Detective Paco in the Lion's Den

I was sitting behind the wheel of a commercial van, driving down K Street in Washington, D.C., a little before 8:00 pm on a Friday night. Sheila and Wronwright sat beside me on the bench seat. Wronwright and I were wearing fake mustaches (Wronwright, once again leaning toward the extravagant, looked like the late Archduke Francis Ferdinand); Sheila had her golden hair tied back in a pony tail under a black beret and her baby-blues were shaded with a pair of Foster-Grants. We were heading toward Barack Obama’s national campaign headquarters. Wronwright asked nervously – and for the tenth time, at least – “Paco, you really think this will work?”

“Psssh!”, I sibilated. “Piece of cake”.

* * *

Barack Obama and David Plouffe, his campaign manager, sat in the large anteroom of Obama’s national campaign headquarters. The paid staffers and the volunteers had worked late – cheerfully so, as is usually the case with starry-eyed dunderheads – and were filing out of the building, in two’s and three’s. Obama and Plouffe waved good night to them, and by a quarter past eight they were the last people remaining. Plouffe, sitting in a police-precinct type oak chair beside a deal table, reached into his pocket to extract a cigarette lighter. In doing so, he accidentally pulled out a small, silver-colored flash drive. He smiled lovingly at the item, and waggled it at Obama, who laughed nervously as he fumbled for a cigarette in his pack of Virginia Slims. Plouffe reached into his pocket again and pulled out his lighter, fired up a cigar – also offering a light to Obama - and then placed the lighter and the flash drive on the table. As he puffed on the stogie, Plouffe hooked a thumb behind each red silk strap of his braces, and swelled with the self-satisfaction of a political operator who has just successfully “pulled a fast one”.

“Are you sure this was a good idea?”, Obama asked. To cover his anxiety, he took a long draw on his cigarette, rounded his lips, and blew a smoke ring which wobbled and expanded and settled briefly over his head, like a warped halo.

Plouffe gave Obama a penetrating look. “You’re not coming down with a case of ethics all of a sudden, are you Senator?”

“No, no; nothing like that. I just don’t want to get caught.”

Plouffe relaxed again, and flashed a wide smile. “I guarantee you the operation is absolutely fool-proof.”

* * *

We came to yet another red light, and Wronwright gave vent to his concerns - again. “Paco, are you really, really sure this is going to work?” This time, Sheila chimed in, too.

“Paco, I don’t mean to join Wronwright in playing twenty questions, but are you certain about your source?”

“Look”, I said. “I’ve known Jimmy the Geek for a long time; I’ve even done a little business with him on a couple of cases. He’s a top-notch information tech guy who moonlights occasionally as a … well, as a freelance computer espionage agent. He told me that he’d been approached by none other than David Plouffe and offered a thousand dollars to worm his way into the McCain campaign, rifle anything good he found on their computers, and give the info to the Obama people. Jimmy has no politics, whatsoever, so he agreed. He said that he found some valuable data – donors’ lists, campaign strategy materials and opposition research – downloaded it on a flash drive and handed it over to Plouffe in the main computer room of Obama’s headquarters; he saw him put the thing in the top drawer of a little file cabinet next to the computer.”

“What’s a flash drive?”, Sheila asked.

“It’s a little gizmo about the size and shape of a BIC lighter. You download files onto it from a computer, plug it into another computer, upload the files, and away you go.”

Wronwright then asked an uncomfortable question. “What if Plouffe has already uploaded the data on his computer?”

“Jimmy told me that the computer in Plouffe’s office is down; he saw a note on the monitor saying, ‘Do not turn on computer; mother board needs to be fixed’. He says that there’s no way it’s going to get repaired before tomorrow, at the earliest.”

“And Jimmy told you all this just because he was miffed at not getting paid?”, Sheila queried.

“That’s right. When it came time for the payoff, all Plouffe had for Jimmy was a mouth full of hope and a handful of change – two hundred bucks, to be exact, with a vague promise to consider a larger remuneration at a later date, maybe, and a definite threat to turn him over to the cops if he spilled the beans.”

