The Kingmaker
"Ah, President Montrose. It's good to see you. Welcome to my home."
Preston Montrose was amazed that his distinguished host answered the door himself.
"I was expecting a butler."
"And I was expecting you to arrive in the presidential limo with Secret Service agents in tow," Jonas Anglin replied.
"Are you surprised that the President of the United States wants to put the job aside from time to time and live like an ordinary person?"
"No. And the same can be said for multibillionaires," the host chuckled as he prepared his esteemed guest a drink from his well-stocked bar. "But let's not kid ourselves. This is no social call. I've seen your latest approval ratings. You don't stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting reelected next November."
A thin-skinned individual, Preston felt his anger rise, but he managed to keep all outward displays of emotion in check. People often referred to the American commander-in-chief as the most powerful man in the free world, but it was immensely wealthy men like Jonas Anglin who were the real power behind the office. With great reserves of money at their disposal, they had the clout to make or break political careers.
"Will your wife be joining us for dinner, Jonas?" Preston calmly asked, showing no sign of his inner turmoil.
"Hell, no! She's off in Paris, doing what she does best: spending my money."
"I'm afraid the first lady is the same way. That's why I don't let her anywhere near Fifth Avenue or Rodeo Drive."
As Jonas sipped his drink, his eyes went to the Picasso painting hanging above his fireplace mantel. It was but one of the many priceless pieces of art he owned.
"They say money can't buy happiness," he intoned softly. "That's total bullshit!"
He did not know about happiness, but the president had little doubt that it could buy him a second term in the White House.
"Money has satisfied my every whim," Jonas continued. "I've traveled the world, owned the most exotic cars, lived in the grandest homes and sailed the most expensive yachts. I own private jets, racehorses, professional sports teams and artwork worthy to hang in the Louvre. And as for women .... well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you my sexual history like we were teenage boys sharing our tales of conquest in the locker room."
At that point, having finished his drink, the host rose from his seat and headed in the direction of the dining room.
"Suffice it to say, I'm not much to look at," he admitted truthfully once he sat down at the head of the massive mahogany table. "I'm no Brad Pitt. Yet in all my long years, there has never been a woman I desired that I wasn't able to have. I've bedded some of the most beautiful and famous Hollywood stars, top supermodels, society's choicest debutantes and more than a few pretty young women who worked for one of the dozens of companies I own."
As though on cue, the staid British butler finally made his appearance, bringing out the shrimp cocktail appetizer.
"I have also had the financial resources and the opportunity to dabble in politics, as you well know. The Kingmaker: that's what they call me. Historically, of course, the nickname refers to Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, during the time of England's Wars of the Roses. In this day and age, however, the title aptly belongs to me."
The president nibbled on his shrimp, growing bored of the older man's braggadocio and wishing the whole sordid business was over and done with. While he had nowhere near the amount of money Jonas possessed, he was far from poor himself. He was also known to be arrogant and boastful but on a far lesser scale than Anglin.
The host stopped speaking and proceeded to devour his shrimp cocktail with gusto. As if in response to a silent cue, the butler reappeared, carrying a tureen full of lobster bisque.
"Of all the pleasures in life," Jonas declared with gratification, "I find none is more satisfying than good food! That's why I've always had a bit of a weight problem. Sadly, once I hit seventy, my love of rich foods caught up with me. My doctors have me taking pills for diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol—you name it. And they always give me the same tired advice: watch what you eat and get more exercise."
President Montrose smiled. Here was an area where he bested the Kingmaker. Although past fifty, he was as fit and trim as a man in his twenties. Even when campaigning he managed to work out and eat healthy meals.
"Doctors!" the billionaire exclaimed with disgust. "More like leeches, if you ask me. This country will never have socialized medicine because the damned doctors are too greedy."
"I wouldn't let the insurance companies or the pharmaceutical industry off the hook," the president added.
"Or the politicians! You have all been lining your pockets with money from Big Pharma for decades. But what can you expect? Most politicians are former lawyers, and lawyers are lower than doctors, in my opinion."
A former lawyer himself, Preston took offense at his host's condemnation. Still, he succeeded in keeping his emotions hidden.
A salad followed the bisque, and the president wondered when the entrée would finally be served. Not only did he want to get this humbling meeting over with, but he was not eager to consume so many calories in one sitting.
I'll be on the treadmill for hours, he thought glumly.
"I was never one for this rabbit food," Jonas grumbled, liberally dousing his salad with blue cheese dressing. "I always smother it to hide the taste of the lettuce."
"I'll just have a little balsamic vinegar on mine," the president instructed the butler.
