Chapter Twenty-Eight: Fundraising with Gangsters

Sunday, August 29, 2100

The fundraiser, with a million-dollar admission fee, took place at a luncheon at the Vaz, the palace of Mexico City Mayor and alleged gangster Fernando Vasquez. Twenty-two turned down their invitation to come with them, not wanting to affect the election by her public presence with them. Bruce linked his TC to the video screen in the Rocinante so she could watch the fundraiser live, from Bruce’s perspective.

The Vaz, one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World, had been built at the height of the Eth trade. U.S. forces destroyed it during the invasion. After the withdrawal in 2090, Vasquez rebuilt it at twice the previous size, officially from profits made from his butanol consulting business. Butanol, the winner over ethanol in the decades-long biofuel sweepstakes as oil supplies dwindled, was made from cellulose, grown in various forms mostly in the heartlands of the U.S., China, Russia, and South America. Little was grown in Mexico. Many old-style floaters, ground-based vehicles, and various industries still used butanol. Politicians who questioned the source of Vasquez’s fortune had a tendency to disappear.

From its mile-square base to the many spires that sprouted toward the sky, every inch of the Vaz shouted luxury. The entire outer surface was gold plated, with jewels embedded every few yards. Silent fireworks exploded from the highest spires twenty-four hours a day, with colorful sparks showering down like fireflies. Holly bushes with red berries—real plants—surrounded the palace. It had an indoor basement soccer stadium, art museums, and staging areas for opera and orchestra.

After landing the Rocinante outside the palace, where it was taken away by valet parking attendants, they approached the palace on foot in the oppressive heat.

“That’s a lot of gold, jewels and fireworks,” Toby said.

“It looks like someone with jaundice and chicken pox having a seizure,” Bruce said. “I heard the central spire is 666 feet tall, but Vasquez won’t let people measure it.”

They were each given a one-seat floater at the entrance, and left the oven temperatures outside for the frosty air conditioning inside. Toby and Bruce floated down the extravagant hallways slowly in the chair-sized objects, gazing in wonder at the works of art on the silver-plated walls.

Eventually they reached the central hall, the site of the fundraising luncheon. They were early, so there weren’t a lot of people yet in the surprisingly small hall. Overhead was the original Sistine Chapel ceiling, bought and transported to Mexico after the Vatican City Bankruptcy in 2073, during the Third Great Depression.

“Toby!” Fernando Vasquez, grinning widely, extended his hand. He was built like a heavyweight pro wrestler, all solid muscle, about six and a half feet tall, with squinting, coal-black eyes. His shaved head glistened with sweat despite the cool temperature. He wore a blue bathrobe, with a “V” monogrammed over the heart, over golden pajamas.

Toby shook Vasquez’s huge hand with both hands, a trick he’d learned long ago to make a recipient feel particularly special. “How are you, Fernando?” They’d known each other for years from past campaigns. As before, Vasquez’s perfumed breath didn’t quite cover the slight scent of rot.

“For once, we’re on the same side.” Vasquez’s voice was a bit hoarse. He moved closer and slapped him on the back; Toby fought to keep his balance. “And this must be Bruce?” He extended his hand.

Bruce shook hands, but Toby saw how he kept his arm locked, keeping Vasquez at a distance. Smart move; he’d have to practice that one.

“Sounds like you’ve been talking a bit,” Toby said.

“You wouldn’t believe it if you saw it,” Vasquez said. “There’s this girl with weird green hair who came by this morning for something, and we’ve been in the back all day, arguing politics. You have got to meet her, she’s a walking political encyclopedia.”

“She’s just using her TC,” Bruce said.

Vasquez shook his head. “It takes time to use a TC, and she never stops, never breathes, never inhales. She’s relentless!”

“I hope she’s a moderate,” Bruce said.

“I think she’s liberal,” Vasquez said. “But I’m not sure. There were just too many words for me.”

“When do we get to meet this maelstrom?” Toby asked.

Vasquez glanced over his shoulder at a doorway. “She followed me around all morning, wouldn’t let me escape. I finally got her together with Georgie Sanchez, my accountant, who thought he knew something about economics. Last I saw, he was drowning.”

“Will she be at the luncheon?” Toby asked.

“Let me see.” Vasquez’s eyes went vacant for a moment as he checked his TC. “No, I don’t think so, but I’ll put up the million for her, and put her at your table. Hey, it says she’s from Antarctica!”

