Executive Actions

“T
opic one. Theodore Wilson Lodge. Presidential material?” bellowed the host at the top of his Sunday morning television show. He directed his question to the political pundant to his left. “Victor Monihan syndicated columnist for
The Philadelphia Inquirer
, is Teddy ready,
yes
or
no
?”

“Yes,” Monihan shot back. You had to speak up quickly on the lively program. There was no air between questions and answers. “If the cameras could vote, he’d be a shoe-in.”

“But they don’t. So again, will it be
Mr. Lodge goes to Washington
?” quizzed the host of
The McLaughlin Group.
The reference to the Frank Capra movie was lost on most of the audience. Even AMC and Turner Classics weren’t running very many black and white movies anymore.

“Absolutely.” Monihan didn’t take a breath between thoughts. The host hated dead air. Pause and you’re dead. Someone else will jump in. “He’s totally informed, he’s had great committee assignments and he can do the job. Congressman Lodge comes off as a highly capable leader. Trustworthy. The all-American boy grown up. And he positively looks like a president should look…presidential.”

“So a tan and a good build gets you to the White House?” the host argued.

“It means I don’t have to worry about him taking my job.” The overweight columnist laughed, which made his belly spread his shirt to a point just shy of popping the buttons. The joke was good, but he lost his platform with it.

“Roger Deutsch, freelance writer for
Vanity Fair,
right now Lodge is trailing Governor Lamden. Can Teddy make it up?”

“No. With only two days before the New York primary, there’s no way Lodge can do it. He doesn’t have the votes. And there’s not enough time to get them. Henry Lamden will be addressing the Democratic Party at the August convention in Denver. But even
when
he gets the nomination, he’ll have a hard time against Taylor.”

The discussion expanded to include the other members of the panel. They talked about Montana Governor Henry Lamden’s qualities. About President Morgan Taylor’s rigid persona. About the voters’ appetite. And back again to the possibility. “Is there any way Lodge can do what fellow Vermont favorite son Calvin Coolidge did. Go all the way to the White House?” the venerable host rhetorically asked. The panel knew this was not the time to reply. Turning to the camera the host said, “Not according to my watch.” This was the throw to the video package from the campaign trail.

Teddy Lodge smiled as he sat on the edge of his hotel bed to get closer to the TV set. He was half packed. The rest would wait until the videotape report concluded. Lodge pressed the volume louder on his remote.

“It’s on,” he called to his wife Jenny.

“Be right out,” she answered from the bathroom.

Lodge tightened the knot on the hand painted tie he’d been given the day before. The gift, from a home crafter in Albany, would go into his collection and eventually into his Presidential Library. But first he’d wear it for the cameras. She’d see it and tell everyone she knew. More votes.

Mrs. Lodge leaned over her husband and hugged him as he watched himself on TV. “You look great, sweetheart.” He agreed. The footage was perfect: Lodge in the thick of an adoring Manhattan crowd, the wind playing with his wavy brown hair, his Armani suit jacket draped over his arm. He came off relaxed and in charge; less like a politician than an everyday guy. An everyday guy who saw himself as President of the United States. And at 6’2” he stood above most of the crowd.

Lodge knew the unusual statistical edge his height provided. Historically, the taller of the two major presidential candidates almost always wins the election. And he was considerably taller than President Morgan Taylor.

The host obviously wasn’t a supporter. But the coverage counted. He hit the bullet points of Lodge’s career.
“Teddy’s been fast tracking since college. He graduated Yale Law School and has a graduate degree in Physics at Stanford. The man speaks three languages. He worked on various government contracts until he decided to return to his country home in Burlington, Vermont and run for State Assembly. Two years later later, so long Burlington, hello Washington. Mr. Lodge went to Capitol Hill as a young, energetic first term congressman. He distinguished himself in international politics and now serves as Chairman of the House Subcommittee on Terrorism and Home Security. He’s as close to a rocket scientist as they come in Washington. He heads the House Committee on Energy and understands the complexities of the issues. But is he going to the White House?
” the moderator asked in his feature videotape.
“New Yorkers will decide Tuesday.”

