MONDAY, JUNE 6: 10 A.M., NEW ATLANTIS. Baron Rooky, Manfreed’s forever genial alter ego, greets everyone at the front door of Hollyfield-Smyth House. The Tudor mansion is the first one that Dagny Taggart bought to expand New Atlantis. Its fifteen bedrooms housed the earliest residents. Administrative offices are still located on the first floor. It wasn’t the oldest or the biggest of the properties she eventually acquired. But to her, it was the grandest. The circular driveway in front, the massive blue spruce on either side of it, and the broad, flat expanses of golf-tee quality lawn in every direction gave the mansion the same take-charge look she admired in people, mostly men—in particular, its former owner, the late media magnate G. Hollyfield-Smyth, who successfully led the fight against federal laws prohibiting communications monopolies, then cornered the market in no fewer than sixteen metropolitan areas and became the country’s chief political kingmaker.
In addition to the yearly celebration of the Galtian Restoration for the masses, like the one held two days ago, The Circle of Atlas holds it annual meeting in June in the great hall of the mansion. Dagny conceived of the society as the steward of John Galt’s legacy and, next to her investment in the Venture Fund, her most important contribution. She wrote its charter herself, limiting The Circle to fifty members including a five-member executive committee, which she chaired right up to the time she died. Members are limited to two terms of five years, except for her. “We must always have new blood,” she said. “Otherwise we’ll stagnate.” At least five members must be graduates of New Atlantis resident programs. Hoping to spark and maintain the revolution worldwide, she stipulated that there be no less than six members from foreign countries, no more than two from any one. Dagny dictated that members of The Circle are to carry on John Galt’s fight against “looters,” to manage The Taggart Venture Fund, and to invest in projects of promising entrepreneurs that can provide a revenue stream for New Atlantis.
Perhaps because of the 67th Anniversary, this year forty-six members have made the trip, the largest number in five years. Among the most prominent are the Kork brothers, Daniel and Ridge, from Dallas. They inherited billions from “Big Daddy” Kork, as they called him. But they would be the first to insist that they are self-made, that they always put in an honest day’s work—as long as committing securities fraud counts as work and honesty is defined as having friendly judges quash their ongoing indictments. When anyone asks them how much money they have, they always answer that they have no idea, but they just want more of it.Circle member Alfredo Vicenza came from Chicago.Formerly a labor organizer, he became a patron saint of Free-for-All economics when he destroyed the Amalgamated Workers of America, the union he helped found, after he was forced to resign because of alleged improprieties. Sitting next to him in the great hall is Professor Mortimer Lacey, longtime member of the New Atlantis faculty. With a grant from the Kork brothers’ foundation, he produced the research that claimed definitively to prove global warming was a myth—findings that coincidentally protected the Korks’ oil and gas investment—and that led to the dismantling of the federal Environmental Protection Agency.
When Manfreed walks in, Philip Schwartz, the media mogul, is standing and pointing his right finger accusingly at Walter Baffler, the Internet genius. “They’re getting away with murder and you’re letting them,” he says, while Baffler first shakes his head yes (to indicate he agreed “they” were) then quickly to no (refusing take responsibility). But as soon as Manfreed reaches the podium, everyone takes a seat.
“I’d like to welcome all of you to the annual meeting of the Circle of Atlas and especially those of you who have come from around the world. We all extend an extra special welcome to Señor Mauricio Valdez from Peru, who is with us for the first time and who has taken the lead in privatizing all of the mineral resources of his country.” The Kork brothers clap enthusiastically, having invested $2 billion in the takeover, according to The Journal of International Commerce.
“With government regulation out of the way, profits are skyrocketing and production costs have been cut in half. The military has moved swiftly to put down labor unrest. Señor Valdez, you and your country can become a model not only for South America, but for the world.
“And now,” Manfreed says solemnly, “let us bow our heads and recite ‘The Hoarder’s Prayer’: ‘Our father, who spits on Lenin, trademarked be our name. Our billions come, our bills be paid—in cash, by check, or on credit. Give us this day our daily pay and pile on our profits as we corner markets before markets corner us. And lead us not into insolvency, but deliver us from competition. For ours are the franchise, the profit, and the riches for ever and ever. Amen.’
“I’m sorry to have to report the passing, earlier this year, of Dr. Melany Goodette. For the past fifteen years, she tirelessly led the fight for the complete deregulation of the pharmaceutical industry against the FDA—an entrenched bureaucracy if ever there was one. Dr. Goodette died just three months before her goals were achieved. The FDA is dead. And Dr. Goodette killed it, with the help of New Atlantis and people like you, of course.” The group applauds wildly. “As you will soon hear, Dr. Goddette’s effort has been a key factor in the spectacular success of Atlas Energy Drink and Atlas Fitness Centers, as well as the millions of dollars we are making as a result.”
