William A. Cozzano appeared at a press conference in New York with a number of leading Italian-Americans, including the daughter of Nicodemo (“Nicky Freckles”) Costanza. The Italian-American leaders blasted the media for defaming Cozzano, and Costanza’s daughter, in particular, stated that there had never been any connection between her father and Cozzano. A family tree was brought out to show that Cozzano was also related to Leonardo da Vinci and Joe DiMaggio.
Saturday, October 26:
COZZANO 36%
PRESIDENT 14%
MCLANE 31%
UNDECIDED 14%
OTHER 5%
Campaigning in the state of Washington, William A. Cozzano visited Seattle’s Pike Place Market, where a number of Southeast Asian immigrants had been able to set up thriving businesses selling produce that they raised on truck farms outside of the city. Making his way down the center of the market, surrounded by a huge cloud of media, Cozzano stopped at one stand and bought an apple from the attractive young Laotian-American woman on the other side of the counter.
Just as he was biting into the apple, he was assaulted, and nearly knocked down, by a tiny, rabid, screaming person who had charged in underneath the radar of the Secret Service men. It was an old woman, not much more than four feet tall, wearing a conical hat, screaming hysterically in Vietnamese, pummeling and clawing at Cozzano with both hands.
By the time the Secret Service dragged her off of the shocked Cozzano, roughly a hundred dollars’ worth of assorted produce had been destroyed by the feet of video cameramen and still photographers who leapt up onto the high ground as soon as they heard trouble, running back and forth along the tables looking for a camera angle, churning the opulent displays of fresh strawberries, asparagus, basil, chanterelles, blackberries, and sweet corn into succotash. Most of them just barely had time to zero their cameras in on the contorted face of the old Vietnamese woman before she began to scream, in English: “You killed my baby! You killed my baby! You are an evil man!”
Sunday, October 27:
COZZANO 35%
PRESIDENT 15%
MCLANE 34%
UNDECIDED 12%
OTHER 4%
A front-page exclusive in the Sunday edition of the Dallas Morning News told an interesting story about Cozzano’s son, James. James Cozzano had spent most of the spring and summer following the primary campaigns as part of a research project for his doctoral dissertation. During this period he had made contacts with Lawrence Barnes, a wealthy Dallas businessman who was a big supporter of the candidacy of the Reverend Doctor William Joseph Sweigel. After Sweigel’s loss to Tip McLane, Lawrence Barnes had approached James Cozzano and offered him a position on the board of directors of an import-export business, based in Houston, in which Barnes held a majority interest. The business dealt mostly in equipment related to oil exploration and drilling.
It was now revealed that this company did most of its business with Iraq and Libya, and that minority interests were owned by shady offshore companies that were known to be controlled by the governments of those countries.
Monday, October 28:
COZZANO 32%
PRESIDENT 16%
MCLANE 34%
UNDECIDED 13%
OTHER 5%
Fifty newspapers across the United States ran the same photograph on the front page, a wire service photo taken on a small lake a few miles south of Tuscola, Illinois. The photo showed a local farmer out on a little rowboat, examining the surface of the lake, which was covered with dead fish. The farmer said that the fish kill was almost certainly caused by a spill of toxic waste originating from the CBAP plant in Tuscola—the economic foundation of the Cozzano family fortune.
The Cozzano campaign held a press conference in Seattle, in which leaders of the local Vietnamese-American community stated that no one had ever seen, or heard of, the little Vietnamese lady who had accused Cozzano of war crimes. The woman herself had gone into seclusion after having been released by the police, and was no longer speaking to the press; but her family insisted that Cozzano had rolled a hand grenade into their hut in Vietnam and blown up three small children.
Tuesday, October 29:
COZZANO 30%
PRESIDENT 17%
MCLANE 38%
UNDECIDED 11%
OTHER 4%
A retired nurse who had once been hired to work in the Cozzano home, during the prolonged illness of Christina Cozzano, said that during the last few weeks of her life, Cozzano’s late wife had become addicted to painkilling drugs.
The wife of Tip McLane’s vice-presidential candidate, during a speech to a conservative Christian group, stated that Eleanor Richmond’s overbearing and “unusually aggressive” personality had played a significant role in driving her husband to suicide.
James Cozzano resigned from the board of directors of the import-export company in Texas and stated that he had been taken for a ride.
Wednesday, October 30:
COZZANO 29%
PRESIDENT 18%
MCLANE 38%
UNDECIDED 12%
OTHER 3%
The farmer who had accused CBAP of polluting the water and killing the fish retracted his statement, saying it had been based upon information given to him by an unknown “expert” who had since disappeared. Chemical analysis of the bodies of the fish showed that they had been killed by a common agricultural pesticide, which was available at any farm supply business, and which was not produced at CBAP.
The retired nurse who had told the story about Christina Cozzano’s drug addiction was found dead in her garage in Peoria; she had committed suicide by breathing car exhaust.
