Behold a Pale Horse Read online

  Maybe I’ll go up north and guide tourists after elephant and lions, he thought bleakly. God only knew how many guides, more experienced than him, had little or no work.

  Nonetheless, he decided to make a few careful contacts. He would not lose his home.

  Something would present itself. Something always did.

  III

  A RECKONING

  1

  JANUARY 20, 2001, dawned fine and bitterly cold in the nation’s capital. Washington is a southern town and usually maintains a mild climate through the winter, but for some reason inauguration days were nearly always cold. At least this year there was no snow, although a biting wind swirled among the grandstands erected in front of the Capitol, lifting trash and dust and rattling the many flags and thousands of yards of bunting.

  Rupert Justice Tolliver awoke at dawn as he always did, full of energy and purpose despite a mild hangover. I rise today for the last time as Brother Justice from the windy dry hills of south Texas, he thought as he chased Clarissa out of bed and chivied her to hurry and dress. Tonight when I go to bed in that old white house over yonder, I will be the President of the United States.

  They were staying in the grand old Willard Hotel, just two blocks from the White House. The Willard would be the site of the grandest of fourteen Inaugural Balls Justice and Clarissa would have to at least look in on, take a slow dance around for the invited fat cats who had paid (and would continue to pay) the freight. People Justice didn’t know and didn’t care about, but it had to be done. There’d be time enough to change the pompous rituals once he began governing.

  Clarissa finally emerged from the bathroom, looking pretty but pissed off in a dark blue suit and red silk blouse. The skirt was daringly short. “Catch your death,” Justice remarked. “Leastway your pussy will.”

  Clarissa shot him a black look. She hated to be awakened before midmorning, inauguration or no. “What the hell’s the hurry? We don’t get sworn in until noon.”

  “We got to go to church first, darling.”

  “At the crack of dawn?” she asked, primping her shiny dark hair in front of a long mirror.

  “Why sure, honey. Don’t forget we be God-fearing. We thanking the Almighty twice, in fact, first at the National Cathedral with all the congressmen and ambassadors and others of quality, then a prayer breakfast at the African Methodist Episcopal up Fourteenth Street; show off my new solidarity with the niggers.”

  “To think you promised an administration free of hypocrisy,” Clarissa said tartly, buttoning a long wool coat that matched her suit. “Let’s go, then. It’s going to be a very long day of praying and swearing and dancing the night-away.”

  It’s the first day of the dream, Justice thought. Don’t forget God sent you here, another thought intruded as Zeke Archer beckoned them from the door of their suite toward the elevator and the waiting line of black limousines below.

  JULIA EARLY TAPPED listlessly on her computer keyboard in the vast bay of the Credit Department on the eighth floor of the bank. Inauguration Day coincided with the official birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., so the bank was closed and the Credit Department nearly empty. Julia and a few others behind on their reviews of customers under their purview were scattered around the larger room, staring at computers or getting paper cuts. Julia planned to take a break from her work to watch Tolliver sworn in on the television set in the conference room. The good news was that once the reviews were completed and accepted by the lending officers, most of the trainees would move on to permanent jobs.

  Julia couldn’t wait to finish training; she had a tentative offer from the bank’s European Division, with a hope of an eventual posting to London or Paris. Imagine, she thought, from Uvalde and Austin to London or Paris!

  Her toughest problem was the one she wished she had never seen, Uvalde County Savings and Loan and its major client, Little Cheyenne Development Corporation. She analyzed the fourth-quarter financial statements; they were at least in standard SEC format, a major improvement from when she had first seen the file. She spread the statements and signed off; she didn’t know how much she believed them, despite comforting assurances from Preston and Martinez of San Antonio, certified public accountants and auditors to the bank. The grindy part of the analysis was the flurry of money transfers, all conducted through, or at least touching on, overseas branches of Capital National Bank. Money sticking in Uvalde accounts and in accounts belonging to Little Cheyenne had slowed to a trickle after the election but had picked up again right before the first of the year, and a dip into the Money Transfer Department’s computer area confirmed payments were ongoing.