And with that set up came the obligatory sound bite. It couldn’t have been better if Teddy Lodge had picked it himself. It was declarative and persuasive. The producer of the video package must have been in his camp.

“Tomorrow the world will be different. More dangerous. More hateful. Different times need different leaders. Make no mistake, there are no more safe harbors or promised lands. Unless…unless we make better choices today than yesterday. Better friends tomorrow than today.”

As he watched, Lodge remembered the clincher was yet to come. Things like that just didn’t get cut. He was right.

“So come with me and discover a new America. Come with me and discover a new world.”

Thunderous applause followed; applause from the audience at a Madison Square Garden rally.

Eighteen seconds total screen time. Unbelievable on
McLaughlin
. But Lodge was not an easy edit. He’d learned to break the sound bite barrier by constantly modulating his voice for impact, issuing phrases in related couplets and triplets, and punching them with an almost religious zeal.

Like everything else in his life, he worked hard at communicating effectively. He punctuated every word with a moderately-affected New England accent. Whether or not they agreed with his politics, columnists called him the best orator in years. Increasing numbers of them bestowed almost Kennedy-like reverence. And through the camera lens, baby boomers saw an old friend while younger voters found a new voice.

The video story ended and the host brought the debate back to his panel “Peter Weisel, Washington Bureau Chief of
The Chicago Trib
, What sayest thou? Can Teddy un
lodge
Lamden?”

“Unlikely.” Weisel, a young black reporter, was the outspoken liberal of the panel and a realist. “But he’ll help the ticket. He’s a strong, Number Two. A junior pairing with Governor Lamden can work. The flip side of Kennedy/Johnson. Let the Democrats make him VP. Besides, his good looks won’t go away in four or eight years. TV will still like him.”

Theodore Wilson Lodge, 46 years old and strikingly handsome, definitely could pull in the camera lens. He had the same effect on women and they held more far votes in America than men. The fact was not lost on the show’s only female contributor of the week. “Debra Redding of
The Boston Globe
, is Lodge your man?”

Without missing a beat she volunteered, “There are only two problems that I see. One, I’m married. The other—so’s he.”

What a wonderful way to start the morning,
the congressman said to himself.

Room 301 was on the third floor of the St. Charles Hotel at 16 Park Place. It overlooked 7
th
Street Park with a clear corner view of the podium constructed at the intersection of Warren Street and Park Place. The hotel, built in the late 1800s, was recently renovated. The charm of the St. Charles lay in the brick work, hand carved wood appointments and classic wallpaper patterns. The hotel’s aura sold on the post cards, if not in the minds of the guests; most of them New Yorkers looking for antiques.

One man was there for another reason.

Sidney McAlister had spent the last three weeks at the St. Charles. He came to town to sell life insurance policies and so far he’d met with some thirty-five people. However, McAlister was careful not to close any deals. If he had, he wouldn’t have been able to deliver. This wasn’t his real job. What he had to accomplish today was. When that was finished there would be no more Sidney McAlister. There had never been one.

The graying middle-aged salesman was sitting at the window, thinking. A knock at the door suddenly broke his train of thought. “Excuse me. Room service,” called a young woman. McAlister checked his watch. Right on schedule.

He turned to the door slowly. She knocked again with a little more insistence. “Your breakfast, Mr. McAlister.”

“Coming, coming,” he said as he slowly made his way to the door. Opening it, he barely left enough room for Carolyn Hill to get by without brushing him. She’d remember that and tell the police. He always made her feel uncomfortable, just like he had with his potential clients, which is precisely why no one wanted to sign with him. A long time ago he learned that if people focused on a perception they would ignore who was really there.

“Just put it down on the dresser, dear,” he said, emphasizing “dear” much too much for her taste. Carolyn really didn’t like him. “There’s a twenty for you on the bed. Take it. I’m checking out later today. And don’t bother with the sheets now.”