“Hilton, sorry to interrupt, but we are going to address Saturday’s debacle, aren’t we?” shouts Philip Schwartz. “The whole world is saying that John Galt is dead. It’s embarrassing. My phone has been ringing off the hook. It’s on the front page of every newspaper, all over TV, and it’s the only thing people are talking about on the Internet. I should have said disaster, not debacle. We need a strategy. Do you have a strategy?”
“Debacle? Disaster? Who’s side are you on Phil?” Manfreed asks. “Are you going to let some amateurish prank throw you? I can’t believe my ears. Let me make one thing perfectly clear: Saturday was not a debacle—for us. But it’s going to be for the two-bit nobodies who don’t know who they’re up against. You have no reason to be embarrassed, Phil. Just look around you. Have you taken the power in this room for granted? Does it look like John Galt is dead? We’re stronger than ever— and we’re going to get stronger, especially when we crush the enemy.”
He grits his teeth, clenches his fist, and pounds on the podium. “We own this country now—and we will forever! We have created a permanent majority who share our beliefs and know how to put them into action.” He pounds the podium again. Looking around the room so as to make eye contact with everyone, he adds, “We’re never going to let a worthless bunch of looters take it from us. Never! This afternoon, I’ll be on a conference call with the White House to discuss a nationwide strategy to crush the opposition. In a few minutes, I’ll tell you what I’m planning to tell the president and the cabinet. Then, you can tell me your ideas. By the time we’re through, those half-ass punks will be sorry they ever started up with us. Debacle? Disaster?—for them!
“Now, let’s move on to something more pleasant: making barrels of money. The newest members of The Circle are here to update us on the Atlas Fitness Centers phenomenon, for that’s what it is, you know—an absolute, one-of-a-kind, super-colossal phenomenon. They are stars of the first order. Talk about making headlines! John Galt dead, my ass! Soon enough, these ‘John Galts’ are going to make headlines worldwide. They have revolutionized health and fitness, mind and body harmony. And they are making money for us—and themselves—hand over fist. In less than one year, they have become the major source of funds for all of New Atlantis. Dagny would be so proud! I can see the broad grin on her face, as though she were alive and in front of me. In the best sense of the word, they are drugging the country—soon, the world—as a result of Free-for-All economics. Enrique, I believe you’re going to begin.”
“Thank you, Hilton. For those of you who weren’t here on Saturday, I am Enrique Reyes, and I’m thrilled to be a member of The Circle. With me are Zora Tremmon and Albert Swift. With a grant from the Taggart Venture Fund—which I’m happy to say we’ve already repaid—we created Atlas Fitness Centers, the most comprehensive health and wellness network anywhere in the world. I developed the secret formula for the most powerful high-energy drink ever produced. Zora, Albert, please pass out samples and our brochure to everyone. Albert created the patented Titan WholeBody Harmony Machine. As you can see from the photograph, the machine is deceptively simple—an inverted cross. Aside from the fact that it’s made of Rearden Metal, so it’s indestructible, it is based upon laws of physics that Albert knows but that I’ll never understand. And the physical and mental benefits it produces are revolutionary. Zora is our marketing genius. Without her, we’d be nothing.
“Atlas Fitness Centers are more than just places people go to exercise. Oh, people may come to us to get in shape, but they get more than they ever imagined they could find anywhere. Our real goal is— and now I’m speaking confidentially among friends—to advance the mission of New Atlantis. We are strengthening people’s bodies and minds to accept the principles of Free-for-All economics. The stronger they get, the more they understand that they are natural leaders who have the right and the ability to seize control of the economies of the world. We train them to become clones of the confident, drugged Atlas in the lobby of d’Anconia Pavilion. Each drop of Atlas Energy Drink they swallow—we call it our ‘miracle drug’—makes them more and more potent powerhouses for free markets. They’re sold on everything New Atlantis stands for.
“Yes?” Enrique says to Count Henry de Horsch, who’s chomping at the bit to say something.
“I’m a charter member of the Midtown Manhattan Atlas Center Headquarters,” says the count, “and I have to say the service and effectiveness of the program are unmatched anywhere.”