Wronwright was skeptical. “How do you know this guy is telling the truth?”

“Listen, he may be a crook, but he’s not a Democrat. Ok, here we are.” Traffic had died down, and I was able to park within a half-block of Obama’s campaign headquarters. “Let’s run over the routine one more time. We’re Obama volunteers and we’re delivering boxes of campaign brochures. Once we get inside, I’ll ask if I can use the bathroom; it’s right next door to the room where Jimmy said the flash drive ought to be. Most of the people in the office ought to be gone by now; you two keep anybody who’s still there occupied. And Wronwright, quit twirling your mustache; it’s already come off twice.”

We each took a large box out of the van and walked up to the front door. Sheila was baffled. “Say, what’s in these boxes, anyway?”

“Oh, just some bumper stickers that I picked up here and there.”

Wronwright stopped so suddenly we almost tripped over each other.

“Oh, crap!”, he said, through clenched teeth. “Do you see who’s in there? It’s Obama himself! And some guy who looks like a commodities trader!”

I looked through the window. It was Obama, alright, and I recognized his pal. “That’s David Plouffe, Obama’s campaign manager. They must have had some kind of rah-rah session for the worker bees. Well, no matter. With these outfits we’ve got on, they shouldn’t suspect a thing.”

I led the way into the office and we all did the obligatory gushing at finding The Messiah there, in person. Plouffe rose from his chair, a look of suspicion on his face.

“Who are you people?”

“We’re volunteers. Just dropping off some campaign flyers.”

“This time of day?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we got held up in traffic.”

We set our boxes down on the floor. That’s when Plouffe and Obama saw that all three of us were wearing bright red Ché Guevara t-shirts. Plouffe’s doubtful look abated somewhat; then his eyes zoomed in on Sheila – that’s when I knew we were home free.

While we were all attired in Democrat-approved threads, Sheila’s superb three-dimensionality immediately arrested the attention of both Plouffe and Obama; Plouffe’s jaw dropped like a loose flap on an old mail box, and Obama furtively popped a Tic-Tac into his mouth. Wronwright had been assigned the task of picking up the shirts, and Sheila’s was at least one size too small (I recollected how atypically unfazed he had been when she had chided him for making his “mistake”, just standing there with a sort of beatific expression on his map; now I understood why). Her breasts were stretching the fabric – and Guevara’s visage – so taut that the world’s best-known revolutionary looked like a walleyed chimp. The denim mini-skirt completed this singular vision of feminine pulchritude.

Plouffe gave her a dazzling smile. I could practically hear the blood draining from his polar region, like apple cider from an upturned gallon jug (settling somewhere around his equator, I would imagine). ““W-e-l-l!” - (*glug, glug, glug*) – “And what is your name, Miss?” - (*glug, glug, glug*). Plouffe and Obama had both risen from their chairs and walked over to Sheila, absolutely mesmerized, rather after the fashion of two mummies who had been fed tanna leaves and were obeying the commands of the high priestess.

The perfect moment had arrived. I asked Plouffe, “Hey, can I use the bathroom right quick?” Plouffe simply gave me a distracted wave of the hand.

Wronwright arched his eyebrows inquiringly when I came back a few minutes later. I shook my head. “It isn’t there. He must have moved it.”

“What are we going to do?”, Wronwright whispered. “We can’t shake him down.”

“Oh, no? I might have to do…”

“Do what?”, Wronwright asked frantically. “And what are you staring at?”

I tried to suppress a smile. There, on a table, was a flash drive - the flash drive, if I wasn’t mistaken: silver-colored, an ‘x’ drawn on the side with a magic marker, just as Jimmy had described it. I asked Plouffe if he minded if I had a smoke; another dismissive wave, from both him and Obama. I picked up the cigarette lighter, lit a gasper, put the lighter down and palmed the flash drive. I caught Sheila’s eye, gave her the “thumbs up” sign, and nodded in the direction of the door.

