American Fascist Read online

  “No thanks, Daddy, Brad and I have a date!” she said, winking and then floating out the door, closing it behind her.

  Franks reached for the bags, pulled them open and dug out the cardboard-wrapped sandwiches and fries and coleslaws and desserts, setting everything on the table like a proud working American father in a TV ad who just “won” dinner.

  “Dig in boys, there’s plenty of everything. I prefer the crispy chicken sandwiches myself, so leave an extra one for me,” Franks said, as he gathered a pile of food toward his barrel chest.

  Eli followed his lead, grabbing a sandwich and some fries. Ken and Walter dug in as well, although not with the enthusiasm the president had.

  Franks started chomping on a sandwich and then spoke as he chew.

  “I bet you’re wondering why I invited you over here, right kid?” he said to Eli.

  “I know you’re extremely busy, sir,” Eli said.

  “Always. You wouldn’t believe how many documents I have to read. And different ones. And you have to. I think I read more documents than any president ever, wouldn’t you say, Walter?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Walter said as he picked at some fries without looking up. Franks continued on.

  “Well, Eli, I know you’ve done a lot of good work for us, so many beautiful things, am I right?”

  “I hope so, sir,” Eli said.

  “Big beautiful things, lots of initiatives. Important. But I’ve got some bad news, and I wanted to be the first one to let you know, okay?”

  “Thank you sir, I appreciate that,” Eli said, trying to stay positive and light.

  Franks finished swallowing the big bite of spicy chicken in his mouth, then washed it down with a slurp of soda from a sixty-four ounce cup.

  “The Commission on Election Fraud is being disbanded, kid. With all the states that refused to hand over the data, and all the damn lawsuits, it just doesn’t make sense,” Franks said as he stared at Eli.

  Eli tried to hide his surprise, and played along, his face drooping slightly.

  “Oh, yes, I can see that sir. Disappointing, but makes perfect sense,” he said.

  “I know it’s disappointing, I’m disappointed too. And all the work you did, right? Life is tough sometimes, kid,” he said in a fatherly tone.

  Eli agreed, as Ken and Walter just ate, watching his expressions. It was unnerving, but Eli focused on his food, and listened as the president rambled on about the voter fraud issue, how he won the election fair and square, the millions of people who voted illegally, the Russia thing was a hoax, and then it was on to Simpson, who was compromised and out to get him, but now he had taken care of that.

  It was that same stream of consciousness talk track that he always had, but jumping around more than Eli ever remembered. His brain just couldn’t stay on one subject long enough to complete more than one or two sentences, before he was on to the next tangential subject, however tenuous the connection.

  “You ever get in Natalie’s pants? I tried to help, you know that,” he said. Eli nearly choked on his food but washed it down with a nearby glass of water.

  “No sir, we went on a date, but it never really went anywhere. She’s trying to work things out with her old fiancée.”

  “Too bad, she’s a hottie, but a tough one, I can tell you that,” Franks said.

  Ken interjected for the first time, checking his watch. “Sir, just a reminder you have Barry and his wife at eight,” Ken said.

  “And that’s why I’m eating now, Ken, so I don’t have to stomach that gruel from the kitchen.” He turned back to Eli.

  “Who the fuck wants lobster anyway? They look like dead bugs. Dead sea bugs, that’s what I call ‘em,” Franks said as he smiled, and Eli forced a smile back.

  “But Barry loves it, so there you go. Make the guests happy, that’s what I always say, thirty years doing hotels, right?” Franks said turning back to his second sandwich.

  They all nodded in agreement with the president. The chit-chat went on like that for another fifteen minutes, until everyone was full of fast food and Franks had begun repeating his story about the Russia hoax and Simpson being taken care of for the third time.

  “Well, before we wrap up, there’s just one more thing I wanted to mention, kid.”

  Eli sat straighter. “Of course, sir, what’s that?”

