twenty-foot antennas sprouting from the fleet of news trucks dutifully
broadcast this tender moment to the world. Another example of President
Alan Richmond being more than just a President. It made the White House
PR staff giddy thinking about the initial preelection polls.
THE TELEVISION CHANNELHOPPED FROM MTV To GRAND OLE
Opry to cartoons, to QVC to CNN to Pro Wrestling and then back to CNN.
The man sat up in bed and put out his cigarette, laid the remote down.
The President was giving a press conference. He looked stem and
appropriately appalled at the abominable murder of Christine Sullivan,
wife of billionaire Walter Sullivan, one of the President’s closest
friends, and its symbolism of the growing lawlessness in this country.
Whether the President would have made the same pitch if the Victim had
been a poor black, Hispanic or Asian found with his throat cut in an
alley in Southeast D.C. was never addressed. The President spoke in
firm, crisp tones with the Perfect trace of anger, of toughness. The
violence must stop.
The people must feel safe in their homes, or at their estates in this
Particular case. It was an impressive scene. A thoughtful and caring
President.
The reporters were eating it up, asking all the right questions.
The television showed Chief of Staff Gloria Russell, dressed in black,
nodding approvingly when the President hit key points in his views on
crime and punishment. the police fraternity and AARP vote was locked up
for the next election. Forty million votes, well worth the morning drive
out.
She would not have been so happy if she knew who was watching them right
this minute. Whose eyes bored into every inch of flesh on both her and
the President’s faces, as the memories of that night, never far from the
surface, welled up like an oil fire spewing heat and potential
destruction in all directions.
The flight to Barbados had been uneventful. The Airbus was a vast ship
whose massive engines had effortlessly ripped the plane from the ground
in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and in a few minutes they had hit their
cruising altitude of 36,000 feet.
The plane was packed, San Juan acting as a feeder for tourists bound for
the clusters of islands that made up the Caribbean vacation strip.
Passengers from Oregon and New York and all Points in between looked at
the wall of black clouds as the plane banked left and moved away from
the remnants Of an early-season tropical storm that had never hit
hurricane status.
A metal stairway met them as they departed the aircraft- A car, tiny by
American standards, shepherded five Of them on the wron side of the road
as they left the airport and headed 9 into Bridgetown, the capital of
the former British colony, which had retained strong traces Of its long
colonialism in its speech, dress and mannerisms. In melodious tones the
driver informed them of the many wonders of the tiny island, pointing
out the pirate ship tour as the skull and crossbones ship pounded
through still rough seas. On its deck, pale but reddening tourists were
plied with rum punch in such levels that they would all be very drunk
and/or very sick by the time they returned to the dock later that
afternoon In the back seat two couples from Des Moines made excited
plans in chirrupy patters of conversation. The older man who sat in the
front seat staring out the windshield had his thoughts mired two
thousand miles north. once or twice he checked where they were headed,
instinctively craving the lay of the land. The major landmarks were
relatively few; the island was barely twenty-one miles long and fourteen
miles across at its widest point. The near constant eighty-five-degree
heat was ameliorated by the continual breeze, its sound eventually
disappearing into one’s subconscious but always nearby like a faded but
still potent dream.
The hotel was an American standard Hilton built on a man-made beach that
jutted out on one end of the island. Its staff was well-trained,
courteous and more than willing to leave you alone if that was desired.
While most of the guests gave themselves wholeheartedly to the pampering