Finally good news
, she allowed herself.

McAlister wasn’t being polite. And he definitely wasn’t finished with the room. He had some cleaning to do himself. He would scrub every surface he touched or even might have come in contact with; from the drawers to the toilet. No DNA trail could lead back to him. 79 percent ethanol working with the .1 percent Number 2-Phenylphernol cancelled every personal signature belonging to McAlister. So simple. Off the shelf Lysol Fresh disinfectant spray. For good measure he’d take his bed sheets with him. Ejaculate may have dripped during his sleep, or hair or skin could have flaked off. They were all links to him and he was
that
careful.

McAlister left the money for her, as he always did, without handing it over personally. No fingerprints. He always wore gloves, which made him even more off-putting. And he never, ever signed for anything.

What an eccentric,
she assumed.
Almost a month of this. Good riddance.
Nonetheless, Carolyn Hill managed a sincere sounding, “Thank you, Mr. McAlister, will we see you again?”

“Oh, I hope not,” he answered curtly, signaling the quality time they’d shared was over.

As she left, he took the blueberry muffin she’d delivered, ignoring the coffee and orange juice. Once the door was closed, he returned to the window knowing that neither Carolyn Hill of Hudson, New York, nor anyone else in the world would ever see Sidney McAlister again.

Activity had picked up outside the hotel. Five students from Hudson High were draping a handmade “Welcome Teddy” banner in front of the bandstand. McAlister could see from his corner window that a few older people were already staking out room for their lawn chairs close to the front. If the reports were accurate in
The Register Star
, the city’s daily newspaper, as many as 1,200 people would crowd into the park by one o’clock. That was good. More witnesses to describe different versions of the same thing, McAlister allowed himself. Like
Rashomon
.

He took in the whole park from his window. He knew the dimensions by heart, just as he had committed so many other things to memory.

Columbia Street and Warren were the north/south boundaries. East and west were Park Place and 7
th
Street. It was a compact space; all in all it was no more than one block by a half a block; hardly bigger than a football field. The St. Charles was only thirty yards away from where the local Democratic Party committee was asked to place the podium. McAlister could hit it with a stone.

In the middle of the park, set among generation old maple and oak trees, was an modest fountain that had been restored by the local chapter of the Kiwanis. It was dedicated to Hudson’s first mayor, Seth Jenkins, and fairly recently surrounded by a small enclosure to keep children out. Not far from the fountain, at the corner of the Park, stood a monument, surrounded by a gate. It bore the inscription, “Erected by the Citizens of Hudson in grateful recognition of her Sons’ and Daughters’ Services in the Armed Forces of the United States.” Two tributes from a community that sought its place in history.

Usually 7
th
Street Park afforded a comfortable setting for guests at the St. Charles to sit back on one of the benches and take in the quiet Hudson life. McAlister smiled. At 2:04
P.M.
today he’d definitely change that.

He peered down. Next door to the hotel, volunteer firemen from J.W. Edmonds Hose Co. were polishing their truck for the day’s parade. They took pride in their work, just as he did. They were in full uniform, hardly breaking a sweat. The summer humidity hadn’t blanketed the air yet. High cirrus clouds drifted overhead, nudging a comfortable lazy breeze that flowed across the Catskill Mountains into the Hudson Valley and over to the Berkshires. McAlister noted the wind and its direction. Too light to be a concern.

An old freight train track cut between the park and he saw two young boys balancing on the rails. He remembered doing the same thing as a kid. Hudson was beginning to appeal to him. It reminded McAlister of home. It was like one of those idyllic calendar paintings; the scene frozen in a better, simpler time.

The city was named for explorer Henry Hudson, who sailed up what he called “The River of Mountains” in September, 1609, on his third attempt to discover a Northwest Passage. Though Henry Hudson failed to find the fabled route linking the Atlantic and Pacific, he ultimately established colonies along the river for his Dutch employers, including the town now bearing his name. Hudson was officially founded just after the Revolutionary War.