  “This story that came out today, about our system, and erasing files. How do you imagine that came about?” Franks asked, as he stared hard into Eli. Eli took a deep breath.

  “I’ve been asking myself that question all day, sir,” he started, and he looked toward Walter, who now was staring at him as well. “As Walter will tell you, I’ve been trying to reach him all day to find out what we should do. It’s obviously very concerning. Its’ nothing illegal though, am I right?”

  Franks just stared at him.

  “Are you a goddamn lawyer now?” he asked, unblinking.

  Eli slouched a bit. “No sir.”

  “Do you take me for a fucking idiot?” Franks asked.

  “No, Mr. President, I would never —”

  “Then why the fuck don’t you just come clean with me? Tell the damn truth!” Franks suddenly bellowed, his face turning dark orange and his eyes burning — the whole room tightened but no one moved. Eli started to shift back in his chair.

  “Sir, I had nothing to do with that story, you know all the work I’ve done for you, you just said so yourself — why would I leak?”

  “Show him the fucking papers, Ken,” Franks said, his gaze locked onto Eli.

  Ken pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table.

  Eli picked it up, unfolded it, and saw a photocopy of Sherry and his own receipts from the night at Franks’ hotel bar. He thought this might be coming and he didn’t flinch.

  “Sir, I can explain. I know what it looks like, but it’s much simpler than that. I was trying to fuck her, that’s all,” Eli spit out in a rush as he stared at Franks.

  “She gave me some signs at a press conference, invited me for drinks, and she was… Sherry Anderson. I mean, who wouldn’t want to fuck her, right? And then when I didn’t have any story for her, she shut me down. I knew she was trying to use me, and I was trying to use her for trying to use me. But it didn’t work out. Maybe she used someone else?”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little much? The guy who sets up the system and does the erasing, and the reporter who writes the story? How the hell is that coincidence?”

  “Someone must be trying to set me up, so they don’t get caught as the leaker. Martins always hated me, you know that. He’s been trying to take all of us down since you fired him. Maybe he knew I had a drink with her, I don’t know, I don’t remember telling him but maybe I did. But I had nothing, and still have nothing to give her —” and Franks cut him off.

  “That’s good, because she’s fucking dead, you know that, right?”

  “Yes sir, I know that. It’s a tragedy —”

  “No, it’s not. I hear she was a drug addict, happens all the time, so she got what she deserved, brought it on herself, don’t you agree?”

  Eli didn’t answer that.

  “You’re in front of the special counsel’s office tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes sir. Listen, I know what you think, but give me time, we can find out who else knew —”

  “Shut the fuck up and listen to me, boy!” Franks screamed and he rocketed up from his chair.

  “I’m not going to let you, or some fucking reporters, or those disgusting people chanting outside, or Jonathan fucking Simpson, or any of the other traitors in this country stop me from doing what I came here to do for the American people, do you understand me? No one!”

  Eli slid out of his chair, rose, and Ken jumped up and in a flash he was around the president and between him and Eli, one arm stretched out and hand on Eli’s chest, his other hand on Franks’ shoulder.

  “Take it easy
, boys, we can work this out.”

  Eli raised his empty hands like a suspect showing a cop he was unarmed.

  “I’m fine, it’s all good.” He kept up his intensity.

  “If you want me out, I’ll resign right now. I can’t say anything to the special counsel team because I don’t know anything, okay? The only things I know are things that I did, and I’m not about to start there.”

  Eli stared at Franks, then Walter, who was amazingly calm, and then back to Franks, searching for a response. And then suddenly, Franks’ whole demeanor changed, and his blood pressure seemed to drop, and he smiled.

  “I knew it wasn’t you, kid,” Franks said.

  Eli looked at him in disbelief. Franks looked back at him like Eli was the one who was crazy.

  “I wanted to see how you reacted. Whether you would admit it, or give me a tell. Whether you could convince me you were loyal.”

  Eli let one ounce of air out of his chest, and kept listening, unmoving.

