a private victory for him. When one disguise was discovered, he devised a new one. If an escape route was suddenly posted with paparazzi, an alternative route was available. Even so, Max was overexposed.
After a few weeks of no news, the press began its incessant commentary about the old news, and the images that they had in their possession were recycled. That is the way the press works in a 24/7 world, repeating information and misinformation in a constant loop. Once the information enters the loop, it remains there until it is removed by conscious act. With the famous and infamous, no information is discarded, regardless of accuracy, and nobody dared to take the steps necessary to get the story right. As the misinformation about Max grew, the senator resorted to the one tried and true method of getting information out; he created it.

Max had a secret publicist in Senator John “Minuteman” Masterson, and his father delighted in creating his public persona, complete with rehearsed sound bites, digital videos, and still shots. If the senator wanted the public to see Max playing touch football on the lawn of the White house, the image was created and disseminated to the press through the standard method, and news agencies picked up anything that had Max’s name attached. It didn’t matter that Max could never have stood on the lawn of the White house without being hauled off by Secret Service. The reality had been created and placed in the minds of the viewers.

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ChAPTER TWENTY-ThREE

Dad, as long as I can remember, you have been campaigning. We go to fund-raisers. We go to dinners and parties all dressed up in tuxes. We meet fancy people and hang with them. And for what? I haven’t exactly had a typical childhood, you know. I wanted to invite kids over to play, and I ended up having a fist fight with Prince harry at Buckingham Palace. You are always running, and for what?” They walked at a fast pace along the Potomac, a routine that followed the riverbank.

“Son, I’m not running for anything. The best I can do at my age is saunter.”
Max looked into his eyes, once clear and bright gray, but now dull and clouded by age. his legendary spirit had been sapped when Adrianna died, but his ability to control the conversation would never falter. The senator was a master manipulator. Max wasn’t about to let the old man change the subject, which he had turned into an art form. he waited for a response that satisfied him but picked up the pace. Finally, the senator spoke, his voice loud and clear and recognizable, honed by his years in public service.
“I need to give you my inside view of politics . . .” The old man struggled for breath, and plunked down on a bench next to the trail. Perspiration dripped from his nose, and a bluish-white color formed around his lips.
Max doubled back and sat across from him on a small boulder, looking much like a student settling in for a lecture. “Are you alright?”
“Yes. I’ll be fine in a few minutes. Now listen.” he puffed between sentences, but his color was slowly returning to normal. “Washington is in my blood. I can’t get rid of it. My battles began before you were born, and I have been fighting them all of my life . . . and they are still being fought . . . and I can’t win the battle without your help. I have always been clear in my intentions for you.” he swallowed hard.
he looked ill, but Max had been manipulated by the master before, and he wasn’t going to leap headlong into one of the senator’s lessons without a fight.
“. . . the greatest country in the history of mankind . . .” his face looked old.
“I want you to clean up politics as we know it . . .
There is so much bullshit flying around . . .
. . . Washington . . .
. . . it’s a wonder we don’t just decide to flush the whole town . . .
. . . politicians included . . .
. . . and start all over.”
his mind began rambling, but his smile was still there. he just needed to rest a bit. he was prone to that, ever since his eightieth birthday, but due to the wonders of medical science, people didn’t just drop dead anymore. They lingered.
Somewhere between life and death, they existed for years until

MARK E. BECKER

they decided to die, and they made an appointment with their maker. They could decide to do it quietly and alone, or they could be dragged from life kicking and screaming, but they could do it on their own terms. A heart and a brain were all that they needed to preserve. The rest of the ailments of old age were no longer a reason to just die, and he knew that. he just didn’t feel much like carrying on unless there was a good reason, and Max was his cause for sticking around and seeing how he would turn out. Besides, he was too stubborn to just surrender.

“I’m counting on you to carry the torch. I’ve taught you just about everything I know about getting your way in politics. I know that you are frustrated. I had no business taking in a little boy and training him to be the savior that I can’t be. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I think I stole your childhood. I never thought about it . . .” he took a few steps and stopped. he sat hard on a large boulder beside the trail. A tear appeared in his right eye, and soon it turned into a flood. Max had never seen him cry, and it frightened him. The man who had been his strength and security was breaking down. he put his hand on the old man’s shoulder, but he chose not to speak. It was a time to share and to wait.

With his head still bowed, the senator spoke quietly. It was a voice he had never heard, a soft grumble, so soft that he had to lean forward to make out the words.

“I tried. I thought I was doing the right thing. I provided you with everything I could imagine to make you a good man. You never gave me any trouble. Even when I dragged you along to those political events, I was trying to teach you about how things get done. I spent most of my life learning that most of it is folly and ego, and you learned in a few years. You have the jump on the whole bunch of them!”

he coughed.

Max began to smile. he realized that he was being manipulated, but the master had him in his mental grasp. There was no escape, and even if there was, he was enjoying the senator’s orchestrated melodrama. All the same, he treasured these rare times alone with the old man. It had been a long time since they had one of their walks.

Their eyes met. The senator rose and smiled, and collapsed in his arms.