“You don’t have to—” Toby began. Then his eyes went slightly wide. Melissa, the girl from Antarctica?

“Guests are coming in fast,” Vasquez said, “so why don’t you mingle while I check on the food?” He exited through a side door.

The room was filling up. Just when it seemed it had reached capacity, the walls on two sides began to move, enlarging the hall.

Toby fiddled with his scarf as he looked about. He vaguely recognized some of the guests, but wasn’t sure. “TC,” he whispered, “identify all guests when I approach within six feet.” It was time to raise money, or as Bruce would put it, extortion time.

He suddenly realized his neck was bare. He’d unknowingly jammed his scarf in his pocket. It didn’t want to be around for this.

Over the next hour, he and Bruce worked the guests, listening to their suggestions while nodding their heads, no matter how stupid the advice was. Everyone knows better than the actual candidate and campaign director, and if either let on that this was not completely true, they’d be in trouble. Toby wondered which would be more sore afterwards, his hand and wrist from shaking hands, or his neck from nodding.

When Vasquez returned, he still wore the gold pajamas, but now with a purple bathrobe. Guests gathered around him as he told stories of the Mexican resistance, all of which featured his own exaggerated heroics.

Then Vasquez announced that lunch was about to be served. Toby and Bruce sat next to each other at the front table, along with Vasquez and others. Vasquez’s twelve-year-old son, Marco, sat next to him, a toothy grin exposing a gold front tooth. He wore a purple “Platt for President” baseball cap.

At each spot at the table were platinum silverware and ornate plates covered with sharp warrior images. The plates had small labels identifying them as Aztec, though Toby wasn’t sure if they were originals—touched up to restore the ancient images—or duplicates. On each plate was a Platt for President button made of silver, with an embedded diamond for the “a” in “Platt.”

Toby heard her voice before he saw her. He turned around just as Melissa Smith, she of the green twisted gun barrel hair, sat next to him on his left. She was still talking over her shoulder at a thin-faced, worried-looking man who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, presumably Vasquez’s accountant. The man walked around the table and collapsed at the farthest possible seat away from Melissa. She turned to face Toby.

“Mr. Platt!” she exclaimed.

“You sure get around,” Toby said. “Washington D.C., Australia, and now Mexico? I thought you were from Antarctica.” As they spoke, lunch was served, a bean buffet set on the middle of the table, and vegetable parfaits for everyone. Also, to Toby’s surprise, an illegal alcoholic beverage, some sort of wine. Nobody objected.

“I’m with the Ajala campaign, so I go where they go.” She glanced at the accountant across the table. “I was supposed to leave this morning, but I stayed to discuss the election with Mr. Vasquez and Mr. Sanchez.” Toby wondered if the discussions were two-way discussions, based on what Vasquez had said.

“What were you doing here this morning?” Bruce asked.

“I was here for the Ajala fundraiser.”

Bruce and Toby exchanged glances. So Vasquez was covering his bets, doing fundraisers for both of Dubois’s opponents. There was no rule against that, but it was considered bad form. Vasquez was making it rather clear that he was only anti-Dubois. Or was there something Toby didn’t know?

Vasquez interrupted them by tapping what appeared to be a golden dagger against his glass to get everyone’s attention. He stood, as did his son Marco. “I’d like to thank you all for coming here and lowering your net worth for the good of mankind,” he began. “Let’s face it, a million dollars is a lot of money for normal people—which is why there are no normal people here!” There was some politely forced laughter.

“Every one of you has stepped forward and made their preferences known,” he continued. “You’ve put up your own money for a campaign that’s barely gotten started, that half the people on this planet probably don’t even know about. That money is gone, as far as you are concerned, but it’s an investment. For when this campaign takes off, and Mr. Platt is our next president, every one of us will be knocking on his door, saying ‘Hello, remember me?’”

Toby silently groaned. Marco giggled at his dad’s side.

Melissa leaned toward him and whispered, “That’s the same speech he gave this morning, only it was Mr. Ajala as our next president.”

Vasquez went on for a few more minutes as he launched into a diatribe against Dubois that covered just about everything except what Toby knew to be Vasquez’s real grievance: an overzealous USE police force, not a good thing for someone in Vasquez’s profession.

Vasquez also spoke of loyalty. “You cannot trust a man like Dubois, who sides with the Israelis one day, then with the Mormons when he needs their vote.” How had Vasquez known Dubois was going to throw his support to the Mormons? Toby knew about it, since he’d been at the meeting when that decision was made, but as far as he knew, Dubois had yet to go public on this—he’d been holding back on it, presumably as a last-minute surprise. Did Vasquez have inside information?

