The Frankenstein Candidate (12 page)

“And a woman and a mother. You need the wholesome mom magic that almost worked wonders for McCain in 2008, do you?”

“Yes, I do. But only because beneath the wholesome mom image, you are real substance, Olivia.”

“Oh, thank you. I will think about it. But give me a few days, a week maybe.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

The next few days for Olivia felt as if a fog had enveloped her world. Gary was really empathetic, but Georgia and Natasha cried thinking that mommy would be away weeks at a time. Gary also wanted to spend more time at the design school tutoring, so she needed to make arrangements to have their daughters driven to and from school by her state chauffeur, a privilege that Colin was only too happy to pick the tab for.

One evening, she remembered Gary was coming home late that night. Something about a staff get-together at the design school. She was so glad he had found something to look forward to. When his company had folded four years earlier, he had suddenly been bereft of a motive, and although he spent a lot of time with the children, she knew at heart he was also a career man. His tutor job at the school paid little, but she was bringing in more than enough money.
If the economy revived, construction would boom, and Gary could always get his architectural practice going again
.

Alone at night, she looked in the mirror. The creases and the laugh lines were just beginning to feel their way into her face, and the tummy sag was almost imperceptible in her pajamas. A glimpse of grey reminded her that she had forgotten to touch her hair up since she got the call to go to Iowa.

“Mother,” she said to the person in the mirror, “what should I do?”

There was no answer. Her mother was simply no longer there for her. She was tired. She always wanted to be there for everybody: Gary, Natasha, Georgia, her constituency, Colin, her country. God, the country needed her. Violence had shot up in New York and DC again. Markets were down, banks were almost insolvent, and more and more people were on the streets, literally.

Yes, she decided, her country needed her.

Mother said yes. It calmed her mind. Things were falling into place. Or so she thought.

Frank Stein was not impressed. He had agreed to a meal with Wall Street’s elite and was led into a private dining room at the Eleven Madison Park Restaurant. Sparkling, twenty-foot tall windows adorned the walls, enticing customers with a majestic view of Madison Square Park. In a room fit for eighteen, there were only three—himself and his two hosts: Roscoe Maynard and Chip Ramsey, both Wall Street high-fliers.
What a waste of money
, he thought at first.
Obviously, they were taking no chances of their conversation being eavesdropped.

Frank had only agreed because he believed Roscoe Maynard to be a person of integrity—at least from the experience of his past dealings with him.

Roscoe and Chip wore their tailor-made Brioni Vanquish III business suits and hand-made Prada Italian silk ties as if they were born in that attire, to be shepherded around town in chauffeur-driven limousines. Frank wore a light brown cashmere sweater, smart casual black trousers, and carried a thick overcoat for walking around in.

It was one of those exclusive venues where patrons custom-designed their meal from a menu that displayed only principal ingredients and never the price of a meal. Frank waited until Roscoe and Chip took their time ordering, impatiently casting his glance at the oversized window in front of him. At the entrance to Madison Square Park on the corner of Madison Avenue and East 25th, he saw vagrants who appeared more destitute than derelict.
The city is no longer even trying to preserve the image of the park as beautiful, yuppie and festooned with art,
he thought to himself.

“Sir?” the impeccably dressed manager queried. He seemed accustomed to serving only the elite in the private dining rooms.

“No, thank you, just a drink for me, I am in a hurry,” Frank said.

The manager nodded politely and left. Roscoe glanced at Chip as if to say I told you so. Chip knew he had to cut to the chase.

“Eighty-five million and growing,” Chip Ramsey said, “all in a super PAC that will choose soon.”

“I thought your firms are facing hard times.”

“They are, but times can change,” Roscoe said.

“Not this time,” Frank said. “Anyway, I don’t want it. This is my crusade, mine alone.”

“Don’t forget who and what made you rich,” Chip bellowed, regretting it as Roscoe shot him a glance that silently whispered grossly inappropriate.

“Smart investing,” Frank said.

“Of course,” Roscoe was taking over from Chip, “It is fine if you do not want our contribution. But the super PAC, ours is called Americans for Peace, God and Prosperity, has to back someone. It won’t be you if you insist on turning your back on us.”

“I don’t care how you spend your money. Now if there is nothing else, I have a television interview to attend.” Frank got up to leave.

“If I may ask who—” Chip was nervously tapping his plate with a fork.

“Kayla Mizzi, Net Station,” replied Frank, wearing an assassin’s smile.