  “You stood your ground. And I’m a pretty good judge of character, one of the best, they say. One of the all-time greats. And I had my doubts, I really did.”

  Eli tried to translate that into English. What the hell was happening? Franks continued, sounding very calm and convincing, like a different person.

  “I told these guys it wasn’t you! You just proved I was right. We’ll find the leaker, don’t worry.”

  Franks took a big gulp of soda to clear his dry throat as his skin retuned to its normal shade of orange.

  “I don’t blame you for trying to fuck her, kid, she was so hot. It’s too bad, it really is.”

  Ken’s arms went down.

  “Come here, kid,” Franks said and stuck out his hand and Eli shook it.

  “I got another dinner to get to, can you believe that? Let’s get you out of here…” Franks guided Eli toward the door, Ken in front of them, and Eli backed up and grabbed his laptop bag, then moved toward the door.

  “About tomorrow, I know you’ll do the right thing. You’ve been a loyal soldier, Eli,” Franks said matter-of-factly.

  “Thank you for trusting me. It means the world to me, Mr. President,” Eli said.

  Franks patted Eli on the back and gently guided him out the door. Eli turned to say goodbye to Walter, but the door was closing, and all he caught was a quick glance into Walter’s eyes; they stared back, stone-cold.

  The door shut, and Eli walked calmly past the Secret Service agent in the hallway, who appeared unfazed by the yelling. It was a known fact that Franks blew up at people all the time, especially those he loved, and apparently it was no big deal.

  When Eli turned the corner, he jogged down a half-flight of steps, down another hallway, then across the marble entry foyer and past the security checkpoint, and out an “Exit Only” door, onto a walkway with manicured bushes which lead to Executive Avenue, his pace picking up. He felt a moment of relief as the night air hit his lungs, but his heart was racing.

  He walked north and exited the White House complex, and cut across Lafayette Square toward H Street NW, periodically looking back over his shoulder.

  He could hear the crowd chanting on the other side of the White House behind him, and see the white glow from the news camera lights reflecting off the low clouds.

  He kept moving in the opposite direction, crossing Lafayette Square at an angle. The small park was across the street and just beyond the iron fences north of the White House. It was a public square of flat sidewalks and winter-brown grass centering around an important statue of some famous general on a horse, who Eli could not care to remember at the moment. Probably Lafayette.

  He was just passing the statue when his phone vibrated. He kept walking faster. It vibrated again. He pulled it out and checked it while he walked toward St. John’s Episcopal Church, its narrow bell tower lit up like a homing beacon drawing him closer.

  Someone was calling him, but he had put the ringer on silent mode before walking in to dinner. The caller was unidentified, but he answered anyway.

  “Hello?” he panted as he passed the statue.

  “It’s Tate,” said a deep voice on the line.

  “You’re calling me?”

  He didn’t know what Tate sounded like, since they had only texted and never spoken, so there was no way to be sure it was him.

  “Two things from a source inside DC homicide: a needle mark, hypodermic, behind her knee. Was she a needle user?”

  Eli reached the other side of the park, the lights of H street and the church casting a glow all round him.

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Also, her phone was missing from her apartment. If it was an overdose, it should have been there.”

  Eli crossed H street and reached the corner at 16th NW and turned north.

  “Where are you?” Tate asked.

  “I just left dinner with the president.”

  “Run.”

  “Run?”

  “Disappear. And get rid of your phone.” The line went dead.

  Eli looked back toward the park as his pace increased. He was alone. He kept going.

  Halfway through the block, moving briskly past the church, he suddenly saw his own shadow cast on the pavement in front of him, from a bright light behind him. He looked back and saw a sedan had turned onto the street, headlights glaring and approaching fast.

  He burst into a full-on run, and heard the sedan’s engine accelerate. He reached the corner and ran right onto I St. NW, bolting along the sidewalk, knowing the sedan would be met head-on with four lanes of traffic moving in the opposite direction. He blasted past pedestrians, his laptop bag whacking an elderly woman before he got control of it.

