C3 El Presidente

Chauncey Gibbons drove his new Bentley down the Post Street Hill. He used a driver when socially appropriate, but otherwise, he loved to be behind the wheel. He was waiting for El Presidente to

answer his cell. Only ten people in the world knew the number he was dialing. It was the second time he had made the call.

Some of the best deals came to a head at the end of the year. It was like a financial race to the finish line. People gave in more easily. They were emotionally pulled by the distractions of childhood memories and sentimental hopes.

Not Chauncey.

Chauncey saw it as a time to kill.

He knew fucking well El Presidente had taken note of his call, no matter what the holiday. He let the phone ring.

“Señor Chauncey,” he heard the accented voice finally reply. Chauncey let a moment go by to let El Presidente know he was pissed.

“I was just thinking about you, Señora,” Chauncey began, “as I

was driving along stroking my dick in my new Bentley.”

“Ave Maria, Señor! It’s Christmas Eve. You should have a little

more reverence for the Son of God.”

“It’s elegant. It’s rakish. It’s formidably muscular.”

“Your dick or your car, Señor?”

Chauncey always enjoyed the man’s wit. It made slitting his throat so much more pleasant.

“It’s got the most powerful Crewe-built V8 ever produced,” Chauncey persisted. “It’s got the highest torque output in the world. It can reach sixty an hour in five seconds. I can hit two hundred an hour in this bitch.”

“Are you almost finished masturbating, Señor? My wife and daughter are waiting for me at the front door.”

“Speaking of automotive craftsmanship, how’s that little tin can car company of yours doing?”

“I don’t spend a lot of time on my minor investments, Señor Chauncey.”

“I heard you own sixty percent and your cronies own forty. Then the government bails you out anytime you fuck up.”

“We are socialists here, Señor Chauncey.”

“With one brother heading up the army and another one running the drug trade, I’m sure your family is quite content as we bid the Baby Jesus hello and start calculating our deductions.”

“El Presidente pays no taxes in my country, Señor.”

“Señor Chauncey is free of taxes too, El Presidente. That’s why we have foundations.”

“I always have warm feelings for you, Señor, and I’m always glad to hear from you—but do you mind if I ask why you are calling me a half-hour before Midnight Mass?”

“Well, I always call my most important clients on Christmas Eve. I called to tell you how much I love you and admire your family, El Presidente. But I also wanted to talk about that hundred million acres of barren land you’ve been hesitant to sell me.”

“That is the land of the people, Señor. That is our national forest.”

“Your beloved people never leave their villages, El Presidente. Your beloved people don’t even know it’s there.”

“That is why they have elected me, Señor. To look out for their best interest.”

“You’re the spitting image of your father.”

“I’ll admit, I’m a little more refined than he was.”

“Well, anything’s better than a man who delights in baking his enemies in a large oven at a low temperature until they’re tender and crispy.”

“He got his recipe from Colonel Sanders, Señor.”

“If it wasn’t for us gringos, you fucks wouldn’t even be in business.”

“We are always appreciative of American aid, Señor.”

“We spend more to keep you fucks in power than we do on our starving population.”

“We are always appreciative of American aid, Señor.”

“What’s it like to live in a banana republic all your life?”

“I might remind you, Señor, that we are the coffee capital of

the world.”

“I’ll take a Starbucks mocha anytime.”

“I might remind you that we supply Starbucks, Señor.”

“How many acres of coffee trees do you own?”

“I’m proud to say that my family has overseen large tracts of

coffee trees for several centuries now. We pride ourselves on our early efforts to make this country the coffee capital of the world.”

“What about my hundred million acres?”

“I do remember a conversation we had about this.”

“You know damn well how much money I’ve put into this

already.”

“Are you talking about the suitcase loaded with cash or the land the survey you submitted?”

“My people were some of the most dedicated environmentalists

in America, El Presidente.”

“I’m sure they were at one time.”

“There’s nothing else on the land. All we want are the trees.” “I’ve had two surveyors look at the land recently, and they think there might be water there. As well as copper.”

Water, yes, copper no.

Chauncey knew there was enough water there to hydrate a

nation for a hundred years. And charge them by the mouthful. The copper they discovered was minimal. They missed the Bauxite. It was the Bauxite that had intriguing possibilities.

“I put a team of twenty people out there for six months!” Chauncey yelled into the phone. “All they came back with was dust and dying trees!”

“My brother is strongly against the sale of these acres to you.” “The Butcher of Cajones, or the coke farmer?”

“You know, I don’t mind you making fun of my younger brother,

Señor, but El Generalissimo has a mind of his own.”

“And a temper to go with it.”

“He has the mind of a baker, Señor.”

“His troops are weak in that wooded terrain,” Chauncey said.

“It’s a great place for rebels to hide.”

