The Fishmonger Returns

Of course Lincoln Douglas had been thinking of the sex he might be able to have in Washington, but it wasn't his primary concern. It wasn't like it was in the twenty or thirty years before, when people had the decency to look the other way. He knew it would be tough to go to Washington and have some good and lustful ongoing affairs simultaneously with three or four women in their forties, but he was determined to be strong, to go to D.C. with an agenda, and that agenda was to have good and lustful ongoing affairs simultaneously with three or four women in their forties.

But he also wanted to do something important with his money. What was money good for, after all, if you couldn't do something substantial with it -- something lasting? He'd run through so many possibilities -- baseball stadiums named after Dee Dee, municipal swimming pools for the grandchildren to shun in favor of their own private pools, statues of himself on horseback -- but none of them gave him the sense of contentment and pride that being a senator did. He was an atheist, and the idea of leaving a lasting mark on this earth, with his name firmly attached to that mark, engraved in stone perhaps, appealed to him enormously and had inspired him since, as a teenager, he read and re-read The Fountainhead and finally copied it in longhand on his bedroom walls. All of his years since -- he'd not been good enough at math to be an architect so instead went into banking and then corporate farm management -- he had worked hard, hired people to work hard for him, had saved and invested wisely, and now could think seriously about his legacy, and exactly how to get some tail out of it before he was dead.

He called more people, including Giacomo Skinputty, a campaign consultant he'd met at a fundraiser for Phil Gramm -- Lincoln was mystified about why a man like Gramm, so handsome and charismatic, hadn't fared better -- and with whom he'd had occasional conversations predicated on Giacomo's desire to extract funds from Lincoln. Now Lincoln was doing the probing, feeling out the terrain.

"Can I win?"

"Sure. You're a war hero, right?"

"Well, I --"

"You won a Silver Star, a Purple Heart, right? You know how few Korean War vets there are out there running for office? And you're a wildly successful businessman who still lives in the town where you were born and raised. You were married to the same woman for 45 years. By the way, I'm sorry for your loss, sir."

"Thank you Giacomo."

"And you've got five children, a million grandchildren. You're handsome, affable, you've got the voice of James Earl Jones. And is that story true, the one where you flew in your own Gulfstream to rescue your employees from a Honduran prison?"

"I must admit, it is true."

"You're an inspiration, sir."

"The field's not too crowded?"

In addition to the eleven Democrats, there were eight Republicans, two Greens, one Libertarian, an Anarchist and Lyndon LaRouche, who was trying to make his way onto the ballot, and for some dark reason seemed better organized than anyone in the running.

"No one's more viable than you, sir. And the field will clear up by the winter, sir."

Lincoln very much liked this man who called him sir. Maybe he would hire him. How much was it worth to have a respectful young man around the office? He would have to crunch some numbers. But for now, more questions.

"How do I win?"

"Well, early on, you'll --"

"No, early on nothing. I mean, what's the trick here?"

"The what, sir?"

"The trick, the gimmick."

There was a long pause.

"You have money, sir?"

"I do."

"You'll need it."

"Any reason in particular?"

"Well, for starters, no Republican's won an open Senate seat in Illinois since 1928. It's gonna be a slog, sir."

"So how much you think I'll need?"

"Thirty million. Minimum. Sir."

"Thirty, eh? Where's it go? Buying people off and such?"

"Um. Not really, sir. Mostly TV ads. About sixty percent will go into TV. The rest is staff, mailings, phonebanks, signs, getting you and your people from place to place."

"So you think I have to run myself?"

"How do you mean, sir?"

"You know -- do I have to run around, ride on a bus, all that? The whole song and dance?"

"That's usually the way things are done, sir."

Lincoln sighed with every part of his body.

"But it seems so low-rent," he said, full of fatigue and disgust. "Kinda scruffy and desperate, don't you agree? And I'm almost seventy! Can't I hire someone to do that kind of thing? Like a vice-senator or something? He runs around and does all the bus and barbeque business, and then I swing in for a week or so before the election, give a few speeches --"

That was only the second time anyone had ever hung up on Lincoln Douglas, and he intended, as soon as he was Senator, to have Giacomo Skinputty punished in some very real way. Could that death-penalty moratorium be lifted? That would be job one, and this disrespectful twerp would be the first in line.

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