"If you were to ask the average person who the wealthiest man in the world is," the host said, changing the subject, "the answer would probably be Bill Gates or Jeff Bezos."
"True."
"And that would be wrong."
"Are you saying you're worth more money than they are?"
"I am. In fact, I'd be willing to bet my life on it. I've got investments in countries around the globe and funds in offshore accounts—hell! I've got wads of cash stored in a safe in this house and in every other house I own."
"Are you telling the President of the United States that you have money in illegal bank accounts?" Preston joked. "Funds you don't declare? Tax evasion is a serious crime. Just look at Al Capone."
"What are you going to do about it? Have the IRS audit my tax return?" Jonas taunted him.
"Hardly."
"I'm being open and honest with you because I want you to be open and honest with me. As Hannibal Lecter famously said in The Silence of the Lambs, 'Quid pro quo, Clarice.'"
"Fine. Go ahead and ask me whatever you want to."
"Why do you want so badly to remain in the Oval Office?"
"That's all you want to know?" the president laughed.
"It's not as easy a question to answer as you might think. I want the truth. You've been in office for three years already, and you haven't done a very impressive job."
The urge to wipe the smirk off the billionaire's face was powerful, but, to his credit, Preston held his anger in check.
"All right. Plain and simple, I want to remain the president because it's the most powerful position in the world."
Anglin frowned and slowly shook his head from side to side.
"No, it's not. The mere fact that you're here, seeking my largesse, biting your tongue and pretending you wouldn't like to push my face into my salad is a testament to that fact. I've got more power than a mere president could ever dream of. Now, come on. Why is your continued stay in the White House so important to you?"
Preston reached into his pocket and took out a five-dollar bill.
"Do you know who this is?" he asked, showing his host the front of the bill.
"Certainly. It's Lincoln."
"Precisely. Every schoolchild in this country knows about Abraham Lincoln and how he freed the slaves and fought a war to keep the Union intact. Our nation has erected a monument to him in Washington, D.C., and carved his face in stone at Mount Rushmore. His likeness is on the five-dollar bill and the penny. You know, the first lady and I took a European tour on our honeymoon. We visited the tiny Republic of San Marino, the fifth smallest country in the world. To be honest, I had never heard of it until we visited it. We went inside the Palazzo Pubblico, the official government building. And what do you think I saw there?"
Jonas shrugged his shoulders.
"I haven't a clue."
"A bust of Old Honest Abe himself! I was astonished. A little country, over four thousand miles from Washington, and here was a bust of our former president. That's what I want: to be remembered."
"Seriously? You'll never be another Abraham Lincoln. Not all my vast resources can work that miracle."
"I know that. I'm no idiot. I'll never be as beloved as Lincoln, George Washington, Franklin Roosevelt or John Kennedy. But I don't want to be some obscure footnote in American history either. I don't want to be Millard Fillmore, John Tyler, Chester Arthur or Franklin Pierce. Most Americans have no idea know who these men are. But that's the way I'm headed. In another hundred years, no one will remember my presidency."
"And you think an additional four years will change that?"
"You want honesty?" the president asked as though issuing a challenge.
"Yes."
"If not for the Civil War, Lincoln would not be revered today. FDR is considered one of this country's greatest leaders in part because of the Second World War. And Washington owed his popularity to the American Revolution."
"Your point?"
"If I'm given a second term, there will be a war, and I'll emerge as a great leader."
"How do you know such a war won't come back and bite you in the ass? Lyndon Johnson wasn't admired for sending troops into Vietnam. Or George Bush invading Iraq."
"You help get me reelected, and I'll do the rest," President Montrose promised.
"You think I'm in favor of a war?"
"Don't tell me you're a pacifist."
"Ah! Here comes the main course," Jonas announced with unabashed delight when the butler rolled a cart laden with food into the dining room. "Let's not talk business now. I don't want to spoil my appetite."
For the next forty minutes, there was no mention of politics, money, power or war. The only comments that passed between the two men concerned the quality and taste of the food.
"Is the meat cooked to your liking?" the host inquired.
"Yes, it's delicious."
"Be sure to save room for dessert."
"None for me; thank you. I've got to watch my waistline."
"Nonsense! You're as thin as a rail."
Once the desserts—truly decadent creations—were brought out, Jonas had not one or two but three different dishes: crème brûlée, chocolate soufflé and a slice of pecan pie. It was nearly midnight when the meal finally came to an end.
Thank God! Preston mused when his host rose from the table. I didn't think he would ever stop eating.
"Getting back to our previous conversation ...," the president began.
"Come take a walk with me," the billionaire ordered, not responding to his guest's prompting.
"Now?"
"What I have to show you isn't far. It's just at the end of the hallway."