“There is nothing in this world more important than loyalty,” Vasquez said. Then he walked over and stood behind Toby. “I hope all of you have had the chance to meet Toby. Come, shake his hand—preferably his left, since his right is probably a bit worn out from the campaign—and I’m sure he’d love to hear your take on policy and election strategy.”

Toby stifled another groan.

“And now I’d like for you to meet the real Toby Platt,” Vasquez said as he glanced toward a large screen at the front of the room, snapping his fingers. Toby cringed as the huge, close-up picture of himself appeared. It was large enough that he and everyone else in the room could see crumbs on his worn-out scarf.

What followed was a montage of Toby’s silliest moments on the campaign. He knew the late-night shows always did this, but hadn’t seen them himself. A “roast” like this was meant in good humor, and was the price one paid for fund-raising, but that didn’t make it less embarrassing.

For the next ten minutes he watched himself in his most unguarded moments: chewing with his mouth open; stumbling over words in speeches; accidentally smacking Bruce in the chest while waving his arms during an animated discussion; and other lapses. The ending was a rapid-fire video set to music showing him, Dubois, and Ajala jumping to their feet and sitting down, over and over, at the “Dinner Debate Down Under.” Bruce laughed hysterically while Marco went into uncontrollable giggles. Toby found himself smiling even as Vasquez ended the video by calling on “Future President Jumping Bean” to give a speech.

As Toby rose, Vasquez leaned over and whispered, “I hope you have that spot for me on your cabinet. Treasury would be nice.” Toby thought his heart skipped several beats. A cabinet position for Vasquez? Was he kidding?

Toby gave his standard stump speech, emphasizing his PUFF plan, and then talking about the glory of Mexican independence. He didn’t go into the problems of gun violence, knowing of the accusations against Vasquez in this department. He finished by joking about how he would soon be leaving and they could celebrate another American withdrawal, then sat down.

He whispered in Bruce’s ear, “Why does Vasquez think he gets a spot in my cabinet?”

“I may have hinted that,” Bruce whispered back. “Since we can’t win, we aren’t promising anything we have to worry about, right?”

“You hinted—which is a promise to a guy like Vasquez—that he could be my Treasury Secretary?” Toby asked. “Are you out of your mind?” Before Bruce could respond, he said, “We’ll talk about this later, after I have you lasered.”

Vasquez began to eat, and others joined in. Waiters came by to deliver more food, including a wide variety of plastated foods. Toby liked simple foods, rarely appreciating expensive ones, but the food was the best he’d had all year.

Food seemed to be on Melissa’s 17-year-old mind as well. “You know your Provisional Universal Food Foundation is just another way of keeping food from the masses,” she said. “It’s a watered-down version of what any civilized society should do—feed all its people. How can you justify mass starvation while we eat so well?”

Bruce, on his right, leaned forward. “There isn’t mass starvation. That implies a significant percentage of the population, but it’s only a few percentage points, ten at most.”

Now Melissa leaned forward and stared at Bruce. To avoid the crossfire, Toby leaned back and kept his mouth shut. “Half a billion people went to bed hungry last night,” she said, “and millions are starving. If that’s not mass starvation, what is?”

“When I was a kid and said something my parents didn’t like,” Bruce said, “they’d send me to bed without dinner. That’s not starvation, that’s missing dinner.”

“Are you really comparing going to bed without dinner for being sassy to missing dinner because there’s no food?” Melissa’s eyes were on fire. Toby leaned back a bit further in his chair to avoid the flames. “Even those who get enough calories aren’t getting enough protein and other nutrition.”

“No, but going without dinner doesn’t make it mass starvation.” Bruce’s hand fell toward his pocket; Toby wondered if he’d bring out the ping-pong ball. Somehow tossing a ping-pong ball about didn’t fit the current setting. Unless it was one of pure gold.

“It’s all about a civilized society,” Melissa said, “where people don’t go to bed without dinner—unless they’re acting like little kids, talking nonsense, and need to be punished.” She glanced toward Toby. “Maybe you should send your stooge home without supper? Perhaps his mommy could collect all those meals he missed and solve world hunger?”

“Keep me out of this,” Toby said, “I’m just enjoying this ping-pong game.” He’d been turning his head back and forth to follow the exchange.

