‘They’re asking for comments on what the VP supposedly said in private about the new Iran deal. It’s all over the dailies, they even did a call in on C-span this morning. How do you want us to shut it down? We can do a press briefing.’
John Woods sat back in the soft black seats of Cadillac 1, being driven to the latest in what seemed to be a never ending circuit of fundraising dinners. The last couple of days had been difficult and the last thing he needed was his vice president speaking and then being taken out of context by the Washington muckrakers. ‘No, send out a tweet, something along the lines of the White House does not comment on private conversations between individuals. What else? Any updates on the Nashville shooting?’
Woods’s senior advisor, Mattie Brown, ginger haired and on the unhealthy side of slim, sat opposite the president and Teddy Adleman. ‘We’re keeping in constant contact with the hospital. The three students who were critical last night, well I’m afraid it’s not looking good, sir.’
‘Jesus.’
‘You’re scheduled to fly out to see the families at thirteen hundred hours tomorrow, but I think we could manage to create an earlier window by changing the morning visit from the North American Baptist Women’s Union, though we probably won’t be able to reschedule them for another three months.’
Adleman adjusted the gold plated cufflink on his somewhat over-starched white shirt and noticed a stain on his blue suit. Tried to wipe it off. Failed. Then tried to ignore the tight, burning sensation on his scalp from where he’d left the hair relaxer on too long the night before. Eventually he spoke. ‘I think it’d be worth keeping the meeting with the NABWU. They’re big advocates for gun control, and there’s a lot of support for this administration. It’s important to keep the women’s vote. Their influence amongst their families and communities is pretty powerful. You don’t want them to be pissed with you.’
Woods nodded. ‘Hell hath no fury like a Baptist Women’s Union scorned.’
‘Unless of course it’s a drop in the polls,’ said Mattie.
The men sat in silence for a moment until the president spoke. ‘Teddy, have we been able to contact Senator Walmsley?’
‘No, sir. I think he’s running scared. He’s not returning any calls, but there’s a possibility he might be at the fundraising dinner.’
John stared at his senior advisor. Who the hell did Walmsley think he was? The man was an A-class jerk. And if all things were equal, knocking a bit of sense into him in a downtown bar would be the most gratifying option to sort this out. As it stood, he was going to have to act the circus dog and roll over and hope and beg and plead with the senator to reconsider his support on the reforms.
Walmsley was playing games. Games with the welfare of the American people while sitting on his fat ass up at the Hill where the air of dysfunction and paralysis was at an all-time high. America was losing faith, and the only comfort he had was that in a recent poll, Congress came out lower than he did in the approval ratings.
He got that the pro-gun groups were putting pressure on certain senators, but they had to grow some. Think about others, like he had to. These gun control reforms weren’t about him. Hell yes, he had an ego like any other red blooded male, but contrary to what the double page spread in the Wall Street Journal last week had reported, his mission was not to be put on the presidential map because of his own narcissism.
The truth was a cliché. One which no-one seemed to believe, and which echoed a beauty pageant finalist. But he’d worked hard. Been ambitious. Been determined, all to make a difference. And God, how simple did that sound? Yet if any word should have a semantic shift, it was that one. Simple. Because simple seemed nothing short of goddamn impossible.