  Somebody ran a bunch of money into Rupert Justice Tolliver’s campaign in the closing weeks, Julia thought as she tapped her teeth with a pencil eraser. And somebody was still paying the President of the United States.

  She looked at her watch; nearly noon. She went into the conference room to hear the oath, and to see what the new president, a man she had once admired but now doubted, had to say.

  MY FELLOW CITIZENS,” Justice boomed. The wind that had been blowing flags and bunting around and ruining costly hairdos dropped suddenly as the new president began to speak, and a hole opened in the scudding gray clouds to allow brilliant sunshine to fall on the podium. “My brothers and my sisters. Today we begin a new century, a new millennium, and a new national renewal. Today we cast off limits imposed by a political system that has grown old and stiff as the nation has grown young and supple. Today we revere our history of peaceful changes of government, a tradition that dates to the beginning of the republic and the hand-over of power two hundred and four years ago from George Washington, a man beseeched by many to make himself a king, to John Adams, his elected successor.” Justice turned and extended his hand to President Blythe, the man he had just succeeded. “I congratulate my predecessor, and applaud his help with the transition, given freely even though our philosophies and policies are very different.” Blythe took Tolliver’s hand, a startled look on his face, shook it once and dropped it.

  “I come here with a mandate to clean house, to renew and rebuild,” Justice said, looking over at the section of the grandstand reserved for senior editors and news anchors. The press had hounded him since November about the thinness of his victory providing no mandate. “And I will clean and rebuild, but on the solid foundation of work of the men and women of this glorious republic.

  “Expect great change amid reverence for great tradition. Be prepared to answer President Kennedy’s call to do more for, and ask less from, your country. Remember what President Truman said about responsibility: the Buck stops here.” Tolliver paused for applause; the media assholes like it I cite two Democrats, he thought, but who would he quote of modern Republicans? Bush? Hardly, and even Reagan the Great Communicator had left little of memory. Lincoln, of course.

  “We will reform, but with malice toward none and charity for all. We will bind up wounds of race and poverty. We will defend our borders and our lives from illegal immigration while striving to knit the many rich and diverse traditions of our people into a strong, many-colored fabric, a choir of many different but equally sweet angels and not a jumble of angry and unheard voices. This we promise.

  “We will deal fairly with the people of all nations. We will share with those that love us and try to reach out to those that wish us ill. We will chastise those that harm us only with the greatest reluctance and regret. This we promise.

  “We will bring our brothers and sisters, and most importantly, our sons and daughters, into a community with God. We’ll force religion on no one, but we’ll deny its benefits to no one.” Justice took off his glasses and dabbed his eyes. “With God’s help, all these things we promise.”

  The president left the podium to thunderous cheers. He embraced the Reverend Louis Mohammed-Ali, the preacher who had given the invocation preceding his speech, then descended the steps of the Capitol and walked, arm in arm with his wife, into the crowd and on up Pennsylvania
Avenue to the White House from whence he would review the parade.

  Julia Early dabbed her eyes and clapped, as did most of the junior bankers in the conference room, then went back to her desk. Judith Langtry, her roommate, passed by, and reminded her the credit library closed at one-thirty, so they might’s well go get a drink.

  A few minutes more, Julia replied. There were some interesting new entries in the files coming up from Money Transfer Research.

  Brilliant damn speech, she thought. He is the hope of a great nation.

  Julia opened the correspondence file. The blurry numbers on the Xerox copies danced before tired eyes. She clasped her hands together and put her head down for a second, to rest her eyes.

  She was instantly asleep.

  2

  COBRA WATCHED THE NEW American president sworn in on his little Japanese television when the inauguration came on at 7:00 P.M., South African time. He’d spent the day with bankers in Cape Town; they were sympathetic but able to do little for him. The drought and the blight continued; the river continued to dry. Rain was still months away if it came at all, then there would be the expenses of tearing out the shriveled vines and fruit trees and replanting. The Zulu headman had come by to talk after lunch; Cobra had asked him for some payment on the supplies he had delivered. The chief had no calves to sell, and no money, and he asked Cobra for a loan.