“Thank you, Count Henry. We’re especially pleased to get your endorsement. And I’m pleased to say we get 100 percent stupendous feedback, as you can see from the testimonials in our brochure. Our economic model is based upon recruiting apprentice trainers. We provide them, free of charge, with unlimited amounts of Atlas Energy drink, use of equipment, plus room and board within centers. They provide services to paying customers and collect a percentage of fees for any premium services they provide. Some recent trainees are now successful franchise owners. They’re hooked on it. It’s a perfect free-market model. And the proof is, in the nine months since we opened our doors, we now have one hundred centers spread out in all fifty states and are adding locations at the rate of five a week.
“Atlas Energy is catching on like wild fire. We’ve entered into distribution agreements, so it’s being sold in supermarkets, 7–11’s, health-food stores, everywhere soft drink and health products are marketed. It’s the fastest growing product in all of the Corporate States, and we have plans to launch internationally early next year. We are making seventy percent profit on the Fitness Centers. And our success would never have been possible without New Atlantis and all of the positive effects of the Galtian Restoration. In our unregulated marketplace, the sky’s been our limit. The FDA would have made us jump through hoops to prove our claims. And we’d still be waiting for the go-ahead to launch the product. We wouldn’t have made a dime yet. But we found nutritionists to back up our claims, and their studies have been a major factor in our success. So, nothing can stop us.”
“Thank you for that most uplifting—or should I say cash-register-ringing?—report, Enrique,” Manfreed adds, smiling like a Cheshire cat and rubbing his hands over each other like a witch concocting her brew. “Enrique left out—perhaps out of modesty—the specifics of the most important part of the Fitness Center’s success. They’ve already paid back the $500,000 loan from the Taggart Venture Fund, with interest of course, plus $4.5 million in royalties. That’s an astounding $5 million payback in less than a year.
“And there’s more good news to report. John Galt is not dead, not by any means—and there are no signs that he will be anytime soon, so sorry to disappoint our enemies.” Pointing to a map of the Corporate States, Manfreed continues: “Texas to North Carolina, you’ll notice, is all in the darkest green. That’s because we’ve been able to put governors and legislatures in place who are completely aligned with us. In these states, privatization has taken over the roles of government by more than ninety percent. Power plants, highways and local roads, airports and seaports, schools, hospitals, and other assets and services are now in the hands of for-profit business. And they are making money hand over fist.
“From New Mexico north to Montana and Washington and west to California, in lighter green, there are some trouble spots—mostly in Colorado, California and Oregon, where local areas have tried to reinstall looter government agencies and reimpose regulations on businesses. In lime green, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois, and Michigan are showing signs of discontent. Some unions are trying to reorganize. From Ohio and Pennsylvania north to Maine, we have the greatest challenges. That’s why that whole region is in white, without a trace of green. Out of the fifty states, at least three-fifths are firmly or solidly in our plus column. But we cannot take anything for granted, of course.
“Mother Nature has looked out for us this year. We never lose sight of the cardinal principle of Free-for-All economics, ‘Every disaster is a buying opportunity,’ or put another way, ‘Other people’s misery is our good fortune.’ ‘Mother’ has helped us beyond our wildest dreams. Wildfires in Arizona, floods in Sacramento, a bridge collapse in Tampa, Florida, and tornadoes throughout the midWest created new opportunities for turning public assets over to private interests. State and local governments have been starved of revenue for so long, they couldn’t rebuild or help individuals affected by disasters to do so. So Count de Horsch in Mississippi, whose private city, Horschville, will soon be completely sold out, and others are making millions and radically altering the landscape of the states forever. Traitorous pranksters can claim John Galt is dead all they want to. Profit-and-loss sheets tell a different story.
“So, now we come to our recent unpleasantness. We take nothing for granted. But we also know we always get stronger when we’re challenged. Whoever was foolish enough to break into our sound system on Saturday—and we’ll soon know who it is—will pay dearly. We need to ask ourselves, ‘What would John Galt do?’ And we need to let everyone know that John Galt is more alive now than ever. We need to double-down and act like we’re Atlas drugged on steroids and more powerful than ever—because we are. Defeat is not an option. It never is—especially with us. Our enemies should know that by now. But they haven’t learned that lesson, which is why we’re in power and they’re not—and never will be.
“As I mentioned, at one o’clock this afternoon, I will be on a conference call with the White House to discuss nationwide strategies to defeat the enemy. With the election just a few months away, President Cooper has personally told me he wants the opposition crushed. So, I will share with him the surefire two-pronged attack we’ve developed.” Pointing to a fifty-inch TV monitor at the front of the room, Manfreed says, “I believe all of you know the world-renown master of lexi-psychographics, Professor Clyde Doppelmann. He’s coming to us via a satellite feed. Professor, we’re delighted to have you with us. Please explain our media strategy to our most distinguished members of The Circle of Atlas.”
