Than the Sun

Leon turned the key in the ignition just as Joe pulled the door closed after him. They shot out of the street before the neighbours could finish gawking.

”And I didn’t want to know what you look like in those shorts,” said Leon, laughing as they turned the corner, “but here we are. Knowledge is a curse.” He plucked a tissue out of the box he kept on the dash for the express purpose of guys like Joe. “And no tomato stains in my car. It’s a rental, and I don’t want the guy at the agency thinking we stabbed someone unsavvy.”

Baffled, Joe throws his free hand up in the air and looks down at himself as if to say ‘What the fuck is wrong with my shorts?!’ but then remembers Leon wears flip flops so he shrugs it off. 

Leon’s head whipped around in surprise. What did Joe know about where they were going? But he obligingly took the turn, winding up smack-bang outside the most wholesome grocery store he’d ever seen. He bet the place put out pale-pink striped awnings during Valentine’s Day and non-denominational reindeer outside during the holidays.

When at work, it was practically obligatory for Leon to laugh at jokes about the First Family. And also Oliver Zafar, the Bush family, and oh yeah, Monica Lewinsky. It came with the territory; personal feelings not to be taken into account. What Elise didn’t know didn’t hurt her.

“Oh, the problem was always in my sights,” said Leon with an airy wave of his hand. Toeing a chair away from Minerva’s desk, he dropped into it, his easy smile not wavering as he regarded her. She reminded him of a school principal (he just couldn’t imagine why), the way her expression promised he was on a short leash. He wondered idly if this was how she flirted with the judge’s favour in open court: humouring opposing counsel until it was time to bring down the guillotine.

”What’s new,” he went on, “is the level of dedication you’re putting into this, including the conscription of both local and federal law enforcement into the fight. You know—“ His grin got only bigger— “the typically forgotten victims of gun violence. I’ll bet you dinner at Art Smith’s restaurant that they’re feeling as vindicated as the current administration.”

A purse of her lips; the level of her dedication? That wasn’t new. What was new was that for the first time in a while, the people with the power to make real changes had decided to actually stick their neck out and do it. They had decided that enough was enough ━ perhaps a few incidents too late, perhaps it shouldn’t have taken such a shattering example ━ but they had. Minerva intended to be vocally supportive of it: the coming together in pursuit of ethical justice.

“If I may, I think what’s new is the bureaucracy putting dedication into this. I serve at the pleasure of the President.” Theresa had been too indecisive for all of Minerva’s adoration. The question of what to do about violent crime had been the only thing they disagreed on. And disagreed on to the point of Minerva cracking a phone book in half in the Oval Office (it was then and there that Wright decided on her nomination). A laughable irritation at being appointed to the Cabinet: you can make all the noise you want, but you can’t really do anything. In fact, all you can really do is maintain order and hit them right between the eyes with your frankness (fortunately, she had no problem doing either). 

“ ━━━ You know, my sister and brother-in-law are detectives in Los Angeles.” I can assure you no one in uniform has been forgotten. “I think I may have a message on my machine from her that stands to prove your point. That is, if you’re willing to follow through with shipping me some fried chicken and biscuits.”

Sinking down into his chair and giving it a little swivel, he smiled expansively across at Alba. “If you’re going to insist on formalities, I personally prefer ‘Grand Poobah’ to ‘sir’. Nobody who’s ever called me ‘sir’ actually meant it.” He watched her the tap-tap-tap of her feet, at odds with the slickly confident cross of her legs. “But rumours are a much more interesting topic of conversation. What kind of rumours have you been hearing?”

“You should maybe get a new secretary, or does Bertha know where all the bodies are buried?” She smiled so he would know she was joking, but then again Alba thought all republicans were potential murders. One could never be too sure. A cocky looking intern walked in with a plate of muffins and set them on the desk, staring a bit too long at Alba as he walked out. Jesus Christ she hated republicans, someone clearly needed to knock this kid down a rung or two. Or maybe Solis needed a better grip on his staff. 

Alba laughed again, a bit less genuine sounding than she intended. ‘Grand’ and ‘Poohbah’ were two words that would never come out of her mouth. Taking on an air of polite disinterest, as though she were repeating the weather or some bit of celebrity gossip, Alba leaned forward slightly. 

His long-time support for DACA was a bipartisan miracle that could be pulled off with finagling and finesse. Alba’s steel-toed boots were clearly not up for the job.

Where was her ‘that was easy’ button when she needed it. She smiled brightly in response to him and mirrored the raise of his glass. Using her white wine to wash down the meringue. She was already churning a mental shortlist as they spoke.  

She offers him a comfortingly coy smile. “Oh of course Mr.Solis, I only exercise discretion on matters as important as these,” her voice is reassuringly sweet; like honey or a hug from a mother— one that cared preferably. 

