The Governor's Wife (38 page)

"The hell it can't. We're going to round up twenty billionaires contributing fifty million each."

"Twenty times fifty," the lieutenant governor said. "That's a hundred million."

"A billion. You gotta carry the one."

"Oh."

The speaker shook his head. "The country's broke, but rich folks are still willing to bankroll a presidential campaign."

"Money's made in Washington, Dicky, because that's where the laws are made."

"Still, twenty billionaires …"

"Nineteen. John Ed is number one."

"He's in?"

"He is if he wants his condemnation bill signed by the governor. Speaking of which, we need you boys to get behind John Ed's bill, push your members to pass it next session."

"Jesus, Professor," the speaker said, "a special bill giving a billionaire the power to condemn folks' land?"

"You want to tell John Ed no?"

The speaker sighed in the face of political reality.

"No."

"Good."

"Well, Governor, until you move into the White House," the speaker said, "we've got to find some way to balance the budget."

"We raise taxes, Dicky," the lieutenant governor said, "we'll be looking for jobs with those teachers."

"Then we cut twenty-seven billion from the budget," the speaker said.

"Damn, Dicky," Bode said, "there's no other way to balance the budget?"

"Only one."

"What's that?"

"Five-dollar-a-gallon gas."

"What do you mean?"

"When gas spiked to four dollars back in oh-eight, our oil and gas taxes spiked, too, generated an extra five billion for the rainy day fund. I figure five bucks a gallon for a year, maybe two, we could balance the budget without taxes or cuts."

"You run the numbers on that?" Jim Bob asked.

"Yeah. Five bucks would do it."

"Like the good old days when oil and gas paid all the bills in Texas," the lieutenant governor said. He raised his glass again. "Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice. And moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue."

He was drunk.

"Goddamnit, Mack, no Goldwater quotes. We're trying to save our fucking state."

Bode drank his bourbon.

"God, I hate this."

"What—governing?"

"This economy gets any worse, we'll be shutting the state down. Last one out, turn off the lights."

He poured another bourbon.

"We've got to keep this quiet until after the election," Jim Bob said. "Word gets out we're going to gut the budget, voters will be marching on the Governor's Mansion. Now is no time for the truth."

"Amen to that," the lieutenant governor said.

"Sam Houston came to Texas in eighteen-thirty-two because he saw Texas as the land of promise. It was. It is. There is still a place where freedom reigns and government does not—that place is called Texas. My fellow Republicans, welcome to Texas!"

Governor Bode Bonner stood on the dais framed by Texas and U.S. flags and two huge video screens on which his image was displayed for the ten thousand conservatives crammed into the Houston Civic Center. He was giving the opening speech at the Republican political action committee conference, the best opportunity for Republican political candidates to audition for votes and money. Donors, fundraisers, bundlers, PACs, politicians, billionaires, and corporate executives had come to buy and sell political favors. Bode walked off the stage to thunderous applause. Of course, most of the audience were drunk by now.

A political event held in Houston, Texas, meant country-western music and money. Lots of money. And liquor, of course. And cowboy boots and ten-gallon hats. Texans "playing Texan," as Edna Ferber called it, twanging and drawling and spitting out "y'all" and "howdy" like they were getting paid by the "y'all" and "howdy." Ranger Hank stood to the side of Bode and fit right in wearing his cowboy uniform. Jim Bob leaned into Bode from the other side and whispered, "Ralph and Nadine," just before a heavy-set, middle-aged couple arrived. The man stuck his hand out to Bode.

"Howdy, Governor. Good shooting."

Bode shook his hand and slapped his back.

"Ralph, how you doin,' buddy? And Nadine, you're looking as pretty as ever."

She outweighed Bode by fifty pounds.

"Governor," Ralph said, "I sure like what I heard on
Fox News
last Sunday. You've got my full support."

Jim Bob pulled out a small notebook and a sharp pen. He looked at Ralph.

"How much?" he said.

"How much what?" Ralph said.

"How much support?"

"Oh, well …"

"We need fifty million, Ralph."

"Damn, Jim Bob, that's real money."

"You've got three billion."

"Well, sure, but …"

"We're forming a Super PAC. We have room for only twenty donors, Ralph. Buy-in is fifty million."

"And what do I get for my money?"

"What do you want?"

"Hell, I got everything I want."

"Must be something … a law, a regulation, an environmental waiver …"

Ralph glanced at Nadine then across the room.

"Honey, look, that gal over there, is that one of the Kardashian sisters?"

Nadine's head shot around.

"Where?"

"At the bar."

"Oh, my gosh. It might be."

"Better go check it out."

Nadine scurried off. Ralph turned back.

"I want to have sex with my mistress in the Governor's Mansion, in the same bed Sam Houston slept in."

"But that's my bed," Bode said.

"Done," the Professor said.

He jotted in his notebook.

"I got you down for fifty million, Ralph. I'll get back to you with wiring instructions and a date for your sleepover."

They all shook hands.

"Thanks, Ralph," Bode said. "Have fun."

"Long as the whiskey holds out," Ralph said.

He left. Bode watched after Ralph.

"Ralph is so damn ugly, when he was a kid his mama took him everywhere with her so she didn't have to kiss him goodbye. Can you imagine what his mistress looks like?"

