The Road to Omaha Read Free Page B

Vice-President, seated next to the J.C. chairman. “He’s
colorblind.
”
    “Golly, Zack, but you’re a soldier!”
    “Came on late, Mr. President.”
    “It came on
early
with me,” continued the excitable heirto the Oval Office. “Actually, it’s what kept me out of the
real
army. I would have given
anything
to correct the problem!”
    “Close it up, gumball,” said the swarthy-skinned director of the Central Intelligence Agency, his voice low but his half-lidded, dark eyes ominous. “The friggin’ campaign’s over.”
    “Now, really, Vincent, there’s no cause for that language,” intruded the President. “There’s a lady present.”
    “That judgment’s up for grabs, Prez. The lady in question is not unfamiliar with the lingua franca, as it were.” The DCI smiled grimly at the glaring female aide and returned to the man named Washburn at the portable blackboard. “You, our legal expert here, what kind of … creek are we up?”
    “
That’s
better, Vinnie,” added the President. “I appreciate it.”
    “You’re welcome.… Go on, Mr. Lawyer. What kind of deep ca-ca are we really into?”
    “Very nice, Vinnie.”
    “Please, Big Man, we’re all a little stressed here.” The director leaned forward, his apprehensive eyes on the White House legal aide. “You,” he continued, “put away the chalk and let’s have the news. And do me a favor, don’t spend a week getting there, okay?”
    “As you wish, Mr. Mangecavallo,” said the White House attorney, placing the colored chalk on the blackboard ledge. “I was merely trying to diagram the historical precedents relative to the altered laws where the Indian nations were concerned.”
    “What
nations
?” asked the Vice-President, in his voice a trace of arrogance. “They’re tribes, not countries.”
    “Go on,” interrupted the director. “He’s not here.”
    “Well, I’m sure you all recall the information our mole at the Supreme Court gave us about an obscure, impoverished Indian
tribe
petitioning the Court over a supposed treaty with the federal government that was allegedly lost or stolen by federal agents. A treaty that if ever found would restore their rights to certain territories currently housing vital military installations.”
    “Oh, yes,” said the President. “We had quite a laughover that. They even sent an extremely long brief to the Court that nobody wanted to read.”
    “Some poor people will do anything but get a job!” joined in the Veep. “That
is
a laugh.”
    “Our lawyer isn’t laughing,” observed the director.
    “No, I’m not, sir. Our mole sends word that there’ve been some quiet rumors which may mean absolutely nothing, of course, but apparently five or six justices of the Court were so impressed by the brief that they’ve actually debated its merits in chambers. Several feel that the lost Treaty of 1878, negotiated with the Wopotami tribe and the Forty-ninth Congress, may ultimately be legally binding upon the government of the United States.”
    “You gotta be outta your
lemon
tree!” roared Mangecavallo. “They can’t
do
that!”
    “Totally unacceptable,” snapped the pinstriped, acerbic Secretary of State. “Those judicial fruitcakes will never survive the polls!”
    “I don’t think they have to, Warren.” The President shook his head slowly. “But I see what you mean. As the great communicator frequently told me, ‘Those mothers couldn’t get parts as extras in
Ben-Hur
, not even in the Colosseum scenes.’ ”
    “Profound,” said the Vice-President, nodding his head. “That really says it. Who’s Benjamin Hurr?”
    “Forget it,” replied the balding, portly Attorney General, still breathing heavily from the swift journey through the underground corridors. “The point is they don’t need outside employment. They’re set for life, and there’s nothing we can
do
about it!”
    “Unless they’re all impeached,” offered the nasal-toned Secretary of State, Warren