She nods in that teen-movie-dumb-blonde way as his sentence trailed off into silence. “At least a week,” she lets out an exasperated sigh. “Finding people who wanted to work with him and for him was not the easiest task, but we have a good team, a great team really,” She omits the part about fighting in the board meetings about whether they should take him on at all.

“For you I should think It’ll be a lot easier,” she adds with a sprightly laugh before taking another sip of her wine.

“I like ‘easier’,” said Leon with a broad grin. Finishing off the glass with a flourish, he set it back down on the table. “I’m very happy to pay people to make things easier. I have great faith that this list is going to be the start of a very mutually... easy road.”

And he was definitely going to have to size up his golf buddies’ lineage for a prospective son who could bump into Corinne. At the next ‘Solis for President’ fundraiser hopefully.

“You understand, of course, that my office isn’t so keen on working with someone who also works with Admiral Bell.” Leon made a deprecating gesture that suggested heavily that he could smooth over that road for Corinne. “I’ll be sure to mention that you put professionalism over the personal opinion of most of America.” 

To win he’d have to walk the tightrope. It’s not that Corinne thought he didn’t have it in him, just that the tides were always changing. What worked once, may never work again. But for all intensive purposes  she’d have to publicly back Bell, regardless of her incognito work. 

“Well I know a few incredibly promising and smart kids at Cornell, what they lack in experience they more than make up for in innovative thinking. If you’re looking for someone with experience, I’d have to make a few calls,” she says 

She smiles politely at the waiter before they disappear into the background once more. She grabs a meringue before looking back at Leon. “If I make a few calls, I can get you a list in two days,”

Leon lifted his wineglass in a silent toast to Corinne’s meringue, taking a sip while he weighed the options. It was a no brainer. Technically, he was outsourcing a problem. He was trying out something new. There was no retainer. He wasn’t even cheating on his own communications director. There was no way Barry would be upset if Leon went back to the office and put Corinne’s agency card in the fishbowl.

“Two days is great,” he said, making the impulse decision on the spot. Aladdin’s genie had left the bottle when he confirmed her suspicions anyway. “I trust you’ll be the soul of discretion on this? I’d hate for us to find ourselves in a situation where you turning over rocks has caused information to spread…”

On the phone: the acting Pardon Attorney. Minerva’s yet to fully appoint a new one (these things take time– well that and she doesn’t know who yet). In cooperation with the head of their Department, they were to review applications for clemency. In other words: paperwork… and more paperwork to fix the previous set of paperwork.

“A recommendation? From the attorney whose license was revoked a year later? You’re not serious.” (telephone rabble) “You’re not submitting this application to the President as is.” (more telephone rabble, this time a little indignant) “Find a recommendation from someone in Congress, or better yet, the judge. You have the Deputy’s contact if you intend to bother me with this again.”

The receiver is abruptly placed back into the set. In all fairness, she’s been at the office since 07:00 and coffee has lost its luster at half past noon. There’s a knock; turns out the executive assistant scheduled an appointment around a week ago. A side long glance at the mounting stack. What was another thousand page document needing her review? 

She motions accordingly, the door swivels open: 

Slowly, Hans shakes his head. “You stubborn motherfucker.”

It must be some kind of power-trip, he guesses, dangling the information over his head like that. It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? His mind provides then, though it’s likely the alcohol. Just like you, he likes playing with his food more than he likes the taste of it.

“It’s going to get me the biggest hard-on I’ve had in a fucking year, Solis,” he scoffs, “that what you wanna hear?" 

Planting both feet firm on the ground, Hans repositions his chair so that it’s facing him straight-on, his hands on the side’s of Leon’s own seat. He tries not to think about the fact that it’s sticky.  

"I can’t go back to my boss and say Leon Solis suggested me might do a thing.” Now, be it by the Lusty Leopard’s own decision or their closeness, the music isn’t quite as distracting. There’s only Leon, and what Leon might or might not say next. “I can’t drop other options because Leon Solis said some cryptic words in a strip club.” At the prospect of it, Hans smiles a little. “Pretty please, huh? Make a guy happy.”

When Hans voluntarily put his hands on Leon’s chair (a surface Leon thanked God and Italian wool for protecting him from), things really had to be serious. I can’t drop other options, he’d said, and that really made Leon smirk.

They were positioned so close now that Hans couldn’t miss it. The ka-ching sound of cash registers ringing and dollar bills flowing. A tasteless mental image maybe, but Leon always made sure anyone on his side was well taken care of. He liked working with people who had a similar business philosophy.

He reached unseeingly for the drink on the table, holding it at knee-level for a contemplative minute. Hans had already said the magic words (well, the biggest hard-on of the year was pretty funny too) and the hesitation made no sense. There was nothing to hesitate for. This was Hans Starke. He either stabbed you in the back or he didn’t.

No point worrying about until it happened.

Leon lifted the glass in a toast. Half the words would probably be snatched away by the ambient noise, but Hans didn’t need to read lips to know what was coming next.

“I’m running for president.”