I had to hand it to her: she was playing her part beautifully. “Well, now, gentlemen, ya’ll have been so sweet - and here I am, just a plain little old country girl from North Carolina! But I really have to go. I’ve got some homework to do – and don’t forget your promise, Mr. Plouffe, to come visit me in my apartment and help me with my term paper, now, y’hear!” She gave each man an affectionate little squeeze on the knee and walked to the door with a gracefulness just this side of a sashay. Apparently, due to some kind of strange, momentary indisposition, neither Plouffe nor Obama stood up to see Sheila off, but they grinned and tootle-oo’d like mad. We forced ourselves to walk at a normal pace to the van, then we piled in and drove away.

“Got it?”, Sheila asked excitedly.

“Got it”.

Curiosity took hold of me. “Sheila, what was that malarkey about Plouffe coming up to your apartment and helping you with a term paper?”

She gave a wicked little laugh. “I told him I was attending the University of Maryland on a cheerleading scholarship and that I was majoring in marketing, and he said. ‘Well, now, that’s right up my alley! I’d be glad to give you some private tutoring.’ So I gave him my address and telephone number. No doubt he’s going to be surprised to find out that I live at the Lincoln Memorial and answer my phone with the salutation, ‘Third Precinct, Vice Squad.’ Oh, but I can’t wait to get this t-shirt off.”

She must have felt herself caught in the crossfire of the sidewise stares Wronwright and I were giving her. “I mean, when I get home, boys.”

* * *

Plouffe and Obama finally recovered their…equanimity…and sauntered over to the table. Plouffe said, “Well, we might as well have a look at these campaign brochures before we leave.” He took a pair of scissors off the table, cut through the tape on one of the boxes, opened the flap – and stared.

“What’s the matter?”, Obama asked.

Plouffe plunged both arms into the box and came up with a couple of fists full of gaudy bumper stickers: “I Spent the Day at Everglades Alligator Farm!”; “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not ‘Odditorium’ – Orlando”; “Rayne, Louisiana: Frog Mural Capital of the U.S.” He opened another box and found more of the same: “All Aboard the Tweetisie Railroad!”; “Brevard, N.C.: Squirrel Sanctuary”; “I Got My Crabs From Dirty Dick’s Crab House – VA Beach”. Plouffe, now in a state of complete bafflement, opened the last box; it was full of bright orange bumper stickers with blue letters spelling out the words, “Elect Elmer ‘Law ‘n Order’ Paco Sheriff – Republican”. Plouffe was suddenly galvanized by the knowledge that something else was wrong, besides the brochures. He looked at the table where he had left his cigarette lighter and the flash drive; the flash drive was gone.

Obama, worried by Plouffe’s heavy breathing and florid color, asked him, “What’s going on, Dave?”

“What do you think’s going on?”

“What do I think? How would I know what I think? You haven’t told me yet.”

“We’ve been had! Those volunteers were ringers! They came here to steal the flash drive, and they got it, too!”

Obama gaped at his campaign manager. “But…but…they were wearing Ché t-shirts! And you’re saying they really weren’t Democrats? That’s…that’s…sacrilege!”

Plouffe collapsed into a chair, heaved a huge sigh, and pulled the piece of paper from his shirt pocket on which Sheila had scribbled her name – ‘Susie Belle Hunneybags’ – her address and her telephone number. “Well, I guess I won’t be needing this”, he said, and tossed the paper on the table. When he rose to wearily put on his jacket, Obama quickly slipped the paper into his own pocket. “Hmmph!”, he thought to himself. “I know at least as much about marketing as Dave does. And even if Susie’s not a Democrat, I’m a ‘big tent’ kinda guy, anyway!”

* * *

Obama had gone to bed and was just dropping off to sleep when his wife, Michelle, stomped into the room, plopped down next to him and slapped him on the forehead as if he were the male half of the couple in a V-8 fruit juice commercial. “And just who is ‘Susie Belle Hunneybags?”, she roared, holding a crumpled piece of paper under his nose; it certainly didn't help matters that the ‘i’ in Susie was dotted with a little heart.