  And there was no word from old acquaintances in Brussels or Lisbon. Cobra felt very alone, old, and tired.

  JULIA AWOKE WITH a start. The credit department was empty and the sky outside the windows was nearly dark, with just the orange smear of the sunset over Virginia to the west. Christ! She thought, looking at her watch. Nearly five. She ran over to the entrance to the Credit Library but of course it was locked and dark. She went back to her desk. The overhead lights were dimmed and her computer cast a cold glow from its screen saver. How could everyone, especially Judith, have just left her here asleep at her desk? And what was she going to do with the credit files? Bank policy specifically forbade keeping files anywhere but in the Credit Library.

  There was nothing for it. She crammed the bulky files into her desk and locked it. The last one, the correspondence file, wouldn’t fit, so she put it in her briefcase. She knew she shouldn’t remove it from the building, but she couldn’t very well leave it on top of her desk. She got her coat from the closet, picked up the briefcase, and headed for the elevators. I hope I’m not locked in, she thought as the elevator took her to the lobby. But the security uniform was on station by his monitors. He made her sign the Late Log, then unlocked the front door and let her out.

  She woke up the following morning with a fever of 103 degrees Fahrenheit. She called in sick and went back to bed.

  PRESIDENT TOLLIVER WALKED into the Oval Office at 10:30, looking puffy, disheveled, and pissed off. Ezekiel Archer, now the president’s chief of staff, waited as he had since the appointed hour of eight o’clock. The president fell into the leather chair that had been made for the fatter ass of his predecessor and said, “Coffee.”

  “Certainly, Mr. President,” Zeke said, buzzing for the duty steward, a navy petty officer. “Breakfast?”

  “Yeah, maybe. A Bloody Mary made with real blood, then some tea and toast.”

  The steward, a navy sailor in dress blues, stood at the door to the pantry, heard the president’s request, and backed out without a word. Zeke took a stack of papers from his briefcase and laid them gently on the president’s desk. Tolliver held his big head in his hands and rubbed his throbbing temples. “We need to make some decisions on the cabinet, Mr. President, and on legislative priorities.”

  “Aw, shit, Zeke, cut the crap. When we’re alone, use my damn name.”

  “Sure, Juss.” Zeke paused as the black steward entered silently, placed the president’s breakfast before him, and departed immediately. “Shall we start with the cabinet?”

  “We already named the damn cabinet.”

  “We’ll have some trouble getting them all confirmed, Juss. The Democrats are complaining that while many are able men, they don’t reflect the diversity of the nation.”

  “Fuck the Democrats. We have a majority in the Senate.”

  “Only two votes, and not all Republicans are immune to pressure from advocacy groups.”

  Tolliver took the large Bloody Mary in both hands and raised it carefully to his lips. He took a long swallow, closed his eyes, and sighed. “This is all the doing of that dickhead who just left this office. Diversity, my ass. Everybody in his cabinet had to be a woman, a nigger, a spic, a Jew, gay and an academic, and look at the messes they had, the scandals. Zeke, if you can bring me a list of black Jewish women that are half Mexican, hold professorships at Ivy League schools, need wheelchair access, and sleep with their sisters, I’ll put ’em in office, but somehow I don’t think it’ll turn out that way. Let’s see how many of my choices we can keep.”

  Zeke sighed. “All white men, Juss. All Christian.”

  “And all able, Zeke. Top lawyers, former legislators, chief executives of big corporations, men who can run complex organizations. That’s what we learned down in Austin, Zeke, get able men to run the big departments, then you and me can have the fun of shaking things up.”

  “I’ll go back to the Capitol this afternoon and see what we can get.”

  “Yeah. Give ’em that old Roosevelt shit about ‘having a mandate from the people.’”