“It will be my high honor to, Professor Manfreed.” Doppelmann is in his early fifties. His long, ski-slope nose and fluted nostrils lead to a prominent square jaw. His light-brown toupee curls up on his dark-brown sideburns, accentuating what it’s supposed to camouflage. He looks straight into the camera. “In my latest book, If the Pen is Mightier than the Sword, How Come Writers Aren’t King?, I explain that you’ve gotta have force and power to back up your words or you’re just full of hot air. And in my book, Schlock Doctrine: Feed People Garbage Long Enough and They’ll Think It’s Caviar, I explain that Americans are lazy and stupid. We can always get the public to believe what we want—as long as we understand the power of lying—and the moral imperative to do it. Lies are the purest example of how the principles of Free-for-All economics can be powerfully applied to every aspect of life. A lie is simply the truth massaged for the benefit of the person promoting it. The trick is to understand the power of lying and never to tell the truth. Once you’re committed to telling the truth, you’re boxed in by facts. As long as you lie, you’ve got leverage. People will believe lies faster than they’ll accept the truth. It’s easier to convince people that the sky is green than that it’s blue. Tell them up is down and that one and one makes three—and they’ll fall for it every time. But tell them that one and one makes two, and they’ll try to prove you wrong every time. I believe there are copies of both books for sale in the back of the room.
“The Corporate States need a new tune that the people can hum—a winning new campaign.We need to rebrand ourselves. And based upon my research, our new motto should be ‘John Galt created the Internet.’”
“What?” an unidentified voice in the back of the room blurts out.
“Hear me out! It’s a perfect application of schlock doctrine. Your opposition is claiming that John Galt is dead. So, don’t fall into the trap of saying, ‘He’s alive.’ Studies consistently show that opposites reinforce each other. If you say ‘alive,’ your listeners will think ‘dead.’ You’ve got to come up with a credible lie to make people think John Galt is alive; otherwise, they won’t believe you.
“I call the strategy ‘Detour Thinking’ in Schlock Doctrine. The more outrageous what you say is, the more readily it will be believed. Remember what I told you: People will believe lies more readily than truths. Don’t ever bother explaining anything to anyone. Repeat, repeat, repeat if you want to be believed. Of course, to the one-tenth of one percent of the population with a brain and willing to use it, you can make the case that John Galt started the Rational Restoration that provided the economic climate for the entrepreneurship that led to the World Wide Web. But don’t waste your breath on the masses. The issue will never come up. They are waiting to be duped, yearning to be duped, hungry to be duped. They’ll spread the word all over the Internet that John Galt created it. End of story for ‘John Galt is dead.’”
“I think it’s brilliant,” Manfreed says.
“But did John Galt really create the Internet?” the Kork brothers ask in unison. They always speak in unison in public.
“Absolutely!” Doppelmann assures them.
“A powerful fact, a powerful fact, most impressive, first we’ve heard of it,” they chant.
“Clyde, let’s go full steam ahead—fliers, TV, Internet, op-eds,” Manfreed says, genuinely excited. “And I’m sure you’ll be hearing from the White House after I share the idea. Now, Zora, I believe you’re going to explain our ‘on-the-ground’ strategy.”
“Gladly, Professor Manfreed,” she replies, moving to the front of the room. “In a word, our strategy is to infiltrate Coopervilles around the country and destroy them from within. We’re going to recruit physically fit trainees for Atlas Fitness Centers from them, take them into our confidence, and get information that can help us destroy the saboteurs. I mean we all know that the opposition has to be coming from those hell holes, don’t we? We’ll offer them food, shelter, and the possibility of a promising future. From what we hear, most of them are desperate. So, we can win them over easily.”
“Thank you, Zora. I think our two-pronged strategy will crush those bastards once and for all. As Zora says, make no mistake about it: All of our opposition comes right from the hotbeds of socialism in Coopervilles. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for my conference call with the White House.”
“Professor Manfreed, may I?” Count de Horsch says, without waiting for an answer as he moves to the front of the room. “My fellow Circle Members, once Coopervilles have been neutralized, I plan to move forward with my plans to develop Central Park into a mall and amusement park. It will be a cash-cow, without a doubt. I’ve been assured by the mayor that my generous bid will be accepted. One of the anchors in the mall will be the biggest Atlas Fitness Center in the world, with an indoor pool, tennis and racket ball courts, and a track. It will have its own hotel for overnight visitors. It’s also gonna have a miniature train running around the perimeter. Kids’ll love it. The architects should have completed drawings by Friday.”