The wife of Tip McLane’s running mate stated in an interview that she had not meant, in any way, to say negative things about Eleanor Richmond.
William A. Cozzano canceled all of his campaign appearances for the rest of the week, saying that he needed to prepare for the big debate on Friday night.
Nimrod T. (“Tip”) McLane, in an informal interview with Markene Caldicott on his campaign plane, deplored the way the presidential campaign had gone negative.
The President of the United States, addressing a Boy Scout jamboree in Arizona, said that he didn’t blame young people for sometimes losing faith in politics, and promised that, when reelected, he would appoint a presidential commission to look into the state of America’s elections.
The anchorman of the CBS Evening News, in a rare editorial, said that the presidential campaign had reached new depths this year, and stated that his organization was taking steps to make sure that it would not happen again.
At the private hotel that served as Jeremiah Freel’s headquarters, security remained tight. The elevators were turned off except when someone very important was expected, or three times a day when room service was brought up from the kitchen.
For the fourth morning in a row, the waitress named Louella brought Jeremiah Freel his dish of stewed prunes. This did not go unnoticed by Freel. Louella was a hard woman not to notice. It was almost inconceivable that any woman, clad in the dowdy uniform of a hotel waitress, could appear sexy. But Louella managed. She must have taken her uniform home and modified it somehow, dropped the neckline, raised the hem. Every day, she was showing a little more cleavage, and every day, when she placed the breakfast tray on the table in front of Jeremiah Freel, she bent down a little bit lower, gave him a longer and deeper look down into the front of her dress.
Today he could no longer restrain himself. His hand darted down into her blouse, quick as a striking cobra, and caught her nipple. Not hard enough to hurt. But hard enough to keep her where she was.
“Mr. Freel,” said one of his minders. One of the hated men in suits who surrounded him at all times.
“Shut up, asswipe!” Freel said.
Louella was staring straight into Freel’s eyes. She wasn’t angry at all. She was almost amused. She was interested. She licked her lips and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Freel, but fresh fruit isn’t on today’s m
enu.” Her face was about four inches from Freel’s. She was wearing a lot of perfume and Freel could smell it wafting up from the middle of her hot cleavage.
“Then what do I have here?” Freel said, squeezing her nipple.
“You don’t have a damn thing,” Louella said, “unless you can get us a little bit of privacy.” She looked around accusingly at all of the men in suits: four of them in this room alone.
“Get the fuck out!” Freel shouted.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Freel, you know we can’t allow that!” said the head honcho, a guy who would only identify himself as Al. Al was clearly getting a little nervous. “Ma’am,” he said to Louella, “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
“But I can’t,” Louella said, “until Mr. Freel lets go of me. And I can tell he’s not the kind of man who lets go until he gets what he wants.”
“Get the fuck out,” Freel said, “or this whole campaign goes up in flames. Can’t you see I need to get laid?”
This appeal to simple, basic human needs got through to Al. He broke eye contact and thought about it for a second. “Well, okay,” he finally said. “Come on guys, let’s leave them alone.”
All of Freel’s minders got up and backed out of the room staring fixedly at Louella’s backside. Louella turned around and yelled at them on their way out: “And I don’t want you standing outside the door listening, either. You get back to your own rooms and watch TV or something.”
Al, and the rest of the minders, left the room and closed the door.
They were still standing there, nervously, a minute later, when Louella stuck her head out the door. “I knew it!” she said. “You guys are all perverts. Get back to your rooms!”
Al posted one of his men by the elevators, just down the hall, and then the rest of the men retreated to their rooms, leaving the doors open.
A minute later, the guard by the elevators heard the little bell chime. The down arrow lit up. The elevator door opened to reveal a pair of brawny men, both wearing gas masks and ear protectors, who were just in the perfectly timed act of bursting out the doors; one of them grabbed the guard by the collar and jammed a thick wad of cloth over his mouth as the other reached out with a small but dense blunt object and took it upside of his head.
Louella emerged from Freel’s room, stark naked, pursued closely by Freel himself. She was laughing and screaming; he was shouting, “You dirty bitch! Get back here!”
Louella made for the elevator. She reached it, and hit the lobby button, just as Al and the rest of Freel’s guards were emerging into the corridor. They saw nothing but Jeremiah Freel diving into the elevator, and two large, unfamiliar men strewing stun grenades up and down the length of the hallway.
Twenty seconds later, staff and guests in the lobby were treated to the sight of Louella, a former Miss April, sprinting out of the elevator doors stark naked, still laughing and giggling, and running toward the front entrance, pursued the entire way by an old man with his erect penis sticking out of his fly.