  “Roosevelt had rather larger mandates than forty-nine percent of the vote,” Zeke said unhappily.

  “Yeah, but I got you, Zeke, the finest horse trader in Texas, which means in the world.” He took another slug of his drink, needing only one hand this time, and ate a bit of toast. He managed a grin. “Now leave me be to think up what hornet’s nest to kick over first.”

  MR. HOLLIS?” the sweet voice of Amanda Schwartz came softly through the speaker-phone of Reginald Hollis, the head of Credit and Training.

  He immediately snatched up the receiver; Ms. Schwartz, known as Dragon Mother, was the executive secretary of Alfred Thayer, Chairman of the Board of Capital National Bank, and spoke to no one on a speakerphone. “Yes, Ms. Schwartz, good morning,” smarmed Hollis. Bad news with no possible doubt.

  “Good morning. Could you please arrange to retrieve a couple of customer credit files? And send them up to me?”

  “I’ll get them at once, Ms. Schwartz, and bring them up myself,” Hollis fawned. “What files were you wanting?”

  “Only two,” the Dragon Mother crooned. “Uvalde Savings and Loan, and Little Cheyenne Development Company. I believe both are in Texas.”

  Hollis stood to attention. A little bell of fear tinkled in his brain. Why were those names familiar? “At once, Ms. Schwartz.”

  JULIA FELT A LITTLE better by noon and got up to make some tea and toast. She sat in the tiny kitchen, poured the tea, and looked around for the newspaper. Hilda had taken it to work; she always did. Then Julia noticed her briefcase in the front hall where she’d dropped it the night before, and remembered what was in it; the Correspondence File from Uvalde Savings and Little Cheyenne. She yawned. Might’s well get into it, she said to herself.

  An hour later she was shivering, and not from her flu. Some of the letters, money transfer covers, mostly, had been stamped “DESTROY.” All should have been.

  How could anyone have allowed the filing of such incriminating documents? she wondered. She read on because she had no idea what else she ought to do.

  WHAT DO YOU MEAN, the files are unavailable?” Reginald Hollis demanded, his reddening face contradicting his calm voice. “Where else can they be but here in the library?”

  Monica Croft, the Credit Librarian, stammered, more than usual because she knew Hollis’s horrible temper never stayed hidden for long. “I’m looking at the log, Mr. Hollis. They must have been checked out.”

  “Checked out?” Hollis said, his voice growing at once more softer and more urgent. “Policy clearly states—”

  “Of cours
e it does,” Monica said, gathering some courage from the asshole’s petty fit. “But analysts come in on weekends to catch up, or on holidays, like yesterday’s, and we have only a volunteer junior clerk on duty.” She stabbed her finger at the logbook for yesterday and looked up over her half glasses, pinning the fat little man with hard eyes. “Uvalde Savings and Little Cheyenne were checked out yesterday and not returned when the clerk locked up at one. It was missed.”

  “Who has them?” he asked. Who fucked up? He wanted to ask, and would he avoid the blame?

  Monica Croft pushed her glasses up her long nose. “Julia Early.”

  Hollis took a deep breath. Early, the pretty, bright one, too country to get the hint that he wanted to help her along if she would only sleep with him. “Come with me to her desk, Monica,” he said, calming, trying a little smile. “We’ll sort this out.”

  “Yes, sir. But she’s out sick today.”

  Hollis paled. “Come along anyway.”

  JULIA READ ON through the afternoon. Money had poured into the Little Cheyenne accounts at Uvalde Savings from all over the country and all over the world, but most had come from banks in Panama and the Caribbean, or had at least been routed through such banks. Julia created a worksheet on her own personal computer and listed the contributions by paying bank, its location, date, and amount. She correlated the payments with notations in the correspondence from Uvalde Savings and determined that between October of 2000 and the end of the year, “downpayments” summed to $30 million, more than three times the total value of all lots available for sale at Little Cheyenne, and that since January 2001, payments listed for “utility connections, common facilities, and pre-construction expenses” totaled another $18 million.