“Thank you, Count,” Manfreed interjects, mildly peeved at the interruption. “And now I really must prepare for my meeting. Thank you all for coming. You will be kept up-to-date on all developments.”
MONDAY, JUNE 6, 12:45 P.M.: THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM. Top advisors to President Ham Cooper are waiting for the start of the 1 p.m. emergency meeting. Hilton Manfreed is present via a satellite feed from New Atlantis. The president has told the Corporate Council, the CSA’s real governing body, that he considers the interruptions on Saturday proclaiming John Galt dead a serious, potential threat to his reelection in November. Privately, he’s told everyone but Manfreed, of course, that he thinks “the old geezer” is “over the hill” and needs to be replaced as the head of New Atlantis.
Cooper is the fifth former CEO to have become president of the Corporate States of America. He was a high-school freshman when Galt and company returned from the valley. But he has never forgotten the suffering he endured during the strike. His father’s oil rigs were taken over by the people Galt labeled looters, so his family lost its fortune—and his inheritance. He tells everyone the government raped them. To him, Galt was God—not a god, the one-and-only, who had delivered them from evil. When he graduated, he refused to go to college. “I know everything I need to know,” he told everyone. “And all I need to know is how to make money anyway I can.” His family reclaimed its holdings under the Asset Recovery Act Galt implemented. Cooper capitalized on the deregulation and privatization of energy resources by buying up oil, gas, and nuclear facilities in state after state. His business strategy was “Acquire and Fire.” He’d put two profitable companies together, fire half the workforce, raise rates, and make a killing—and there was no one to stop him after all government regulations had been done away with. By the time he was twenty-five, he controlled energy production in ten states and was a multibillionaire. He had never held public office when he ran for president, but he had all the money he needed to campaign. He won with sixty-three percent of the vote. His winning slogan was, “Less government is too much. No government is just about enough.”
Never one for small talk, Cooper takes his seat in the middle of the conference table and holds up one newspaper from a stack of at least twenty-five. “As everyone can see, the whole front page is the headline ‘John Galt Is Dead.’ How did this happen? Why didn’t our friends who own these goddamn rags stop this? With friends like this, we don’t need enemies. All the articles go on to say, ‘A mystery voice turned the 67th Anniversary Celebration at New Atlantis into a fiasco.’”
Throwing the paper on top of the pile and slamming his hand on the table, he fumes, “This is what the fuck we’re up against. It’s all anyone is talking about. A mysterious, two-bit voice interrupts the 67th Anniversary Celebration at New Atlantis and we’re looking like fuckin’ fools.”
Leaning forward, his eyes squinting as he looks around the table, Cooper adds, “Something has gone terribly, terribly wrong. Those interruptions on Saturday were no accident. Obviously, hardcore terrorists have made inroads into New Atlantis. And those jokers out there haven’t got a clue. They’ve gone soft on us. Think tank, my ass! We’ve never had any security problems before. Last year, we put down all those protests in Mississippi over coastal development and nobody said a word. If anybody had a case it was those folks, but nothing, not a peep. Professor Manfreed,” Cooper says, for the first time addressing the face on the TV monitor, “what’s going on over there in your brain trust? Have you lost control? We can’t have this. We can’t be made to look like fools. We need a strategy to stamp out these rats. I’ve got an election I’ve got to win or you can kiss goodbye to your Free-for-All economics. That bitch, Cary Hinton will put all of us out of business. You listening, Manfreed?”
On the monitor, Manfreed looks like he’s been punched in the gut. “President Cooper, let me assure you that everything at New Atlantis is under control. Believe me, I know what a disaster Hinton would be. We’ve already begun implementing a two-pronged strategy to crush the opposition. Professor Clyde Dopplemann has come up with a powerful media campaign to counter all that ‘John Galt is dead’ garbage. That’s all it is—garbage. Dopplemann’s brilliant alternative is ‘John Galt created the Internet.’ I’ve told him to saturate the media with the message. We’re also going to infiltrate Coopervilles…”
Cooper, enraged, interrupts him, shouting, “Don’t ever call those human garbage heaps Coopervilles! They are displacement camps, illegal, squatter displacement camps. The people there have displaced themselves. They’re there because they want to be there. Nobody made them go there. Don’t ever say Cooperville again, you hear?
“Sorry, of course,” Manfreed says flustered. “We’re going to infiltrate all those displacement…human garbage camp…illegal…squatter heaps around the country, recruit trainees from them for Atlas Fitness Centers, and get information that can help us destroy the saboteurs.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Cooper says dismissively. “Turn off the feed,” he tells the technician, shaking his head in disgust and disappointment. “Is he gone?”