A doorman, reflexes honed by years of practice, cleared the way. Louella ran through the open door, into the horseshoe drive, and jumped into the back of a windowless van. The doors slammed shut, the van burned rubber and shot forward out of the drive, revealing something that had been hiding on the other side of it: Cyrus Rutherford Ogle, flanked by two dozen TV cameramen and still photographers, all of whom were busily recording the quickly changing facial expression of Jeremiah Freel, and his vanishing penis.
“Come back to lose another election, Jeremiah?” Ogle said.
Freel’s mouth dropped open and his nose wrinkled into a snarl. His eyes jumped back and forth between Ogle and the cameramen.
Then he charged.
Cy Ogle stood his ground, hands in the pockets of his trench coat.
Freel dove the last six feet, wrapped his arms around Ogle’s thighs, and bent his head back, mouth open to bite into Ogle’s genitals.
Ogle took his hand from his pocket, holding a small cylindrical object. His index finger twitched and fired a long stream of Mace directly into Freel’s open mouth. Freel went into violent convulsions and fell to the horseshoe drive, thrashing, foaming, and howling like a wounded animal.
“Welcome to public relations hell,” Ogle said, and then climbed into a waiting car. As it drove away, he was able to look back and watch Freel convulsing on the drive in front of the hotel, surrounded now by photographers and cameramen who were all aiming their lenses downward.
fifty-six
THE FINAL, and by far the most important, debate of the presidential campaign was held on the evening of Friday, November 1, four days before Election Day, in a lecture hall at Columbia University. The participants were the President of the United States, William Anthony Cozzano, and Nimrod T. (“Tip”) McLane. The moderator was the president of the hosting university. He fielded questions among the three presidential candidates and a panel of four journalists, who were all of the first rank.
All three of the candidates had spent the last couple of days mostly in seclusion, honing their skills in mock debates. McLane and the President had both brought in mimics to simulate the other two candidates, and spent hours in exhausting practice sessions, during which simulated journalists would throw out the most difficult, vicious, twisted questions imaginable.
The advance people had been at the auditorium for a solid day. Lecterns had to be arranged on the stage. Lights had to be focused and adjusted. Camera placement had to be worked out. All of these were subject to intensive negotiation. A wrongly placed spotlight in ’84 had emphasized the bags under Mondale’s eyes and made him look older than Reagan. The height of each lectern had to be adjusted relative to the height of the candidate. The color of the set and the color of the lights affected what kind of suits would look best; stand-ins had to be brought onstage, wearing different suits, in order to decide which looked best. Makeup had to be tried out; makeup artists had to have rooms in which to work, and no one candidate’s room could be bigger, better equipped, or closer to the stage than any other’s.
Though an audience was going to be present in the hall, its only real function was to provide a bit of ambient noise: applause (to be kept under control as much as possible) and possibly the occasional outburst of laughter, though using humor in these circumstances was probably too risky to be considered. In the current political climate, humor was a zero-sum game. The impression that the candidates made on the live audience was unimportant. A huge video screen was erected above the stage so that the people and the journalists in the hall could see the TV feed, which was the only thing that mattered.
The same feed was piped into a large, low-ceilinged room beneath the auditorium and displayed on a couple of dozen monitors. This room was filled with long tables where journalists could set up their laptop computers, plug into telephone lines, and file their stories. This was the room where the spin doctors from the three campaigns would circulate before, during, and after the debate, explaining to the reporters what was happening.
It was the single largest gathering of explosively tense people on the face of the earth. Tense people don’t like surprises. Therefore, there was a great deal of shock and unhappiness in that hall when, ten minutes before air time, just as the President and Tip McLane were emerging from their makeup rooms and taking their positions on the stage, Cyrus Rutherford Ogle appeared, walked up to the moderator, and informed him that William A. Cozzano would not be participating in tonight’s debate because he had more important things to do.
Pandemonium was a term coined by Milton to refer to the capital of Hell, where all of the demons were together in one place. From this it naturally came to mean any central headquarters of wickedness. Over time, though, as happens with many good words, its meaning had been diluted to mean any place that was noisy and chaotic. Nowadays, a person could speak of pandemonium at a birthday party full of two-year-olds.
Cy Ogle preferred the old definition of the word. No other word could possibly hav
e described the situation in the auditorium after he strolled onto the stage and made his announcement. There was no doubt in his mind that if not for the presence of witnesses, the campaign staffs of the President, Tip McLane, the panel of journalists, and the organizers of the debate would drag him outside and hang him from a stately tree on the Columbia campus. Outside of an actual lynching, never had so much hostility been directed against one man by so many people for so many reasons. Consequently he could scarcely prevent himself from grinning through the whole thing.
There was an initial phase during which people merely screamed at him, then ran off into the wings to spread the news to other people, who ran out to scream at him some more. This probably would have gone on for quite some time if not for the fact that air time was rapidly approaching. So it got compressed into a very intense couple of minutes. A tone of emotional restraint was imposed by the technical types, who had a show to put on.