“And what of the toxic waste your benzene refineries and your nuclear power plants generate? They flood America’s earth, air and groundwater with some of the most carcinogenic toxins worldwide. Do you really believe you shouldn’t stop the polluting and—if necessary—close those plants?”
—Jules Meredith
Jules studied Tower, who was staring out the east window of his Tower of Power penthouse apartment. Brenda had joined them, and she sat across from Jules, drinking and smoking.
“Do you realize,” Jules asked Tower, “that during the last presidential elections cycle, you and your billionaire consortium contributed more money to Republican political campaigns than all the other contributors combined.”
“And we got jack shit for it,” Tower grumbled, refilling his and Jules’s glasses.
He did not have to refill Brenda’s. She had her own brandy bottle and poured her own drinks steadily and heavily.
“What did you expect from politicians?” Brenda asked. “Honor and loyalty?”
“No, but for the money we’re paying out,” J. T. said, “they should keep their word.”
“Hell, yes,” Brenda agreed, “we should … own D.C.”
“Does doing what’s good for the country ever factor into your calculus?” Jules asked.
Tower snorted his derision.
Brenda laughed in Jules’s face.
“What’s good for Big Jim,” Tower said, “is good for the country—hell, for the world—or, at least, it ought to be. That’s a truth I hold to be self-evident.”
“You understand, Mr. President,” Jules said evenly but her eyes scornful and insolent, “that most of your life you’ve grown rich off those needle towers of greed, off Wall Street confidence games, rigged casinos and toxic petrochemicals. Did it ever occur to you that your money could have been better spent?”
“Money knows no good or bad, no right or wrong,” Tower said. “It doesn’t care where it’s come from or where it’s going next. It comes and goes. It circulates.”
“And in your world,” Jules asked, “you strive to keep the money circulating. Good money, filthy money, it’s all the same to you.”
“Good for you,” Tower said, clapping. “You finally got it. Money is indifferent to how it is utilized or where it came from—whether it’s a force for ill or good. Dirty currency can do noble things, and moral money can bankroll terrorists. Money does what it does and doesn’t worry about it. Money just … is. In Jim World money circulates perpetually. Hell, it’s the Second Blood.”
“So there’s no such thing as filthy lucre?” Jules asked.
“Some of England’s most prestigious families—the old-money aristocracy everyone genuflects before today—made their fortunes out of ‘the Black Triangle,’” Tower said. “Starting out 400 years ago as ship captains, their dynastic forebears ran guns to Africa. After trading them for slaves, they swapped the human contraband in Jamaica for rum and molasses, which they brought back to England and sold at spectacular profits. After a decade in the Triangle, they—and their refined and sophisticated old-money descendants—were set for life.”
“But does that justify your crooked casinos and your Wall Street derivative scams?” Jules said. “And what of the toxic waste your benzene refineries and your nuclear power plants generate? They flood America’s earth, air and groundwater with some of the most carcinogenic toxins worldwide. Do you really believe you shouldn’t stop the polluting and—if necessary—close those plants?”
“I don’t see why,” Tower said. “The Justice Department’s not worried enough to shut those plants down.”
“Okay,” Jules said. “So you don’t care about people or the planet. How about this? I called you something else: ‘the Barbaric Billionaire.’ Did you care about that?”
“That was low, even for you.”
“Not at all. You’ve been married three times and slept with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of other women. Some of them accused you of sexual violence. One ex-wife said during a deposition that you pulled handfuls of hair out of her head while you raped her. Do you have anything to say about that one, Mr. President?”
Glaring angrily at Jules, he poured her and himself another large snifter of cognac.
Oh fuck, Jules thought. This is going to get serious.