“For sure,” the young man says.
“So, John Galt created the Internet. And I’m the Tooth Fairy. Well, gentlemen, it’s obviously up to us. The good professor is out-to-lunch. Simmons, what have your intelligence sources turned up?” he asks the head of the FBI.
“Mr. President, this is definitely a coordinated, nationwide sabotage. ‘John Galt Is Dead’ signs are plastered everywhere in every Cooperv…I mean in every illegal displacement camp. But there’s another message they’re putting out. In Chicago, Dallas, Seattle, and Boston, planes have been seen pulling a banner with ‘Truth is Beauty. Beauty Truth’ written on it.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“That’s what our cryptographers are working on right now, sir. We think it’s code for a radical gay-socialist-communist-artist cabal. It may even be part of an international conspiracy. In San Antonio, the message they’re putting out is ‘La belleza es verdad. La verdad, belleza.’ Don’t worry. I’ve got my best experts on it. They’ll crack it.”
“Mr. President,” Homeland Security Director Smathers interjects. “Mr. President, we have been infiltrating the displacement camps for months. Our most up-to-date reports suggest that the squatters are simply unemployed men and women, many with children, who are moving from place to place to find work. All of our intelligence points to their just being desperate people struggling to survive.”
“That’s impossible,” Cooper says emphatically. “I don’t believe it for a minute. There’s got to be something wrong with your intelligence. Find a way to pin something on as many of them as you can. We’ve got to have a reason to get rid of that trash once and for all. I can’t have them there on Election Day. Of course this is off the record: Do whatever it takes. If you need to, just plant drugs and weapons, then round up suspects and throw them in jail, including the ringleaders. That way, we can claim they are lawbreakers and national security risks. I don’t want to know the details. Keep me out of the loop. It’s completely in your hands now. Just get the job done. And get rid of the camp on the Capital Mall—now! That’s high priority. It’s spoiling my view. I can’t go out on the balcony for a little relaxation without having to see those horrible people. Make it an example for the rest of the country. Smathers, contact Manfreed and tell him he’s got some great ideas and he should proceed with his plans. But let him know we’ll be doing it our way, too. Just don’t get specific.”
TUESDAY, JUNE 7, 11 A.M.: MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. Countess Isabella leaves the Plaza Hotel. In a plain white blouse, crisply pleated blue skirt, and white heels, she quickly crosses Central Park South. It’s windy, so she tries to hold her hair in place with her left hand. She enters Central Park with the care of a lion tamer entering a cage. “LuAnn Buford?” she asks the first person she sees, a woman in her thirties holding a five-year-old girl by the hand. “Can you tell me where ah might find LuAnn Buford, the woman whose husband was killed yesterday, the woman who was on TV last night?”
“No ma’am, sorry I can’t,” the stranger says, looking suspiciously at her. “But if you keep going on the walk, you’ll find someone who can probably help you.”
About twenty feet beyond, from a large white tent in which three men are talking, a man wearing a blue and white badge emerges. “I’m Richard C.,” he says, before Isabella can say a word. “May I help you?”
“Ahm looking for LuAnn Buford, the woman whose husband was killed yesterday, the woman ah saw on TV last night. Ah really need to speak with her.”
“Gladly,” he replies. “Let me escort you. It’s a ways.” They walk about thirty feet, when Isabella suddenly holds her chest with her right hand, seeming to have a hard time breathing. “Ma’am, is there a problem?”
“No, Ah’ll be all right. It’s just the young woman walking ahead of us, with the three children. They’re so young. She’s so young.”
“Ma’am, you know what this place is, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, ah do,” Isabella says, fanning herself with her right hand. “Ah can look down on it from my bedroom window. I live in the Plaza Hotel. Ah’ve just never been down here, this close, seeing people eye-to-eye, like regular people.”
“There are thousands of us, ma’am, down on our luck. Most of us were something once. We’ve all got names, and faces, and stories to tell anyone who cares. Most people don’t. They look the other way, don’t want to see what’s here. Some don’t want to know about it. Some think we’re just lazy. Some think we’ve got bugs and disease. Angie and her kids are on her way to the lunch feeding. She wants to get there early to be sure there’s enough food for all of them. She’s looking after her children like any good mother. Her husband Jeff is out looking for work, any kind of work. I saw him leave this morning. He goes out every day at 6 a.m. Some days he finds work, just for the day. You can tell when he comes back with a smile on his face and can’t wait to find Angie and the kids. Most days he doesn’t. But he keeps trying. These are good people, ma’am, but they’re desperate. They’ve got no place to go but here. This country isn’t for people any more, hasn’t been for a long time. It’s owned by corporations. They don’t give a damn about real people.