“It’s true that El Generalissimo has concerns about the rebels

in that region. He is also not happy about the prospect of protecting- ing a bunch of foreigners whose only interest in our homeland is exploitation.”

“Perhaps I can double my private militia in the area,” Chauncey countered. “That might be of some help to El Generalissimo as well.” “That and twenty thousand acres would let him rest more easily

at night.”

“I had no plans to leave the man unprotected, El Presidente. I

have every intention of bringing in people with all the current weapons technology we can throw at a pathetic group of rebels.”

“We would like to keep them pathetic, Señor Chauncey. You seem a great fan of democracies dependent on the population remains pathetic.”

“They’re more easily maneuvered.”

“Do you have aspirations of becoming El President, Señor? “Of your country or mine?”

“Let me suggest from my own experience that you explore that

possibility in your own country.”

“I don’t pay enough,” Chauncey said. “It’s far more profit-

able to throw money into their campaign funds. I get a fifty percent return on every dollar. In any case, can you imagine me kissing ass for a living?”

“People kiss my ass here, Señor. I don’t go begging for anyone’s campaign donations. I have the military. I have the policia.”

“Yes, but those two are always open to the highest bidder.”

El Presidente sounded more agitated.

He covered the phone and came back a moment later.

“Señor, if you don’t mind—my wife is threatening to kill her-

self in the hallway in front of my grandchildren. It is fifteen minutes until Midnight Mass. My wife of thirty years is not so much concerned with her spiritual well-being as she is with her standing among the other women of our devout congregation.”

“Is that what you call those rats I saw running over your sidewalks in the capital?”

“No, sir, those were rats. Our women are of a different caliber. Every culture has its own taste in women.”

But El Pres sounded like he was losing his confidence.

“I hope she doesn’t come through the door with a machete,” Chauncey said.

“My wife does not enter this room. We have a different way with women here than in your country.”

“I’ve enjoyed a few myself. They give the best mama tit in the world.”

“Señor, my wife is now banging on the door and threatening to slit the throats of the grandchildren and then plunge the knife in her heart before tumbling on top of them in the best Shakespearian fashion. She has never done anything like this in the course of our thirty-year marriage.”

“Can you make out what she’s saying, El Presidente?”

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

“She is screaming about my oldest daughter!”

“El Presidente, what’s the Spanish word for kidnapping?” Again, there was another long pause at the other end of the line. Then El Presidente uttered, “You dirty sonofabitch! You son of a whore whose father had syphilis!”

“Would you like to reconsider my offer on the hundred million

acres, El Presidente?”

“What can you guarantee me?”

“I can have your daughter on the front steps of the Basilica

before you and your wife and your vivacious grandchildren arrive.”

“Who betrayed me? Who would dare to betray me?”

“Rest easy, El Pres. It was nothing a few Blackwater boys couldn’t accomplish. Believe me, your supporters are loyal. I tried to buy every one of them before I resorted to this.”

“Blackwater?”

“They’re cheap. They don’t get killed. You don’t have to replace them. And they know the value of a bullet well used. Think of the cost savings!”

“How did they get into my country?”

“Maybe the bigger idea you should distill from all this, El Pres, is that the safe world you think you inhabit is not as steady as you think.”

Chauncey loved grinding them into the ground with a mix of truth and lies when he got close to closing a deal. The lies didn’t cost a penny, yet they automatically doubled the impact of the truth.

“Well, I’ll tell you what, El Presidente. Let me sweeten the deal. I’ll throw in a little Christmas bonus of a hundred slave girls. You can open a few more bordellos.”

But El Presidente sounded like he was more concerned with moving furniture as if he might be barricading himself.

“My wife of thirty years is now threatening to kill me, Señor,” he said in a trembling voice. “She is slamming the door with a seventeenth-century chair!”

“Time to get to mass, El Pres. Are we all settled about the hundred acres? I don’t want you to feel unduly pressured. I’d like you to agree to my terms with an open heart.”

“We can wrap up the paperwork next week.”

“I will be there when you tell me to be there, Señor.”

“Well, let’s make it Wednesday. I’ll meet you in a room at the

airport.”

“Gracias, Señor.”

Chauncey could feel himself getting hard. It always came on like gangbusters when he felt the close, the kill, was in sight. He tossed the most chipper voice he could at El Presidente.

“Well, why don’t you go tell your wife the good news, amigo?” The president disconnected.

Chauncey quickly sent off a prepared text message. The message was quite simple, “Merry Christmas, El Generalissimo. All is well.”

Chauncey felt content.

He knew the president’s sixteen-year-old daughter would be happily waiting on the church steps, a little less a virgin than her father imagined her.

Later, as it turned out, her mother would die of a heart attack in the middle of the choir singing “The Gloria.”

Chauncey looked down at his stiff rod, that telltale sign of a deal well done.

Time to put that baby to work, he said to himself and floored the Bentley