He said it simply, no fanfare, no cute way of phrasing it. The tension of the last four years had wrung it all out.

Julian wasn’t familiar with this side of the coast. Beyond rallies and other business-fueled events, he had hardly ever set foot in these sands, or detoured at all. It’s a disconcerting thought that hits, as they walk from the car to the bar with security determining their pace, wondering just how it had been for Leon, growing up under these skies — and inhabiting these skies, in due time. How ironic to think Julian had watched launches on TV like he cared, like he knew he’d meet the man behind them and nothing would ever be the same after that. 

He’d assumed the choice of place had something to do with privacy, and so Julian has to double-take at the introduction of Ramon — and double-take again, with a certain interest, at the way the Spanish name sounds on Leon’s tongue. Julian is already smiling a polite smile and nodding in greeting when Leon tells him; immediately, he stops.

“What?” The word hardly makes it out. It’s weak and a little mindless. “Shut up." 

Once there’s a trigger, the entire setting comes to life; the bar, the man behind the counter, the undeniably silly made up of their joke coming to life all over again. A politician and an astronaut walk into a bar… Julian can’t help but smile; and it’s painfully genuine, the way only Leon ever got to see. He feels silly, childish— like he isn’t fifty (fifty one in a couple hours) and the most powerful man in the world. It’s only then he realizes he has his hand around Leon’s arm; it’s not a tight grip by any means, and somehow that much more intimate in its simplicity. 

"That’s the most thoughtful thing you’ve ever done for me,” he says. “Don’t tell me you have a ring in your pocket, too." 

Of all the reactions Leon had expected, shut up hadn’t been in the scope of his imagination. Shut up, he could picture himself saying in the re-telling of this story, maybe one day when all their kids were old enough. That’s what he says to me on his birthday. He tells me to shut up.

History had better validate his decision to pick this over Berkeley-Solis 2020.

Laughing, he looped his arm more firmly through Julian’s and nudged him deeper into the surf shack. Thank God Julian had remembered, or was at least pretending to. Leon had replayed the night over and over again in his head so many times that this was finally proof he hadn’t made it up. Thoughtful was the gifts that Julian got. And obscenely expensive. Leon’s taste ran to the bitingly personal—Castro’s favourite cigars for the new Vice President, treason-shaped cuff links for Christmas, and a living reminder of all their history for Julian’s birthday.

Across the floor, Ramon gave a brief what-up-man nod at the president of the United States. Paying for first class airfare was going to get Leon only so much apparently. Pulling out a chair at the nearest table, he sprawled down into it. They weren’t staying long, but he wanted to soak in the boozy fumes of the place while they could. Not that it was what was making him light-headed.

“What’re you even going to do with my ring?” asked Leon, genuinely puzzled. “Never wear it like I got nowhere to wear your watch to? Glenmorangie for me, Ramon,” he added, “‘cause it’s a big night.”

He turned back to Julian, and it was kind of hard to not. To not keep turning his head, to not keep his eyes on the way Julian was looking at him now. Men in deserts could walk miles without water for something like that.

At Leon’s too-obvious show of self-restraint, Sybil laughs. “Not quite the chaise lounge, eh?”

She does her best to keep the notebook out of his sight herself, flipping the cover shut whenever she isn’t using it. Leon talks — but as with most of her politician patients, the words hardly mean something. This isn’t a press release, she’s had to remind him in the past. It’s fine for you to say the wrong thing. 

Or, really, anything. 

Just give something.

“Oh, it is?” Sybil asks, her features shifting that into mock excitement. “I’m so happy for him. Does he want vinyl or hardwood?” The expression drops quick. “Anything…” Relevant? “About yourself individually?” She gestures around the air with her pen, as though motioning to the blank space he could easily fill up. “How’s sobriety? Your wife, Donna?”

“Don’t you know sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?” grumbled Leon good-naturedly at Sybil’s less than enthusiastic reception of Oliver’s interior decor. ‘Relevant’ and ‘personal’ were the two things he was the bad at. It was why Dr. Lipchitz had strongly recommended a referral to his colleague in the first place.

Tapping his call number against his knee, he couldn’t help craning his neck to examine the room. Emptier than usual was still not empty. On the other hand, Donna had threatened to follow through on the divorce if he continued to dodge Sybil’s scheduling assistant. Maybe the guy on the radio was right. You never know you love the chaise lounge when you let her go.

With the creak of old bones, the number on the screen flipped to 187. Leon blinked because the neon numbers were becoming burnt into his vision.

“Sobriety’s not working out so good,” he said finally. “So well,” he corrected on reflex. In all the wrong ways, Sybil Buchanan reminded him of Julian: the permanently polished exterior of a Ming dynasty vase on display. “In fact, it’s safe to say it’s no longer on the horizon.”

His reluctance to say it surprised even him. Amazing that the failure grated even when he hadn’t put any real commitment into in the first place.