Grabbing his overcoat, Frank left as brusquely as he had come.

Kayla Mizzi had been born in Miami to working-class immigrants from Cyprus. She was so small as a baby that her parents had been advised she would not survive—yet the three-and-a-half-pounder not only survived her infancy but she became a survivor in every sense of the word. They named her Kayla, meaning a wise child.

Now a determined twenty-eight-year-old, Kayla was smart, cheerful, and friendly. She had dark, straight hair that was always just short of shoulder length and large, twinkling eyes that belied her professionalism. Her disarming manner and her four-foot-eleven frame hid the courage that defined her youth and the force of intellect she was always prepared to use.

Kayla was not prepared to write Stein off. The calm, business-like manner with which he laid out his principles contrasted with the intrigue he set up in his extremely novel “Ten Commandments” approach to politics. Although billionaires were not new in America, even self-made ones, here was one who was willing to use his fortune to stand for the highest office in the land.

“Where were you born?” she asked, as they started.

“Anaheim, California.”

“Do you have a faith?”

“My parents were Jewish. But I am not.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifty.”

“Growing up, what did you want to be?”

“As a kid, a fighter jet pilot. After high school, I wanted to be an economist. I left after I had my masters and got started in investing. One thing led to another.”

“Rumors say you left the corporate world because your company was losing money.”

“The reason has more to do with why the losses occurred, or more correctly, why the entire landscape was changing.”

“Why was it changing?”

“The Federal government has systematically wrecked our economy in the twenty-first century. To be sure, the damage began way back when the government prolonged the Great Depression of the 1930s. Now we have twenty-five trillion of debt, and none of it was ever invested in anything.”

“Did you say…prolonged the Depression? Why would any government do that?”

“They did not mean to. But they were advised wrongly. Sometimes politicians have been merely mistaken, mostly they have been culpable.”

“Learned economists say that your seven decades remark is an unjustifiable slur.”

“Ask them to prove the premises on which the entire theory rests.”

“You mean the premise that a free economy is prone to booms and busts?”

“And the premise that governments can make a positive difference by monopolizing paper money. It’s a con. Manipulating interest rates is a way to help Wall Street at the expense of Main Street.”

“Who will look after the banks?”

“Why should the people bail them out every time they get into trouble and pay them rich bonuses when they make their gains while being subsidized?”

“Subsidized?”

“All of them are protected from bank runs by the government.”

“Hang on—shouldn’t we the people be protected from bank runs?”

“No, the banks should not be vulnerable to runs in the first place.”

“No wonder so many people hate you. Do you ever worry about that?”

“No. It is time to throw out the politeness and throw out our tolerance for political spin. It’s time we organized a
no more rhetoric
rally.”

“A political rally? That doesn’t sound like you.”

“You know what? Let’s do it. How about we start at, say, eleven a.m. next Sunday at Times Square on Seventh Avenue and march to Cleopatra’s Needle in Central Park. That is January twelfth, Sunday morning.”

“Mr. Stein, one last thing—out on the streets, they are calling you Frankenstein.”

“We all are Frankensteins.”

“How so?”

“Like Friedman once said, it is slipping from our control…our creation, our government…by the constant erosion of our freedoms by those who benefit from power by deceit, and evasion.”

“They did say you are too outspoken for your own good. Thank you for coming to our program, Mr. Stein.”

“My pleasure.”

The Net Station’s ratings were up thirty-five points that night as an endless number of callers called in to say they would take part in the
no more rhetoric
rally. It wasn’t that Stein was so novel—but the new-age-media Net Station had mobilized the youth, among whom the unemployment rate was over forty percent. The army of the disenfranchised had sensed that the time for a revolution was near.

Gary marveled at her form as she picked up the pieces. Her smooth legs and her occasional choice of loose cotton dresses under her thick winter overcoats always added just that little touch of innocence that was so alluring in its contrast to her welcoming, smiling look.

The architecture school had very few staff, and Francesca’s farewell function ended quickly. Francesca had made very few close friends in the short time she had been enrolled at the school, and they had come to the common room to say good-bye to her. Truth be told, Gary was kicking himself. He had introduced her to his film producer friend thinking she would feel grateful, yet he knew that his friend’s business could not afford another junior right now. His friend surprised him by offering Francesca a job.
The bastard
, he thought,
bet he couldn’t find ten dollars spare if I’d sent an ugly, old woman.
He was going to miss her, and he had little excuse for dropping by a film set.