“You’ll find LuAnn over there,” John C. says, pointing straight ahead. “Billy called it the Taj Mahal, because he was so in love with LuAnn. He really put his heart into making their place the best in Cooperville. I warn you, I was with her just an hour ago, she’s still in a state of shock. If you’d like, I’ll go in and tell her there’s someone here to see her. Maybe that’ll make it easier for both of you.”
“Thank you,” the countess replies, shaking her head in disbelief, then waiting outside, assuming LuAnn will come out.
“You’re here to see me?” LuAnn asks suspiciously. “John C. said ‘a fine looking lady’ was here to see me.”
“Why, yes, of course, LuAnn.”
“I know that voice,” LuAnn replies, taking Isabella in from head to toe. “But the face, the face. Oh my God, can it be you? Idabelle? Idabelle Sue Raft?” she says, burying her face in both hands in embarrassment, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “How did you get here? How did you find me? How did you know? I can’t bear for you to see me this way. I, I, Billy, you know about Billy? How could you know about Billy?” she asks, breaking out into tears. “How could they do this to Billy?”
“Calm down, LuAnn,” Isabella says, as she hugs her. “Just take it easy. Ahm here for you. Ah know about everything, well everything that was on TV. Ah saw you on the news last night.”
“But look at you, Idabelle, just look at you. You look like a rich lady, one fine, rich lady.”
“Well actually, ahm not Idabelle anymore. I’m the Countess Isabella de Horsch. My husband the count and I live right over there in the Plaza Hotel,” she says, pointing south. “Our apartment looks right out over the park.”
“You gotta look out on all of us? Not a pretty sight! A countess, a countess, my word. I always knew our Idabelle would amount to something. But a countess, a countess,” she says, again almost collapsing in tears.
“Enough about me. I want to know all about you and what happened last night.”
“Well, Billy and I wound up here after we were wiped out in the flood in Mississippi and we lost our land, our trailer, our clothes, our furniture, everything. Then, while the water was still knee-deep, a big developer come in, said we didn’t have clear title, or whatever, to our property, so he bought it right out from under us. We didn’t have insurance, but Billy could have rebuilt our place. He was an auto mechanic, but he could fix anything. ‘Gimme anythin’ broke and I’ll put her back in shape,’ he’d always say. And that wasn’t just boasting. He could do almost anything.
“Well, the whole town was wiped out, too. There was nothing left. First the flood, then the developer took everything. Some people had relatives who took them in. We had no one. So, we just headed out, looking for work and a place to sleep. Billy’s truck got swamped in the flood, so we didn’t even have transportation. We walked and hitched rides through Alabama, Florida, and Georgia. In South Carolina, Billy found work as a handyman at an apartment building for about two months. We had our own apartment, and things were starting to look up. I almost got a job as a waitress. But then, the bank foreclosed on the building, and that was the end of that. We just kept moving north, but we couldn’t make a dime. Finally, we wound up in New York City, where Billy always said he wanted to take me, ’cept we had nothing, absolutely nothing and nowhere to go.
“Finally, we wound up here, in the park. They call it Cooperville, you know, after the president, ’cause he and his people don’t give a shit about people like us. Pardon my language, but it’s the truth. Billy built our place all by himself. He called it the Taj Mahal, because he said he loved me so much. He always said he wanted to take me to the real one, but I knew we’d never have the money. Billy showed it to me in pictures, which was good enough for me. We never had kids. I was all he had. He was all I had,” LuAnn says, nearly collapsing. Isabella holds her for about five minutes. Neither one of them says a word.
“Okay, I can go on,” LuAnn says. “Last night, I went for a walk. Billy said he was tired and wanted to rest. When I came back, he was on the floor, dead—not just dead, murdered in cold blood. Why did I ever leave him, I keep asking myself? He’d be alive, maybe, if I hadn’t gone.
There was nothing anyone could do for him when I found him. Times have changed. There are no police to call. Unless you’ve got private security, you’re not protected. Nobody cares about people like us. Billy’s body was sold to a medical school. Look. They gave me $200, half of what they got for him. The rest went to help everyone in Cooperville. That’s all a man’s worth these days—if he’s lucky. They treat animals better.”