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ChAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It wasn’t unexpected. John Masterson was sick for longer than anyone knew. his doctor was sworn to secrecy, and his son was the only person who was witness to his lingering decline. When he reached terminal, his doctor was there 24/7, but it didn’t change a thing. There was no public announcement, no deathwatch, and no special reports on his declining health. The senator’s quest for privacy, at least his personal privacy, had been perfected, and the press report of his demise was made public a full day after the loved ones had been notified and he was placed in the ground. That feat in and of itself would have been considered a great victory for John “Minuteman” Masterson. he planned it that way.

PART TWO:

A GUY RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT

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ChAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

You can take a humble country boy from the farm in Michigan, put him in a car, and drive him inside the Beltway, and he transforms into a politician. This is scary to most of us normal folks, because we sent him to Washington so he could tell Congress and the president how to run the country and what us at home want done about it, all of a sudden he gets amnesia,” rambled Leila Fox. her hands were purple from picking blueberries from her prize blueberry patch behind the barn, and she was just about done. her audience was her son, Andrew Fox. he was home from Michigan State. his diploma from the journalism school was proudly displayed in the dining room, where Mom figured everyone could see it.

Despite the wishes of his parents, who tried to get him to learn something about running a farm and save the family business, he had majored in journalism. It was a respectable profession all right, but Leila worried about what would happen now that the auto industry was hurting in a major way. People were moving out, leaving their property to the bank sometimes. Nobody wanted to buy a house in a ghost town.

“Maybe you did make the right decision, my darling boy. The politicians won’t help. This time next year, your dad and I will be selling this place and moving into the condo like we planned.” Leila had a habit of talking to you wherever you were. It didn’t matter whether you could hear what she was saying. It did tend to make anyone within earshot into a captive audience. “I feel sorry for our neighbors,” she continued. “Their whole life is tied to their farms, and they never saved a penny. But I can’t worry about them and us, too.” She tried to wipe a tear from her eye with her hand but only succeeded in placing a purple smear alongside her nose.

Andrew remembered the reason he was standing there and took advantage of the gap in his mother’s words. “Mom, I just got a call from Chicago. The Tribune wants to hire me as a reporter. I start Monday,” he said in his best calming voice. he knew she would blow a gasket as soon as he told her, but he couldn’t risk her hearing it from someone else. News travels fast in a small town. But instead of the expected eruption and the seemingly inevitable procession of circular arguments protesting his decision, she said nothing.

She stopped picking, rolled onto one knee, and raised her hand to Andrew for a help up.
Once erect, she wiped her hands on a towel for long enough to remove as much of the blueberry stain that would come off without major soap and scrubbing and looked at her twenty-three-year-old son. She looked for a long time.
“I didn’t send you to college to waste your life working on a sugarbeet farm, and if you think for a minute that you’re going to loaf around this place without finding a good job and paying me some rent, then you are in for a big surprise, young man. Are your clothes washed?

MARK E. BECKER

Does anything need ironing?”
he could always count on Mom to bring him back to reality. he would need to pack and say his good-byes to everyone he knew. If he
didn’t, they would hold a grudge for the rest of his life, and he didn’t
need that. he better make a list and ask Mom if he left anyone out. “I’m only two hundred and fifty miles away, and you can stay at
my apartment as soon as I get settled. I don’t have much furniture, so
it won’t take me long to move in,” offered Andrew.
“You may as well find an apartment on Mars for us to come visit.
You know we can’t leave the farm during growing season. If you want
to see us, you’re just going to have to come to the farm or to Florida.
We’ll probably try to put the farm up for sale in the spring. Pretty soon
it’ll be winter, and no fool would want to buy a farm when the ground
is frozen. That means we’re stuck here until then. Your dad’s a bigger
fool for waiting out this recession to see what happens . . .” her voice
trailed off as she entered the house. The storm door slammed behind
her, and he had to scramble to open it before he missed any words.
She had a complete disregard for the hearing abilities of others. By the time he got the door back open, Mom was already in full
launch on another topic, and he mentally had to shift gears. “You
know, when we elected him, I thought he was a good man. I knew
him since they moved here when he was six. Now his mother tells
me that he hardly writes, and when he does, he tells her about how
small his office is, and how he had to play the lottery to get a bigger
one, or some such nonsense,” her voice raised at least an octave since
he heard it last.
“I read someplace about those Arabs building nuclear bombs so
they can lob missiles at us, and all they can talk about is some budget.
And I write the paper a letter and they say it’s too long to print.” Mom had been writing letters to the Marshall Chronicle for as
long as he could remember. “So I call the number on his card, and I get a recording about how I should leave a message and one of his staffers would get back with me. There was no button to push that let me speak to a live human being, and I thought that if you put a phone number on your card, I would get you on the phone. No!” She used the word for emphasis and stretched it for as long as she had wind in her lungs. he held the screen door wide, and she hauled the bucket of blueberries to the kitchen sink. “Check and see if we have any vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Your dad can’t eat his blueberries without a dish of ice cream. If we’re out, I’ll have to send you into town for a gal
lon. Better bring the cooler though, or it’ll melt before you get back.” Mom knew exactly how much ice cream was left, just like she
knew how many chicken breasts were marinating on the counter, or
where that jar of cinnamon was at the back of the spice cupboard. She
had been running this family most of her life, and for her, keeping
your family fed was a badge of pride that she would wear to the grave. “Andrew, if you get over to Washington, would you tell them for
me that we need those politicians to call us back?” Andrew was out
the door and backing down the driveway by the time her voice began
to trail off. his mind was on the new job, and the adrenaline was
pumping.