“How can we call ourselves civilized,” Melissa said, “if we don’t follow the Ten Universal Rights?”

“The what?” Bruce asked. Toby also had no idea what these were.

“They are Ajala’s new plan for a civilized society.” She smiled. “Ajala’s going to announce them in a few hours, the ten things any civilized society owes its citizens. Free food. Clean water. Clean air. Health care. Housing. Education. Transportation. Personal beliefs rights. Legal and police protection. And connection to communication networks, which means a TC for everyone.”

Ajala was getting smarter, Toby thought. Why hadn’t we thought of that?

“For cleaning clocks, his highness ended time paradoxes, like contradictions,” Melissa said.

Toby and Bruce both stared at her.

“It’s my mnemonic device for remembering all ten items,” Melissa said. “The ‘For’ for ‘food,’ ‘cleaning’ for ‘clean water,’ and so on.”

“Cute,” Bruce said. “Ajala expects the government to give all of that to all citizens for free?”

“Why not?” Melissa asked. “We’re already partly there, with health care and other stuff.

“The problem with people like you and Ajala,” Bruce said, ping-pong ball now in hand, “is you spend all your time thinking about your destination, but forget about the journey. How the heck are you going to get any of that passed, and where will he get the money? Are you going to double taxes? He goes public with this, he’ll get his followers into a frenzy of love, while the commonsense masses—I can’t believe I’m calling them that—will vote him off the planet.”

“All the great innovators and revolutionaries were ‘voted off the planet’ at first,” Melissa said. “Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from those with mediocre minds.”

Touché, Toby thought; Einstein, right from the poster on Bruce’s wall.

“Well,” Bruce said, “us mediocre minds have one thing in common. We understand that if you can’t pass it, it won’t happen, and you end up not just with nothing, but the opposite of nothing—things go negative. How’d you like five more years of Dubois because Ajala goes too far, won’t compromise?”

“Children,” Toby said, aware that all eyes and ears on the table and surrounding tables were following the discussion, “perhaps it’s time to introduce that revolutionary concept known as a compromise. You start with a goal—Ajala’s Ten Universal Rights—and work out how to get there. If you can’t get there right away, you take the journey step by step, compromising each time to get what’s possible at that time. You keep doing this, and eventually you finish the journey.”

Vasquez began to slowly clap his hands. “Absolutely brilliant. You with your scarf, her with her hair, and him with his ping-pong ball, you three make a great team. I’m gonna do whatever I can to help you win, and then I can join you as Secretary of the Treasury, and we can work out how to fund these Universal Rights.”

Oh brother, Toby thought. What had Bruce gotten him into? Best to nip it in the bud. He’d been hesitant about the fundraiser itself, with a shady figure like Vasquez, but there was no way he was going to put this gangster in charge of the world’s money. Vasquez was the tip of a whole iceberg of gangs and violence that ran from Mexico and down through Central America, an issue they’d address when the election moved to Latin America in six weeks—if they lasted that long.

“I haven’t really thought a whole lot about cabinet appointees yet,” Toby said. “We’re a third-party challenge based on ideas. We’ll worry about the people to put these ideas in place later on.”

Incoming call from Fernando Vasquez. Toby looked up and could see Vasquez’s looking at him, a slight smile on his face.

“Accept.”

“You’re aware that Bruce promised me this position?”

“Did he promise, or just hint at it?” Like Vasquez, he whispered so nobody else could hear.

Vasquez’s smile vanished. “I don’t play games.”

Toby decided that parsing words was not the way to handle Vasquez. “Fernando, are you really supporting me?”

“That is a good question,” Vasquez said. “Yes, I support you, even if you are an American. Why? Because I have a lot of money, because I hate Dubois, but mostly because Bruce promised me a place on your cabinet if you win. I don’t think you can win, but like I said, I have a lot of money, and I’m covering the odds. Now. Mr. Platt, I want you to look around. There are about two hundred people here, at one million each. You do the math. In return, I expect something, and I don’t want hints. If you win, are you going to name me Treasury Secretary, or are you going to stiff me and embarrass me after I already said publicly I’d be Treasury Secretary?”

Toby wished he’d taken some Eth. There were times when the stuff had its uses. But he couldn’t make this promise.

“Fernando, I appreciate your help,” Toby said carefully, “but I just can’t make that promise.”

“Then I will make you a promise, Mr. Platt. I like you, but if I have to go to hell and back, I’m going to put you out of this race.” The slight smile was back on Vasquez’s lips.