“LuAnn, ahm gonna help you,” Isabella says. She hands her an envelope. “There’s $500 in here, and it’s just the beginning. Ahm gonna find you a job and help you get an apartment if you want to stay here. If you want to leave New York, ah’ll help you get wherever you want to go. Ahm rich now. Ah’ll take care of you.” They both look up when a young woman peeks through the door.
“Excuse me. I’m Anne Guthrie,” she says. “Channel 10 News. I’m looking for LuAnn Buford.”
“That’s me,” LuAnn replies. “And this is my friend, the countess.”
“I’m Countess Isabella de Horsch,” Isabella says, offering to shake hands.
“Did you say ‘de Horsch?’”
“Why yes,” Isabella replies, flattered at apparently having been recognized.
“Is your husband Count Henry de Horsch?”
“Why yes, of course,” Isabella answers, feeling even more like a celebrity.
“I came here to talk with LuAnn about Billy’s murder. But since I found you here, I’d really like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. Countess, are you aware of how many people in Cooperville are here, like LuAnn, because, after the flooding in Mississippi, your husband challenged their claims to their land, paid next to nothing for their property, and made them homeless?”
“Ah know nothing about my husband’s business dealings. But he’s an honorable man. He always does right by people.”
“Do you think it’s right to steal other people’s land?”
“Why, of course not.”
“Why are you here, anyway?”
LuAnn interrupts. “The countess is my friend. We grew up together. She was Idabelle Sue Raft then. She saw me on TV last night and came here to help. Look she gave me $500 to help me get on. And she’s promised to take care of me.”
“LuAnn, ahm gonna leave you to your guest, but ah’ll be back. Nice to have met you, I’m sure—Miss Guthrie, isn’t it?” And with that, the countess makes a quick exit.
TUESDAY, JUNE 7, 3 P.M.: TIMES SQUARE, MANHATTAN. On the giant TV screen facing 42nd Street, scheduled programming is interrupted.
“I’m Anne Guthrie, and this is a breaking news exclusive from Channel 10. The wife of a developer brings guilt money to Cooperville. A phony countess brings cash to her childhood friend, one of thousands her husband defrauded. You’re hearing it only on Channel 10! During my visit to LuAnn Buford, whose husband was murdered last night in the Central Park Cooperville, I was introduced to none other than the Countess Isabella de Horsch. It turns out the royal’s real name is Idabelle Sue Raft, and she was born closer to an outhouse than the manor. The fake aristocrat and her husband bought their titles from an Internet company so they could rip off the poor and still hobnob in society. The unscrupulous count has made millions by stealing other people’s property out from under them. Rumor has it that he wants to bulldoze Cooperville so he can buy up Central Park and develop it as a profit-making mall and amusement park. Hear from LuAnn Buford how Count Henry destroyed her life and the lives of everyone else in coastal Mississippi. Stay tuned throughout the day as this story unfolds.”
TUESDAY, JUNE 7, 5 P.M.: MIDTOWN MANHATTAN, THE PLAZA HOTEL. When Countess Isabella returns, Count Henry is sitting on the sofa in the living room, looking straight ahead, not moving a muscle. “Let’s go for a walk,” he says cheerfully, as though having been awakened from a trance.
“Ah’m a bit tired, hon.”
“I insist. Some fresh air will do both of us good. Wilson will follow us in the car, so then we won’t have to walk back.”
They walk south on Fifth Avenue about two blocks. “Have you seen what’s been on TV everywhere for hours?” the count asks coldly, turning to her.
“Whatever do you mean?” she answers.
“All afternoon, they’ve been running the headline, ‘Phony Count and Countess Exposed.’ That’s you and me. And really, you haven’t seen any of it?”
“Oh, no,” Isabella says, putting a hand on each cheek. “Why no! Ah haven’t seen anything.”
“That’s not all,” the count continues. “That bitch, that bitch reporter Guthrie, who says she talked with you, says that you think it was wrong for me to buy up land in Mississippi.”
“That’s not what ah said. That’s not what ah meant to say, Henry. You gotta believe me.”
“I told you not to go near Central Park. I told you to stay away from that piece of trash you said was your friend. Now, you’ve ruined me, you double-crossing bitch. They’ll never get off my ass now.” He taps twice on the window of their limo, which has slowly been following them. Wilson stops, the trunk pops open, and the count takes two suitcases out. “I picked you up off the street. You were nothing. I made you a countess. Now, you can go back where you belong. You can be the Countess of Cooperville. Here’s a thousand dollars. Get lost. Thank God I never married you.”
Without saying a word or shedding so much as a tear, Isabella smiles, squints, shrugs her shoulders, stares at the limo as it speeds away, picks up her suitcases, and hails a taxi.