Jonas took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.
"This is my sanctuary. What do people call it nowadays? A man cave?"
Covering the walls of the immense room were mounted heads of animals, ranging from a twelve-pointed buck to an African elephant with massive tusks. In addition to these macabre trophies, there were full-sized animals that had been preserved by a taxidermist, including a zebra, a wildebeest, a wild boar and a silverback gorilla.
"This place reminds me of the Museum of Natural History," the president observed, awed by the number and variety of dead animals on display.
"My father took me hunting when I was five. My first kill was a squirrel. After I shot it, I cried and threw up in the bushes. My father took down my pants and spanked me right then and there for being a weakling."
"That seems rather harsh parenting."
"I suppose so, but it made a man out of me."
"Killing defenseless animals makes you a man?" the president asked, his calm, respectful veneer wearing thin.
"That's an odd question from a man who wants to start a war just to secure his place in history."
"Look, it's getting late. Can we get to the matter of my visit? Can I count on your support in my bid for reelection?"
As if he had not heard the president's question, Jonas quietly stated, "I'm dying."
Preston was stunned by his host's startling revelation. Frankly, he did not care whether the old bastard lived or died, but he desperately needed his financial backing.
"I'm ... sorry."
"I don't want your sympathy."
"All right. How much time do you have left?"
"Relax. My well-paid doctors can keep me alive until next November."
"Can I count on you, then?"
Ignoring the president's question, Jonas walked past his stuffed trophies to a locked gun cabinet. In addition to a selection of hunting rifles, it contained a bow and arrow and a crossbow.
"My third wife was shot by a gun similar to this one," the Kingmaker said, taking out a rifle and fondling it as though it were a woman.
"I read about that. They never found her murderer. Did they?"
A malicious smile crept over the billionaire's bloated face.
"Since we're being totally honest—I did it. I've got her head as a trophy, but it's not on display, for obvious reasons."
"Why did you kill her?"
"After a lifetime of shooting animals, I wanted the challenge of killing a human. Since I was growing bored with her anyway, I decided to save myself the inconvenience and expense of going through another divorce. It was a matter of killing two birds with one stone."
"I suppose I should be horrified that you're a murderer, but like you said, I'm willing to go to war to secure my place in history."
"It's funny, but when I murdered my wife, I didn't cry or throw up. I simply looked her in the eye, pulled the trigger and watched her die. I felt worse when I shot that damned squirrel. Oddly enough, it was disappointing. I had expected this rush of adrenaline, but ... nothing."
Jonas put the rifle back in the cabinet and took out the crossbow.
"Then one night it occurred to me that she was small game. If I really wanted to experience the thrill of the kill, I would need to set my sights higher."
As the president watched the billionaire take a bolt out of the cabinet and load it into the crossbow, his sense of apprehension grew.
"Maybe this isn't a good time for ...," he opined, nervously looking toward the door.
"This is the perfect time."
Despite his age and ill health, Anglin had no difficulty lifting the heavy crossbow and taking aim.
"What are you doing?" Preston cried, caught in his host's crosshairs.
"I should think that's painfully obvious. I'm going to shoot you."
"You can't do that. I'm the President of the United States, for Christ's sake."
"Tell that to Abraham Lincoln, John Kennedy, James Garfield and William McKinley."
"Don't!"
Jonas pulled the trigger, and a bolt pierced the president's chest.
"Again, I killed two birds with one stone," the billionaire boasted as though congratulating himself on a job well done.
Given the intense pain he felt, Preston could not speak. Nonetheless, the Kingmaker read the question in his eyes and explained.
"I granted your wish at the same time I fulfilled my own. I got to bag the biggest game known to man, and, as an assassinated president, you will be assured of going down in history. Like JFK, you will receive a grand state funeral with all the trappings. Rulers from around the world will come to Washington to bid farewell to America's fallen leader. In the wake of your death, your approval rating will skyrocket. People will name schools, streets and maybe an airport after you. Ironic, isn't it? You were willing to start a war and kill thousands to gain everlasting fame, and the only death necessary is your own."
Whether Preston Montrose heard his final comments, Jonas would never know. When the killer looked down upon his victim after returning the crossbow to the gun cabinet and locking the door, the president lay on the floor dead, his eyes glazed over.
That's funny! the billionaire realized as he returned to the dining room to have a fourth dessert and arrange for the removal of the president's head from his body for eventual stuffing and mounting. The killing of Preston Montrose is still nowhere near as upsetting as the death of that damned squirrel.
Ever since the passage of the 19th Amendment, Salem has been fighting for cats to get the vote. (I wouldn't mind as long as he registered as a Democrat.)