  When he reached the next corner of I St. NW and Vermont Ave., he made another hard right and began doubling back toward the White House. He didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t want to go in a straight line. He had walked and jogged these streets so many times, his feet took over.

  Looking back, he saw cars behind him on Vermont, all blinding headlights, and couldn’t be sure about the sedan, but knew it had to be close. He continued running down Vermont, chest thumping as fast as his feet, and when he crossed at H St. he had nearly gone in a full circle. He saw the White House in the distance in front of him.

  He continued running south onto Madison Place, which ran along the eastern side of Lafayette Square and the White House complex. It was dark along that edge of the park, and he knew the road was blocked with concrete barriers at the next block, installed after September the 11th to make it harder for vehicle-born attacks to get too close to the White House. That would make it even harder to follow him. Plus there were D.C. police stationed nearby.

  He thought about running to them for help, but no reports of a crazy guy running in a suit in the area was going to avoid getting reported to the Secret Service.

  As he kept running, he looked back but didn’t see anyone coming, and so he kept pushing south along Madison. Just before he reached the outer perimeter guard booth at Madison and Pennsylvania, he took a hard left and continued east, then another turn south on 15th and finally slowed to a jog.

  He came to an alley behind a U.S. Treasury annex, and seeing no one nearby, entered the alley, powered off his phone, dropped it, crushed it several times with his feet, and kicked it under a dumpster. He stared at the dumpster for a moment, realizing everything he had written down was also just crushed and kicked under it.

  He turned and started running again, east on G Street until he hit 13th, and by then he was totally winded. He slowed back to a jog, turning South on 13th as he fought for his breath. Running in dress shoes and a suit with a computer bag was hard. He still didn’t know where we was going, but he was pretty sure he had lost whoever was chasing him for the moment, and he knew he couldn’t go home.

  He continued south on 13th, then east on some street he didn’t know, and then south again, in a long zig-zag pattern that soon had him
crossing the National Mall, and then continuing even further south. He walked, ran, and walked again for the next thirty minutes, until he could only stagger, and found himself in the Navy Yard neighborhood along the river, near the National’s ballpark. It was much darker. The short brick apartment buildings with green lawns had given way to vacant lots, warehouses with shattered glass and barbwire fences, overgrown grass and gravel construction sites.

  The night air was cold, his lungs were burning, and he was exhausted, his legs somehow still pushing him along Q Street. He saw a black man in three layers of shoddy clothes, pushing a shopping cart toward a bridge over the river, the distant lights twinkling on the other side, and for some reason he just continued forward toward the water, the bridge and the man pushing the cart.

  He came to the foot of the Frederick Douglas Bridge, a low and unimpressive span of concrete and rebar over the Anacostia, the shoreline below it hidden in the dark. The man with the shopping cart continued pushing along Potomac Avenue, oblivious to Eli’s presence.

  Eli could smell the river, and something kept pulling him forward, until he was down the embankment and into the sandy brush along its edges, and he finally collapsed to the ground underneath the overpass.

  He hugged his laptop bag tightly to his chest, leaning back on the angled concrete embankment in the dark. He pulled his jacket tight around his sweaty neck, closed his eyes, and tried to catch his breath. His body, mind and soul were completely drained.

  20

  Under The Bridge

  Eli awoke with a jolt. He was freezing. He still had his laptop bag clutched close to his chest. He had barely moved in hours. He checked his watch. It was 5:47 a.m. How the hell had he slept so long without moving? He sat up on the embankment, his breath visible in the pale glow of the street lamps on the bridge above him.

  He sat up straighter, thought about what had happened. The questions ran fast now that his brain had rested. Did they really kill Sherry? Were they really out to kill him? Was he just paranoid? No, he knew what he felt, and what he saw. And when the FBI tells you to run, you run.