He then turned to Jim Bob.

"Make damn sure to burn the sheets."

A tall, white-haired man arrived next. Paul Saunders, the senior Republican senator from Oklahoma. His breath was ninety proof.

"Senator, good to see you," Bode said.

"Governor. You've had an interesting couple of weeks. Reckon shooting those Mexicans will be enough to get you into the White House?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe not. Obama got Osama, but his pop in the polls lasted one news cycle. Even so, that's an expensive journey. We can help you."

Senator Saunders headed the Republican reelection committee. He held the purse strings to the Establishment money.

"We're forming our own Super PAC," Jim Bob said.

The senator exhaled heavily.

"Goddamn Supreme Court. We get the law all fixed so we can control the flow of campaign money, then they toss the law out like yesterday's newspaper. 'Unconstitutional,' they said. 'So fucking what?' I said. Never stopped us before. Hell, damn near every law we pass is unconstitutional if you want to get technical about that sort of thing."

"Why are you coming to me?" Bode said.

The senator sipped his drink.

"Palin."

"She scares the hell out of you boys, doesn't she?"

A senatorial groan.

"More than you can imagine. She refuses to play ball by our rules. She thinks she doesn't need us, that she can tell us to go to hell. You know what would happen if every Republican politician started thinking like that?"

"Democracy?"

"Chaos. The two political parties keep order in this country. This isn't some banana republic with fourteen fucking political parties. This is America. Voters have to choose: Democrats or Republicans. A or B. Not C, D, or E, none of the above."

"What about the tea party?"

The senator smiled. "Oh, they're a little full of themselves and feisty, but one tour through the budget process, and they'll fall in line."

"So you need me to make sure Palin doesn't win the Republican nomination, force herself on you."

"Like having to take a fat cousin to the prom."

"What if I don't play by your rules?"

The senator chuckled.

"You might figure you're a wild horse, Governor, don't need to run with the herd, but you'll learn just like every other politician has learned—you want to make a career out of politics, you need the protection of the herd." The senator shrugged. "And, hell, Governor, when it's all said and done, it doesn't matter all that much if we control the Congress or the White House, as long as we control one or the other. Both is better but one is enough."

"For what?"

"Gridlock."

"Senator, how long have you been in office?"

"This term will make it an even forty-two years."

"Back at the beginning, when you first ran … did you want to do good?"

The senator did not seem offended.

"Course I did. I grew up in the coal mines of Oklahoma, where men worked hard and died young. Like my dad. He wanted more for me, paid my way through law school. I was gonna change things, by God, make those folks' lives better … but six months in Washington and reality set in. All I was doing was collecting campaign contributions to get reelected and passing earmarks, because the voters demanded I bring the pork home. Or they'd find someone else who would. Forty-two years later, it's only worse. People might talk limited government, but they want government money."

He drank again.

"But that's not the worst part."

"What's that?"

"Worst part is, you start hating your own voters. Like you do the homeless, their hands held out when you walk down the sidewalk, always wanting more, more, more."

He downed his drink and walked off.

Buying control of the U.S. government is man's work, like coaching football and destroying the economy. White men wearing custom suits and holding the purse strings of political action committees and multinational corporations. Such white men approached the governor of Texas throughout the night.

"Fifty million," Jim Bob said to the CEO of a major defense contractor.

"What do I get in return?"

"What do you want?"

"More jets, ships, tanks, missiles, weapons—more everything. And no restrictions on our overseas sales."

"Why?" Bode said.

"War is profitable. Iraq and Afghanistan, three-point-seven trillion so far—that's real money. And we arm the world. Our weapons systems are currently employed in every major military conflict in the world, and most of the minor ones. No one kills anyone in this world without an American-made weapon."

"Sounds like a slogan."

"It is."

"Your missiles kill innocent people all over the world."

"Missiles don't kill—only bad people with missiles kill."

"Fifty million," Jim Bob said to the Wall Street banker.

"What do I get?"

"What do you want?"

"Control of the Fed."

"Why?"

"Because the American people want to believe someone is smart enough to hold the reins on this economy, that a Greenspan or Bernanke can keep the economy rolling along without ever experiencing a recession. Fact is, no one's that smart. But the people don't want to hear that. They want a guaranteed life. They want their 401(k) and home values to go up, they want to live beyond their means in big houses they can't afford and watch TVs the size of a goddamned movie theater, they want their lives to be profitable and carefree. They want someone—the government, Wall Street, their fairy fucking godmother—to guarantee that they'll live happily ever after. Well, it can't be done." He pondered his words a moment. "But, it does give us some money-making opportunities."

"Such as?"

"By controlling the Fed, we control interest rates and money supply. Which allows us to move the markets. We can make money long or short, if only the markets move. So we raise the interest rate and tighten the money supply, which depresses stock and real-estate values, and we buy up both. Then we lower the interest rate and loosen the money supply, which sparks inflation, and we ride the bubble up."

"Until it bursts."

"We sell out before that happens, stick the middle-class with the losses in mutual funds and subprime mortgages. Buy low, sell high." He shrugged. "It's not finding the cure for cancer, but it's a living."

"More drilling," the CEO of an oil company said. "More domestic drilling, more offshore drilling, more Alaska drilling … more drilling everywhere."